449. Beliefs

It was my time to ask C.W. questions. For once, he cooperated. I must have caught him on good day. He had assumed the shape of a learned professor after all. A few minutes before, I had been talking to what seemed like a reincarnation of Liberace. He left for few minutes and returned as a Carl Sagan clone. I was confused, and said so to him.

“How do you manage all this shape-shifting? Can all Falloonians do it so seamlessly? How do you make the changes?”

“You must have fallen asleep in your psychology and anatomy classes,” he said.

That hurt my feelings. “No,” I said, “I paid attention.”

“To what?” he said, making a mocking smile. “Was Mrs. Big Dope in your class?”

“Are you going to taunt me or teach me?”

“You probably think,” he said, “that you are seeing my shape now, right? You think that little rays shoot out from your eyes … little emissions so to speak … land on me and send back what they find.”

I tried to think back. “Not really,” I said. I think my eyes are just receptors, or something like that.”

“Maybe you’re not totally stupid,” he said.

That was a relief.

“Suppose,” he said, “that I don’t change shapes at all.”

“But I see you.”

“Shut up and listen,” he explained.

“Okay.”

“Suppose that, because we are a superior species in so many ways, we Falloonians have perfected the relationship between our beings as senders and your beings as receptors. For sight, that would involve how we control information that strikes your retinas, triggering the signals that are sent to a region in the back of your brain. There, they are translated, in the words of your scientist James E. Alcock, into “colors, textures, and forms that are then compared with past experience.”

“And?”

 

Left a copy for Big
Dope to read.  You may
like it too. - C.W.

“Then the process constructs an image.”

“An image”

“Actually, a construction. Does that explain how you see me in different forms?”

“But I can touch you.”

“Same question.”

“And hear you.”

“Same question.”

“I guess I could taste you if necessity demanded it.”

“Same question.”

“And smell you. Lord I can smell you sometimes.”

“Same question. Do you want to learn or be cute?”

“Do you mean to tell me that your shapes are merely constructions that you signal?”

“Keep trying. You are on the right path but walking wobbly.”

“But?”

“But nothing.”

“You could signal something evil or non-productive.”

“Only for weaker minds. I may be programmed for periodic mischief but not for creating evil. I couldn’t if I wanted to. Remember, I’m a mental construction designed to promulgate belief, and various belief systems demand specific levels of cognizance.”

“You mean belief systems exist in a hierarchy of sorts?”

“I mean, in the parlance of your species, that dumb is as dumb does.”

“But what if a renegade from your planet came to earth with evil plans to energize the masses in revolt against a stable society?”

“That could cause a cause a problem. Won’t happen though.”

“Why not?”

“The shapes involved would be so strange and weird that even the most perceptively challenged among you would find them repellent.”

“Wait,” I said, “Didn’t you imply that our creation of these so-called constructions depends on preciously held beliefs?”

He looked at me sharply, thought, and said. “I’m tired. Have you learned enough for today? I think I’ll go watch the news.”

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Don't Get Me Started

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

399. Beliefs

C.W. asked me for an hour or so of his time interrupted so I knew he was in serious mode. Imagine my surprise when he showed up as Bozo The Clown.

“What the … ?

“Howie Kazowie, little boy,” he said, taking a chair opposite me. “Are you ready to help old Bozo with his job?”

I sat speechless as he opened his notepad and clicked his pen to the ready position. He huge mouth opened into a grin and came up with “Ready?”

“I thought you wanted to have a serious conversation.”

“Well?”

“You look like a damned clown.”

“Shhh,” there are usually children following me around.”

“That’s my point,” I said. “Why the clown shape?”

“That’s the only way I can seriously discuss my topic du jowl, drawing his cheeks into a huge grin.”

“I think you mean ‘topic du jour’ don’t you?”

“I was making a joke, and don’t start in about my GUT.”

“I wouldn’t dare mention your Galactic Universal Translator,” I said. “Now what is up?”

“We are going to discuss what our planet sees as one of the most laughable aspects of your species. I’m simply dressed to fit.”

“And that aspect is?”

“The obsession your species has with conspiracy theories.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It came up again recently concerning an assassinated president, the one murdered by the lone gunman who sneaked a rifle to work, stayed in during lunch, and shot the president from the building where the gunman worked.”

“And the Falloonians think that was funny?”

“Oh no,” he said. “What they find funny is how your species has concocted such idiotic folk conspiracies around the event.”

“Oh.”

“We differentiate between conspiracy theories, legends, and myths,” he said. The first is the most difficult to understand, and … .” He stopped. “Well,” he continued, “the most laughable, I’m afraid.”

