Sunday, December 10, 2017

403. Future

“Hey Big Dope.”

“Hello C.W.”

I assumed it was C.W. The shape was of the late Carl Sagan, but since he is dead, there’s no use pretending. I was in the shop working on a project when he wandered in. He didn’t say anything, just walked around and fiddled with different tools. This distracted me, so I told him to stop.

He held up a caliper and said, “Good tool. They once used something like it in science classes.”

“They don’t use them still?”

“Not since they don’t have science classes anymore.”

That got my attention. “They what?”

“Don’t you keep up with things?

“What does that have to do with science classes?”

“I can’t believe you just asked me that. You know as well as I that your species hasn’t taught science since the second year of Mike Pence’s presidency.”

I stopped what I was doing and turned off the machine. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Your ignorance. You might as well be asking if I’ve been committing CNAV.”

“C.W.,” I said, “you have me totally confused.”

“Don’t tell me that you don’t know what Church Non-Attendance Violation is.”

I didn’t respond.

“Have you been so busy out here that you’ve been guilty of C…,?”

I interrupted him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“That’s okay. The penalty for the first offense is just a week in re-education camp. I can attest to that.” He paused for a few seconds. “Oh, and have you filed your Personal Unacceptable Behavior Enemies list? They are due by the end of the year.”

“Have you gone berserk?”

“Not at all. FBI Director Madoff has stiffened the penalties for noncompliance this year. He says fully developed and verifiable PUBES are critical to the moral welfare of the country. He just arrested three women and two men for shaving theirs, shaving names off their lists of known gays, that is.”

“Director Madoff?”

“Now don’t tell me you don’t know who Bernie Madoff is?”

“I thought I did. But …”

“I wouldn’t mess with him. He’s under a lot of pressure.”

The future can be scary. - C.W.
“Emperor Trump, President Arpaio, and General Kushner have ordered him to help Secretary of Defense Moore join forces with the new Secretary of State, and begin cleaning up what used to be the Middle East. They say that the radioactivity has subsided enough. I think they intend to start on Texas after that.”

“New Secretary of State? What on earth are you talking about?”

“Don’t tell me that you haven’t heard they appointed Franklin Graham to finish out Sarah Palin’s term after she became Secretary-General over at the UN.”

“I haven’t,” I said. “And did you say ‘General Kushner’ a minute ago?”

“I’m beginning to worry about you,” he said.

“The Kushner I know has no military experience. You must be making stuff up.”

He shook his head in disdain. “Look,” he said. “We have no military anymore, so what difference does it make who the head of it is? What is it with you about expertise? Treasury Secretary Osteen isn't even an economist.”

“C.W.,” I said, “we’re going to have to sit down and talk for a few minutes.”

“First sensible thing you’ve said all day.” A shudder went through his body. “Wait one.” He shuddered again. “I’m receiving a report. I think maybe it’s about what they plan to do with those teenage girls they caught reading novels.”

“Girls reading novels?”

“Yeah, can you imagine what kind of mess they would have if there were any boys still left around?” He shuddered again. And again. Then he said in a weak voice. “No. Are you telling me the truth? How embarrassing. How did it happen? I’m ready when you are.” He turned to me and said, “I’m going to be off-presence for a moment or two.”

“What’s the matter?”

“During this morning’s adjustment transmittal, they got my Constant Relative Adjustment Positioner out of sequence.”


“My CRAP has been off by nearly seven Earth-years ever since.”

“C.W.,” I said, “Before you go, answer me this about the things you said. Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?”

“Oh,” he said. “That will be up to you.”

I've had no further intercourse with the form of C.W. Future, but I will try live upon the Total Resistance Principle, ever afterwards; and may it was always be said of me, that I knew how to keep my love for America and its people well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us!

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Sunday, December 3, 2017

402. Serving

He was up to no good, that was for sure. He had o this white outfit and white hat and looked like every spoof of a pre-civil war southern plantation owner you’ve ever seen. Ridiculous? That’s not the word for it. He looked like Mark Twain on steroids.

“What the?”

“Come on in son,” he said. “I’ll let you in on the ground floor.”

I eased into the living room and found a chair. “Ground floor of what?”

“A fortune, my son, a lit’ral fortune.”

Every cell in my body leaped to attention. “What kind of literal fortune?”

“The best kind son, it’s the very best kind. Selling a service that’s going to be in hot demand. Hot demand I say.”

