Sunday, September 3, 2017

390. Incoherence

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


“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.”


“That man.”


“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.”


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


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++?”



“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.”


“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?”

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

No comments:

Post a Comment