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Sunday, December 31, 2017

406: Resolutions

C.W. doesn’t like cold weather. That means he stays indoors more. That means he develops more opportunities to get on my nerves. And he is approaching very close to my last one.

This morning, he was working his, as he put it, “Not-existing-before Year’s” resolutions.

“How many times have I told you that it is ‘New’ Year’s resolutions?”

“How many times have I asked why you repeat everything I say?” He paused, returned to the computer, began typing, muttered to himself, “Speak more slowly and clearly when conversing with Big Dope.”

“Why don’t you put down, “Have my Galactic Universal Translator serviced on schedule?”

He typed again, “Research possible reasons for Big Dope’s obsession with my GUT. Related to his weight gain?” He stared at me and smirked. “There. Anything else?”

“Why don’t you resolve to live more peaceably with my wife?”

“Done and done. I’ve even returned all her cooking spices to their proper containers.”

“And her rock collection?”

He typed and muttered, “Remove emojis.” He stared into space. Then typed again, “Get rid of firecracker alarm system and replace with ZZ Top music.” He looked at me “She’ll adore me before the year is done.”

“And her phone greeting?”

He laughed and typed, “Phone greeting: change to just, ‘What do you want.’ Remove the ‘F-word.’ Don’t change it again. Is there more?”

“I’m sure there’s more. Let me think.”

“You might tell her to quit hiding Left-Head’s hat. He won’t even let us go outside without it.” Left -Head nodded in agreement.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“So what improvements are you going to make come January One?”

“I may resolve to tell the government men the truth next time they ask me if I’m aware of any alien activity in the vicinity.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Where is my banjo?”

“I hid it in the attic. You wouldn’t really turn me in, would you?” Right-Head’s face brightened. “Besides,” it said. “Mrs. Big Dope paid us to hide it.”

“Yeah, right.”

He typed and muttered, “Schedule Big Dope for a Reality Enhancement Analysis Machine probe.”

“Large probe version,” Left-Head added.

He typed, “Large probe and extended REAM session.”

“This is getting tiresome. I’m making some coffee. Who wants some?”

“Me.”

“Me.”

“I’ll take a Bloody Mary.”

I turned. “That’s for tomorrow morning. Can’t you wait?”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“Dyahaf++kopoouress.” He said.

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t want to know,” Left-Head said. “Besides, we need to be changing before Mrs. Big Dope gets up. She’s still mad at Right-Head for calling her a Celeedahdumca.”

“I seem to recall. Well go ahead and change, I’ll get the coffee.”

I returned with the tray and immediately wished I hadn’t. He had assumed his newest shape, one he simply calls “Current Occupant.” He was thinking hard, but not typing.

“I’m stumped,” he said. “For the first time in my life, I’m stumped.”

Now you know how I feel. - C.W.
“Oh?”

“Yes. These things, these resolution things, they are supposed to help you do better in the coming year, right?”

“Right.”

“So how can I improve? I’ve done more great things than any human has ever accomplished in less than a year: everybody on the planet loves me more than they have ever loved anyone, I’ve shown more brilliance, improved more lives, provided more promise, created more harmony, been kinder to those that despise and mock me, done more for the poor and the humble, spread more peace, acted more righteously, mourned more those who have lost loved ones, spread more hope for the least of those among us, than anyone going back the entire 2,000 years of our existence. How could I improve myself?”

“You might find three our four guys to write a history of your great accomplishment during the last year. I think there are plans already underway.”

“That’s a great idea. It will be the greatest story ever told. Have you heard what they plan to call it?”

“I think they’ve chosen, The Year of Shame.”

“That’s the best title of any book ever,” he said. “They’ll uncover the truth about those who don’t like me. Shame, yeah, that’s the idea. Wonderful theme. That will be great. The greatest theme ever chosen. You tell them to get right to work.”

For the first time this morning, I smiled.


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Sunday, December 24, 2017

405: Transformations

Probably, C.W. thought that he had captured Ebenezer Scrooge perfectly. It’s hard to tell what Dickens had in mind. He asked us to imagine his character’s physical appearance from his demeanor, to wit:

“Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.”

As the Alien’s character had interrupted my reading, I leaned back to attend his harangue and found myself as shocked as a spinster in a bawdy house to find him in a humorous attendance.

