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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.”

“Elucidate.”

“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.


Sunday, September 24, 2017

393. Policy

Slept in this morning and C.W. was already busy with my computer when I walked into the living room. I had my morning coffee and was scarcely awake. He had a shape I’d not seen before, sort of a cross between the actors Don Knotts and Jim Nabors. He was wearing farmer’s khakis and a John Deer baseball hat and was typing away.

Careful not to disturb him, I sat quietly and took a sip of coffee. After a moment, he quit typing, looked at me, and said, “Morning, Poo-poo Head.” Then he waited.

“What?”

“No,” he said, “Too sissy.” He ignored me and went back to his typing. I heard him muttering to himself, “Just like everything else, they think this is easy.” He typed for a few seconds and then looked at me again. “Morning, you stump-broke female of the species Bos taurus, family ‎Bovidae.”

As one might imagine, I sat in stunned silence. He punched a single key and said “Save.” He smiled and started to speak but stopped and began typing again. “Slant-eyed lawn jockey.” He waited for a reaction.

“Stop it,” I said. “Please tell me what you are doing.”

“Busy,” he said, “Got to finish this assignment by Monday at noon.” He started to type again, but stopped, and looked at me again. “Fart-sniffing wiener dog.” He gave a shrug that implied, “What do you think?”

“I’m giving you one last chance,” I said. “You know I have the ‘hot-line number’ to the Falloonian Elders.”

“Working,” he said. “I told you I had a job.”

“A job?”

“It’s not a job. It’s an adventure. You wouldn’t understand you sun-dried douche-bag.” He gave me that look again.

“Wait a minute. Wait just a minute. Who are you working for and what are you doing?”

“I’m working for myself, my own company.”

“And what company is that?”

“Taunts in Twitter Style,” he said. “Want to see some TITs?” he said, holding up a pile of papers. He shook them at me. “You short-stack pile of steaming … ,”

“Stop it,” I said. “Where did you get the idea for this company?”

“From a man named Vince,” he said, “you dried-up testicle bag.”

“I’m calling the Elders,” I said, if you do that one more time.”

“Go ahead, you sewage-sipping half-pint.”

I slumped in my seat. “This ‘Vince’ man, who is he?”

An entrepreneur,” he said, “I think he’s in the entertainment business. Something about the sport or activity of grappling with an opponent and trying to throw or hold them down on the ground, typically according to a code of rules.”

That stopped me. I just sat there shaking my head. Then, realization started coming toward me like a gray horse emerging from the fog. “Are you talking about Vince McMahon of World Wrestling Entertainment?”

“Who else, you dingleberry-nibbling midget?”
He's Number One, or
says he is, anyway. - C.W.

“He’s paying you to think up taunts?”

“He’s the go-between man, you crap-collecting moron.”

“I think I understand.”

“About time, you scab-scratching imbecile.”

“Vince McMahon is contracting with you to think up taunts for his professional wrestlers.”

This time, he looked at me with confusion.

I continued. “I don’t think,” I said, “that they would allow some of those on a family-oriented TV show, even a pro-wrestling show.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said, “you scum-sucking child of a hairless baboon.” He smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “I’ll have no problem with any censors.” He laughed to himself and repeated, “Censors my ass, you knuverhataklu.”

“You what?”

“Never mind,” he said. “They don’t allow me to use Falloonian.”

“Even on pro-wrestling? They would probably come closer to understanding Falloonian than they would English.”

“Some of those fans are earth-born, I'll have you know. A few are, anyway. And why do you keep harping on pro-wrestling?” he said, “you piss-ant’s underbelly.”

“Aren’t you into serving the entertainment industry?”

“Heavens no,” he said, “you skunk-sodomizing simpleton.”

“If not for pro-wrestling, then who for?”

“If you must know,” he said, waving a hand at me, “I’m helping out with foreign policy, at the highest level.” He paused and raised one eyebrow. “And I do mean the highest level, Loser Man.”

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

 

Sunday, September 17, 2017

392: Amnesty

“Do you think I might obtain permanent status through this so-called ‘Dream Act’ if I applied?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“First, you aren’t a human.”

