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.

No comments:

Post a Comment