That caused me to think. While I did so, he continued.

“How about the man who shot up a pizza shop because one of the presidential candidates was operating a child sex-slave ring in the basement?”

“That wasn’t funny to the manager of the shop who had a rifle pointed in his face,” I said. “And besides, I think we blamed that one on the Russians.”

“Would it have been better to blame it on the Schcrooarandians?”

“Who?”

“They’re considered by many to be the greatest jokers of our Galaxy.”

“Oh.”

“Or how about the former president who managed the demolition of two of the tallest office buildings on your planet from the White House and managed to have an airliner flown into each one to cover up his crime? They still laugh about that conspiracy effort all over the Opaque white fluid rich in fat and protein, secreted by female mammals for the nourishment of their young … Way.”

“You mean the Milky Way?”

“Old Bozo was just joshin’ you, lad. Wowie kazowie. What fun.”

“I’m leaving,” I said. “I have better things to do.”

“Wait,” he said. “You need to hear this.” He reached inside his outfit and produced a scroll, which he unrolled. “This was compiled by a Falloonian youth with the comparable education of one of your twelfth-graders. He did it as a homework assignment.”

“How old is he.”

“In earth years?”

“Yes.”

“He would be three months old.” Before I responded, he continued. “I’ll skip right to the meat of it.” He read, “It the absence of a single shred of evidence, physical documentation, or deathbed confession after more than 50 years, Earthlings, believe that a master conspirator, hereinafter referred to as ‘MC’ compiled the following conspiratorial body to cooperate seamlessly in the assassination of the aforementioned president.”

He scrolled a bit, with great ceremony.

“An actor playing the role of a crazed gunman who may or may not have known the role was terminal.” He looked at me and raised one of his huge eyebrows, then continued.

“The Dallas, Texas police department, the Cook County Sheriff’s department, various American Army, Marine, Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard officers, the American CIA, various organized crime organizations, the Cuban president and government, Lyndon Johnson and wife, the entire American media establishment … .”

“Stop, please,” I said.

 

What? - C.W.

He ignored me. “the American FBI, … .”

“Stop stop.”

“The equivalent of a military platoon of armed gunmen scattered secretly among the throngs lining the parade route, … .”

“That’s enough,” I said.

“One more line,” he said. Before I could protest, he skipped to the bottom and read. “Study Conclusion One: … .”

That caught my attention.

“American earthlings should immediately receive the galactic title of Doobprndoong now being held by the inhabitants of the planet Boochedufhaimerz++.”

“And what,” I asked, “does that award mean?”

“Wowie kazowie son,” he said. “It means ‘Goofballs of the Galaxy,’ more or less.”

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Enjoy theses at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy.

Science

Man, your species is weird.
- Your friend C.W.

224. History

            “I see where they are going to quit teaching the history of your country in New York public schools,” C.W. said as we lounged in the living room reading.
            “That’s nice,” I said. Actually I was reading history and half-listening to him. He was in his “lounging form,” a cross between Gore Vidal and how he supposed Charles Darwin would have looked.
            “No, really,” he said. “they say it doesn’t contribute to standardized test results so it doesn’t need to be taught. Is that a good idea?”
            “Some people in …, where did you say? They must think it is.”
            “New York,” he said. “But others will surely follow.”
            “Why do you say that?” He was beginning to draw my attention.
            “Don’t you remember when your people started emphasizing history in public schools?”
            “Years ago?”
            “A big push, according to the article I read, came during what you call World War One.”
            “Oh really?”
            “Seems your people worried that all the new immigrants coming into your country didn’t understand your great history.”
            “Hmmm.”
            “And thanks to that effort, so many people now know about the massive employment programs you had back in the early days of your nation for immigrants from underdeveloped countries in Africa.”
            “Employment programs?”
            “Surely you know about those.”
            “Employment programs? That’s what you call them?”
            “That’s what the expert on that news show you don’t like calls them, and he teaches history at a university.”
            “And calls them ‘employment programs?””
            “Sometimes he calls them ‘employment opportunities.’ After all, you did furnish free transportation here, room and board while being trained for work, and a living wage during the process.”
            “And you believe that?”
            “Doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m just an alien. But the folks around here that I talk to believe it. And they vote.”
            “You are making me despondent.”
            “Many of those I talk to also understand, because of the teaching of history, about the war that resulted when northern industrialists decided to confiscate southern farms and eliminate the so-called ‘middle-man’ in manufacturing and food processing.”
            “Say what?”
            “I don’t blame them for resisting. Do you?”
            “Where do you hear such nonsense?”
            “At the coffee shop. You should go with me some time. You could even learn about how hard it was to turn back the hordes of stone-age savages that invaded the country from Russia in the 1600s, trying to annihilate your early settlers.”
            “You know this is bull…, that it is all wrong, don’t you?”
            “So you are saying maybe the teaching of history isn’t such a good idea?”
            “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”
            “What are you saying?”
            I said, “We should try to understand it and learn from it, history that is.”
            “Why? It’s not on the Common Core tests. Why should you teach it? How does knowledge of history help you operate a computer?”
            “It helps,” I said, “understand Americans who changed history, people like Susan B. Anthony, and Abraham Lincoln. In my lifetime, there was Eleanor Roosevelt, Rosa Parks, Dwight Eisenhower, Martin Luther King, Jr. and John Kennedy.”
            “Yeah, Lyndon Johnson’s wife paid Charles Manson to kill him, didn’t she?”
            “Where do you hear this stuff?”
            “Different places,” he said. “I get around.”