“And you think this Gudamfulian in your White House is?”

“What? Do I think our president is human?”

“Do you actually think that Falloonia is the only planet that has observers on your planet?”

“Uh, well, I hadn’t thought about it. I’ve always had my hands full with you.”

Right Head and Left Head both looked at Middle Head, who laughed. “Some civilizations just have a better sense of humor. So what about this Dream Act thing? Will it work for me?”

“I don’t think so. You would have had to come here as a child.”

“Wait one,” said Right Head, and they left the room. As they did, Left Head muttered, “We’ll show that Phukeenazoal.”

“I heard that,” I said, yelling it after him. C.W. and I had been sitting around talking and he hadn’t chosen a shape for the day. At last account, he was torn between a physics professor and a welder’s apprentice. As it turned out, he changed directions completely. Reggie the Young Conservative walked back into the room.

I frowned. “You’re going to ask for amnesty in that shape?”

“It’s not my fault I’m here,” he said.

“No?”

“No. The Mother Ship dropped me off at boarding school and they forgot all about me. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

“I think I would leave out the part about the Mother Ship.”

“How about my mother was an ambassador from somewhere or other?”

I thought, then said, “Come to think of it, ‘that just might get the job done,’ as the dentist said when he took the crowbar in his hand.” I was feeling a little Dickensean this morning.

“This is no time for humor or frivolity, especially the treatment of a serious matter with humor or in a manner lacking due respect.”

“I assume that you mean it is no time for levity?”

“There you go again, repeating things I say."

I took on my most serious look. “They will do a background check, you know.”

That stopped him. He thought and said, “You don’t suppose Mrs. Middleton would … ”?

“No,” I said, “she dropped the charges after you replaced her ‘Hillary’ sign.”
'
“What about that Dunkum man?”

“I don’t think he ever figured out for sure that you donated money in his name to your party.”

“Perry?”

“He still thinks I’m the one who sent him the CD of Nazi fight songs for Christmas,” I said. “And besides, he likes any form of marching songs, even those.”

“Mrs. Big Dope?”
Some folks do admire their discipline.  - C.W.

“You might have a problem there,” I said. “If you really are the ‘Ima Troother’ who keeps tagging her on Facebook. I think you are, aren’t you?”

“Oh heavens no,” he said. “That must be one of the Keaderunda reps.”

Shaking my head, I said, “You more or less gave it away when you posted that she made your Ba-Donka-Donk want a dip of snuff.”

“I repeat. I know nothing about any Facebook postings.”

“What about those ads someone purchased alleging that a certain presidential candidate was widely known to have experimented in thespianism with another woman while she was in college?”

“Those ads were true.”

“True or not, they lost her a lot of votes with the Franklin Graham crowd. He even used them in his rallies, I've heard.”

“Anyway, I never paid for them.”

“Oh? Who did?”

“Hey,” he said. “Maybe I could claim I drifted ashore as a child after my parents were lost at sea. My people would go for that.” His skin began darken. He smiled and said, Funcionaría eso?”

I nodded. “’It just might work,’ as the ant said when he started climbing up the elephant’s leg.”
         
See also:
Delta Dreaming
Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers.

Sunday, September 10, 2017

391. Schemes

“Hey Big Dope, have a seat.”

“Thanks.” I sat. C.W. was typing on my laptop and didn’t look up. He was in a familiar form. I have this friend who writes and teaches journalism. C.W. likes to “channel” him from time to time, hoping the Muse will settle within him. It usually doesn’t work. But he seemed to be giving it a try. He looks so real that I almost called him by my friend’s name. “What’s doing, Son… , uh, C.W.” I said.

“Thought I would catch up on some old consulting projects while we’re locked indoors by the hurricane,” he said.

“The hurricane won’t hit us,” I said. “It’s hundreds of miles away.”

He looked at me and shook his head. “There’s a real denial syndrome affecting you people.” And he started typing again.

“So, what are these old consulting projects you’re working on?”

