Resolutions

Of all things. I may file a complaint. The Falloonian Elders never intended that I face such an indecency. I can’t find a word in my Galactic Universal Translator to describe the insult.

No matter how my GUT responds, I guess I’ll make an attempt to follow instructions my host has given me. That is to prepare a list of something he calls “New Year’s Resolutions.”

He says they serve to make a person better. How could I become any better? Here are his suggestions.

- Don’t assume the shape of Stephen Miller again. The neighbor’s kids are having nightmares and cows at a nearby dairy still refuse to give milk.

- Don’t leave Falloonian films like Dephraslinko Duzetwiph++ Dallstron IV on Big Dope’s laptop.

- Don’t practice Falloonian recipes in Mrs. Big Dope’s kitchen.

- Don’t mention Michael Vick around Demon Dog again.

- Don’t get Left Head to drink green tea and ask him to sing.

- Don’t send anymore nude photos of me, as a very prominent lady, with fan letters to Franklin Graham.

- And, finally, stop with things like answering the door as Fred Rogers.

Not a word, you will notice about weight loss and getting into shape. Besides, he banned me from the gym after what he calls “that Roadrunner stunt.”

Must go. My GUT is bothering me.

Film

Sunday mornings offer the best hope for a standard routine at La Casa Big Dope. (How do you like that dear readers? I’m learning to write in what my GUT calls, “your idioms.”) Anyway, it is comforting to know that we will watch a film on a show about a movement called “Film Noir.” I think that means “dark films,” literally “black films.”

Odd, there’s few black actors in any of these films. The only ones play maids, servants, or eternally comedic characters afraid of everything from ghosts to their masters. I had assumed that the style featured the so-called “race films” produced between 1910 and 1950. Some of those avoided the stereotypes. I don’t think white Americans liked them very much.

But no. These films, from what my GUT tells me, represent a a style or genre of cinematographic film marked by a mood of pessimism, fatalism, and menace. See? Dark, like I said. I don’t think Falloonians would like them very much. I like them better when I assume the shape of some cowboy actor or other. Hopalong Cassidy works well.

Next question: why does your species like them so much? Is darkness of spirit appealing to your species?

In the real “black films,” there is music, laughter, and dancing, lots and lots of dancing.

I like dancing. Music too. I even like black people.

I’m not sure I would make a good American, no matter what shape I chose.

Frustration

Being in the same room with Big Dope while he works on his computer is more fun than a Falloonian game of Grubendimbihgdewhasit.

Don't ask.

I curled up shaped as Timmie Joe the 14-year old nerd and worked some kindergarten puzzles based on matrix algebra. They were simple so I could watch BD and do them at the same time. He was trying to program a new Christmas present onto his laptop computer.

To say it was sorta funny would be like calling your president sorta odd.

He claims that software applications used to come with instructions. I guess I believe him.

"Nothing but these %$^**&^! cartoon sketches." I just listened. "How am I supposed to know what they mean?"

He punched some more.

"Notifinga!"

He had me on that one so I waited.

"Numbah &^%$*#@ ten."

I think that was Vietnamese for something bad.

"Du bist und Arschloch!"

Uh, my GUT tells me that is German.

"Ewwscray ooyay"

Can't force my GUT to respond to that one. I'm sending off for an update.

"Bastardo!"

Most of you probably understand that one.

"Fils de pute."

"Vive la france,"  I say.

Finally, sweat pouring from his face, he turned to me. "One favor I ask."

"And that is what?"

"My obituary."

"What about it"

"To read as follows."

"Yes," I turned the puzzle page over and prepared to write.

"Died from multi-lingual exasperation brought on by an over-exposure to learning curves."

Happiness

Mr. and Mrs. Big Dope are taking the day off, so I slipped in to use the main computer. Here's wishing you, on behalf of all Falloonians, a wondrous Christmas Day, although we still have a hard time understanding why your species chooses to argue even about what to call your most beloved time of the year.

Training

I'm frustrated. I'm trying to get my month-end report ready for the Falloonian Elders. Big Dope is trying to train their rescue dog to behave.

"Sit!"

"Sit!"

"No!"

"Sit!"

"No!"

"Now you behave!"

"Cut that out."

"No!"

Of course I could shape up, then go in and talk to the dog for him. I tried that once though, and it didn't turn out too well. I even sat down and talked to the mutt. I explained to her that if she would quit chewing the furniture, wait until she was outdoors to "excuse herself" and not jump on everyone she met, things might go smoother.

She just barked and sniffed my backside. "Wooof," she said.

"No, really," I said. "The just want some peace and quiet. How do you think this bad behavior makes them feel?"

"Rough," She said, then laughed.

"Now cut that out," I said. "And where are all your toys?"

"Roof." she said, pointing a paw upwards.

I gave up and started walking away.

"Well really," she said, "do you want to take away the only pleasure I gain from being stuck in this veritable prison?"