“What kind of service?”

“The best kind: freedom.”

“Freedom for whom?”

“Know that statue you love in the park downtown? The one of the woman leadin’ the young slave boy to freedom?”

“Harriet Tubman?”

“Herself. That’s what we are going to sell: freedom.”

“Uh, I hate to tell you, but our African-American brothers and sisters were freed a long time ago, partly anyhow.”

“Precisely. And before they were freed, how did they escape slavery?”
“Through something called The Underground Railroad led by people like Harriet Tubman.”

“There you go.”

“You’re going to have to explain this all to me.”

“Don’t you read the papers?”

“No, I get all my news from Facebook and Sean Hannity." We both laughed. "I’m kidding. Sure I read the newspapers, one in print and three or four on-line. So what?”

“Don’t you know that the folks runnin’ this country are itchin’ their britches off to hop into another war? Maybe two? Does the word 'draft' mean anything to you?”

“Sure, but it doesn’t concern me. I’m too old.”

He laughed. “Tell that to the last Germans that were drafted in 1945. Nicht zu jung. Nicht zu alt. Those were their standards for the draft.”

“It still wouldn’t concern me, as long as there is a Canada.”

“That’s my point son. I say that’s just my point.”

“I’m confused.”

“Stick with me boy. Stick with me. I’ve been talking with a member of my group of people who work together, usually in the same profession or occupation.”

“You mean you talked to one of your colleagues?”

“Ain’t that what I said. Now quit repeating me when I talk and listen. I talked to a buddy in Canada, and guess what?”


“They’ve done figured it all out, those Canadians have.”

“Figured all of what out?”

“That your folks in Washington are a little on the crazy side right now, for one thing.”


“They’s bustin’ a gut to invade some country or other, like I say: maybe two at once.”


“They got the power to do it but they ain’t got the manpower to do it.”


“The bottom of that barrel done been scraped smooth as a banker’s chin.”


“Bingo! Get ready for the military draft.” He slapped a fist into a palm. “Hit’s comin’ sure as rain on a picnic.”

“I see. I don’t think it will work, though,” I said. “The people right now who would vote for crazy would never send their kids to war for crazy. Other folk's kids sure. Their kids? Never.”

“Exactly my point son. You ain’t as dense as Mizzes Big Dope says you are. So, we would expect this mass stampede north.”


“There’s only one problem, though.”


“Canada doesn’t want the children of crazy people. They run a nice ship up there. Can’t you hear them border gates slammin’ shut?”

“I do indeed. What happens to the draft dodgers now?”

“They’s gonna have to be snuck in. Sort of the exact opposite of the Underground Railroad. This time instead of sneaking folks out, we’ll be sneaking folks in, to Canada that is.”

“I need a minute to let this settle.”

Keep your eyes on that
Tee Tee, my son. - C.W.
“Take your time. We’re thinking of calling it, my pals and I, ‘The Trump Tunnel.’ We’ve even settled on a slogan, a brand so to speak.”

“What’s that?”

 “Our ads will picture some boys who resemble the president’s kids under the slogan, We love that Tee Tee.”


“Oh, and there is one more difference.”

“And that is?”

“We are going make, I say make a killing on it. It’s going to cost them crazies out the old kazoo to get those brats snuck up there.”

“Oh my.”

“What do you think?”

“I think you are understanding America more with each passing day.”

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Sunday, November 26, 2017

401. Riches

Last night C.W. came to me with the most interesting question. He was in the shape of Timmie Joe, the 14-year old nerd. He was well-attired. Somewhere, he had found one of those old pocket protectors that engineering students in college used to wear, the kind that advertised a blueprint shop. I guess they will be collector items now. It meant he was on serious business.

“Why,” he said, “do people who have everything always want more?”

It took me by surprise and I didn’t have a ready answer. “What do you mean?” I said.

“I’ve been asked to determine if there is such a thing as a “satisfaction point,” he said. “Is there a point at which members of your species determine that they have enough and perhaps others might be entitled to some of the remains?”

“That’s a good question,” I said, “and I don’t have a ready answer. Besides, I’m fairly satisfied with my state.”


I felt a gnawing sensation in my stomach. “Well,” I said, “pretty much so.”


“What are you getting at?”

“How many guitars do you own?”

I told him and pointed out that I had sold one recently.



“And why did you sell it?”

