Sunday, November 6, 2016


You won’t believe it, dear friends. I almost didn’t myself, but after all these years nothing surprises me. What was it? Nothing less than C.W. as a spitting image of Archie Bunker, complete with cigar. When he showed, I got him out of the house as soon as possible and took him to the park  where we walked in an isolated area, the most isolated area I could find, and talked. It turned out to be more interesting than I thought.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he was saying. “We could use a man like J. Edgar Hoover again.”

I stopped him. “Don’t you mean Herbert Hoover?”

“No, Big Dope. Weren’t you listening? J. Edgar.”

“And why, may I ask?”

“Elementary,” he said. “You never seen J. Edgar Hoover take part in a political campaign like this current clown, did you?”

I thought for a long time. “Not precisely,” I said.

“Bet your ass, not precisely,” he said. “That old boy didn’t care who was president. He was a man’s man.”

I let that one pass, and thought. While I was thinking, he continued. “He had files on them all. Didn’t matter to him who held office. He had a file, J. Edgar did.”

“By jove,” I said. “I think you have a point there.”

He changed directions like the lead car in a getaway attempt. “Now you take them coloreds.”

“Wait C.W.,” I said. “We don’t talk like that anymore.”

“Precisely my point,” he said. “If you can’t call them ‘coloreds,’ what can you call them?”

“Uh,” I said. “Americans?”

“That’s what they want,” he said. “For nobody to know the difference. Just like your dames.”

I looked around nervously. “Don’t worry,” he said. “She ain’t around.”


“Miss ‘fancy pants’ herself. Your wife.”

“What about my wife?”

“She don’t like the word ‘dames’ either, Mrs. Big Dope don’t. And don’t ask her if she ever got a job just because she was ‘cute and perky.’ Trust me on that one.”

“You didn’t?”

“Only once,” he said. “But trust me anyway. That dame has a temper.”

Just then a voice from behind us started yelling “Left, left, left you assholes.”

C.W., Archie … whoever, removed the cigar butt from his mouth and flipped it into the air just before the cyclist reached us. A man wearing an outfit resembling that of a space-rocket captain in a 1950s science fiction flick sailed by us. “Move your stupid asses o…,” he was saying when the cigar landed in his mouth. The bicycle wavered and sailed down an embankment into a clump of trees with a loud crash.

“Now,” my companion continued, heedless of the commotion, “you take them liberals.”
If your species had paid more
attention to this man in the 1970s.
You would understand your
voters better in 2016. - C.W.
“Like me and the Galilean?”

“Like you and that robe-wearing, love-spouting, wine-guzzling, do-gooder.”

“But,” I said, “he’s you, on one of your better days.”

“I may have been him before,” he said. “But never again. I seen the light.”

“What light?”

“The light that says good, hard-working white men like me ain’t got a chance no more.”

“Want to explain that?”

“They are giving all our jobs to the coloreds, the dames, the latinics, and the hispanos.”


“Even puttin’t them in charge of white men. We ain’t got no chance. They’ll be wantin’ to use our bathrooms next thing you know. We’ll all disappear before long. Until then, we’ll just take orders from them.”

I was speechless. “Where did you hear all this?” I managed.

“On this news show I been watchin’. They report and I decide.” He lit another cigar. “I mean,” he continued, “how would you like for Mrs. Big Dope to control your every move, boss you around, control your life, make every decision? Just let you be a pawn in the game of life?”

“C.W.” I said, and I said it soft and slow, so he wouldn’t miss the point. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a complete idiot?’

“Sure,” he said. “I’ve heard that. Lots of times.”

“From whom?”

“Mrs. Big Dope,” he said. Then he started making gestures as if his hands were disabled by palsy. “Now,” he said, “you take them cripples.” But he was talking to himself. I had slipped away and was going down the hill to check on the bicyclist.

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