“Some that I had filed away and forgotten about. Requests for research and political guidance, that sort of thing. I’m sure the clients are wondering where they are.”

I’m not sure if I have mentioned it before, but C.W. doesn’t operate within same space-time continuum as we. He tends to lose track of time completely when he gets focused on other things. I nodded. “What kind of research and guidance?”

He tapped the computer keys. “Here’s one,” he said, “It seeks guidance on anticipated policy directives for the first female president of the United States.”

“It what?”

He ignored me. “I’m looking at specific gender-related opposition to such things as passing an expansion of the Affordable Care Act, whatever that is. I’ll recommend that they go after the most timid members of the opposing party, and win them over. Sort of 'grab them by the pusillanimous,' don’t you see?”

“And you received this assignment when?”

“Oh, some time ago,” he said, tapping the keys again. “Here’s another. They want some ideas on hitherto unimagined methods of political campaigning.”

“Oh really?”

“I started with two ideas, but the client said they were unrealistic. I went ‘back to the drawing board,’ as you say, and forgot all about it.”

“After the two ideas?”

“Yeah, I first thought they might ask around and see if some foreign country might want to offer some help with their campaigns.”

“And?”

“Most of their people said that would be illegal.”

“I see. And the other idea?”

“Oh, it was really too far out for them.”

“Oh? There is a concept now that things might be too far out for political campaigning?”

“This apparently was.”

“And it involved?”

“Oh,” he said, “It was a crazy scheme involving inducing someone who wasn’t a member of a political party to infiltrate that party’s election process and run a campaign designed to tear the party apart. Crazy idea. Would never work.” He punched more keys. “And delete,” he said punching the laptop with one finger. “Here’s a better one. This client was running for some office and was terrified of being elected.”

“Oh really? Why?”

“It was just a publicity stunt. He thought it might help him financially. The last thing on earth he wanted was to be stuck in a public job.”

“You haven’t started working on it yet?”

“Quite the opposite,” he said. “It’s an ongoing project. We just haven’t found the right answer.”

“What’s the oldest one you haven’t started?”

“Let’s see,’ he said. He typed for a moment. “Here’s a good one. I think I’ll start on it immediately. Should be able to complete it in a few days.”

“Can you share with me what it involves?”

“What but not who.”
This is no country for
old libertarians. - C.W.

“Why not who?”

“I’m sworn to secrecy. I don’t know much myself. I don’t deal directly with the client. The assignment came from a think tank somewhere.”

“But you can tell me what it involves?”

“They want me to start leaking some juicy little tidbits involving broad public support and justification for their scheme. Generate ‘pub’ as we call it in the business. The first dispatches should hit the presses next week. I’ve already sent them. After the initial bombardment, I’ll recommend a full-blown strategy.”

“And the scheme is what, exactly?”

“It’s really quite simple,” he said. “A governor somewhere wants his state to succeed from the United States.”                                                                                                                                                          
                  
See also:
Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Sunday, September 3, 2017

390. Incoherence

“Are you listening to me? Hey, C.W. Will you pay attention?”

“What?”

“Take those earplugs out. What are you doing?”

He removed one earplug. He had been laying on the couch staring at the ceiling in the shape of, let’s see, more or less a senior citizen, a bit overweight with a receding hairline, wearing a brightly colored shirt and sansabelt pants. His deck shoes lay on the floor. “What?” he said.

“Mind telling me what’s going on?”

“I’m trying to rest and get my mind off this planet for a few minutes. We older citizens need to recharge our sanity capacitors from time to time.”

“So, you plug your ears and stare at the ceiling?”

He pointed toward the TV. I hadn’t noticed it until then. A circle of orange was bouncing around indiscriminately and there was shouting. “What the … ?”

“He’s making another speech.”

“He?”

“That man.”

“Oh.”

“It’s wonderful this, wonderful that, terrific this, terrific that, and everything is ‘the greatest’ that ever there was or will be.”

“Why not turn him off.”

“Mrs. Big Dope likes to listen to him from the kitchen.”

“My wife likes to listen to him?”