He sat, rubbed his stubble of beard, and said, “I was thinking of a cartoon I ran across while doing some research on British humor. What? Oh yes. They did years ago. Don’t know what happened. Prince Charles’ girlfriend and all that. Anyway, I think the piece appeared in Punch, a real ‘guffawer’ if I recall correctly. Is that a word? Oh, let’s make it one for today at least.” He chuckled.

Still shocked by his exhibition of an unexpected, and, seemingly uncharacteristic, display of levity, I leaned forward.

“There was this Christian Crusader on a large white horse and a Muslim soldier sprawled on the ground. The Christian held a huge lance to the other’s throat while he held a menacing sword aloft with the other in an unmistakable posture of victory.

"To this instance of impending doom, the Muslim says, 'Tell me more about this Christianity of yours. I’m terribly interested.'” With this, the laughter, which he had been subduing with such diligence, leapt its barriers and expressed itself with such vehemence that his tall hat almost toppled to the floor in total shock.

I sat astounded.
The way to change attitudes? - C.W.

His demeanor changed as rapidly as does the weather in our world. “Tell me more about this Franklin Graham of yours,” he said, “I’m terribly confused.”

The velocity with which he changed created a skidding sensation like when the brakes of a fast-moving automobile are applied on gravel.

“Tell you what?”

“This man,” he said, rubbing his stubble again, “this self-proclaimed oracle, seems unable to extricate himself from the tar-pit of mendacity and false propheteering. I’m only asking why?”

I requested additional insight.

“Recently, he lauded the current president for ameliorating the effects of something he called ‘The War on Christmas.’ Is there such a thing?”

“Are you serious?”

“Quite.”

“Do you think that it looks like there is, or recently has been, a war on Christmas?”

“Obviously not. But is it currently illegal to observe, promote, or favor Christmas in any way?”

“The observance is criticized by non-participants, or those troubled by the ubiquitous greed involved, but that by no means implies illegality.”

“So why does this man, Franklin Graham, son of a preacher-man, imply such a falsehood?"

“Politics,” I said. “He’s assigned himself to a certain political segment of the country and, despite what others may infer from his motives, he is a proud and assiduous worker.”

“What’s next,” he said, “a lance to the throat of those who don’t agree?”

“Not now,” I said, “in the early days of the settling of Europeans here yes, but not today.”

“So his aim is to divide your countrymen into opposing segments of the populace for political purposes?”

“Quite so.”

“Fascinating,” he said, once more attending this cheek.

I waited, then, “Is that all you wanted to know on the matter?”

“I’m thinking,” he said. “Were your ancestors who first came here really accustomed to punishment for holding different religious views?”

“If hanging by the neck until dead, or lowering live people onto sharpened stakes, or burning them alive, constitutes punishment, then I am afraid so. Why?”

“One moment,” he said. “I’m thinking.”

I waited

“What I’m wondering,” he said at last, “is whether it might be efficacious to arrange for this Mr. Franklin Graham to witness past effects of such religious and civil discourse?”

Before I could reply, he said, “Then we could show him the present effect of his efforts on the poor, the mourners, and the meek, maybe others as well.”

Again, I had begun to think when he broke the silence.

“Perhaps,” he said, “with some help from the Falloonian Elders, we might even project him into the future to witness the epochal damage of his actions.”

Neither of us spoke. I drifted into sleep and dreamed. The words “Breaking News” flashed through my dream and I was whisked away. When I focused again, I was watching the end of a bio-segment of the very Franklin Graham we were discussing. The announcer turned to the camera and said:

“Afterwards, Franklin became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough.”

Indeed it would be. Then would we all be truly blessed.

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Sunday, December 17, 2017

404. Reversals

“Are you serious?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Where on Earth do you come up with such …,” I stopped. It came to me that C.W. isn’t from Earth, so my point wasn’t going to make sense. Still, he could aggravate me at times, and this was one of those. He just smirked.

“Now,” he said, “can I get back to work?” There was no use arguing. He had taken on the shape of Reggie the Young Conservative, and there was no reasoning with him.

I tried a different tack. “So you,” I said, “are charged with developing strategies for increasing the rate of unwanted pregnancies in America.”