We'll soon get rid of these antiquated things
called teachers. What part can they play in
passing standardized tests? - C.W.

            “You don’t get around to the library, it seems.”
            “The what?”
            “Oh my god.”
            “Just kidding,” He said. “But don’t worry about the libraries. I heard they cost too much and they are going to shut them down. The authorities can put everything you need to know on your personal computer, according to what career they determine for you.”
            I hung my head. “And just who will determine these careers?”
            “Not who. What.”
            “What will determine these careers?”
            “Why standardized test scores, of course. Michelle Rhee is working on them right now, I hear.”
            “Isn’t that a sort of, oh say … an educational version of a ‘circular firing squad,’ standardized tests determining what courses you should take to pass standardized tests?”
            “Hey,” he said as he started to transmogrify into his favorite form of Reggie the Young Conservative, “it’s your country. I’m just an alien.”

Hit an ad. Keep knowledge alive.
Also, check out www.wattensawpress.com
- C.W.

188. Debates

Oh no, C.W. has another of his “get-rich” schemes incubating and it is a doozy. He told me about it yesterday while we were housebound by bad weather. He charged in as a thin, energetic man wearing a blue-blazer and a sporty bow tie, his face beaming.

“It’s official,” he said. “I’m going to be rich.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “Legally, I presume.”

“All atop a plank.”

I thought. “Above board,” you mean.

“Exactly. Why must I repeat everything for you?”

“Never mind,” I said. “What is your scheme this time?”

“I’m going to be the Great Debater.”

“Say again?”

“Debates. I’m going to stage debates.” He smiled. “The ‘net’ is buzzing about a so-called debate last week as to whether your world is 6,000 years old or five billion.” He broke into laughter.

I said. “What’s so funny?”

“Your species,” he said.

“We’re funny?”

“Oh, hilarious.”

“You find us funny?”

“Of course,” He said. “Why do you ask?”

“Just how do you mean, ‘funny?’”

He checked to see if I looked serious, then laughed again. “We started watching your planet—we the Falloonians—when the last big asteroid hit it 60 million years ago. It was pretty boring except for the last couple of hundred thousand.”

“And now?”

“We show clips of you for entertainment … like the show last week.” He started laughing again. This time it was at least a minute before he could control himself. I waited while he regained his composure. He wiped an eye and looked at me. “Six thousand years.” Then he broke up again.

“Are you hinting that we are the laughing stock of the Galaxy?”

“Not all of you,” he said. “We take accountants pretty seriously… and railroad engineers, cowboys, music teachers, sailors, and a few others.”

I wanted to re-direct the conversation. “So what will you debate?”

“Correction,” he said. “You and I. What will we debate?”

“What?”

“You will be my thin layer of aluminum used for temporary food preservation.”

“No,” I said with a huff, “I will not be anyone’s foil.”

“Oh,” he said. “Think of the fun.”

“Fun?”

“Can’t you see us on TV debating whether or not we breathe air?”

“No.”

“How about this one?” he said, pulling a notepad from his jacket pocket. “The Theory of Sexual Insemination—If Mother Mary didn’t need it, why should we?”

“Don’t you have something to do?”

“Wait,” He said. “You’ll like this.” He read from his notes. “Disease—From Science or From God?”

You know ... I'm not sure I could make the
trip from Earth to Falloonia using
Biblical physics. - C.W.

“I need to take care of some things.”

“Okay,” he said. “You won’t be able to resist this one. “Sunrise—fact or optical illusion?”

I started to leave.

“Newton’s Theory of Motion?” he said. “Let’s ask Joshua.”

By this time I was out the door. The last thing I heard him yell after me was, “The Theory of Pi—If it is true, it would be in the Bible.”

Does anyone want to keep him for a while?