“She says he tickles her sometimes, but I’m not sure.”

“Oh?”

“No. I think he just reminds her that maybe you aren’t so bad after all.”

“Oh.”

With one plug still in an ear, he turned to me. “Did you know that your country has just received the highest rating in the galaxy for wadaphrcinell++?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And that is?”

He grew pensive. Although it was silent, his Galactic Universal Translator was no doubt going full speed.”

“It doesn’t exactly translate.”

“Oh.”

“It’s somewhere between incoherent babbling and what you, in common parlance, call ‘male bovine excrement’ delivered at such high speeds that linguistic discipline is impossible.”

The voice on TV rose in intensity and the crowd roared. “I see what you mean.”

A loud crash sounded in the kitchen followed by the sound of glass hitting the floor.

“He’s reaching the point of maximum effectiveness,” C.W. said. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” He pointed toward the kitchen.

“Gotcha. So you don’t have this kind of incoherent babbling on Fallonia?”

“Oh certainly we do. On rare occasions, a citizen unit is born with a genetic phenomenon called krssyesalun.”

“And, what do you do with them?”

“We do what we do with all genetic and physiological variations, we honor and respect them, treat them as what you might call holy creatures worthy of great reverence.”

“That’s interesting.”

“These particular units usually become quite famous and what you call wealthy, in that they never have to worry about creature comforts of any kind.”

“How do they do that?”

“They rent a large enclosure with bars to protect them from those like Mrs. Big Dope and large crowds congregate to hear them. The crowds enjoy themselves and make donations, the performers enjoy themselves, and the Elders appreciate the peace and comfort it brings.”

“They spout nonsense for money?”
One wonders, doesn't one? - C.W.

“And power. They are quite effective in shaping policy. Since nobody understands what they are saying, there can’t be any disagreement as to efficacy. No matter what policy their supporters want adopted, they use the babblings as evidence.”

“That’s insane.”

He turned his face toward the TV.

"Oh really?” he said, placing the earphone back in his ear. “Did you see,” he said, holding up a cylindrically shaped object, “the present that our friend Perry Carr sent me?”






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Sunday, August 27, 2017

389: Redemption

“What on Earth?”

“I’m packing.” It was true. C.W. had a bag with essential items laid out and appeared ready to depart on some journey or other. I hoped he wasn’t going in his present form, the Galilean, since he would never make it through the first checkpoint. I suspect that a white robe and sandals on a Middle-Easterner would set off profile detector alarms all over the airport.

“Going somewhere?”.

“You remind me of the man who met a friend who said he was on his way to his brother’s funeral.”

“And?”

“The man asked, “Oh, did your brother die?”

A glimmer of hope appeared. “Going back to Falloonia?”

“No the dungiderphicupageen hasn’t run out there yet.”

“The what?”

“What you call the ‘statute of restrictive boundaries.’ We have them there too.”

“Oh, you mean a statute of limitations?”

“There you go repeating what I say again.”

“What was your crime?”

“You don’t have a word for it in your language.”

“Serious, eh?”

“A case of improper identification. That’s all.”

“Oh?”

“The word for ‘Elder-kin’ is very similar in Falloonian to ‘willing young thing,’ if you really must know.”

“Aaah. So where are you headed?”

“To Washington.”

“To Washington? Where in Washington?”

“A redemption center.”

“What are you going to redeem?”

“Not what, how? Hand me that, will you?” He pointed at a what appeared to be a set of cat o' nine tails.”

“What are you going to do with that?”

“Express my desire for redemption.”

“Your what?”

“Redemption. Our representative in the East has learned from a source that they are setting up redemption centers where the unsaved can be pardoned and returned, with the proper display of contrition, to the fold.”

“What fold?”

“The right fold.”

“As in ‘the appropriate fold?’”

“As in ‘the right fold.’”

“Aaah.” So, does flagellation serve as a justification for being brought into the ‘right’ fold?”

“I don’t know. I thought it might help. I can’t promise to vote right since I can’t vote, and I have only as much money as you are willing to give me. I don’t think you would extend me a large amount for this particular purpose.”