Paradigms

Ask the Falloonian Time: People ask me all the time to name the biggest difference between Falloonians and your species here on Earth, as if three heads and the ability to shift shapes at will weren’t enough. There are too many others to list, but here is one.

We enjoy a practice known as Chivumibreek. A rough translation in your language would be “Allow those things that have occurred in the past to remain those things that have occurred in the past.”

My research shows that you employed such a philosophy in the past, but large segments of your population seems to regard it as a sign of weakness these days. The man who fashioned Christianity, this Apostle Paul of yours, reportedly wreaked havoc on early believers before he obtained the spirit. King Henry the Fifth of England enjoyed quite a rounder’s life before he quit and saved his country. They say that Catherine the Great was a little loose in the uterus.

That’s all changed. It seems that within the most liberal-minded segment of your American society, a mistake, no matter how distant in the past, or juvenile in conception, stays branded one’s reputation like a tattoo on a sailor. I’ve heard they even have groups of “purity warriors” who guard against redemption in any form. There was a distantly related, and self-annihilating, practice among a group I read about called “The Shakers.” They became defunct, it appears, after abandoning the practice of sexual intercourse because of its original sin nature.

Not so for those on the right who practice a particular brand of, shall we say, "ad hoc morality." From all observations, they pick out what we might call a “salvation date,” or the date on which they assumed the persona of righteousness, and forbid anyone from questioning any actions that occurred before that date. For some reason, the press obliges.

Of course, some don’t even have to take that step. All they must do, it seems to an alien observer, is to denounce the things and people you hate, and the mantle of righteousness falls on them like fairy dust descending on an angel’s wings.

Since this group is unified, internationally connected, free from traditional societal paradigms, and heavily funded, they seem destined to rule your planet as long as possible.

That’s why the Falloonian Elders have ordered me to stay packed for a quick departure.

Blue Eyes and Polio

This time of year, I get confused. There is so much mythology floating around, that it is hard for me to accept that your species has managed to escape Earth’s gravitational field. Yes, the distance involved is only relative to a fraction of a layer of soap film compared to real space travel. But it is an accomplishment for a species that accepts that an old fat man delivers free presents to every believing kid on the planet in one night.

Big Dope says I must develop what he calls a “suspension of logic.” That’s one term that my Galactic Universal Translator cannot accommodate.

Although my GUT recoiled at the suggestion that I try to make my Earth hosts happy, I tried. I failed. Suspend logic? It was logic that enabled me to travel to your planet from a couple of galaxies away. It was logic that has nearly rid your planet of polio, although I understand that a breed of your species that calls itself “libertarians” wants to bring it back, along with other nearly defunct diseases.

Anyway. The thing that confuses me this time of year, is what you call the “Nativity Story.” That’s the story of the birth of the figure Big Dope calls “The Galilean.”

As he would say later in life, the Galilean, in what one of my friends calls “The Gig on The Hilltop,” assures the crowd that he is not about to destroy “The Law” but to fulfill it. He’s referring, of course to the Old Testament law, largely set forth in the book of Leviticus and Deuteronomy. Here’s the rub, to a lover of logic. According to the latter source, The Law, as the Galilean calls it, would have had his mother taken to the gates of the city and stoned to death before he was born.

I mentioned that at the supper table the other night while shaped as former president Ronald Reagan. My companions both laughed. The answer? If a snake can be made to talk, a pregnant virgin can withstand a stoning.

It’s going to take your species a long time to reach the next galaxy over.

Sorry, must run. One of my favorite films is about to show. Ironically, it’s about the life of the Galilean. Oddly, the main character has blue eyes, but who cares?

Joy

Do I have to be careful or what? Take this morning for example. I got in trouble for trusting my GUT, my Galactic Universal Translator. I maintain my innocence. See what you think, dear reader.

Big Dope constantly loses his wife. That’s partly because he loses things and partly because she’s a diminutive person and moves in random and undetectable movements, like some distant star which we can’t see but we discern its presence by the movement of other celestial bodies toward it.

Big Dope is walking around looking for his wife and can’t find her anywhere. I’m in my usual early morning shape of Arnold Awesome watching a Bowery Boys movie. He interrupts my act of minding my own business and asks if I’ve seen her.

“Nope. Want me to look for her?” Sometimes she hides from him early in the morning because he goes around singing old church hymns, and that gets on her nerves something awful.

“Nah,” he says. “I guess the Rapture has occurred.”

“The rapture?”

“Don’t you know anything? Look it up.”

I go back to the movie. Halfway through it, guess who walks by looking for her husband? I disavow any knowledge and go back to watching Huntz Hall and the gang.

“I guess he thinks I have disappeared forever again,” she says.

I make the mistake of trusting my GUT to try and help. “You may be right,” I say, “he did mention something concerning a feeling of intense pleasure or joy.”

Now I’m on what they call “double secret probation” and can’t watch TV for the rest of the day.

What did I do? I can’t seem to acquire or secure anything as a result of a contest, conflict, bet, or other endeavor no matter how hard I try. Oh, and those celestial bodies that we can't see but we know are there? The Falloonians discovered your planet by a similar, but opposite, phenomenon. We knew you were here from the sight of so many other bodies moving away from you.

