Tuesday, December 31, 2019


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.

Sunday, December 29, 2019


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.

Friday, December 27, 2019


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.


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.


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."

Wednesday, December 25, 2019


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.

Tuesday, December 24, 2019


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.






"Now you behave!"

"Cut that out."


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?"

Monday, December 23, 2019


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.

Sunday, December 22, 2019

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?

Saturday, December 21, 2019


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.

Friday, December 20, 2019


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.



“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?"

Image result for fuzzy knight actor
That's him all right.

Tuesday, December 17, 2019


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.”

Monday, December 16, 2019


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.

Sunday, December 15, 2019


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.

Saturday, December 14, 2019

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."

Friday, December 13, 2019

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.

Tuesday, December 10, 2019


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.


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

Sunday, December 8, 2019


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?”

Saturday, December 7, 2019


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.

Friday, December 6, 2019


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.

Thursday, December 5, 2019


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?"

Wednesday, December 4, 2019


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."

Sunday, December 1, 2019


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.