“You got that right. So, you think this seeking of a pardon on Earth might help with your, uh, little situation in Falloonia?”

“Oh heavens no.” He stopped and chuckled. “Listen to me, ‘oh heavens no.’ You’d think I was homesick. We have rules in Falloonia.”

“Rules?”

“More like guidelines that we follow without fail. We don’t bend them for political purposes. Otherwise we would be no better than … .” He stopped before he said it.

“But you said you were going to seek redemption.”

“For forgiveness, actually.”

“Forgiveness for what?”

“For being a stranger in a strange land.”

“You are seeking a pardon for that?”

“Exactly.”
 
I don't think I heard that
ex-sheriff say that. - C.W.
"Are you going to express remorse?"

"The last one they pardoned didn't have to."

“Do you have any supporting evidence that you plan to take?”

“Only something Dad said.”

“And that was?”

“Do not deprive the foreigner or the fatherless of justice.”

“That’s only one line of the many things he said.”

“It only takes you people one line from a holy scripture to form a national policy.”

“Do you think it might work in your case?”

“It hasn’t yet, but Dad and I are the eternal optimists.”

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Sunday, August 20, 2017

387. Lines

“How do I look?”

What could I say? C.W. looked like weird, even for him. Remember those male models they used to put in the old Sears catalogs? I’m talking about the men advertising work wear, guys who looked like lawyers wearing work shirts, work pants, and steel-toed boots. Only he had this orange tint on a face topped off with a red baseball cap that said, “Make Everyone Reject Democrats,” under the large letters spelling out “MERD.”

“You look … uh, … swell.”

“I thought so. Are you ready to go?’

“I’m not sure I can. I have a lot to do around here.”

“Nonsense. You’ve got to be my modified forelimb that bears large feathers man.”

“I’m not sure I want to be your ‘wing man’ in that getup.”

“Nonsense. We’re going to score on some chickee babies, grab ‘em you know where.”

“I’m not sure my wife would allow that. Besides, I’m behind on my chores.”

“Nonsense. We’re going to wow the babes. I guarantee it.” He paused. “Oh, and speaking of Mrs. Big Dope, is she going with us?”

“Hardly. Don’t you remember? She said she would never be seen in public with you again after last time.”

“Nonsense. That wasn’t my fault. How was I to know that woman was a TV evangelist?”

“The forty pounds of jewelry and five layers of makeup, along with hair standing up a foot high might have given you clues.”

“I though she may have been a politician, state senator or something.”

“Your pickup line didn’t help.”

“I forget what it was.”

“Pardon me miss, didn’t I meet you at the meeting of the Existentialism Club last night?”

“Oh, yeah. Didn’t work too well, did it?”

“It got worse after you did realize what she did for a living.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Would you get on your knees for Jesus?”

“No. Really?”

“And go with him, with him, all the way?”

“I was just trying to speak in her vernacular. I don’t know why she got mad.”

“That’s the trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“She didn’t get mad. Don’t you recall?”

“She’s not the one who …?”

“Yeah. She’s the one.”

“She had a nice house.”

“It took us forever to find you.”

“It had over forty rooms.”

“Do you want to go back?”

He blanched and shook his head. “No,” was all he said.

“Now you know why I don’t want to go with you.”

“Nonsense. Bar springing lightly is fun.”

“Bar ‘hopping’ is far from fun with you, and besides, that wasn’t your worst pickup line.”

“Oh? I had others you didn’t like?”

“Let’s cut out the small talk and start some serious bargaining. I bid one kiss on the ear.”

“I used that one?”

“I like sex infrequently. Care to find out if that’s one word or two?”

“No, really?”

“A quiver-full begins with a quiver. Want to help string my bow?”

“I’m not believing I said that.”

“Oh, it gets worse.”

“Nonsense.”

“Remember the one about the difference between walking up and sticking it in, and sticking it in and walking up?”

“I don’t remember that. Besides. I’ve learn about salvation through sincere contrition and penitence.”

“Redemption? From whom?”
Please. Don't ask. - C.W.