“Quite so.”

“May I ask why?”

“Are you really that dense?” He shook his head in exasperation. “Simple,” he said. “It’s a gateway sin.”

“What is a gateway sin?”

He shook his head slowly. “You know what a gateway drug is, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s something you folks made up to justify the billions you’ve wasted on reducing marijuana usage.”

He shook his head. “We’re not trying to reduce marijuana usage,” he said. “We’re just making sure that its usage stays illegal. Crime enforcers are among our most loyal supporters.”

“So how does that relate to a plan to increase unwanted pregnancies?”

“Unwanted pregnancies,” he said, “are like marijuana. They lead to another choice that keeps our political base charged up like an Irish Setter on steroids.”

“Let’s make sure I understand. You want to excite your constituency by increasing the number of people who have to make difficult choices?”

“Not people. Women. Don’t forget that we recognize a difference.”

I see. So what have you tried so far?”

“Well,” he said. “We’ve outlawed sex education. It’s deplorable how many young people now understand the strong correlation between sexual intercourse and procreation. Deplorable.”

“Are you still teaching young girls that, if you say ‘Mother may I?’ three times beforehand, they are safe from all harm?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Are you making fun of us?”

“Perish the thought.”

“We stopped using that one years ago. Now we just teach them to hold their breath and pray at critical junctures.”

“Contraceptives have proven to be effective.”

Correctamundo,” he said. “That’s why we’re in the process of outlawing them.”

“I guess that’s also why you don’t want men held responsible for unwanted pregnancies?”

“What do men have to do with it? That’s what we say. The last thing we want is a bunch of men running around offering to help raise a child.”

“This whole thing seems a bit turned around,” I said. “I mean, the whole idea of increasing loyalty in despising an act by promoting the act seems so …,” I struggled for words. “So Roveian.”.

“Please don’t denigrate the God of Our Movement,” he said, “but now you’re getting the picture.”

“Does it work?”
 
A hero to so many. - C.W.
“Haven’t you ever heard of poverty and our fight for it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Can’t you see anything? What happens when you increase the number of poor people?”

“Lot’s,” I said. “You increase the level of so many things: childhood disease, malnutrition, substandard housing, lack of educational opportunities ….”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “It’s crime.”

“Crime?”

“Yep. The greater the gap in wealth, the more crime, and the more crime, the more people run out and buy more …,”

“I see. I see.” I said. “I see, but it’s making me crazy.”

“And speaking of crazy,” he said. “Have you ever heard of Franklin Graham, Joel Osteen, Kenneth Copeland, Joyce Meyer, Benny Hinn, …?”

“Stop. Stop.” I said. “Yes, I’ve heard of them and others like them. Don’t go on. You’re making me nauseated now.”

“Exactly,” he said. “They are all our operatives.”

“Your what?”

“Their job is to turn young folks off religion.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t you see how much our support strengthens when they publish those reports on declining church attendance? What more dastardly trend could you hope for, to blame on your opponents?”

“I’ve got to sit down a moment,” I said. “This goes against everything I’ve ever been taught.”

“Precisely,” he said. “That’s why we have some powerful people,” he stopped, “… some very powerful people, working on education.”



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.”

“What?”
 
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.”

“And?”

“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?”

“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.”

“Okay.”

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

“Okay.”

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

“Okay.”

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

“Okay.”

“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.”

“Okay.”

“There’s only one problem, though.”

“What?”

“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.”

“Brilliant.”

“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.”

See also:
Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy. Also, click on an ad. It makes him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.




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.”

“Oh?”

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

“Oh?”

“What are you getting at?”

“How many guitars do you own?”

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

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“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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Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy. Also, click on an ad. It makes him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.




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.

“Wassup?”

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!”

See also:
Enjoy theses at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy.



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.”

“Well?”

“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.”

“Oh?”

“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.”

“Oh.”

“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?”

“Who?”

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

“Oh.”

“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?”

“Yes.”

“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.”

See also:
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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.”

“Oh?”

“They are very concerned.”

“Elucidate.”

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.

“Scheduling?”

“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.”

See also:
Enjoy theses at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw PressAmazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy.

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.
“Halloween.”

“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.