Oh no. It was C.W. as “The Galilean” again. I thought maybe if I ignored him, he would go away, or change shapes. I puffed on my cigar and stared at the geese on the pond.
No such luck. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you. What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just relaxing.”
“I like solitude,” I said, though I knew he didn’t take hints. After an awkward silence, I looked at him. He was in his “serious” robe, the one with the purple band and tassels. I looked closer. In one hand, he was carrying a bottle of single malt scotch whisky. The label pronounced it 12 years old. The other hand held two glasses. That got my attention. “But welcome ... sit,” I said.
He plopped into a chair and laid the bottle and glasses on a table between us. We sat in the back yard of the farm, taking advantage of a warm fall day. He uncorked the bottle and poured two-fingers into each glass. He took a small sip, nodded approval and slid the other glass to me. He straightened his robe, leaned back, surveyed the view, and spoke. “Where’s the wife?”
That caught me in mid-sip and I almost spewed out the precious liquid. Somehow, I managed to get it down. “You,” I said, “have a lot of nerve asking where my wife is.”
“Why,” he said, “what did I do?” He sipped and gave me his “Falloonian dumbass” look.
“She heard what you said.”
“When I said what?”
I gave him my “Do you really think I’m that stupid?’ look. “When I passed the word to you that she wished you would take off your shoes, knock them together, and get the mud off them before you enter the house.”
“She said that?”
“She said that.”
“And I said?”
I shook my head, not believing what I heard. “You said, if I recall it exactly, ‘that’s a lot of effort just to please some grumpy old broad,’ and she heard you.”
“So?” He raised his glass and I detected a smile.
“We can’t talk like that.”
“Oh yes,” he said. “We can now. Haben Sie nicht gehört? He stopped and stared into space as if he had experienced a pain. I heard a soft, organic “click” and he looked at me. “I mean to say, haven’t you heard?”
“I’ve heard that drinking affects your GUT.”
“My Universal Galactic Translator is fine. What you need to understand is that what your species call ‘political correctness’ is gone, dead, finis, kaput.” He drained his glass and poured himself another. After tasting it, he chuckled and said, “There’s a new sheriff in town.” He seemed pleased with himself.
“Not around here, and we don’t call it ‘political correctness.’”
“What do you call it?”
“Well,” he said, after a drink, “I forgive her of course. She’s still our sister-in … in … well … in-Me.”
“I’m sure that will ease her tension,” I said. I took a drink, savored it, and enjoyed my cigar.
“What tension?” he said. “It’s time of great rejoicing. We’re going to show them a thing or two.”
|I guess Mrs. Big dope thinks muddy shoes|
are as evil as the wrong e-mail account. - C.W.
“Oh,” he said, “your turban-heads, wetbacks, Jews, feminazis, and ni…”
“C.W.,” I said. “Shut your mouth.”
“Jeez,” he said, “don’t get all moral on me. Most people are rejoicing. Even our foreign friends.”
“What foreign friends?”
He drank, and shook his glass at me. “I have it on good authority, from a friend of mine, that old Vladimir is dancing in the streets.”
He finished off his drink, and as his he moved the glass from his lips, he jabbed his thumb down toward the center of the earth. “A good friend,” he said. “An old acquaintance. And boy, is he happy.”
“But don’t worry,” he said. “You’re an old man. “There’s a lot of folks they need to get to before they come for you: the merciful, the peacemakers, and half-a-dozen others. Franklin Graham has the whole list. Doesn’t mention aliens at all. You don’t see me getting all uptight, do you?”
A voice erupted from within the house. “Jesus Christ!” it said.