I wanted to look around for help but I knew there were only two of us in the room.

"Uh," I said.

"To care for those who mourn?"

"Uh …"

"To care for the poor in spirit?"

"Uh …"

“Come on,” he said. “Admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“You sold it because you want to buy another, more expensive, one.”

I responded with a weak, “It’s my hobby.”

“So, if it’s a hobby, it’s not hoarding riches?”

“And besides, I don’t own them all, just a few.”

“Would your corporations be willing to stop there with your congressmen and congresswomen?”

I had to think about that. “I don’t imagine they would.” I lowered my head. “At least they haven’t so far.”

“What is with you, your species I mean?”

“What has brought this all on?”

“The Falloonian Elders are intrigued by the resistance to paying taxes on your ddyspikrslouckee.”

“Our what?”

“What they call it roughly translates into a tax on sexual ejaculations of the more fortunate kind granting unearned riches.”

“The what?”

“I call it the ‘lucky sperm tax’ for short. Think about it.”

I did. Realization began to settle on me like the morning sun on a windless morning. “Are you talking about the Estate Tax?”

“Yes. The one that rich kids who inherit their parents’ money hate so much. The riches they acquire because of a lucky sperm. They seem to care not if the less fortunate ones starve.”

“I see.”

“They have much, do little, and demand more. How can you give more to those who have plenty? My friend the Galilean has asked me that same question? Isn’t hoarding riches the pastime of a ship of sinners? He says so anyway.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I seem to know a certain, uh, a certain, let’s see, a certain alien let’s say with quite a collection of Heather Graham photographs.”

He fidgeted. “Maybe it’s because she looks like Mrs. Big Dope.”

Maybe it’s because you have plenty of them but it’s not enough. Why don’t you delete some of them?”

“Hey,” he said with great deal of merriment, “what say we go to the guitar store tomorrow?”

I do have a point, eh? Can anyone
guess who is who? - C.W.

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Sunday, November 19, 2017

400. Scoundrels

C.W. came in this morning as I was having coffee and plopped down in a seat across the table from me. He looked a lot like a young Harry Truman, complete with a white linen suit and wire-framed glasses.

“Morning,” I managed.


That maybe sounded a bit like Truman. He might have said that to MacArthur just before he fired him. I kind of hope so. “You tell me,” I said, and turned back to the book I was reading.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said.

I ignored him.

“This current batch of scandals and damaged careers proves how smart George W. Bush was.”

This got my attention. “It what?”

“If you want to run for office in the information age in your country, you must have one.”

“One what?”

“You must make yourself a ‘Salvation Date’ and stick by it.”

“A what?”

“A Salvation Date. It will get you through any scandal that someone digs up if you have the press trained right.”

“It what?”

“Makes you bullet-proof.”

“How so?”

“Simple,” he said. “It’s the date on which you made pals with the Galilean.”

“Say what?”

“They can’t ask you, the reporters can’t, about anything in your life preceding your Salvation Date. Anything before that you did before that date is off-limits. It was done by the ‘other you,’ the you that was under the spell of The Dark One. The ‘new you’ is the one since then and it is open for observation. Of course, your new life since that date must be spotless, washed ‘white as snow’ so to speak. It doesn’t pay to go back too far. Ask Bill Clinton.”

He took a deep breath and continued. “All those TV evangelists have one. Did you ever think, in your wildest imagination that people like Charles Colson, Jim Baker, and Jimmy Swaggart could ever be taken seriously again?

I thought. “Those proved modern miracles of self-righteous rehabilitation all right.” I said. “I can see where a political aspirant with a checkered past could use one.”

“This current feller has several. His tend to drift around as to the exact date and other specifications.”

“Let me make sure I understand. You’re telling me, I gather, that it gives one a clean slate from which to work?”

No matter how sleazy you might have been, you get to start afresh, sort of a political ‘do-over’ in case you need it. Jimmy Carter and John McCain didn’t need one, but most of the others do.”

“I’m beginning to get the picture,” I said.

“It’s marvelous, isn’t it? If anyone mentions a pre-date misbehavior, the bench-jumpers take to the streets to protest the casting of aspersions on their candidate’s religious bona fides.”
From this day on. Get it? - C.W.
“I thought our Constitution forbids a religious test for public office.”

He turned slightly toward me, pulled his eyeglasses down on the tip of his nose, and assumed a highly sophisticated and presidential manner. He spoke gravely. “Did you come into town on a load of watermelons?”