Safety

Dear Friends and Followers:
I found this on Big Dope's computer and couldn't resist sharing.
C.W.

There was news this week about a school in Utah where the officials took an unusual step in dealing with school lunch payments in arrears. After dispensing meals one noontime, officials went around and seized the trays of the kids whose lunches hadn’t been paid for and threw them in the trash. Problem solved.

Now these were not kids on the “Free Lunch Program” but simply were those whose parents had not paid for the lunches in a timely fashion.

Still, it made me think of the Free Lunch Program, a friend I had while serving in the United States Navy, and a former professional football player. Let’s see if I can connect the dots.

I teach a course at a local university. The course is “Intro to Public Administration” and the class members are juniors and seniors taking it as an elective. So, it is not “their first rodeo” and we have some wonderful and spirited discussions.

Each time I teach it, the subject of the free lunch program seems to arise. It is simply heartbreaking to hear a young woman talk of the shame associated with being identified, before her classmates, as one on the Free Lunch Program. It is evidently a mark of shame she will carry with her for the rest of her life.

Now, to my “beloved” USN. While waiting for deployment to Vietnam, I shared a temporary posting in Monterey, California with a troubled man named Bob. We were both beset by unhappiness. Mine was from a temporary habit but his was deeply rooted. He owned a car and we would go for long rides along the coastal highway and bemoan our fates. We once drove to the gates of a compound owned by Joan Baez where, it was rumored, one could gain passage to Canada. I don’t know. We “chickened out” at the last moment.

Anyway, Bob had a favorite allegory. “Jimmie,” he would say, “when a child is born into this world, they give him a bucket. As he goes through life, they keep adding s**t into that bucket until someday, he won’t be able to move ‘cause it is so heavy.”

It was not the most positive personal philosophy I have ever heard, but it was entertaining, the way he would rant on about it.

I don’t know what happened to him eventually. He disappeared one day and I didn’t hear from him until just before I shipped out. I was called to “The Deck” and told, by a frowning Officer-in-Charge, that I had a call and to make it quick. So I will.

It was Bob calling from the “nut-ward” at the Treasure Island Naval Base in San Francisco Bay. “What are you doing there?” I said.

“I just gave my bucket of s**t away,” he yelled. Then they took the phone from him and, I suppose, led him away.

Aren't there some things that your species
believes young kids shouldn't have to
worry about? - C.W.

Now the football player: I read this week where a former pro football player, now an exec with the NFL, said he didn’t believe in social “safety nets,” which was why he voted conservative.

I just couldn’t help thinking about a young child standing to be identified forever as a burden to society and what it must mean to carry that through life.

And then, I thought of buckets of s**t. Well, I also thought about pieces of s**t.

See his latest book at Wattensaw Press.

186. Myths

I found C.W. in my favorite chair surrounded by piles of paper. He was in his “college professor” form, complete with corduroy pants, sweater, and bow tie. He was frantically scribbling notes.

“What’s up, Galactic Wonder?” I said.

“Shut up. I’m busy.”

“My,” I said. “Aren’t we being a good example of interstellar love today?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I have a matter or situation regarded as unwelcome or harmful and needing to be dealt with and overcome.”

“Hmmm.” I said. “Sounds like you have a problem.”

“Why do you repeat what I say so often?” He wrote furiously and then looked up.

I said, “So what’s your problem?”

“I’m in trouble with the Elders.”

“The Falloonian Elders?”

“Who else?”

“So,” I said. “Did they find out about your experiments with the ‘wacky weed’ and your secret stash of Twinkies?” (Sweets make him as silly as martinis make me).

“No,” he said. “They have accused me of confusing facts with allegories.”

“They found out that I really can’t walk on water?”

He sighed. “It all started with this,” he said. He rummaged in the stack of papers and retrieved a newspaper clipping. He held it before me and I read that 60 percent of Americans believe the Biblical account of Noah’s Ark and the universal flood is literally true.

“And?”

“They say I must learn that, with your species, statistics like this are meant as allegories.”

“Allegories?”

“Yes, their purpose is to present universal lessons, in this case the tendency of your species to prove points with mythical statistics.”

“And the point here is?”

“They think it has something to do with your love of the printed word and its almost magical effect on your sense of homeostasis.”

“So the statistics are not meant to illustrate actual occurrences?”

“Give me an interrupt,” he said.

“Uh, you mean ‘give me a ‘break,’” I said.

“There you go again.”

“So you don’t really think anyone believes that two of every species of life on the planet, with the necessary food and water for more than a month’s captivity, fit on a wooden vessel 400 feet long?”

“Don’t you have something to do?” he said.