“Big hair.”

“She taught you about redemption?”

“Oh, she taught me many things that have made me a better person, or imitation person, or whatever.”

“I still don’t want to go with you.”

“I’ve learned my lesson. Trust me. I’ve gone straight.” He stopped, thought, and grabbed a pad and pencil from his pocket. He began to write and nod, saying “How would you like to get something straight between us?”

A scene from a famous movie flashed before my eyes. Click here and you will understand.



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Sunday, August 13, 2017

386: Dogs

 “We need to talk.”

That was a surprise. C.W. hadn’t said a word in 20 minutes. He just sat on the couch in what is becoming his favorite form: The Galilean. I knew to be careful. He’s wily in this form.

“Oh?” I played dumb.

“Quite.”

“About what?”

“Mrs. Big Dope.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Have you ever noticed anything unusual about her?”

I wanted so badly to reach and see if he happened to be wearing a wire under his robe. “Unusual?” I was stalling for time. “She’s unusually intelligent.”

“I agree, until I look at you, that is.”

“She’s unusually beautiful.”

“Could probably have done better. Can you think of anything that kept her from it? Habits? Traits? Idiosyncrasies?

“She has an inordinate fondness for dogs.”

“I agree. Someone once said that about Dad and beetles. It’s true. So far he’s made over a quarter-million different species of them, if you are to believe your vice-president. That makes the old man chuckle.”

The diversion pleased me. “Why so many?”

“Let’s get back on topic. Anything unusual about Mrs. Big Dope’s relationship with dogs? I mean other than the fact she has so many of them?”

I thought of my options. Even as The Galilean, I didn’t trust him completely. “Well,” I said, “she thinks they understand English, talks to them all the time in complete sentences.”

“I’ve noticed that. What’s odd about it?”

“Uh, other than the fact that they are dogs?”

“You don’t think they understand her when she talks to them?”

I waited, thought, then said. “Not really.”

“Be prepared,” he said, “for a shock. They do.”

I didn’t answer for a moment, thinking of my options. “They what?”

“They understand every word she says.”

“Get out of town.”

“They last time someone told me that was a day or so after they welcomed me in with hosings.”

“I think you mean hosannas.”

“Whatever. Anyway, sure the dogs understand her. It’s one of the greatest inside jokes in the galaxy that they don’t answer her back. Maybe they will someday.”

“They’re playing a joke on her?”

“Not playing a joke, testing her faith.”

“You’re joking.”

“I don’t joke. They dogs do though. And, by the way, I know a lot more about the testing of faith than you do.”

“The dogs joke?”

“Of course. Haven’t you ever seen them play the ‘damage to the auditory nerve game’ when she states a demand they don’t approve of?”

“Do you mean the ‘deaf’ game.”

“My son, you’re never going to develop friends until you break the habit of repeating everything they say. And, yes, the deaf game. Sometimes they play it just after they’ve run a mile because she yelled the word ‘treat’ once.”

“They do that on purpose, play deaf I mean?”

“Haven’t you noticed the way they roll over on their backs and wiggle after they’ve done it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I think I have seen that.”

“That’s their method of laughing about it. They call it a ‘group guffaw,’ and it’s one of their great joys. That and making up limericks.”

“They make up limericks?”

“Oh heck yes. Of course, you can’t hear them. They communicate with thought waves much above your range.”

“Limericks?”

“Want to hear one? One that the female boxer-mix made up?”

I bit. “Sure.”

He though, then recited:

There once was a Great Dane name Marge
Who dated a Dachshund named Sarge.
She’d stand in the river.
And how she would quiver,
As he approached from behind on a barge.

“That’s awful.”
 
Do you really think she would let you
buy this chair for a mere human? - C.W.
“Don’t let her hear you say that.”

“Why?”

“Remember the last time she licked you in the face?”

“Yes.”

“Guess what she had been doing just before that?’

I thought. “No … surely not.”

“What do you think that translates into?”

"I'm afraid to think."

"Well it sure as hell ain't, 'Why don't you float up and drop anchor sometime, big boy?'"


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