I had to think about all this for a moment. I said, “Are you sure about all this?”

“It’s called the ‘Salvation Date Deployment.’ Can’t you see?” he said. He was becoming quite excited. “It’s part of my new book, Scoundrels Are Us: American Politics in the Modern Age. What thinkest thou?”

“By Jove,” I said. “I think you’ve got it!”

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Saturday, November 11, 2017

Veterans Day

Hey friends. Big Dope is taking Veterans Day weekend off and asked me to post this favorite from years gone by.

Sunday, November 5, 2017

399. Beliefs

C.W. asked me for an hour or so of his time interrupted so I knew he was in serious mode. Imagine my surprise when he showed up as Bozo The Clown.

“What the … ?

“Howie Kazowie, little boy,” he said, taking a chair opposite me. “Are you ready to help old Bozo with his job?”

I sat speechless as he opened his notepad and clicked his pen to the ready position. He huge mouth opened into a grin and came up with “Ready?”

“I thought you wanted to have a serious conversation.”


“You look like a damned clown.”

“Shhh,” there are usually children following me around.”

“That’s my point,” I said. “Why the clown shape?”

“That’s the only way I can seriously discuss my topic du jowl, drawing his cheeks into a huge grin.”

“I think you mean ‘topic du jour’ don’t you?”

“I was making a joke, and don’t start in about my GUT.”

“I wouldn’t dare mention your Galactic Universal Translator,” I said. “Now what is up?”

“We are going to discuss what our planet sees as one of the most laughable aspects of your species. I’m simply dressed to fit.”

“And that aspect is?”

“The obsession your species has with conspiracy theories.”


“Yes. It came up again recently concerning an assassinated president, the one murdered by the lone gunman who sneaked a rifle to work, stayed in during lunch, and shot the president from the building where the gunman worked.”

“And the Falloonians think that was funny?”

“Oh no,” he said. “What they find funny is how your species has concocted such idiotic folk conspiracies around the event.”


“We differentiate between conspiracy theories, legends, and myths,” he said. The first is the most difficult to understand, and … .” He stopped. “Well,” he continued, “the most laughable, I’m afraid.”

That caused me to think. While I did so, he continued.

“How about the man who shot up a pizza shop because one of the presidential candidates was operating a child sex-slave ring in the basement?”

“That wasn’t funny to the manager of the shop who had a rifle pointed in his face,” I said. “And besides, I think we blamed that one on the Russians.”

“Would it have been better to blame it on the Schcrooarandians?”


“They’re considered by many to be the greatest jokers of our Galaxy.”


“Or how about the former president who managed the demolition of two of the tallest office buildings on your planet from the White House and managed to have an airliner flown into each one to cover up his crime? They still laugh about that conspiracy effort all over the Opaque white fluid rich in fat and protein, secreted by female mammals for the nourishment of their young … Way.”

“You mean the Milky Way?”

“Old Bozo was just joshin’ you, lad. Wowie kazowie. What fun.”

“I’m leaving,” I said. “I have better things to do.”

“Wait,” he said. “You need to hear this.” He reached inside his outfit and produced a scroll, which he unrolled. “This was compiled by a Falloonian youth with the comparable education of one of your twelfth-graders. He did it as a homework assignment.”

“How old is he.”

“In earth years?”


“He would be three months old.” Before I responded, he continued. “I’ll skip right to the meat of it.” He read, “It the absence of a single shred of evidence, physical documentation, or deathbed confession after more than 50 years, Earthlings, believe that a master conspirator, hereinafter referred to as ‘MC’ compiled the following conspiratorial body to cooperate seamlessly in the assassination of the aforementioned president.”

He scrolled a bit, with great ceremony.

“An actor playing the role of a crazed gunman who may or may not have known the role was terminal.” He looked at me and raised one of his huge eyebrows, then continued.

“The Dallas, Texas police department, the Cook County Sheriff’s department, various American Army, Marine, Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard officers, the American CIA, various organized crime organizations, the Cuban president and government, Lyndon Johnson and wife, the entire American media establishment … .”

“Stop, please,” I said.
What? - C.W.
He ignored me. “the American FBI, … .”

“Stop stop.”

“The equivalent of a military platoon of armed gunmen scattered secretly among the throngs lining the parade route, … .”

“That’s enough,” I said.