“Oh,” I said, “my job today is to have fun and I’m doing it.”

He groaned. “Well, at least help me.” He thrust a pile of papers into my hands. “Find me something that I can use in my report to show them that they may be correct in assuming you, that is your species, uses statistical references in a purely allegorical sense.”

It seems to me that you view statistics as a
 bunch of monkeys in a tree. Get them down and
treat them right, they'll do anything you want. - C.W.

“Doesn’t that go against your position?”

“One never wants to urinate the Falloonian Elders off.”

“Quite right,” I said as I began rummage. It only took a second. “Here’s something. You know of course that there are more than 350,000 separate species of beetles on earth.”

He grabbed if from my hand and read. His entire face brightened. “Thanks,” he said. And then he began to copy the following.

There is a story, possibly apocryphal, of the distinguished British biologist, J.B.S. Haldane, who found himself in the company of a group of theologians. On being asked what one could conclude as to the nature of the Creator from a study of his creation, Haldane is said to have answered, “An inordinate fondness for beetles.”

185. Choices

This time it was I who was in a quandary. I think C.W. sensed this for he showed up in the form and dress of a workman, someone who knew about home repairs. That was the sort of help I desired.

It was like this. I needed to have some repairs done on our downtown condominium. They involved a good bit of money so I didn’t want to make a mistake in the hiring of a tradesman. So, I consulted C.W. He seemed willing to help as always, and that is not always a good sign.

“Thing is, “I said, “I have narrowed it to two choices. Actually, there are only two contractors that do this sort of work in the building.”

“And?” He assumed a rather pedantic tone.

“Well, there is Donnie. He comes highly recommended. He is very knowledgeable about construction techniques. He has experience, and is extremely thoughtful and courteous. He truly seems to have the best interest of the client in mind.”

“And?”

“There is Ralph. His work is spotty and inconsistent. Management has a problem with his neglecting to clean up after his work.”

“And?”

“He is rude to his clients at times, particularly to female clients. There are also some rumors that he has broken things and not taken responsibility.”

“And?”

“There is a general feeling that he doesn’t seem to care much about his work.”

“And?”

“That’s all. Those are my choices.”

“Choices?” he said. “It seems pretty obvious to me. Donnie is your man.”

“There is one problem,” I said.

“And?”

“I know for a fact that Donnie believes in capital punishment.”

“And?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I think it is a barbaric custom and we should outlaw it as most civilized countries have.”

“And?”

“I can’t see my way clear to hiring a man who believes in capital punishment.”

He took a moment to think. Then he looked at me with that stare he uses when our species has truly confused him. He said, “May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly,” I said.

“Just what the hell does his belief in criminal justice have to do with working on your condo?”

“I just can’t select someone who doesn’t believe the way I do.”

“Even when they are otherwise qualified far above the other choice?”

“You just don’t understand how much this single issue means to me,” I said. “I guess it sounds bizarre to you.”

“No,” he said. “In fact it seems to be the way a great number of your species selects a political candidate.”

That set me back on my heels and I couldn’t answer.

“Did it ever occur to you,” he said, “that in working together you might understand better why he feels the way he does?”

Choosing wisely seems to be a job that
confuses a great many of your species. - C.W.

I still had no answer.

He continued. “Or,” he said, “have you considered the possibility that exposure to your fine example might cause him to modify his position? And in the meantime, you would be benefiting from quality work.”

“But,” I said, “he believes in capital punishment.”

Problems

Dear Friends and Followers:
One of the things that troubles me about your species is your approach to problem solving. For an example, let’s look at a recent problem that a part of your country is having with its drinking water. It seems that an unregulated (at least since 1991) chemical plant has leaked toxic chemicals into the river that supplies drinking water to a large area in your state of West Virginia. Here is the problem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, it is my understanding that the voters of that state usually narrow their focus to a single issue when choosing politicians to care for their people. To illustrate this, here is the proposed solution to the problem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unfortunately, as I understand it, the river has not yet complied with the demands of the Purification Committee.

The Alien C.W.

Happy New Year

Dear Friends and Followers

Despite my best efforts, I could not get Big Dope, or anyone else in the family, to stay up until midnight and enjoy that most peculiar practice you have of welcoming the New Year.

We have no tradition on Falloonia that is exactly similar to this celebration as our climate is more fixed and steady than yours. So we don’t celebrate a passage of time, but rather a passage of epochs.

For example, we celebrated when we made the collective choice that Mindeavorlists were no longer inferior to Epicatasrophists. It is written that it was a choice that created much peace and harmony. By making it a source of a planet-wide celebration, we assured ourselves that we would not slide back into the old prejudices, as some of your species seem prone to do from time to time.