Purity

I hurt my keeper’s feelings last night. He hasn’t spoken to me all morning.

It was like this.

We got into an argument, Big Dope and I, over some obscure point in movie lore, something about who was the greatest western movie sidekick, Smiley Burnett or Gabby Hayes.

Anyhow, he told me that I lacked a cultural perspective, being an alien and all.

That made me mad. I puffed up my chest, I was shaped as Mae West. I always shape as Mae West on “Movie-lore Night.” It gives me a couple of advantages. I pointed them right at him and told him he lacked purity.

“Purity?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of purity?”

“The kind of purity that political party demands. You know … purity. Perfection. Cultural immaculacy. An unblemished past.”

“Me? I don’t have blemishes on my past.”

We both heard a loud cackle from the other room. He looked at me and said. “You’re not talking about the time I trimmed those photo prints with her best sewing scissors, are you?”

“Gabby Hayes,” I said.

“Smiley Burnett.”

Then another sound came from the next room. “Fuzzy Knight.”

“Fuzzy Knight?”

"That's right. Now both of you shut up and go to bed."

"Fuzzy Knight?"

That's him all right.

Christmas

I made Big Dope go with me for a walk last night. I shaped into Arnold Awesome the 18-year-old who’s always full of wonder. I didn’t want to embarrass anyone. We went looking for at the holiday decorations around the neighborhood.

As usual, he was cynical. “Look at all them lights,” I said as we walked by one house with maybe a zillion lights flashing.

“Waste of time.”

“They look so neat.”

“They could feed a lot of poor people with money they spent on this display.”

“Makes you feel, like, uh, like, loving people, doesn’t it?”

“Makes me feel like wanting it to be over.”

"Here," I said. "I’ve kept it ever since I’ve been on Earth. I reached into the pocket of my coat and retrieved a scrap of paper.

“Remember what Ron Wild wrote?” I said. I moved him toward the light of a street lamp and told him to read it aloud.

“Seek the wisdom of the ages, but look at the world through the eyes of a child.”

“You gave me that the first Christmas I was here.”

He blinked.

“They haven’t gotten to you that bad, have they?”

He smiled. “Merry Christmas,” he said. “Hey, look at that one down there.”

Loneliness

As an alien it your midst, Americans puzzle me. So many of you express the desire, through your social media posts and your voting habits, to be just "left alone."

That is one of the few primal fears among Falloonians, to be left alone. Lonely, isolated units allow evil to flourish, or, worse still, join welcoming cults that cause evil to flourish.

Perspectives

The three of us surfed The Net for movies last evening. No, I don’t mean my three heads, but our family unit. Mrs. Big Dope (MBD) was in a good mood. Big Dope (BD) was in his usual state of confusion. I was shaped as Reggie the Young Conservative for balance. I didn’t include Daisey the Demon Dog in our unit, for we don’t watch animal films. They always include so much torture before ending in the death of the animal hero. MBD claims that the film Old Yeller created more PTSD than all the wars since.

So, our commanding officer said she was tired of old black and white films. If we couldn’t watch a film with cute animals, could we watch something with a cute human. BD wanted something hip but ambiguous. I wanted something where none of the characters were all that admirable.

The 1968 offering Alice’s Restaurant seemed to fit the bill.

MBD thought Arlo Guthrie was cute.

BD himself thought all the characters were self-indulgent little rich kids. The exceptions were Ray and Alice, who were self-indulgent rich adults. BD further thought the scenes in the Induction Center were the most realistic. Of course, he went for his induction physical at the San Francisco Bay Area center in Oakland in 1966, so his view may be a little jaundiced.

Reggie, (I) thought the whole bunch were sissy “libtards.”

BD kept saying that his perspective had changed over the years. Said he always thought the 1960s were happy times for everybody. This seemed odd for a man who escaped the draft (and, ostensibly, combat duty in a foreign war) by enlisting in the U.S. Navy, only be sent to Vietnam as a member of a security (combat) unit. When I commented on this, he said, “If experiences don’t change our perspectives, then what good are experiences?”

I tried to process that bizarre thought through my Galactic Universal Translator. As usual, my GUT told me that BD is a bit on the weird side.

MBD kept saying how cute Arlo was.

I said they were all sissy libtards.

BD said the ending was ambiguous.

Demon Dog barked her belief that the Pal the Wonder Dog, who played Petey the Our Gang mascot dog was cuter than Arlo Guthrie.

We all agreed the music was good.

Revisionist History

We fell onto a trap last evening, Big Dope and I. We convinced Mrs. Big Dope to let us watch the last half of the movie The Music Man.

We just love it, he and I.  I like the character Mary Wickes plays. We never saw the evolutionary need for chins on Falloonia so she would be a revered beauty there.