“One more line,” he said. Before I could protest, he skipped to the bottom and read. “Study Conclusion One: … .”

That caught my attention.

“American earthlings should immediately receive the galactic title of Doobprndoong now being held by the inhabitants of the planet Boochedufhaimerz++.”

“And what,” I asked, “does that award mean?”

“Wowie kazowie son,” he said. “It means ‘Goofballs of the Galaxy,’ more or less.”

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Sunday, October 29, 2017

398. Issues

It is one of C.W.’s most contemplative shapes, sort of the face of a famer and the grooming of a fop. He exhibits a cross between hard-earned understanding and devil-may-care insouciance wearing a John Deere hat and stockbroker suspenders. Weird.

“Come in” he said. That was a strange thing for him to say for I was already in and partway through a cup of coffee, sitting across from him. It was his way of telling me that he had only just noticed me.

“What’s up? You look pensive this morning.”

“The Falloonian Elders are concerned. Very concerned.”

I looked at him. Sometimes, usually when he has been preparing reports to transmit back to his home planet, he assumes an annoying but alarming air of flippancy. Not today.

“Concerned, you say?”

“I think I said ‘very concerned’ if you happen to have been listening.”

“Okay. Very concerned about what?”

“The continued drift of your species toward a loss of its grip on reality.”


“They are very concerned.”


He leaned back in his chair. “Where shall I begin?” he said. He rubbed his chin and moved the bill of his cap an inch or two up upwards. “We know,” he said, “that intellectual progress does not occur in a straight line.” He waited for this to settle. “Remember the abyss that sucked the daylight from Europe following the introduction of your favorite religion? It was known as the ‘approaching black in shade era’ if I remember correctly.”

“The Dark Ages, I think you mean.”

“Whatever,” he said. “At its lowest point, your panspermian sponsors revisited and made some minor genetic adjustments and ‘viola,’ the light emerged.”

“I think you mean ‘voila’ if you don’t mind.”

“What you now call the Renaissance,” he said, ignoring me.

“Yes. I think that’s what happens. Our progress is up and down, hills, valleys, and plateaus.”

Like a roller-vehicle that moves easily without using power.”

“That’s roller-coaster and you need to have you Galactic Universal Translator worked on.”

“All GUT repair is postponed until after this unstable situation of extreme danger or difficulty.”

“And this crisis is what, exactly?”

“First, let’s kill all the reporters. I think one of your famous writers said that.”

“I think he said ‘lawyers,’ and what has that to do with us?”

“Scientists are next, don’t you see?”

“Uh, …,”

“Then teachers, to be replaced by preachers.”

Uh, …,”

“Reason must go, to be replaced by political opportunism. Have you read about the long period of darkness between 1914 and 1946?”

“Many times,” I said. “I actually have known people who lived through it.”

“Would they have wanted you present leaders to have guided you through it?”

The thought of that stunned me. “You really are concerned,” I said. “Why? You can go back to the safety of your own planet at any time.”

“Scheduling,” he said.


“We had your planet scheduled for shutdown in accordance with current trends and now we must re-slide the cards over each other quickly and set a new schedule. We’re thinking of swapping you with Cedsuphucadhair. It has worse leadership than yours, but it is less prone to destruction.”

“So we are in real trouble, you think? That’s ‘re-shuffle’ by the way.”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“Oh, I am,” I said. “But we are a resilient species. We overcome things, even weird and strange things. Have you ever heard of Joseph McCarthy?”

He leaned back and exhaled. “He was sent as a test,” he said, “and things just got out of hand.”

“Will you help us?”
Your species accomplishes mighty things
 for the worst of reasons. Illogical. - C.W.
“We’ll try,” he said. “But we have to hurry. There are other issues awaiting you.”

“Oh? What issues?”

“I’ve been reading one of your books,” he said, shifting the conversation.

“What issues?”

One by James Baldwin.”

“What issues?”

“Something about someone’s room.”

“Would you tell me what issues?”

“Want to hear my favorite quote so far?”

Please, please … the issues.”

“I think it is either ‘The world is mostly divided between madmen who remember and madmen who forget. Heroes are rare,’ or another, ‘Nobody can stay in the Garden of Eden.’ Aren’t those great?”

“And what is our next crisis after we attend to the problem of our politics?”

“There is the matter of an unexplained and unpredictable asteroid that has entered your galaxy from somewhere and seems to be headed in your general direction. But first things first.”