I still must say, though, that there is something uplifting about an annual period of self-examination and resolve. Of course I realize that the resolves are not binding (see mine of last week). Nonetheless, it is uplifting to see the celebration of a new start. To this end, I have made the following suggestions for Big Dope to enact for the coming year.

- C.W. is to have his own car

- C.W. is to have his own thick piece of soft material used to reduce friction or jarring (Editor’s note: he means “pad.”)

C.W. can invite friends over for slumber parties and this includes Repicanastors and their accompanists.

May this year be the one during which your
species finds a philosophy of peace, love, and
respect for all peoples. - C.W.

- Mrs. Big Dope will let C.W. have his accordion back

- Double secret probation will no longer be used for punishment

- The statute of limitations will expire on all previous practical jokes, and

- C.W. will once again be allowed to assume the shape of Rick Santorum and go to gay bars.

Please support me in these with your comments and exhortations.

Happy New Year!

Your friend,

The Alien C.W.

Thought du jour

Dear Friends and Followers:
Someone help me. It has become apparent to me that your species has a tendency to wage war on nouns, for example, poverty, drugs, terror, and, most recently, Christmas. Oddly, it always loses these wars. If that definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results, must I report to the Falloonian Elders that your entire species is insane? Your help would be appreciated as I wage my own war on illogic.
Your Pal,
The Alien C.W.

Heroes

Dear Friends and Followers:

This morning I resumed my study of the history of America. I discovered that, beginning on December 16, 1944, during World War II, the German Army launched the offensive that led to the “Battle of the Bulge.” At this time of year, the battle was raging furiously in deep snows and record low temperatures. Big Dope says his father-in-law could tell you stories about the cold that would make you shiver on the hottest summer day.

I am particularly impressed with the life of one soldier who took part in that battle.

Richard D. "Dick" Winters (January 21, 1918 – January 2, 2011) commanded Company "E", 2nd Battalion, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division.

His unit parachuted into France before D-day and took part in some of the fiercest fighting of the invasion. Later, the unit took part in “Operation Market Garden,” a failed Allied attempt to break through German lines at Arnhem across the river Rhine in the occupied Netherlands during World War II in September 1944.

Isn't this a much better person to
respect and emulate than the reality
show actor? - C.W.

He survived the encirclement of Bastogne, (remind me on another day to discuss the famous answer to the surrender offer) and toward the end of the war, his unit joined in the capture of Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest at Berchtesgaden, Germany.

The exploits of his unit were chronicled in the Stephan Ambrose book “Band of Brothers,” and later in a TV miniseries of the same name.

As a visitor to your planet, I must say I am deeply touched by the story of this man. A true hero, he never had to prove his manhood. A Quaker by faith, arrogance and bluster seemed as foreign to him as any love of violence. It seems that he was educated, articulated, and modest.  After the war, he settled near Hersey Pennsylvania and never harmed another living thing.

My question, as an observer of your species, concerns heroes. When, I ask, did so my of you quit honoring men like Dick Winters and replace them with people like those awful stars of your so-called “TV reality shows?”

- Your friend C.W.

181. Illusions

“Okay, put your card back in the deck.”

I did. He made a big show of shuffling several times, then cutting the deck twice before spreading it on the table in front of us. He waved a hand over the cards in a mysterious fashion and then suddenly plucked one from the deck. He held it up to me.

“Is this your card?”

“Uh, no,” I said.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I’ll be a Kodamflabbugast,” he said, employing a word for the Falloonian units with slow intellects.

“C.W.,” I said. “Why the sudden interest in magic?” I had to admit, he was dressed for the part, tuxedo, top hat, and all.

“Money to be made in illusions,” he said. “Trouble is—I need an assistant.” He slumped and looked toward the kitchen. “Think Mrs. Big Dope might change her mind?”

I said, “I doubt it.”

“Even if I drop the part about the sexy outfit?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

He thought for a moment and apparently abandoned the idea. I thought it was a good decision.

“So what makes you think there is money to be made in magic?”

He leaned back in his chair and took off his top hat. A pigeon flew from within it and flew to the back of chair. “Your species seems to thrive on illusions,” he said. “I simply thought I would take advantage of it.” He unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket. A small rabbit peeked from inside. “Everyone else does it.” The rabbit nodded in agreement.

“Does what?”

“Takes advantage of your trait of being easily fooled or cheated.”

“Are you trying to say our gullibility?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

I said, “Forget it. Tell me why you think my species is gullible.”

He thought. “For one thing,” he said, “you think reality TV is real.”