Anyway, Big Dope, he likes Shirley Jones for any number of reasons, chief amongst them is her lack of prejudice against men not her age. We shan't go into that. Let's just say that hope springs eternal in his dear heart.

We both like the dancing and music, especially when Professor Harold Hill sings the line, "I hope, and I pray, for Hester to win just one more 'A' … ." How they slipped that one in past the censors, we'll never know.

As the reconstituted marching band, in its quintupled size, marched down the set of Main Street to the tune of Seventy-Six Trombones, We relaxed. We forgot that we had promised her, Mrs. Big Dope, the choice for the next show.

It was something called Gone With the Wind.

Assuming a swashbuckling Naval epic, I shifted into the shape of Gregory Peck as Horatio Hornblower, grabbed a fresh bowl of popcorn, and got ready for high seas.

Was I ever wrong.

I was wrong about the film.  I was most wrong about slavery. I  had always thought that they were mistreated in the old South. These were happy, almost ecstatic, to be part of Tara's "family." How disappointed they were when the Civil War turned against their overlords.

We snuck away tree hours into the film when it was just getting started. Mrs. Big Dope didn't notice. She was busy mouthing each line of dialogue, having watched the thing some 42  times.

Out of earshot, I asked about the stories of slave beatings and cruelty.

"Fake history," Big Dope said. "Fake history."

"Oh," I said. "I'm glad we don't choose movies like that."

Puppy Love

I’m embarrassed. No really. Falloonians don’t suffer embarrassment, not even on one of their faces. But today, Big Dope caught me shaped like the young teenager Arnold Awesome. My face turned bright red when he saw what I as doing.

“What the …?”

“Nothing. I’m doing nothing."

“What are you writing? Let’s see.”

It was nothing but he had me. After all, it was his laptop.

“Why this is a fan letter. The kind I used to write to Annette Funicello."

He had me there. “Who is she?”

“Never mind. Say, … this is gushy. Come on, who is it to?”

“Nobody. I’m just practicing.”

But then he saw it. “Greta? Greta Thunberg?”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

I’ll get back to you friends. I have to do some yard work.

Irreverence

I'm still laughing. I decided to surprise Big Dope this morning and shapeshifted into what I thought was a good rendition of John Paul Jones, the legendary naval man. It didn't phase him a bit. He sat with this coffee and began regaling me with heroics he pulled while in the uniform of  United States Navy.

"I once brought down a plane, single-handily," he said. "The Commies tried to disguise it and fool us. But it didn't fool me. I don't care what the fake news says. I was the greatest sailor in the history of the United States Navy. Check it out."

I questioned his lack of reverence. "Listen," he said. "Belay all that talk and dump it over the fantail. Had I dropped anchor and stayed in the Navy, I might have become an admiral, like my friend who has become a Major General."

I put on my best nautical face. "I think maybe you dragged your anchor too many times."

"Did not," he said.

"Did."

Here, readers, you decide. Is this admiral material?

Recognition

I’m such a pushover. Big Dope is enjoying his last hours without adult supervision. He’s acting a little strange, even for him. I won’t say what he’s up to for other people may see this and report to the authorities, or “The Authority,” if you choose.

Sensing my amicability (a Falloonian trait known through numerous galaxies) he asked me to take the current rescue puppy for her morning walk. I put on my best smile. “Hell no,” I said. “do it yourself.”

Falloonian kindness only goes so far.

“I’ll get you your own laptop,” he said.

“With Kingdom Hearts 3?"

“And Resident Evil 2.”

“Could I have some fun on the walk?”

Minutes later I was leading the little demon through a city park near here. The first shape I chose was the Frankenstein monster. There were only a few kids playing in the park. One was swinging and looking at her cell phone as I walked by. There were a couple of others walking around the track. One was talking on her phone. I walked right past her. The other did look at me. She frowned and said, “Halloween’s past, old Boomer.” I pondered this and walked on.

Feeling discouraged, I led Miss Demolition into a wooded but vacant lot. I shifted into a shape I knew would elicit recognition. Oh yes. Elvis. I tried it out on the track. The two girls looked at me and walked right past. I couldn’t resist.

“Ladies,” I said. “Don’t you recognize me?”

They looked at me intently. “No,” said the older of the two. “Who the hell are you?”

Freedom

We’re having fun. The Mrs. has gone for the weekend and we are without “any adult supervision” as Big Dope puts it. First thing I did was slip into the shape of what he called “an old running buddy.” I’m not sure what that means exactly. My GUT calls it means an old pal, but I don’t think either of them could do much running these days.

First thing we did was drink milk straight out of the jug. He seemed to enjoy it more than I did. He’s been walking around in his underwear and playing You Tube videos of banjo players real loud. He’s not happy that Mrs. Big Dope cancelled the Playboy Channel before she left. He didn’t even know it was there, he said. Claimed it must have come with some package deal.