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Sunday, October 22, 2017

397: Scary Things

“Have you picked out your Halloween shape yet?”

Why did I have to ask that? I assumed I knew the answer. C.W. always takes the same shape: his beloved three-headed monster, but I just had to bring it up. There he sat, looking a lot like some character I’ve seen on television a lot lately, but I can’t remember his name. He’s always standing behind the president in news clips, looking so sincere that chocolate candy wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Anyway, I thought He would say “me” as his shape again. He says going as himself is the only way most people can see the “real” C.W. It makes sense, and draws a lot of attention. But no.

“I’m going as a real person this year.”

“Oh.” I nodded toward him with a question look.

“Oh no,” he said. “Not this one. I field-tested it and it scares the kids too bad.”

“Who then?”

“I’ll give you a hint,” he said. “It’ll be the greatest Halloween costume the world has ever seen.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“It’ll be such a great costume that it will make Hillary Clinton turn herself into the FBI.”

“No, C.W., no.”

“I’ve received over five million letters asking me to.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re a poot-headed goose if you don't believe me.”

“Come on, get serious.”

“I’ll have ten thousand of my brothers marching outside, protecting our blood and soil, if you don’t let me.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“What isn’t?”

“How you’re threatening to appear on Halloween.”

“Is that what we were talking about?”

“I believe so.”

“I forgot. And, oh, I have to go.”

“So you were just kidding about all this?”

“About all what?”
The best "incumbency insurance"
any president ever had. - C.W.

“What about it?”

“How you are going to appear.”

“Oh, I don’t know yet how I’ll appear.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Now I have to go.

“Where to?”

“I have to purchase a large pumpkin to use as my head.”

See also:
Delta Dreaming
All Hat No Cattle
Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers.

Sunday, October 15, 2017

396. Truth

  “Want to go for a walk?” C.W. came into where I was reading. He had assumed what is rapidly becoming his favorite shape, the Galilean.

“Not with you looking like that,” I said, “you know how much road-rage you cause in the South.”

“We’ll stay off the main roads,” he said. “Besides, I have a problem.”

“You have a problem? How can the savior of humankind have problems? Did your last batch of wine go sour?”

“Up yours,” he said. I knew that he was serious.

“Let me get a walking stick.”

“It’s the Falloonian Elders again,” he said once we were out of earshot from our farmhouse.

“I thought you had soothed things over with them.”

“Oh, this isn’t about that speech I gave at the old-folks home.”

“The one where you told them they were exceeding expenses and were going to become expendable?”

He ignored me. “Each day has problems of its own. This is a new one,” he said. “Well, verily I say unto you that it is a recurring one, but much more serious. The rain falls on all of us, you know.”

“Yes,” I said, “the just and the unjust.”

“Everyone,” he said, “The tellers of truth and the ones who know not truth.” He paused, “Although,” he said, “that last bunch has been getting away with a lot of crap lately.”

“Are we talking politics here?”

He had perseverated on his last thought and ignored me. “The sun riseth on their evil daily.”

“Is that the problem?”

“No,” he said. “The Elders think I seek to exalt myself. You know as well as I that I only seek to be humbled.”

I stopped and thought for a few seconds. “Let’s get back to that,” I said. “Tell me what’s bugging you.”

“I am being persecuted for my righteousness.”

“What righteousness?” I said before I thought. “You know I catch a lot of grief on account of some of your stunts.”

He turned and glared at me. “Were I not blessed in being a peacemaker, I would terminate our friendship.” He paused and I could feel him relaxing, “But,” he said, “I suppose you are also blessed when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.”

I suppressed a groan. “Why don’t you just tell me your problem?”

“You know I am the truth and reality for you Americans,” he said. “No one comes to the Elders except through me.”

“So what is the problem?”

“I am being falsely accused of ahmekencheatep.

“Of what?”

“Don’t you remember when I told you that, back on Falloonia I had wanted to become what we call a “chronicler of imaginary cosmic pathways?”

“Yes,” I said, “our equivalent of a writer of fiction.”

“Close enough,” he said, “someone who binds himself not to the truth, but to forgetfulness of reality.”

“A writer of fiction.”
The trick of being a good liar
is to have an honest face. - C.W.

“But not harmful fiction, unlike those who write for that imitation news channel named after a small furry animal.”