I had to agree somewhat. “I don’t,” I said. “But there are some who do.”

“They are the ones who spend money,” he said.

“Maybe so,” I said. “Any other examples?”

“Professional wrestling?”

“That appeal is limited,” I said. “Most folks view it as entertainment. Only a few take it seriously.”

“But they are allowed to mingle, drive, and vote.”

He had me there. My confidence was waning. “Anything else?”

“You used to think you had to sacrifice folks to make the crops grow.”

“Ah,” I said, sensing an opportunity. “But we don’t believe that anymore.”

“But now you believe you have to sacrifice some folks to make the economy grow.”

“But we have our share of educated units,” I said, using his terminology. “They see through things.”

Any species that truly believes making
rich people richer will make poor people
rich someday needs to re-examine
its cognitive capabilities. - C.W.

“Like your supreme public officials appointed to decide cases in a court of law? The ones who believe a corporation is a human being?”

Ouch.

“And I’m not even going to get into the areas of talking snakes and boats full of lions and tigers.” The rabbit shuddered.

“Look,” I said. “Let’s change the subject.” I decided to confess. “That really was my card you picked. I was just fooling with you because I was tired of the magic show.”

“You deceived me for your own ends?”

I sighed and slumped in my chair. “Yes,” I said. “Yes I did. Yes.”

“Well I’ll be a Kodamflabbugast,” he said.

 

The rabbit shook his head in disapproval, then ducked back inside the coat.

180. Alternatives

As funny as it may sound, I find myself worrying about C.W. from time to time, like yesterday. I was minding my own business reading a magazine when a lone figure walks in, plops down on the couch, and folds his hands in his lap. It is a man of indeterminate age, casually dressed in a flannel shirt, rumpled khaki pants, and running shoes. His eyes formed two lifeless orbs that seem to watch something far away, something that he really wasn’t quite certain existed.

“Don’t make sense to me,” he said, without looking at me.

I said, “C.W.?”

He said, “I just don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“Why you people can’t see the truth.”

“What truth?”

“You know,” he said, turning toward me with no expression. “what they teach us on TV.”

I said, “Have you been watching Fox News again?”

“Haven’t you?”

“Uh, no,” I said.

“How do you keep up with current problems? For example, why is your species so concerned about the color of a person’s skin?”

I said, “Did they actually ask that on Fox News?”

“It is a choice,” he said. “A simple choice.”

“A what?”

“It is a lifestyle choice,” he said. “If a person chooses to have black skin, they shouldn’t be upset when they learn that Santa Claus is white.”

There are times when, as the young boy said when he fell into the molasses barrel, my tongue is not equal to the task. I simply stared as he continued.

“Some people want us to change our ways to fit them that choose other paths. It just ain’t right.”

“Us? Who is ‘us’”?

“You know,” he said, “the decent folks. Job creators, true believers, them that holds to traditional family values—the ones that want to save America from the dark forces. I’m talking about the ones that make the right choices in life.”

“White people?”

“That's always a good choice.”

“Males?”

“That helps. We do have some folks that choose to be wise women. Take Sarah Palin for example.” For the first time his face took on some expression. He smiled, winked, and made a clicking sound. “What a gal.”

If a person doesn't exist, does the color
of their skin really matter? - C.W.

I ignored him and continued. “Born right here in America?”

“Where else would you choose to be born?” He turned slowly and stared away again. Then he turned back and looked at me. “Say,” he said, “you ain’t one of them that believes in accepting makers of bad choices.”

“Oh no,” I said, playing along.

He seemed to brighten. “Good, he said, “come on, the Sean Hannity Show is about to start.” He stood, made a slow right face, and began to shuffle toward the door, still staring ahead blankly.

176. Rain

C.W. was in a rare pensive mood. It was raining and rain makes him homesick I think. He says it rains more or less constantly on his home planet of Falloonia, a fact which supports my belief that his actual “shape” is closer to what we would call an aquatic creature than a human-based form. Today though, he chose the shape of the young student he likes so well. He is the one who can swing between being delightfully inquisitive and a totally pain in the keester, sometimes in the same sentence.

Now, he was turned on the couch with his chin resting on its back. He was staring into the dark morning listening to the rain. Without moving, he said, “How long is it going to rain?”

I looked up from my book, thought, and said, “How the hell should I know?”

“Will it rain for 40 days and 40 nights, do you suppose?”

“I doubt it. Why?”

“Just wondering,” he said. “It did once you know. All over the world. At the same time.”

I said, “According to numerous myths.”

“No, according to your Bible.”

“Have you been studying religion again?”

“It drowned everyone except one family,” he said, ignoring me.

“And one pair of each species,” I said. “Including a pair each of more than 50,000 species of beetles and with tigers and wildebeests bunked side by side for several months.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Kinda neat, huh?”

“Very neat,” I said. I returned to my book.

“But,” he said and I knew it was coming. “All of the precipitation that falls originates as water vapor that has evaporated from the surface of the Earth.”

“Sounds right,” I said, silently hoping for the miracle of peace and quiet since it was an awfully good book I was reading.

No such luck. “So where did all the water come from?”

I said, “In myths, one can make up the pre-existence of water.”

“Did all the little children that didn’t belong to the chosen family drown? That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Myths don’t have to pass any test of moral fairness and they often don’t.”

“Why do you call it a myth?”

I closed my book and said, “Because the story of a world-wide flood appears in many cultures, even Chinese, going back as far as 4,000 years B.C.E.”

“Before the common era,” he said as if explaining something to himself.

“Yes.” I opened my book again.

“Benjy Shanon’s daddy is a preacher and he says his flood really happened and you are going to hell if you don’t agree.”

“I thought Benjy Shanon’s daddy worked on a county road crew.”

“He does, but he preaches too.” He resumed listening to the rain. “Matter can neither be created nor destroyed,” he said.

I said, “That’s interesting. Did you learn that in school?”

He paid no attention to my question, but said, “So where did all the water go after everybody drowned?

Didn't one of your military officers make the comment
during the Vietnam War that "The only way to save that
village was to destroy it? Must be a cultural thing. - C.W.

“It went up Benjy Shanon’s dad’s …” I stopped myself. “I told you it was a myth, a myth designed to establish hierarchies, a myth used to explain things before we had science, a myth designed to keep social groups in line.” I stopped and made myself relax. “So why don’t you read a book or just contemplate nature?”

“May I pray for you?”

“Pray do,” I said. “Just do it silently.”

Outside it continued to rain.

174. Love

“Mock me if you wish, but I know what your species needs,” C.W. said, as I curled up on the couch laughing. “Your kind always scoffs at the prophets.”

Get this. He was—excuse me while I stop and laugh again—in the shape of a 1960s hippie, complete with robe, headband. and beaded necklace. A strong odor of incense oozed through the room.

“I can’t help it,” I said.

He said, “You will see, my friend. Peace be unto you.”

“Oh,” I said, straightening up. “What the hell? What’s up?”

“Simply this,” he said. “I have chanced upon what your country needs to work itself away from this awful state you currently occupy.”

“Awful state?”

“There was another shooting spree,” he said. “Or haven’t you heard?”

“At an airport, right?”

“Yes,” he said. “And it seems the shooter had been motivated by a sinister force that is endemic to your country.”

“And what sinister force might that be?”

“Media inspired hate,” he said. “From radio, television, and printed sources.”

“You mean like hate radio?”

“It runs constantly. It can flow without stop through a person’s mind like a never-ending poison. And your species has no internal antidote for hate.”

“You will provide an external one?”

“It is my destiny.”

I said, “And you have a plan?”

“A simple one. You might say: a kind and gentle one.”

“And that is?”

“Love radio.”

I thought about this. “You would counteract the effects of ‘hate radio’ with ‘love radio?’”

“Exquisitely simple, yes?”

“Love radio.” I pondered this.

“And later we can expand to ‘love TV.’”

I said, “You know that it would cost money to do this?”

He said, “Of course I do, my friend.” He sat and smoothed his robe. “That’s where you come in.”

“Me? I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Of course not. You’ll have to find sponsors.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “And who, may I ask, is going to sponsor a program about loving one another?”

It was his time to ponder a question. “Drug companies?”

“Are you kidding? It would put them out of business.”

“Car makers?”

“They sell on fun, envy, or implied power, not love.”

“Jewelers?”

“You would be direct competition.”

“I know,” he said. “Mega-marts.”

“Uh,” I said. “I don’t know if you have noticed but they don’t even love their own people enough to pay a living wage.”

“Maybe the churches would help.”

“Too late,” I said. “They have moved into prosperity and paranoia as dominate messages. The few that still preach love are drying up and wouldn’t have any spare cash for you.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “There must be some source of funding for love.”

“Afraid not,” I said.

I'm confused. If one can't sell love
in your country? What can one sell? - C.W.

“I’ve got it,” he said and his face brightened.

I said, “Please share.”

“Gun manufacturers.” He pointed a finger at me. “Bang.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No,” he said, giddy with excitement. “I have heard them on many an occasion state that their only goal is to allow us to protect the ones we love. There you go.”

“Maybe you should stick to selling flowers,” I said.