Sunday, March 18, 2018

417: Dark Matter

I had this feeling that the Galilean was going to pay me a visit. C.W. chose it as a favorite shape years ago. He normally uses it times of stress, particularly when he encounters difficulty in explaining us to the Falloonian Elders.

It was a nice day in late winter or early spring, depending upon your outlook. I found him sitting beneath a budding tree watching the birds, his hands clasped together and resting on his robe. He likes birds.

I sat beside him without speaking. I always try to let the Galilean speak first. He turned to me and nodded, Then, he turned back to the singing of the birds for a full moment before he spoke.

“Where the hell do they come from?” he said.

“I think,” I said, slowly while I tried to think. “that they descend from the same evolutionary line as the dinosaurs. Odd, isn’t it?” Reason hit me like a stray raindrop. “But you know that already.”

“Don’t be such a dope,” he said, stroking his beard and refusing to look my way.

“You aren’t talking about the birds?”

“I’m talking about what they call in Falloonia the ‘monsters from your darkest impulses.’ The actual Falloonian term is broader and refers, as well, to self-mutilating tendencies.”

I thought I knew where he was going, but caution crept in. “People? Are you talking about people?”

“These aberrations,” he said, “These malformed examples of your species that originate such damage on your planet.”


“Would you call such people as this Donald Trump and Jeff Sessions members of your same species?”

“Our anthropologists  are beginning,” I said, “to strengthen the hypothesis that our species bred with Neanderthals and that scattered individuals carry the traces. Would that help explain it?”

“Only if you wished forever to impute a strain of maliciousness to the noble Neanderthals,” he said.

I knew it was time for me to stay quiet.

“I must explain them to my superiors. I told them that I had, in a previous assignment, left written instructions.”


“Surely you recall ‘Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.’ That was pretty damned clear, wasn’t it?”

“You don’t think the ones you mentioned read it?”

“If they have, it will come as hell of a surprise to Andrew McCabe.”

“That’s true.”

“Not only that, I left word to love your neighbor as yourself. I made that pretty clear, didn’t I? Did I mince words?”

“No, I recall that you were fairly specific.”

He turned and glared at me. “Fairly specific my ass,’ he said. “I left clear written instruction in … in … what ever language my Galactic Universal Translator had me speaking back then.”

“Your GUT was using Aramaic, I think.”

“Maybe so,” he said. “I forget. At any rate, it translates into English, right?”

“Greek, Latin, English, all of them,” I said.

“So these characters like Trump, Sessions, and the lemmings that are following them can read, can’t they?”


“Has anyone informed them about the instructions that I left?”

“It wouldn’t appear so, although they claim to be aware of you.”

“Then are they just purposefully trying to piss me off?”

“May I make an observation?”

“Why not? Everybody else does.”

“If I may point it out, you are being a little earthy today.”

“So what?”

“Also, what about your strictures on forgiveness?”

He thought, I imagined that I could hear machinery humming. “You’re right, I think I did say that if someone sins against you seven times in a day, and seven times comes back to you and says , ‘I repent,’ forgive him. I think me and the boys had been practicing my water-into-wine trick a little too much that day.”

“But you left us with them, your orders I mean.”
It would explain a lot, right? - C.W.
He sighed and listened to the birds again. I could sense relaxing calm in him.

“I will,” he said.

“Will what?”

“Will abide by my own rules.

“So Trump, Sessions, and the others are forgiven for their meanness?”

“Not so fast,” he said. “Not so fast.” His face hardened.

“You don’t forgive them?”

“Maybe,” he said. “But first I’m going to wait until the sonsabitches repent.”

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 earns him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

Sunday, March 11, 2018

416. March Madness

It was the funniest thing you’ve ever seen. I stayed bent over laughing for five minutes and I still chuckle when I think about. Excuse me for a second.

It started when I heard a voice calling from the front yard of our farm.

“Big Dope, get out here, make them quit!”

Intrigued, I wandered out onto the porch. That’s when I saw it. “What the … ?

“Let my tongue be equal to the task,” as the Great Communicator said when he first met Stormy Daniels.

Imagine, if you will, how you would expect the literary character of Ichabod Crane to appear, all super-skinny six feet of him. Imagine him wearing a brown military uniform, a ‘you know what’ cap sitting squarely on his head with a flowing peacock feather tucked into a fold.

That’s what I saw.

The legs of the uniform extended down into a pair of paratrooper-like boots, polished to a bright sheen. Dozens of medals festooned his chest. He turned to kick at one of my wife’s dogs and I saw the letters GLSF across the back of his uniform.

“What the … ?”

“Make them quit,” he said. The face was a sharp collection of angles proceeded by a chiseled chin. Both hands rested on assault-type rifle strapped securely to him. I found out later that it was a fake, no surprise there.

At the time, though, I could just stare and barely speak. “C.W.?”

“Great Leader Special Forces Trooper GA-20189,” the apparition said.

“What the … ?”

Four of my wife’s “rescue dogs” stood around him. Another two, those with physical disabilities lay near a fence, an audience.

“What the … ?”

“I’ve been chosen,” the figure said. He kicked at one of the dogs with a shining boot. “Chosen by Great Leader himself, and now they won’t let me practice.” He kicked again. “Make them stop.”


“Great leader has chosen one alien visitor, those with exceptional qualifications, for each regiment.” He made a shooing gesture. “I need to practice, but they won’t let me.”

“They are my wife’s dogs. You need to talk to her.”

“I did already.”

“What did she say?”

“She just laughed and slammed the door.”

I had no trouble imagining that. “What are you practicing for?”

“The ‘Make America Feared Again Parade.’ Perhaps you’ve heard about it.”

“I have indeed,” I said. “I thought it was supposed to be a military parade, with actual military uniforms.”

He indicated his outfit with a flourish. “What do you think this is, a ballet outfit?”

“What I think it is doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’s just that I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Special forces,” he said.

“Special forces?”

“Great Leader Special Forces, to be exact. We’re to be his chosen bodyguards. Our units will march last in the parade to let people around the world see how serious we are.”


“Here in a once-again great America.”

“I see. So, what is your problem?”

“I need to practice our regimental march, and they keep interrupting me.” He motioned at the dogs gathered ‘round him.

“How so?”

“Hold my piece and watch this,” he said. He unbuttoned the rifle strap and handed the gun to me. As I watched, he punched a pocket device and martial music erupted, a stirring tune. He told me later it was entitled ‘Blessed Leader over all us,’ and had been composed especially for the upcoming parade.

Anyway, he jogged to the edge of the yard, came to attention, did a sharp “About Face” and began what was intended to be a goose-step march. As he passed me, one leg shot more or less straight out, then another. He did an “Eyes Right,” whipped a salute and returned to marching position. At the end of the yard, he did a “To the Rear,” and started back. He was getting better.

That’s when it happened.

In unison, the four dogs—Calvin, Cassie, Penny, and Judy Kate, the attorney-dog—raced to a spot behind him, formed a line, got in step with the music, and then, … . Excuse me for a moment.

And then, their little legs began to shoot directly out, two at a time, in a perfect imitation of Great Leader Special Forces Trooper GA-20189. To this day, I don’t know how they did it, but oh my. Here they all came, strutting across the yard.

In unison.

Wait until you see our sister regiment.
Great Leader calls them
"My Little Trooperettes." - C.W.
When he reached the “reviewing stand” again and he saw me, doubled over laughing, our brave soldier turned and saw his fellow marchers. All stopped.

“See what I mean?” he said. “How can we have the most wonderful, the largest, the most admired, the most impressive, and the most watched parade in the world’s history if even dogs are going to make fun of us?”

I wiped a tear, “I don’t know,” I said as another wave of laughter rolled over me. “I just don’t know.”

I couldn’t swear to this, for the tears interrupted my vision, but I do think I saw the two non-participating dogs clapping their little paws, in unison.

And, of course, you’ll never believe that the other four took bows.

In unison.

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 earns him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

Thursday, March 8, 2018


Caught C.W playing on my computer this morning. I told him I would only post this as an example of the type humor I find offensive.

Sunday, March 4, 2018

415. Resistance

“Don’t make me have to come in there.”

Oh, no, as I walked in from doing some outdoor chores, I heard one of the most dreaded threats a Southern child can hear. I rushed in the living room to check on things. I heard C.W. before I saw him. He was what you might call, “wailing.”

“Oh, what will become of me, what can I do?”

A voice from the kitchen said, “Try setting yourself on fire.”

I had reached the living room by then and witnessed a sight I’ll never forget. There was the form of what appeared to be a genuine 1968 version of a Haight-Ashbury resident sitting cross-legged on the floor moaning and rocking to and fro with tears streaming down his face and onto a pale pink robe festooned with peace symbols.

“What the … ,?”

“Oh, Big Dope,” he managed between sobs. “Am I glad to see you. You must help me.”

I was feeling a bit weak so I sat. I said nothing.

“Tell me you’ll help me, man.”

“Help you how?”

“Keep them from drafting me.”

“Keep them from what?”

“Drafting me, man. I’m not cut out for the military, man, not even the navy. You know how I got seasick when you took me fishing that day. And the sight of human blood makes me nauseated.”

“Calm down,” I said. I looked at him with all the sternness I could muster. He sniffed once and looked at me. His mustache and beard were glistening from his tears, and his nose was running. He drew a breath and nodded.

 “Now what is this about a draft?”

He started to sound off again, but I wagged a finger at him and shook my head. “Speak.”

“I requested a transfer home,” he said. “They turned me down.”

“Who turned you down?”

“The Falloonian Elders. They quoted Section Eight of the Alien Service Agreement.”

“What’s that?”

“What I had to sign to be eligible to come live with you.”

“No, I meant what is Section Eight?”

“That’s the one where it says I have to participate on host-country life to the greatest degree possible.” With that, he broke down and wailed, “Now I’m going to get drafted.” His sounds filled the room.

“I’m not going to tell you again,” came from the kitchen.

“Calm down,” I said again. “There hasn’t been a draft in this country since the 1970s.”

“And look at how many years you’ve been at war since then,” he said. “Now this new one is bound to require that they start up the draft again.” Snot dripped from his nose. “What am I going to do?”

“C.W.,” I said, … ,”
When it comes to drafting me,
I find I must agree. - C.W.

“Tranquility’s Child,” he said between sniffs.

“Say what?”

“That’s me,” he said, “Tranquility’s Child.”

“Whatever,” I said, “but there is no new war, yet.”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The political party in power in your country just declared war.”

“Did what?”

“Declared war. What shall I do? I’m too young to die.” He stopped and thought, shaking his head. “I’m only half a century old in Earth years.” With this he wailed again, “Oh what am I to do?”

“I’ve heard nothing about a new war.”

“They call it a ‘trading war,” and that means trading bombs and bodies, my people tell me, body counts and all that. They say I’ll be a hero maybe.” He began to wail again. “Help me. Help me.” His voice rose. “Help me. Help me.”

I couldn’t help thinking of that old film, The Fly. I shook it off.

I said, “Do you mean ‘a trade war’ with other countries? That’s not a war of armies. That’s only about the buying and selling of products. It doesn’t lead to invasions and battles. It’s just about products, or a product.”

“A product that one country buys and one country sells?”

“Exactly. Buying and selling. No ‘bombs bursting in air,’ no troop ships, no napalm, no draft, no dead babies. Just everyday products for sale or trade.”

“Does that include rubber and oil?”

I felt as though someone had slapped me in the face with a wet towel. I stared at the floor for a moment.

“I’m too goddam old,” I said. “You’re on your own.”

He screamed, “Oh woe is me, woe is me.”

A voice from the other room screamed back, “I’m gonna make you think ‘woe is me’ if you make another sound.” 

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 earns him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

Sunday, February 25, 2018

414. Talk

Omigod, he was doing that thing where you visit with someone through your computer.

“I like when you stroke it that way,” he said to someone on the other end. I couldn’t see who, and C.W. couldn’t see me. I had stepped into room at an angle to him and he hadn’t noticed me. He was concentrating too hard.

I stood perfectly still.

C.W. and I had watched one of our favorite films the night before, My Favorite Year, with Perter O’Toole. That’s who talked into my computer now. At least it was he the way C.W. remembered him from the movie.

“Oh,” he said, still speaking to the screen, “that’s it. That makes it nice and warm. Heat helps.”

I stayed frozen. He was wearing my earphones so I couldn’t hear what the other person said.

“Next, I’d put my right finger up a bit,” he said. “Yes, right there. Oooh, that does the job, right?”

I thought maybe I’d better wait and get all the facts.

“I can’t find fault at all with that move.” He laughed.

Maybe I should take notes for the confrontation to come.

“Ah, that’s going to leave it looking proud, standing there.”

I strained forward a bit. The person on the other end said something and C.W. nodded.

“Just a few strokes more and we’ll finish with a flourish and a flash.”

Oh dear. Why interrupt him now?

“Wow,” he said, “you keep doing that and the boys will want you to go pro.”


“I love it,” he said. “I really love it. Rub it right there. That’s it. You may have to give that one place a little lick again.”

Should I be recording this?

“My, my,” he said. “You keep going this way and we’re going to create a masterpiece. See what a little guidance and experience will do for you?”

I took a deep breath. I strained slightly toward him to see better. We’ll have a long talk about this later. At that point, I was curious to hear what he would say next.

He smiled, winked, and almost purred into the screen. He made a rubbing motion, as if in encouragement. “That’s the way. Good child. Really good. The fathers would really be shocked if they could see you." He added, “Let’s not tell anyone about this, okay?”

“Fathers?” That sounded strange. Not as strange, though, as what I heard him say next.

 “Are you really just fourteen?”

Yikes! That was it. I yelled across the room, “C.W. what the hell are you doing?”

He looked up at me, quite surprised as you might imagine. “Oh hi, Big Dope. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Like hell, it doesn’t.” I stormed across the room to get at the computer screen.

C.W. put up a hand to stop me. “Stop, you’ll frighten the child.”

I slapped his hand away and spun the screen toward me,

“What did I tell you?” he said.

There, on the screen, was a young boy’s face masked in pure terror. He was sitting behind a table and on it, in front of him, was a large silver serving tray, a bottle of polish, and several rags. One was still in his hand.

“What the … ?”

“It’s only my planetary host, Robbie,” C.W. said into the screen. “He’s to me what Fenderhead is to your family, only not, as you can see, as sophisticated.” He turned to me. “See what you’ve done?”


“One of his dads is a Navy veteran and couldn’t pronounce Falloonian names.” He turned to the screen. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it finished before they all get back.”

I was still trying to catch my breath. “What … ?” was all I could get out.

“Thanks for spoiling a nice plan,” C.W. said. “Robbie was going to surprise his parents by polishing some silverware for their anniversary party. They’ve all gone to Little Rock to get a cake.”

“His parents?”

“Ed and Donnie.”


“Their third. Thanks for interfering.”

“That’s the oddest thing I’ve ever had to try and understand. I’m just old-fashioned, I guess.”

“Oh dear Big Dope, “ he said, and it was Peter O’Toole talking now. “Where have you been? (He pronounced it as ‘be’” with an added ‘n’). Robbie here is Ed’s child but they both became his parents three years ago. Their marriage is quite legal now. You’ll just have to try and live with the concept.”

“Oh no, “I said. “That’s not what I was talking about at all.”

“What on Earth could it have been? Did you misinterpret our conversation perhaps?”

“No. Well, maybe a little at first,” I lied.

“Then what troubles your heart so?”

“People talking into computer screens.”

What's Big Dope's problem? - C.W.

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 earns him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

413: Communications Are Us

“No, let’s see, not ‘oodagh,’ more like ‘oaaard.’ Yes that’s it.” I heard the sound of computer keys clacking. Then, “Be sure to alter volume with each syllable. This is especially effective for older customers.”

I rounded the corner and walked into the room. There sat C.W. at my desk and working with my computer. He had taken the shape of a young man in his thirties, looking much like a stockbroker, political junkie, or perhaps a defendant at a murder trial.

“Just a moment,” he said. He took breath and blurted, “Wiiikledmardls-wuchlickor-dalysshhicletoody?”

“What on earth?” I said. “Are you working on your Falloonian?”

“No,” he said. “I have a contract. A thought struck him. “Urdootallybeesimoupnoint.”


“Pliadouantodsuchantweeedur.” He continued without paying me any attention.

“What kind of contract and with whom?”

“A teaching contract,” he said, at last giving me his full attention. “It’s for a fast food federation.”

“A what?”

“Fast food federation.”

“And what are you doing for a fast food federation?”

“Writing a manual on confusonics.”

“On what?”

“Confusonics. It’s a training manual.”

“Who for?”

“The kids who take orders for fast-food drive-throughs.”

“Come again?”

“It teaches them to speak so there is no possibility that they can be understood by anyone trying to make an order.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No, no, the corporations have found that confusion makes money and money makes profits.”


“Yes. Confused customers then to order more expensive items.”

“So they teach the kids how not to be understood?”

“Of course,” he said. “Comprehension is the enemy, and is to be avoided."

I shook my head. “It works,” I said.

“It even works better when they rush the customer. Unhurried customers tend to buy cheaper items.”

“I’m glad to see you’ve found a calling.”

“Business is booming,” he said. “We offer free, introductory chewing gum with this product. Want to help?”

“I don’t know.”

“I have an assignment just made for you. It’s from your own profession.”

“Urban planning?”

“Right. It’s for another manual.”

“What manual?”

“It’s called Misunderstanding Upon Demand.”

"Good! Next man. How great I am and what
 a pleasure  to serve under me." - C.E.

“Yep. The subtitle will be, Let Your Work Be Clear As MUD Can Make It.”

I must have looked confused, for he took a sheet from the table and read from it. “The plan, using a broad array of self-empowerment aids, will allow citizens to efficaciously move through a time-synchronized myriad of wayfinding enablements to established a community-oriented sense of place.”

I must have looked confused, although a hint of familiar made its lonely way through my comprehensatory mechanisms, as we say.

“That’s just the back-cover blurb of the training manual,” he said. “Neat huh?”

“Are you serious about all this?”

“Maybe you’d rather work on an assignment for the Army.” He picked up another pile of sheets and read. “The strategic and service-wide transitional depositions activated as comprehensive tactical support directives requiring the accommodating of the mandatory incorporation of gender-variable war-wagers into combat-planning doctrine, as previously set forth, are hereby non-mandated and superseded, and the provisions herein are effectuated and installed for immediate dissemination.” He smiled. “Neat huh?”

“So you write training manuals now?”

“Oh, much more than that. I have a major study I’m working on.”

“What kind of study?”

“And in-depth analysis of why young Americans use texting as a replacement for face-to-face conversations.”

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 earns him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

Sunday, February 11, 2018

412: Treasures

He talked me into it. It was C.W.’s idea all along. Please let the record read that he talked me into it.

It started this way.

We were going to do some carpentry project. I don’t even remember what it was now. We met a little after sunrise, me as myself and he as Dan the Handyman, complete with carpenter’s belt.

We opened the door to my shop, and he was crestfallen. The shop is 40 feet by 60 feet and there was hardly a foot of it that was free from stacks of ju…, of things.

“What in the world?” He turned to me and shook his head like a schoolteacher who had just been told that the world was flat. I fidgeted.

“It’s just things we have collected over the years,” I said.

“You couldn’t have collected this much over the years,” he said. “Maybe centuries but not years.”

“Flea Market Fever. It’s a common malady among Americans.”

Whudafreeksdes,” he said.

“Say what?”

“It roughly translates into ‘someone has slipped off the behavioral tracking mechanism,’ and it is considered a serious malady on Fallonia.”

He studied the mess for a moment. “Well,” he said after this perusal. “Let’s get a path cleared so we can work.” He headed for box loaded to the hilt with National Geographic magazines.

“Wait,” I said. “This stuff doesn’t belong to me.”

He walked over to the partial remains of a small outboard motor from the 1950s. “What’s this?”

“It was on sale for three dollars at a yard sale.”

“Where is the rest of it?”

“Waiting for us at another yard sale? She’s sure that she’ll run across the rest of it someday and can get the thing running.”

“How long have you had it?”

The question took me by surprise. “Let’s see,” I said. I remember moving it from our house on Broadway and that was, …” I did some mental ciphering. “We’ve had it about 30 years.”

He said nothing. He just looked at me and shook his head.

“It’s got to be good for something,” Yes, I said it in a rather weak voice, the one I reserve for explaining why the housework I do doesn't turn out right.

He walked a little farther, kicking short pieces of lumber aside. Spying something of interest, he walked over and picked it up. It was a lightweight ball composed of small pieces of steel wire. He didn’t ask, just held it toward me and cocked his head.

“Pieces of wire,” I said. “Too small to use for anything so far, but they could come in handy someday.” He didn’t move. “You just never know,” I added, again in a weak voice.

He laid it aside. Kicking his way a bit farther, he picked up a photograph in a cheap metal frame. One corner of the frame was loose, and the glass covering the photograph was broken. “Want to explain this one?”

“Sure,” I said. “All it needs is a couple of screws and a new piece of glass.” He didn’t move. “I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“And when did you come in possession of this treasure?” He said it kind of sarcastically and I considered withholding the information. Instead, I said, “Five or six years ago.”

He looked more closely at the photograph. It was a young man in a navy outfit and hat. A nice looking fellow, I might add.

“A relative?”
Yard sale: the root of all evil. - C.W.
“No,” I said. “We have no idea who he was. You just thought he looked lonely.Don't you remember?”

“Let’s clean some of this mess up,” he said, ignoring me. “We need some room to work.

“I’m not sure we oughta.”

“Nonsense,” he said, looking through a box of magazine from early 1980s. “Come on. There’s twenty years of dust on these. It’s been at least that long since someone touched them.”

The next afternoon, we sat watching Casablanca, me for the hundredth time, he for the twentieth. Bogart was about to mention Paris, and C.W. always cried at that point.

I heard someone calling my name from the vicinity of the shop. I told him I would be right back and that he could fill me in on the plot.

The credits were running when I came back. “Come on,” I said. “We’ve got to go to the dump.”

“We went yesterday. Don’t you remember?”

“I do. That’s the problem.”

“What problem?”

“We’ve go to find the October 1982 edition of The Rural Housewife Magazine.”

“Mind telling me why?”

“There’s a recipe for cornbread gravy in it that someone wants, and that someone is plenty mad.

“I told you we shouldn’t throw her stuff away without asking.”

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 earns him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

Sunday, February 4, 2018

411. Money

“I’m confused.”

Well that was understandable. He, the Alien C.W. was in a shape the calls “Carl the Confused.” It’s sort of a cross between The Riddler on the old Batman series and the newscaster Geraldo Riveria. I know, very weird, but I usually just let him run with whatever.

“Yes. And just what are you confused about today?”

“Borrowing money to pay for things.”

“You don’t do that on Falloonia?”

“Oh heavens no. We just use money curry favors.”

“Well, if you don’t use money to buy things, why would you want your favor curried, so to speak?”

“To amass money. Why else?”

“To buy things then? Now you are confusing me.”

“No, just to amass wealth and the prestige that comes with it.”

“Not to purchase things you need?”

“Oh, we have everything we need. We even have everything we want, allocated according to our social status. We inherit that from our parents.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You have everything you need or want, yet you strive to amass riches? That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard of.”

We were walking around the pasture at our farm, trying to stay fit. He stopped us, turned to me with a solemn face. He nodded it slowly and winked.

The he burst into a maniacal laugh. It rose from him like a volcano erupting and spread over his body. It shook. He clasped his arms around himself and the shaking slowed. After a moment, he began to regain composure, raised his gaze to mine, and said, “I was screwing with you. Is that how you say it?”

“But why?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just read where your government is going to have to borrow a trillion dollars so it can give money the most blessed of those among you. I thought that was funny.”

The point he was making was interesting. I found his method of making it most annoying. I had to admit, though, that it was true.

He said, “A million, a billion, a trillion … those terms sound quite a bit alike, don’t they?”

I thought. “Yeah,” I said, “I suppose they do.”

“It makes them easy to toss around playfully and interchangeably. I heard a woman say that in a documentary I watched this week,” he said. “Want me to tell you what else she pointed out?”

He was going to tell me anyway. “Sure,” I said. “Go ahead.”

“Well,” he said. “If you were to stack brand new, crisp, $1,000 bills on top of one another, do you know how high the stack of a million dollars would be?”

“Enlighten me.”

“About four inches. And a billion-dollar stack?”

I shook my head.

“About 364 feet. That’s about the height of …,”

“A thirty-story building,” I said, interrupting him and shaking my head.

Correctamundo,” he said. “Now, about that trillion you are giving to the rich?”

“It strains my mind,” I said.
Will he let us know
when it's enough? - C.W.
“A stack 63 miles high, give or take a few feet.”

I said nothing.

“Now,” he said, “Do you think your people would approve of a 63-mile-high stack of borrowed money being given to people who are already rich?”

“I don’t know.”

“Or,” he said, “would they approved that it be tossed away invading a sovereign country just to prove you could?”

“I don’t know.

“Sure they would,” said. “And I find that most confusing. We, on Falloonia, call that Stchecundetnuronerss.

“And what does that mean?”

“You don’t really want to know.”

See also:
Delta Dreaming
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, January 28, 2018


“Aw, come on, you’ll like it.”

“Get lost.”

“They say it’s fun.”


“You won’t forget it.”

“Didi mau.”

“We never have any fun.”

“Like the time you trained one of my wife’s dogs to pee on signal?”

“You have to admit, it caught the missionary man by surprise. He even dropped his handouts.”

“My wife didn’t think it was funny.”

He laughed. It was C.W. of course, in the form of Little Ricky the troublesome ten-year old. “Mrs. Big Dope still thinks you did it.”

“I know.”

“Come on,” he said. “I have fresh box of Tide pods. They say they make your tummy tickle.”

“Who says?”

“That woman who explains stuff on TV for the president, the preacher’s daughter.”

“She explains stuff?”

“Every day. She’s the best at it there ever was.”

“She says it is safe to swallow pods of laundry detergent?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean ‘not exactly?’ Does she say it’s safe or not?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“She says if the news says something, it’s not true.”


“The newspaper says swallowing Tide pods is dangerous.”


“That means it isn’t.”

“They also say it has made people sick and may have killed some.”

“That’s not true. The Press Information Simplification Secretary lady explained that as well.”

“That it hasn’t killed anyone?” I winced as what he said registered. “The what?”

“That woman that explains the news. If anyone has suffered any harm from anything, she says, it’s Hillary Clinton’s fault. She got that from a reliable news source. Did you know that Hillary has a secret army hidden in a bunker under the White House that she and Bill had constructed while he was President? They used it back then to do forced sex-change operations on children they stole from church Sunday Schools. Now she trains liberals there to kidnap children and make them read books.”

And where did the … uh, … press lady learn that bit of news?”

“A man named Sean told her all about it.”
A Tide Pod Pizza. Yummy. - C.W.
“So, you believe it is true?”

“She said it was.”

“And you believe her?”

“A preacher’s daughter wouldn’t lie, would she?”

I couldn’t speak, but I’m sure I was mumbling something.

“What did you say?”

“Oh nothing,” I said. “Just something about acorns. Never mind.”

“Does does this mean you’ll do it with me?”

“Of course not.”

“But all the other kids are doing it.”

Ah, I saw a “teaching moment.” I thought for a few seconds and came up with what I thought was both a moral and “coming of age” example. “So,” I said, “if all the other boys were grabbing girls somewhere inappropriate, would you do it too?”

He thought for what I considered much too long a time. “No,” he said at last.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and managed, “Good.”

“That’s only okay if the President does it. The PISS lady said so.”

See also:
Delta Dreaming
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, January 21, 2018

409: Fake News

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Practicing my Photoshop skills. Why do you ask?”

“Where did you find that?”

“In the laptop. You know that file entitled ‘Secret Scans’ way down ten layers or so?”

“And what do you call yourself doing?”

“Practicing. Sexy, isn’t she?”

“You’re going to think ‘sexy’ if my wife catches you.”

“Oh,” he said. “She did. She claimed to be flattered, then asked where I had put her baseball bat.”

C.W. was in one of his most troublesome shapes: Timmie Joe the 14-year old nerd. I felt weak and sat in a chair near the table where he was working.

“That was scanned from a negative I took many years ago.”

“In a galaxy far away?” He giggled.

“In a state of youthful gadabouting far away. She didn’t know I still had it.”

“She’s a ‘Ten,’ ain’t she?” He looked admiringly at the computer screen.

This distracted me for a second. He was right, of course. For that second, I was a young man again, in love for the very first time. Then I snapped into reality.

“What in the world possessed you to dig that photo up?”

“I’m bored,” he said. “I have nothing else to do.”


“Yes bored. Haven’t you heard that they shut down the government?”

“Yes, but how does that affect you?”

“Weekly reports.”

“Weekly reports?”

“Weekly reports,” he said, “as in: I can’t send any right now.”

“How does a government shutdown prevent you from sending your reports? Doesn’t your Astral Synchronization System bypass our what you call ‘embryonic communication system,’ and bounce directly off some star or another?”

“Oh,” he said, “my system is working fine. I could blow them out my, well, you know what, if only the Elders would accept them.”

“And why won’t they accept them?”


“What in the world is that?”

“A Falloonian term.”

I sighed. “I assumed that. What does it mean?”

He thought. “It roughly translates into an accusation of what you Earthlings refer to as ‘fake news’ and won’t be accepted.”

“You mean news of the shutdown?”

“Yep.” He looked back at the photo. “She’s hot, man,”

“But that’s not fake news.”

“No,” he said, still staring. “She really is hot. May I keep a copy?”

“I mean the news about the government shutdown. That’s not fake news.”

“Try convincing the Elders of that. They claim no civilized species in the history of the galaxy has ever done, or would ever do, such thing, and they’ve warned me not to mention it again.”

“But it’s happened here before.”

“I know,” he said. “They didn’t believe it those times either.” He looked and sighed again. “You were one lucky dude,” he said. Then, almost as if he were talking to himself, he said, “But they did tell me to report that they regret dropping that sperm deposit off on your planet. Falloonia has had mixed results with panspermination. Remember Jerry Falwell?”

“What sperm deposit?”

He looked at me as if I had asked what gas we were breathing. “The one they call ‘The Mouth Energizing Replica Device Experiment,’ Who else?”

I sort of understood. “But why?”

“You’re not going to believe this.” He erased a slight blemish from the jpeg image. “There is actually a group of Falloonian Elders—a small but fanatical group—that delights in watching your professional wrestling shows. My ASS keeps them well supplied.”


“They thought MERDE-Man might add even more fun to them.”


“They never imagined. As I say, they apologized.”

He turned away. His conversation with me was over. He stared at the jpeg again, made a minor adjustment, then spoke directly to it.

“How can a species that produces such personal beauty tolerate such national ugliness?”

Case Closed. - C.W.

See also:
Delta Dreaming
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, January 14, 2018

408: Gifts For Politicians

C.W. as what? You would never guess.

A clown. Yep. He waddled in wearing those big floppy shoes that clowns wear. He eased across the floor, feet flopping like a couple of beached groupers. Lip makeup covered half his face and orange hair sprouted in all directions from his face. His attire was equal to the task.

“What the …?”

“Greetings Earthling,” he said. “Did you hear the one about the preacher who got confused and told his youth congregation to go all the way for Je …”

“Wait. What’s going on here?”

“Then he called for the hymn, ‘Oh Why Not Tonight? to be followed by the first and last verses of ‘Almost Persuaded.’”

“Stop it,” I said, stifling a guffaw. “Can you tell me what’s up?”

“They say the congregation had nearly doubled within a year.”

“Will you stop? That’s not funny.” But I was laughing so he paid no mind. “What is going on?”

“I’m ready to make an ad for our new business.”

“What new business?”

“Gifts Reviving Ornery Politicians Everywhere.”

“Say what?”

“Our motto is ‘Don’t mope. Grope.’ Catchy huh?”

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

“It’s as simple teaching a dog to sing,” he said. “And you don’t need the whip and wienies.” He laughed. So did I.

“I’m confused.”

“Have you noticed,” he said, “how sour and heinous so many politicians are these days?”

“Well, …, come to think of it, yes.”

“What kind of laws do they make when they are ‘in the mood’ so to speak?”

“Not good ones.”

“What kind of things do they say when they aren’t happy?”

“Mean and spiteful?”

“So what’s the solution?”

“Beats me.”

“Ah,” he said. “It’s time for them to GROPE. Imagine you have a senator who wants to invade some country simply because it’s there and he’s a sourpuss.”

“I think we have one of those.”

“Bingo! So here we go. You just send off to our company and buy a gift for him, one complete with our logo and a note saying ‘Have a happy GROPE,’ and watch the change.”

“Our company?”

“We’ll get to that later. Now what gift to we send to said senator?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“A banjo, stupid. It’s a scientific fact that one cannot frown, think evil thoughts, and play the banjo at the same time.”

I nodded, and an image of John Agar and movie monsters came to mind. “It just might work.”

“For tough cases we’ll switch to accordions, Myron Floren-sized accordions.” I chuckled at the thought.

He continued. “Can you imagine Trey Gowdy wanting to persecute someone while he’s playing “Lady of Spain?”

I had to agree. “He wouldn’t even want to go after Hillary again.”

Correctamundo. Now, imagine that we had a president who hated everyone who wasn’t related to him or had loaned him money.”

“That’s not hard to do.”

“Well, teaching him to GROPE is the answer, by jingo.”

“He might already know." I smiled, but C.W. didn't. "Anyway, go ahead. How so?”

“Ain’t you never heard of a ‘whoopee cushion’ dear boy?”

This one made me laugh just thinking about it. “That just might keep us from becoming a third-world country.”

“A what kind of country?”

“Never mind. You have my attention. Go on.”

“Suppose some dour evangelist, say the son of a famous preacher even, decides to become a spokesman for some political party and starts advocating divisiveness and hatred toward the other party.”

“That could happen for sure.”
Happy politicians make better laws. - C.W.
“How’s he going to look after he begins to GROPE?”


“Can you imagine preaching hatred while you are tap dancing?”

“Oh stop it.” It took a moment to get the image out of my head, but I finally stopped laughing.

He took on a serious look, or at least as serious as could imagine in his current shape. “We’ll have some subsidiary products for victims of politicians as well.”

“How so?”

“Have you ever had to suffer Fox ‘news’ on the telly while you are in a waiting room and you can’t find the remote?”

“Oh yes. That’s why I carry ear plugs.”

“Some pals from Falloonia have developed something better for that—an app.”

“What does it do, change the channel?”

“Oh, better than that.”


“It’s called a ‘Remotely Activated Fart Transmittal.’ Can you imagine RAFT’ing a vice-president while he’s in the middle of denouncing someone?”

This time I couldn’t stop. He kept on, but my cackling drowned him out and I couldn’t see him through my tears.

I gained a moment’s composure. “We’ll call it ‘Penceification’ and make a fortune.”

This cracked us both up.

See also:
Delta Dreaming
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.