“Okay,” I said. “So why is that a problem? People read real fiction all the time most would agree that it is good for them.”

He stopped and pulled a small dead branch from a tree. He thrust it toward me like an attorney producing evidence. “It is not the healthy who need a doctor,” he said, “but the sick.”


“I’m not sending fiction to the Elders I’m sending truth. The reason I was created and came into this world is to testify to the truth. Everyone on the side of truth listens to me.”

“And well they should.”

“The Elders don’t believe me. The say I lie. They say that an honest alien does no deceive but a false witness—me, they say—pours out lies.”

“What are they saying you lie about?”

“Only that you American band of homo sapiens has elected a man as ruler who would start wars causing millions of deaths, would allow the unhealthy to die, bears false witness hourly, loves riches beyond all things, covets his neighbor’s wife, rules according to the color of one’s skin, thrives on intemperate speech, promotes the wicked to violence, mocks the differently abled, enters into divorce—and you how that gets under my skin—ignores those who mourn, mocks the righteous, and hates those who are poor in both spirit and riches.”

“I see.”

“Oh,” he said, “and they can’t believe that he hates aliens. They think we are lovable and have come here to testify to the truth.”

I turned to him. “My friend, I’m afraid that in these frightening times, that is a dangerous thing to do.”

See also:
Delta Dreaming
All Hat No Cattle
Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers.

Sunday, October 8, 2017

395. Shopping

It’s always interesting to take C.W. shopping. First of all, he picks his shape carefully. Once, he came to Walmart as a 300-pound woman in shorts that weren’t much more than red thong underwear with a tattoo on one leg that said. “God knows what,” and one on the other leg that said “you’re thinking.”

I usually make him walk ten feet behind me. Today, though, he seemed fairly normal … for Walmart. He looked as though he might have been a farmer once. He wore a “Make America Great Again” baseball hat and faded overalls. Where they had worn through, he had red patches shaped like valentines sewn over the holes. A pair of scuffed black loafers completed the ensemble.

Not bad for Walmart, as I say. We walked along together, that is until I stopped to examine a freezer of ribs. When I had decided they were too expensive, I turned and he was gone. Did I dare hope that some sort of “Alien Rapture” had occurred?

No such luck. I heard him call me. “Hey Big Dope,” he yelled from two aisles down. “Come listen to this.” When I tried to ignore him, he yelled it again. I had no choice but to ease my cart toward him.

I found him standing close to a heavy-set woman with stringy red hair talking on a cell phone. She wore shorts, the legs of which seemed to cut off any blood that might make an attempt to complete a complete circulation. A tank top allowed a large portion of her stomach to cascade over the top of her shorts.

She would have looked like a standard Arkansas bar-haunter except for a bright rose tattooed on her neck, the stem extending beneath her tank top. This made her look more like a standard Arkansas bar-haunter with an ill-conceived tattoo. Walmart stores are full of them.

Anyway, C.W. was leaning in listening to her conversation. As I approached, she yelled into it, “So I told him he could jist ferget about gettin’ any more off me until he come around and faced the music, and by god I meant it.”

C.W. pointed at her and said to me, “She’s missing something called ‘her monthly.’ Is that a check or something?”

I said nothing. The woman lowered her phone and pressed it against one meaty thigh. “Do you mind?” she said, “I’m talking here.”

“I don’t mind,” he said.

She started to say something. Then she looked at me and smiled. Two of her front teeth were missing and two were capped in gold. She looked at C.W. and nodded toward me. “He a friend of yours?” she said.

I left then, fast. C.W. followed along behind. As we walked away, I could hear the woman yelling into her phone again. “He can jist go waller around with one of them whores at ‘The Dance and Duck’ as far as I’m concerned."

We approached the baking goods section. As usual, there were a couple of elderly ladies parked there, examining the various cake mixes. As we passed them, C.W. said, “What does it mean when a woman says she missed her monthly?” Two heads snapped toward us.

I hurried on. When we reached the end of the aisle, C.W. pointed toward the personal care area and said, “I need to go over there. I’ll be right back.”

“No,” I said. “You’re not about to pull that one on me. You do remember that’s why you don’t get to come here with my wife anymore, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

 “You don’t remember yelling across the store to her that you had found the feminine products section?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why indeed? I don’t suppose you remember stopping an assistant manager and suggesting that he display the Ramen Noodles over by the condom section either, do you? That store over in the college town? Ring a bell?”

