376. Rules

  “Come on in. I want to show you something.”

“What the … ?” If I hadn’t known it was C.W. I would have sworn John Lennon was sitting on my couch. He brushed his hair back over his shoulder and pushed his tiny glasses higher on his nose.

“I’m in the groove now, man.”

“You’re what?”

“In the groove, dude. I got it all happening.”

“You what?”

“Oh,” he said, “I forgot to tell you. The communications tech on Falloonia sent me an updated slang module for my Galactic Universal Translator. My GUT has never worked better.” He stopped. His face brightened. He grabbed a pen and pad from the coffee table and wrote. When he finished, he read to me, “If you find you have to fart in public, go and stand beside the fattest woman you can find.” He smiled approvingly. “Oh man, that’s knocked out. Strictly copasetic.”

It took a moment for me to find my voice, as you might imagine. “May I ask what you are doing?”

“Getting’ it together man. I’m going to be loaded.”

“Exactly how are you going to be, uh, loaded?”

“From my book,”

“What book?”

“The Big Dope Book of Rules.”

I sat down. “The what?”

“Book of Rules. Now don’t go ape on me, man.” I just used your name because it sounds real gone, you know. Oh wait.” He wrote, speaking as he did so. “Never buy a used car from a man wearing a Hawaiian shirt or carrying a mini-Bible in his pocket.” He stared at the paper. “Man,” he said, “it’s really happening now.”

If I remember correctly, I simply stared at him at this point.

“Can’t you dig it?” he asked. “People are carrying around a lot of hang-ups now. They need all the advice they can get.” He nodded in approval of his own point. “Oh,” he said, beginning to write again. “Never take romantic advice from a man over 50 or a woman under 30.” He smiled. “Far out, man.”

“May I ask a question?”

“Shoot,” he said.

“Have you gone bat-crap crazy?”

He ignored me and started writing and speaking. “Be kind to your neighbors. Remember the ‘courtesy-flush.’ They'll thank you for it.” Only then did he look at me. “You hacked off about something?”

“Astounded,” I said, “would be a better word.

“Shoot me the straight-skinny, man.”

“First, you need to talk to your technician back on Falloonia.”

“Sock it to me.”

“You might tell him to move the dial forward 50 years.”

“Say what?”

Happy 50th Sgt. Pepper. - C.W.

“Then, you might reconsider this whole endeavor.”

He signaled for me to wait. “Before you spread, make him cover the head.” He chuckled and looked back at me. “Now what?”

“You can’t be serious about all this.”

He wrote again. “If he’s not kind and tender, then threaten his member.” He looked at me as if he saw me for the first time. “Yes?”

“Nothing,”

“Good. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve some work to do.” He glanced at his pad, I.Q, …, I.Q, … let’s see. Oh. A man’s I.Q. can be estimated by dividing his age by the number of tattoos he has.

I began to ease away. As I exited the room, he yelled toward me. “Been a blast rapping with you.”

 See also:

Delta Dreaming
All Hat No Cattle
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