I would question him about that, but he’s trying to slide across the living room floor like some actor did in a movie once. He’s not doing well with it. I think he’s too tall, maybe too old as well. At least the police haven’t shown like they did when he tried to play the “Star Spangled Banner” on his electric guitar. Now that was embarrassing. I don’t care who you are. I’m just glad they didn’t see his latest efforts with Photoshop. His wife would hang him from a tree like a bottle if she saw that.

Earlier, he was telling me about a cute dog they had one time named “Matthew.” It was so cute the girls would stop him on the street and want to pet it—the puppy that is. I think we’ll take the present “rescue” puppy out later. He’s trying to find two shirts that match so we can, as he puts it, “cause a minor scandal in the neighborhood.” Problem is that this puppy is not cute and she is as crazy as a Wudahfricizatt. That’s a creature the Falloonians imported from Verdaficistatt in a moment of lunacy some two billion years ago, to our lasting regret, in a moment of spite and it’s been trying to destroy the planet ever since.

You Americans understand that sort of thing.

Anyway, here he comes with our outfits. Have a nice Saturday and “Remember Pearl Harbor.” He says the attack on Pearl Harbor preserves the hope that your species might survive your own Wudahfricizatts.

History

I, (we if you prefer), sat minding my (our)  own business this morning. I was reading history. Left Head was piecing a jigsaw puzzle on a laptop, and Right Head was designing a new Idiom Distilling Intergalactic Operational Translator. As much as I caution him, he insists on having us call it our “Internal IDIOT.”

Anyway, Big Dope walks in and asks what we are doing.

“Reading history,” I said

“Exercising one-third of our brainpower,” Left Head said.

“None of your ‘coitusing’ business,” Right Head said.

He ignored that. “What history?”

“The life of Robert E. Lee.”

Big Dope smirked. “As a cautionary tale?”

I ignored him. “I like him,” Left Head said.

“Why? Don’t you know he once had 15,000 men make a suicidal assault on an entrenched position in an attempt to preserve slavery? And now some in our state celebrate his birthday?”

“I like his sense of humor,” Left Head said.

“Sense of humor? Robert E. Lee?”

“Yeah,” Right Head said. “He referred to his little slave children as his "ebony mites." How could we not celebrate the birthday of a man with such a sense of humor?”

That got us rid of Big Dope for a while.

Miss-Speaking

As usual, Big Dope has caused me a problem. I'm not sure I'll ever understand Earthlings. How, you might ask, did this one occur? It happened this way.

We were in our weekly what he calls "personality improvement project." This one centered on establishing conversations with strangers, you know, being a conversant person. He was stressing how someone should "genuinely interested in the other person."

I'm not, usually, but I played along.

"Don't," he said, "do your usual thing and start explaining space travel dynamics to strangers."

"Why not? They need to know about it."

"Simply show an interest in them. Say for example, a stranger in a waiting room comments on the bad weather we're having."

"Okay," I said. "That's an excellent opportunity for me to explain how the natural thermodynamic meteorological boundaries are collapsing due to climate change and allowing the polar vortex to sweep down upon previously protected areas."

"Uh. No."

"Why not?"

"That will clash with what they believe from their favorite TV show."

"So what then?"

"Ask a followup question. Maybe, 'Oh did you have plans for today that depended on good weather''?

"Why should I care about their plans?"

"You don't. You're just trying to be friendly."

We then had a long discussion on the topic of followup questions. That's what caused the problem. I explained it to him after the police left. Here's what happened.

With all the new training in my head, and shaped like a young businessman with a mustache and short beard, I entered the elevator in their condo building. A very nice lady was there. I nodded and we descended. What I didn't know was that we were descending into Conversation-Hell.

As we neared the ground floor, she nodded my way and said, "Have a nice day."

All I said back was, "Would you really like to see me have a nice day?"

Behaving

This morning I was shaped like the young Sean Connery, waiting to surprise Mrs. Big Dope when she came into the kitchen. I think she likes surprises like that.

Anyway, she caught Big Dope involved in some major transgression in the living room and was doing what she calls "reading him the Riot Act." Not sure what that means but it seems to work most times.

Not this morning. He was ready with what he calls his "Biblical Defense." I heard hims say, "My ways ain't your ways."

Well guess what? They are now. Excuse me for a moment …

"Bond, James Bond."

Behavior

Sometimes I don’t understand how Mr. and Mrs. Big Dope have stayed married for so long. Take television for example. He mostly, as I've written, likes old movies, documentaries about descent through natural selection, and stories proving what a bad man Adolph Hitler was. You know, doing things like lying to his people, surrounding himself with the worst Germany had to offer, destroying the free press, and turning people’s wrath against those he didn’t like. Somehow, he got away with it.

She, on the other hand, likes movies where men get what’s coming to them. Where men don't get away with it. She especially likes films where scoundrels who have devastated the Universe for years encounter a band of brave heroes who bring peace to whatever galaxy or time-warp they are operating in. The exception is, when Big Dope pulls one of his stupid stunts, she watches films about wives who chop up their husbands with axes. That usually exacts a redemptive influence on him. She also maintains a small shrine to someone I’ve not heard of before … a certain Lorena Bobbitt. Perhaps some reader can help me determine who she was. Big Dope knows, but he won't say.