“That couldn’t have been me.”
Big Dope is such a good husband, always
offering to go shopping for his wife. - C.W.

“Then who was it that suggested that same day that they move the Mountain Dew drinks over to the firearms section?”

“You must have me mixed up with someone else,” he said.

“Like the unknown person that slipped the ‘Day of the Week’ panties into my cart last time we came here?”

“Someone did that?”

I started answer, but he had stopped beside another woman yelling into a cell phone.

“This time,” she said to an unknown listener, “I let them keep him in there until he dried out. I told them I didn’t care if he was a deacon. If First Baptist wanted him, they could go get him.”

See also:
Delta Dreaming

Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers.

Sunday, October 1, 2017

394. Writing

“Hey, come here and read this.”

Groan. Even in the next room, the scene was clear. C.W. has taken lately to “shaping up,” as he calls it, like the president. It’s not only unnerving, it scares my wife’s cats. Nonetheless, I walked in to where he sat in front of a pile of papers, all printed with neat margins. He flipped through them and handed me one. I read:

“As he gently bit her nose, one hand began to scratch the toes on her right foot. She moaned, ‘Oh darling, you do that so quickly. Don’t slow down.’”

“What the …?”

“You like it, right?”

“What the …?”

He looked directly at me. “Go ahead, be honest. I can take it. That’s one of my strong points. What do you think?”

“First of all, what is it?”

“Oh,” he said. “I’m writing a novel. I have this friend, a well-known cinematographer, who likes steamy scenes, so I wanted to include a little of the type of literature or art intended to arouse sexual desire.”

“You mean erotica?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“If so, I think you missed the boat.”

“What boat? Are we going on a cruise? I haven’t even packed.”

“It is a figure of speech.”

He thought. “Wait one,” he said. He took a pencil and pad that lay on the coffee table and began to write. “Your figure is like a fine speech delivered in a soft husky voice in a candle-lit room.” Then he looked back at me. “So, what about part I read to you?”

“I … uh … is it supposed to be a sex scene?”

“Of course. Bet it got your old heart pumping, eh?”

“It was awful.”

“You jerk, nasty man, bad friend. You’re jealous, that’s all.”

“I thought you took criticism well.”

“Screw you. What was wrong with it, if I may ask?”

“For one thing, biting noses and scratching toes do not spark sexual desires in someone.”

“They do where I come from.”

“But your audience is here in America.”

“It is a great thing to bring some enlightenment into a dark world, and I am so good at it,” he said. “Wait one.” He turned back to his writing pad, wrote and said aloud, “He slipped a hand under her bra, hooked his fingers, then ripped it upwards from her body and over her head. It made a sound like a long length of duct tape that was being pulled from a cardboard box, and she moaned again. ‘Not so gently,’ she said. ‘Be strong and harsh.’ She head-butted him, making him see stars. This time, it was he who moaned.”

He stopped and smiled. “Writing is fun,” he said. “You should try it sometime.”

“Don’t leave that stuff lying around where my wife can see it.”

“Oh, Mrs. Big Dope loves my work,” he said. “She thinks I ought to send it to all the local publishers.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, she even suggested that I send it in under your name to avoid legal entanglements when the royalties start rolling in, me being an alien and all. She said you would do the right thing about splitting the money.”
The problem with your species seems to be
that there are more people writing than
there are people reading. - C. W.

“I see,” I said, and I was actually beginning to. “She really liked it?”

“Oh,” he said, “she was absolutely evasive, no … wait … effusive, that’s it. She was effusive in her praise.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” she even helped me send excerpts to some of your Facebook friends and former clients.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really. Want to hear her favorite?”

“Why not?”

He shuffled through the sheets. “Ah,” he said, “here it is.” He read:

“As he moaned his pleasures and continued to follow his intentions, she succumbed to the rush of her desires and smashed the plate of fish entrails into his waiting face. His eyes rolled upward in pleasure. With her other hand, she attacked his left rib cage, causing him to erupt in uncontrolled sexual giggling, sputtering and making a sound much like that of a pig breaking wind under water. They both trembled with joy.”

“Honey,” I screamed. “Get in here. You got some ‘splainin’ to do.” I rose and heard the sound of running footsteps and the back door slamming.

“Wait,” he said. “I’m not finished. I’m just getting to the super-glue part.”
See also:

Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers.