410.Fads

“Aw, come on, you’ll like it.”

“Get lost.”

“They say it’s fun.”

“Scram.”

“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.”

“So?”

“The newspaper says swallowing Tide pods is dangerous.”

“So?”

“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

All Hat No Cattle

Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, 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.

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.”

“Bored?”

“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?”

“Dunjabeahphknwiphus.”

“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.”

“And?”

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

“And?”

“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

All Hat No Cattle

Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, 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.

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?”

“How?”

“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.”

“How?”

“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

All Hat No Cattle

Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, 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.

407: Departures

I can’t imagine how you would react if you were to come upon C.W. in his actual form. Shocked, terrified, nauseated are a few words that come to mind. I had known him for maybe a year before he allowed me to see him. Even then, he prepared me by showing some images of his native planet, Falloonia.

That is, of course, why he was granted the power to change shapes before mingling with us. I’m thankful for it. At any rate, I caught him “in-real” as he prefers to call it. He was standing in a large open space at our farm standing motionless with four of his arms to his side and two pointed toward the sky.

“What the … ?”

“Quiet,” Middle Head said, “We’re in practice mode.” I watched as he stood rock-still for several minutes. Then the four hands hanging to his side began to rise. As they reached a perpendicular position, six of the fingers on each hand folded and left one finger extended, making a sign quite resembling one that we use to insult one another. I watched in utter confusion. Was this some religious ritual hitherto unmentioned? I do get the feeling from time to time that he has not told me everything about his mission to Earth.

The four arms finished rising and all six now pointed upwards. Left Head said, “Kthufckowt.” It looked toward Middle Head.

Right Head said, “Kthufckowt,” and looked toward Middle Head.

Middle Head repeated the word and all three trembled for nearly a minute, following which they all looked at me. “Hey Big Dope,” Middle Head said. “What’s up?” All three made the Falloonian facial gesture signifying, as they have taught me, a smile of friendly greeting.

Before could answer, the three of them, all together and all at once, said, “Wait one.” I watched as he moved, best described as sort of a floating wobble, to a nearby storage building. He moved behind it an emerged shortly thereafter as, are you ready? The Galilean.

“Blessings to you, brother,” he said as he approached me.

“What the hell?”

“Oh that what you just saw?” He smiled. “We call it a ‘Trump Drill,’ and have to practice it every day. That’s simply the posture we must assume when they send the Retrieval Beams for us.”

“A Trump Drill?”

“Exactly.”

“Care to explain?”

He smoothed a wrinkle in his robe. “Don’t you read the papers?” Before I could answer, he said, “The Falloonian Elders do. Verily I say, they have ordered preparations for a fast exit.”

“A fast exit from where?”

“Here,” he said, looking surprised, “And we must be prepared. Last time we were being called back for a conference, Left Head sneezed, and Right Head got sent to Alabama.” He smiled. “It took us a month to find him and two weeks of re-programming, You remember, don’t you?”

“Was that the time you showed up as Karl the KKK-Man?”

He blushed. “We don’t talk about Karl.”

“Why the practice now?”

He cocked his head in confusion. His long hair fell in front of his face and he brushed it aside. “I asked you once. Don’t you read the papers?”

“Yes, but ….”

“We’ve seen this sort of thing before,” he said. “A combination of knowledge without foresight and power without morality is a deadly combination. How do you think asteroids get formed?’

“So, you assume the position. To depart, that is?”

Fulfillment of prophecy, or big mistake? - C.W.

“As in, ‘He’s about to do it, get your ass ready to flee the premises’ immediately. The thought of it makes me sad, but I follow orders.”

“They are worried, the Elders?”

“Verily I say unto you,” he repeated, “The unleashing of raging demons, gorged from feasting upon power, and lacking the balm of reason, can cause the most sanguine of minds to tremble and the strongest of hearts to fill with despair.”

“Don’t they see that we despair as well?”

“Unfortunately no,” he said. I noticed a tone of gravity in his voice. “I’ve been studying the beliefs of the followers of what we call ‘the Current Occupants.’”

“And?”

“They are quite excited about it all. Something about the ‘fulfillment of prophecy.’ I can’t imagine where they get such ideas.”

I started to say something, but thought better of it. Instead, I said, “So you were practicing the ritual you must perform when being taken home?”

His face turned to me at a slight angle, and his dark eyes glistened. “I sort of like to think I have been at home these many years,” he said. “But yes, that’s how I would catch the Retrieval Beam for, sad to say, my return to Falloonia. If sanity were to return, so shall I.”

That put me in a pensive mood. “You like it here?”

“We’ve never produced a Schubert or a Van Gogh in Falloonia,” he said, adding, “We don’t have ‘The Big Bang Theory’ either. He wiped away a tear. “I’ll miss Penny.”

“I guess we all will,” I said.

See also:
Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, 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.