This morning he and I are watching something he likes called Film Noir. The name, my Galactic Universal Translator tells me, means “film black” or “black film.” I don’t understand because the actors are all white. Anyway, I’ve shifted into Sidney Greenstreet, the heavily overweight actor who appears in this week’s film, The Mask of Dimitrios. Big Dope provided chips and soda for the occasion.

Just as the plot unfolded, Mrs. Big Dope walked through and warned me not to break the couch down or get crumbs on it or there will be, as she put it, beaucoup de destruction. Big Dope ignored her, but my GUT tells me that I’d better start reducing.

Never Explain

You should try getting information from Big Dope. Take yesterday. All I wanted to know was the meaning of what you Earthlings call “Black Friday.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered him while he was playing his banjo. “Dummkopf,” was all he said. My Galactic Universal Translator indicates that this is not a complimentary term.

I usually trust my GUT, but Left Head had to push it. “Don’t white people take part in it too?”

“Idiota,” he said.

My GUT told me to drop it, but Right Head intervened. "Isn’t your job to enlighten us on Earthling customs?”

“Dinky đầu! Beaucoup dinky đầu!”

I determined that is was time for adult involvement. “Just give us a good explanation in plain English,” Can’t you provide a simple thought in your native tongue?”

His face turned read, veins stood out on his throat. He raised a finger toward the ceiling and struggled to find his voice.

“Notafinga,’ he said. “Noafinga eye god!”

We should have let it drop. Our GUT told us so. But Right Head, always the voice of reason, nodded in to calm the situation. “Why don’t you just take us shopping? We’ll shift into that woman running for Governor.”

Ahhh, dear readers. Big Dope fell asleep watching TV last evening. Mrs. Big Dope can’t stand what he watches (old movies and things about how bad someone named Hitler was) so she put her own TV in another room and watches from their  (films about women who chop their husbands up with axes).

So I controlled the remote for a spell. Came upon an old comedy show where a comedian dressed up like some priest and talked in a fake Italian accent. It was an old skit. They wouldn’t let a comedian talk in accents any more. Yeah, the Falloonian Elders have a hard time believing that too. Well this comedian was talking about a news report from years ago when scientists said they had discovered a planet that was approaching Earth and moving away from Earth at the same time. He called it the “coming and going planet.”

It reminded me of a dichotomy among your species. Take Big Dope for example. I won’t include the Mrs. For she has a quicker temper. He’s fairly well off by Earthen standards, yet supports politicians whose party supports helping the less fortunate of your species, what the favorite god of many of you call “the least of those among us.” Friends of Big Dope who are dependent upon, or who are alive today, because of the social generosity of a political party, detest those same politicians and worship others who would allow the poor among you to starve or die. Oh, and the god I mentioned earlier is on the side of the “least” but that doesn’t seem to bother a lot of his followers.

The “coming and going” planet?

The “believing and non-believing” planet?

The “I have mine so let’s move on” planet?

I think I’ll forward the comedy skit to the Elders. They like funny stories from Earth.

Confused Thankfulness

Left Head did it. Now Mrs Big Dope is punishing all three of us. We were supposed to make a fruit sculpture to show how much we are thankful for today. I made a heart out of  an apple to show how thankful I am our health. Right head made a depiction of the world on half a melon and carved "Peace with Honor" on it. Left Head left his laying on the table and Mrs. Big Dope saw it. I'm not sure why she is so mad, but she is. We have to write 1,000 times that we are "thankful for decency." Left Head keeps saying his work stood for "Orangeyou thankful for love?" I don't know. Big Dope says I  shouldn't show you what he did with the fruit because this is a family spot. I'm confused.

Control

I couldn't help but ask Big Dope why so many of your species respond actively to falsehoods rather than facts. What he said was interesting. He noted it has been said that one person can only manage a limited number of people through direct contact and rational supervision. Some argue that, in order to control vast numbers of people, for good or for bad, you must employ mythology.

That has my right head twitching. The left just said, "Groovy man, groovy."

Spokespeople

 Big Dope doesn’t like it much when I question him about religious ecstasy among your species. He’s says it’s too complicated for me.

Me, a member of the Falloonian intelligentsia? Someone who travelled through three galaxies to reach your puzzling planet? Too complicated? Someone who can speak fluently in over 6,500 of your languages, some of which are spoken by fewer than 1,000 people. That doesn’t include dialects. I can even understand and translate rural southern English, although I do have trouble speaking it, and the Falloonian Elders claim I’m making it up.

Too complicated for me? Why I have more cognitive capability in less than a tenth of one of my three brains than he has in his whole puny cranium. Too complicated? Here you have a creature that can instantly compute loci to thousands of planets in over 200 billion galaxies.

One religion in one country in one planet in one galaxy of the known universe? How hard could it be?

“Then explain to me,” he says, “how the official religion of a major political party in the most powerful country on our planet has selected Rick Perry to explain the mental workings and purposes of its god Jehovah, who created those 200 billion galaxies.”

“Rick Perry?” I says.

“Rick Perry.”

“The Rick Perry?”

“The Rick Perry.”

“Let me make sure,” I says. “The Rick Perry who couldn’t name the three government agencies he would abolish if he were elected president?”

“The very one.”

If you’ll excuse me, dear friend, I have some studying to do.

Justice

They say I got caught but they are all lying. Big Dope and some his friends came in unexpectedly yesterday and claim they saw me shapeshifting in front of the rescue puppy they are fostering. They claim I was scaring her, torturing her with shapes of creatures that terrify dogs—prehistoric birds of prey, saber-tooth tigers, velociraptors, and such.

False accusations, all of them. I was just trying to get the precious thing used to other puppies. I am the nicest, kindest, sweetest figure in the history of the Universe to other species. I have never bothered a soul here on Earth or in any galaxy. Besides, if I did, it wasn't such a bad thing.

Big Dope thought so, though. He banished me from all travels and took away my computer. Well, his computer.

Fortunately, I had insurance. I happened to know that Mrs. Big Dope slipped another antique sewing machine into the house last week. That makes 42, and they have run out of spaces to keep them. That's why there was this moratorium on further purchases.

So I explained the situation to her.

Aren't pardons wonderful?

Terms

Big Dope plays these strange games with me on Sunday mornings. He makes me practice your language. He says he has words that aren’t in my Galactic Universal Translator. He gives me words and challenges me to translate. I think he makes them up. What do you think?

The first word he gave me this morning was “Remakeacide.”

What? He gave me a hint. “It’s a first-cousin to ‘Serialcide.’”

I gave up. He says, “It’s when you stink up the memory of a great movie.” How many versions of ‘A Star is Born’ have they made, none ever measuring to the first notch of the original 1937 film with Janet Gaynor and Fredric March?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” he said. Lon Chaney must be turning in his grave. And Steve Martin as Inspector Jacques Clouseau? Mattie Ross as a sexy little cute sprite?”

“Do you have another one?” I was getting bored.

He said, “How about ‘overadverbilization,?’” he said. “I’m seriously considering this as board game.”

I got that one. It’s something he does all the time.

He frowned. “Let’s move to politics.”

“Must we?” I forgot to tell you. I was shaped as Gomer Pyle at the time.

“Whopperizing,” he said. He smiled.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m the most serious person in the history of America,” he said. “There’s never been anyone more serious than me. Everybody in the world loves me because I’m so serious. I’ve been elected to the Serious Person Hall of Fame. I never lie. What do you think about that?”

“Well gollee,” I said. “I may just trust my GUT.”

Making Up

Big Dope was mad all day yesterday about the blood pressure thing but I finally calmed him down when I shapeshifted into Fiona Hill and brought him a bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey. We chatted a while and decided to try and understand American politics. We failed.

We finally decided that there was one explanation. People think it’s fun to watch. Those that don’t think so think it’s fun to ridicule those who do. It’s like a Falloonian practice called, Aeneginticknuhwha. That translates roughly into, “Running in circles to avoid the biting of insects.

Anyway, the blood pressure thing seems to be getting better. This morning he wants me to visit him as Marie Yovanovic just before he tests. I think he’s silly, but what the heck.

Relaxation

Sometimes I’m so mean I scare myself. This morning I came near the room where Bit Dope was trying to take his blood pressure. He records it for a class he’s taking and it is hilarious to watch. He’s the only person I know who can run his readings up into the danger zone just by trying to get the cuff situated on the BP machine. He was trying to get it on while, as you Earthling say, “Cussing up a storm." He was playing some musical piece to help him relax. Then I heard him going “Om, om, om,” and things got real quiet.

I waited until I thought he was ready. Then I shapeshifted into “Moscow Mitch” and walked around the corner.

Does anyone have a place I can stay for a few days? I’ll shift into your favorite movie star while I’m there.

Tricks

Big Dope is trying to get me to go and wake up his wife. I know better. "Go ahead," he says. "She told me to get her up early." I just look at him, the middle of my three sets of eyes twitching. "Go ahead," he repeats. "She wants it."

In my years on earth, I've heard that said of the female of your species many times, never to any positive conclusions.

Crowds

Last night, I shifted into Huntz Hall from the old Bowery Boys movies and watched TV with Big Dope. We were watching some documentary films of the Nazi rallies in Nuremberg back in the 1930s. Big Dope says to me, “I think that mob mentality leads to many of the atrocities in history. What do you think?”

Well, he asked didn’t he? I stared at the scene of thousands upon thousands of people standing and watching Hitler speak, I said, “I think that there must be at least one person in that crowd who needs to go to the bathroom real bad.”

He called me an idiot. Me, a visitor to this strange planet.

Concentration

I had fun yesterday. I shifted into a teenager and went walking downtown. I put cell phone up about six inches from my face. Then I’d bump into people on purpose to see what they would do. Was I surprised. They mostly said “Excuse me,” and moved aside. I couldn’t believe it. So then I stood at a busy street corner and pretended I was going to walk into traffic while looking at my phone.

Can you believe it? The cars all stopped to let me pass.

Of course the Falloonian Elders didn’t believe this when I reported it. Mrs. Big Dope just laughed and told me seeing about a father in a restaurant who was spoon feeding an eight-year-old son who wouldn’t take his hand or eyes from his cell phone.

No wonder the folks back home don’t believe me.

Points of order

Your dear Alien needs help my friends. I slipped in early and allowed myself access to Big Dope's laptop. I came across a report on something called a "free the nipples movement." Seems it was started by some of the female of your species. I don't understand. I am told that both species have them and don't understand the issues of incarceration. I need help that will point the way on this.

Actually, I'm confused on a number of points. Please help by exposing me to the truth. My interest will not sag,

Playing Games

Daily thought from the Alien C.W.

I’ve never told many people, but we Falloonians can communicate with all species on Earth, not only homo sapiens. You should hear what this new “rescue puppy” that Big Dope and Mrs. Big Dope are fostering tells me. She says they call her “Demon Dog” and she gets back at them anytime she gets a chance. She says one of her favorite tricks is to give them a certain look until they are sure it means something. When they start acting accordingly, she gives them a different look for the same response. She says it “confuses the hell out of them.” It tickles her immensely. They don’t know what the next look will mean. She calls it her “Nancy Pelosi trick.” Now I watch for it and laugh each time.

Conventional Wisdom

Big Dope still has me studying politics for punishment. Don't ask. He's made me go over elections for nearly three-quarters of a century. Plus, he made me shape-shift into Joseph McCarthy and interview some Walmart shoppers. That made for some real fun times. I never know how much people missed him. More on that later.

For now, I'm to write an essay on why an openly gay man can't be elected President of the United States. Big Dope calls that "the conventional wisdom," a phrase that doesn't translated directly into Falloonian. We have wisdom, and non-wisdom, That's all, but hear me out. The pundits ask why the gay candidate even stays in the race.

Why indeed? Let's look a some factual data involving this rather odd form of wisdom, in chronological order.

1948: A former shop owner who became president accidentally cannot be re-elected. It was so obvious that "conventional wisdom" could call it in advance.

1968: A washed up politician with questionable ethics who, by his own admission, was finished in politics, couldn't be elected. No way.

1976: A peanut farmer from a southern state couldn't beat an incumbent.

1980: A movie actor? You might as well run a reality TV star.

1992: A philanderer from a small, backward, southern state could never beat an incumbent. That was what passed for conventional wisdom back then.

2000: A spoiled rich kid with a history of alcohol abuse couldn't make the jump (and, it is argued, didn't) to the White House.

2004: A man with a dubious military record who had illegally thrust the country into a tragic war could never beat a respected senator and Vietnam War hero.

2008: An African American man against a certified POW survivor? As you earthlings say, "Get of of town.

And, the most predictable of all:

2016: A multiple divorcee, bankruptcy artist, philanderer, with a total lack of internal decency, who gleefully mocked a person with disabilities, demeaned the female population, openly bore false witnesses about his neighbors, and worshiped riches above all elected to the most important office in the world? Are you crazy? Churchgoing folks would never allow it.

I wouldn't tell the gay guy to go home. My analysis of your elections reveals a mockery of conventional wisdom at times.

The pundits just know these things at times.

Voting

Big Dope has had me studying political science lately. Boooring. I did notice one thing, though. There's this one political party that demonstrates a strange habit. In very close elections, they never demand a recount. It's almost like they don't want people looking into their state's voting system.

Excitement

Did I have a great time yesterday or what? I shapeshifted myself into a replica of your politician Hillary Clinton, dressed myself in a tight pantsuit and walked down the main street of a small town near Little Rock. I caused two automobile wrecks and several pedestrian collisions. One man ran out on his lawn yelling so hard that his face turned red and he fainted. Another man came out of a church and called me “the, the, the … the Antichristess.” Parents were yanking their kids out of the front yard and dragging them indoors. When the first guns appeared, I ducked behind a building and  shifted into a Nazi General. Things calmed down and I finished my walk without further incident. I can’t wait to tell those back in Falloonia about it. But don’t tell Big Dope. He made me promise not to upset people unnecessarily.

Urban Planning

Been going around with Big Dope on some trips to your cities. If you see someone who looks like Stephen Miller, don’t let it scare you. Of course, I’m confused by your urban revitalization plans. Isn’t doing streetscapes for dying cities a bit like trying to save someone dying of malnutrition by giving them a facelift?

Brains

My old friend stopped by today. Said he would visit often and drop a gem or two. From today's news:

Reports say former President Jimmy Carter is having brain surgery to relieve pressure. Interesting. It seems that a former president needs surgery to relieve pressure developing from an overactive brain while a sitting president needs relief from pressure developing from a missing brain.
- C.W.