A HOME

 The Alien C.W. and I were walking about the farm talking, he in his best impression of Albert Einstein and I as, well, I'm stuck with myself. We were taking bets on whether we could solve the pressing crisis in the availability of affordable housing.

He had been silent for a spell, but then turned and began to speak. “Someone once said that ‘the poor will be with us always.’ Is this not true?”

“What? That someone said it or that we are stuck with the poor and huddled masses that Lady Liberty welcomes with such graciousness?”

“This is no time for levity,” he said. “Did someone say that?”

“Yes,” I said, “the Galilean is credited with that bit of wisdom.”

“Was he correct?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he missed it this time. Or maybe he’s changed his mind during the last two thousand years.”

“You are familiar with this Abraham Maslow and his so-called ‘hierarchy of needs’ are you not?”

“A passing acquaintance,” I said. “We’re not joined at the hips, or anything like that.” I forgot about his beloved shape of Lefty and Lucky, the conjoined twins.

“You know… you are still being pissy.”

“I think you mean ‘pithy’ don’t you?”

His Galactic Universal Translator hummed. “I’ll stand by what I said.”

“You always trust your Gut, then?”

“Consider the need for basic shelter,” he said. “That was one of Herr Maslow’s most basic needs, am I right?”

“So far so good.”

“I’ve done some research,” he said.

Oh hell. I hate it when he does this to me. “And?”

“The places that currently have affordable housing available are those where many people do not want to live.”

“To a large extent. Some neighborhoods in pre-Katrina New Orleans broke the pattern, and ‘pre-gentrification Greenwich Village. A few still exist.”

“And the places that need affordable housing are the places where many want to live.”

“One might say so.”

“Ostensimately in order to have homes that appreciate in value along with basic retail and services?”

I think you mean ‘ostensibly’ but yes.”

He consulted his GUT. “Ostensibly, they want services, but don’t want the service workers nearby.”

“One might say so.”

“ And if we could  build affordable housing in those very places to which people are fleeing in such droves …,”

“That’s not a likely prospect.”

“Why?”

“Another day. Another walk.”

“If we could place said affordable housing there on the free market, experience indicates that it will not remain affordable for long.”

“That seems to be the case.”

“Then why does a new study indicate that if we just made it easier to build low-cost housing in high-growth cities, the problem would solve itself?”

“Because the study was done by east-coast grads of ‘Ivy-League Schools’ and not by people who need basic shelter or those who profit from housing.”

He stroked his chin and drew on his pipe. After exhaling a dense, choking cloud of smoke he said, “That doesn’t make any sense. Helping the poor from a comfortable room on a full stomach doesn’t actually scream empathy, now does it? Clichés will not solve the affordable housing crisis, only bold action that has, to this point been only voiced by prophets, philosophers, and penniless preachers. Am I correct?”

“Let me get back to you on that.” He was on a roll but I was wearying of our talk.

“I mean, wouldn’t that be like appointing a group of women to create laws addressing this sexual addiction among the males of your species? Is this how you seek the truth?”

I turned to look at him. “Hey,” I said. “Let’s go check on the football scores.”

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?

401. Riches

Last night C.W. came to me with the most interesting question. He was in the shape of Timmie Joe, the 14-year old nerd. He was well-attired. Somewhere, he had found one of those old pocket protectors that engineering students in college used to wear, the kind that advertised a blueprint shop. I guess they will be collector items now. It meant he was on serious business.

“Why,” he said, “do people who have everything always want more?”

It took me by surprise and I didn’t have a ready answer. “What do you mean?” I said.

“I’ve been asked to determine if there is such a thing as a “satisfaction point,” he said. “Is there a point at which members of your species determine that they have enough and perhaps others might be entitled to some of the remains?”

“That’s a good question,” I said, “and I don’t have a ready answer. Besides, I’m fairly satisfied with my state.”

“Oh?”

I felt a gnawing sensation in my stomach. “Well,” I said, “pretty much so.”

“Oh?”

“What are you getting at?”

“How many guitars do you own?”

I told him and pointed out that I had sold one recently.

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“And why did you sell it?”

I wanted to look around for help but I knew there were only two of us in the room.

"Uh," I said.

"To care for those who mourn?"

"Uh …"

"To care for the poor in spirit?"

"Uh …"

“Come on,” he said. “Admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“You sold it because you want to buy another, more expensive, one.”

I responded with a weak, “It’s my hobby.”

“So, if it’s a hobby, it’s not hoarding riches?”

“And besides, I don’t own them all, just a few.”

“Would your corporations be willing to stop there with your congressmen and congresswomen?”

I had to think about that. “I don’t imagine they would.” I lowered my head. “At least they haven’t so far.”

“What is with you, your species I mean?”

“What has brought this all on?”

“The Falloonian Elders are intrigued by the resistance to paying taxes on your ddyspikrslouckee.”

“Our what?”

“What they call it roughly translates into a tax on sexual ejaculations of the more fortunate kind granting unearned riches.”

“The what?”

“I call it the ‘lucky sperm tax’ for short. Think about it.”

I did. Realization began to settle on me like the morning sun on a windless morning. “Are you talking about the Estate Tax?”

“Yes. The one that rich kids who inherit their parents’ money hate so much. The riches they acquire because of a lucky sperm. They seem to care not if the less fortunate ones starve.”

“I see.”

“They have much, do little, and demand more. How can you give more to those who have plenty? My friend the Galilean has asked me that same question? Isn’t hoarding riches the pastime of a ship of sinners? He says so anyway.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I seem to know a certain, uh, a certain, let’s see, a certain alien let’s say with quite a collection of Heather Graham photographs.”

He fidgeted. “Maybe it’s because she looks like Mrs. Big Dope.”

Maybe it’s because you have plenty of them but it’s not enough. Why don’t you delete some of them?”

“Hey,” he said with great deal of merriment, “what say we go to the guitar store tomorrow?”

I do have a point, eh? Can anyone
guess who is who? - C.W.

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

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358. Conspiracies

“So here is the deal,” he said, taking a long pull from his cigarette. Oh yes. He, C.W, that is, was in one of his very favorite shapes, Edward R. Murrow again. “I’m organizing a vast conspiracy to assassinate an international leader in broad daylight in front of thousands of people.”

I let that sink in. We were sitting on the balcony of our condo smoking, he a "cig" and me a cigar. “Okay,” I said. “In broad daylight.”

“A vast conspiracy.”

“How vast?”

“Let’s see,” he said, and began to enumerate, “at least two foreign countries, the United States intelligence community, the FBI, the State Department, organized crime, and a myriad of citizens. Is that the right word? Myriad?”

“It is if you mean a bunch,”

“A big bunch, some of them petty criminals, two, three time losers. And we have to keep it a secret.”

“Okay,” I said, “you have your cast of characters, planning the most secretive and minutely organized act of terrorism in broad daylight in one of our country’s largest cities with cameras rolling, and you don’t want to get caught. What’s next?”

“You hire a deeply troubled person, an idiot with no experience in crime or organization, a person already under surveillance for disloyalty, to kick the whole thing off.”

“Hardly a logical choice for such a complicated assignment,” I said.

“Correctum.”

“I think you mean ‘correcto,’ don’t you?”

“Whatever. So, you think a nut-case could pull this off?”

“You would be referring to Lee Harvey Oswald?”

“No,” he said sarcastically, “Donald Duck.” He composed himself. “But ask yourself, does that make sense?”

“Not really,” I said, “but it forms a digestible narrative for the non-discerning. Go on.”

“You’re a 14-year-old-boy,” he said.

“I’m not, was once, never again, thankfully.”

“My point exactly,” he said. “Not the best of times. Your voice is changing for some reason. You are developing acne, the girls won’t talk to you, the 16-year-olds bully you constantly, you worry that you’ll never reach average height, you just don’t seem to fit in anywhere, and your grades aren’t high enough to get you into college.”

“Sounds about right,” I said. “Your point?”

“You wake up one morning, look at yourself in the mirror, and think, ‘I don’t have enough problems. I think I’ll decide to be happy, lighthearted, and carefree.’”

That confused me for a second or two, then, “I think you meant ‘gay’ didn’t you?”

“Whatever,” he said. “But yeah. It’s your language, not mine. Anyway, does it bespeak a shred of logic? 'I'll chose to be a homosexual to take my mind off my troubles?'”

“I see your point,” I said. “Want to bring it around to current events?”

“Your family is starving,” he said.

“Okay.”

“You have no money and no prospects. You hear your children crying from hunger at night.”

“Okay. Is this going somewhere?”

He ignored me. “A hundred miles of desert, snakes, killers, and other dangers away is the promise of sustenance, and hope.” He drew on his cigarette and exhaled.

“Okay.”

“Miraculously you make it to the land of plenty, but you’ve been punctured by cacti, beaten, and wounded. You are starving, exhausted, weak, penniless, and missing your impoverished family. You are a wanted criminal, fearing capture with each step you take.”

“Okay.”

“You find friends."

“Okay.”

 

What do you suppose he's thinking?
Maybe, who is the first person
he'll learn to hate, once he
masters this task? - C.W.

“They ask you what’s the first thing you want to do?”

“Okay.”

“And you say … , you say,” He stopped for dramatic effect.

“I say what?”

“You say, ‘very first thing I want is to register to vote in your elections.’”

I said nothing.

He shook his head slowly. “How in the world?”

“How in the world what?”

He looked at me and his eyes turned into eternal blackness. “How in the world did your species ever learn to make stone tools?”

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Morning Thoughs ... Music and Religion

C.W. and I were talking this morning …

He was asking me about the support of our new president among some of the more stringent elements of protestant Christianity in America. “Whatever one may think of chances that your new president may prove successful,” he said, “and we shall see, no one who has the least understanding of the Judeo-Christian religion could argue that he is a righteous man. I can see the support for him among some elements of your species, but hardly by those who call themselves godly."

I had to agree.

“There were signs,” I said, and explained that I saw it coming maybe 15 years back, but it didn’t register until lately. I used to volunteer for a community-based radio station to present a bluegrass music show once a week. (I’ve always had a fascination, to C.W.’s great amazement, with the banjo).We had a small but loyal audience, most of them religious, many of them elderly, and almost all genial and sweet … at first.

Because that type music has a strong religious element, I devoted a portion of the show to gospel bluegrass. It was a popular and graciously received segment. Groups performed many of the old gospel hymns in bluegrass style and the audience loved them, showing genuine gratitude. They would call in and make requests, thanking me for my volunteering.

Then things began to change. Callers became hostile. Comments shifted to the personal. I didn’t understand what gospel music was. This group also performed “raunchy” music and should be banned. That group had a “jap” playing in it and couldn’t love Jesus. I only played old music and didn’t play any new stuff. (What some call “Jesus is my boyfriend" music with the word "awesome" appearing at least six time). I didn’t play music about “killing all them babies.” Was I sure I had been “saved?” Contacts became more and more strident. Live festivals even began to include sermonettes against “the unholy ACLU,” liberal do-gooders (like Jimmy Carter), and disavowed politicians. A cloud of anger settled over things. Hostility joined the anger.

I soon had enough and gave it up. Had I thought it through, I might have envisioned the replacement of The Galilean with the likes of Franklin Graham.

"I've always liked the Galilean," C.W. said. "Wasn't he the one that told your species to love one another?"

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349. Shopping

297. Love and Grace

Oh my, y’all, C.W. has a new shape, and it may be the strangest one yet. He calls it simply “The Galilean.”

Yes. That Galilean —white robes, sandals and all.

It’s not just one shape. It’s two: the Galilean and a pal. (He can do that if he wants). Anyway, they’ve been going everywhere together, the one in his robe and the other in a three-piece suit with vest and tie-pin. They’ve already been thrown out of a Chick-fil-a and menaced at Hobby Lobby.

Did I mention that they don’t bother bathing all that often?

Of course the one wants me to interview the other and pay close attention to his testimony, that is to say that Three-Piece wants me to be pals with the Galilean. Actually, I haven’t minded so far, since he always brings a bottle of “Four Roses Single Barrel” to make the conversation flow more easily. Three Piece keeps the glasses full while the Galilean pontificates.

Yesterday he was grumbling.

“You won’t believe, Big Dope …”

“Wait,” I said, pointing to Three Piece. “Did he tell you to call me that?”

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock,” he said. “Does it matter by which name I call you out?”

Three Piece giggled. “Go on,” I said.

“I get a bum rap,” he said. “Some of your species make up and blame me for all kinds of cr…”

“Careful,” I said. “Remember that the sun rises on the evil and on the good.”

“I am the way,” he said. “Let not your heart be troubled.”

I directed us back to the point of the conversation. “So just how have you been maligned?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of a character named Franklin Graham?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Joel Osteen?”

“Oh, boy.”

“John Hagee? The guys and I call him Piggy.”

“He’s a work of art all right.”

He had a sad, far-away look in his eyes. “Well, how would you like to have them invoke your name?”

“Not really,” I said.

“The worst though,” he said, after taking a sip of his Four Roses and Three Cubes,  “was that son of a …”

“Careful,” I said. “My wife is in the next room.”

“That jerk,” he said, “Algernon Charles Swinburne.”

“Swineburne dissed you?”

“If it were not so, would I have told you?” He drained his glass and handed it to Three Piece with a flip that indicated a refill.”

“What did Swinburne do, exactly?” We waited for Three Piece.

“Ah,” he said, taking his drink in hand. “It’s nice to have a dear companion. Ask and it shall be given.” He winked at Three Piece. “I used to hang out with The Apostle,” he said, “but he wouldn’t get off this ‘thorn in my side’ kick and it got to where I wouldn’t go into a public restroom with him.”

“About Swinburne,” I said.

“He wrote this afwful poem,” he said, “in which he judged others. You know I don’t like that …”

“Others?”

“Well, me,” he said. “Claimed the old gods were bright, colorful, and full of life.”

“And you?”

He gazed off into space and thought, so he would get the passage correct. “Me? Try this on for size, ‘Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath.’ I complained to him about it once.”



Swinburne can just kiss my grits. - The Galilean

“And what did he say?”

“'Everyone who humbles himself will be exalted.’ I sort of like that quote. I’ve used it myself.” He drained his glass. “But I never though anyone would use it on me.”

I contemplated this for a moment, while Three Piece scurried about. “So you think the line is unfair?”

“Thanks,” he said to Three Piece. Then he turned to me. “Don’t you ever read the scriptures?”

I fought the urge to borrow the famous line from General George S. Patton. Instead, I said, “Well yeah.”

“One of the few who do,” he said. “Anyway, then you know we were a bunch of wild and crazy guys, back in the day.”

“Oh really?”

“Hell yes,” he said. “Me and my bros just wandered about not bothering a soul, sipping wine, breaking bread, …” he giggled, “sometimes wind as well, and telling people to love one another as we loved them.” His eyes took on that far-away look again. He sipped. “I don’t really recommend that you do that, though.”
 

“And why not?’

“You see where it got us, don’t you?”

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Act of War

Friends:
Found Big Dope napping today with this on his computer. Thought you might like it.
Your Friend,
C.W.

274. Scriptures

What’s this all about over in Kentucky.” C.W. looked up at me when I walked into the room and found him in one of his rare moments of watching TV, looking a lot like his Grandpa Amos McCoy character.

“What, over in Kentucky?” I said.

“This county employee that won’t do her job. She’s a pill, by golly.” He cackled.

“Oh the woman who doesn’t like gay couples and won’t give them marriage licenses?”

“That’s the one. She says it’s not because she don’t like gays.”

“Yes.” I said, “and Robert E. Lee said he didn’t wage war against his own country four years because he didn’t like black people.”

He looked at me funny. “He always said that violating his oath had nothing to do with slavery,” he said. “In fact, he was agin’ it.”

“Yes,” I said, “and I suppose that’s why, when his army marched into Pennsylvania, they rounded up all the free African-Americans they could find and sent them South to be sold, according to the scriptures.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “But about this sister in Kentucky.”

“What about her?”

“She says it ain’t Biblical for a person to marry gays.”

“Well,” I said. “It ain’t Biblical for one person to judge another person, either.”

“She thinks she’s acting on higher authority.”

“So did the World Trade Center bombers.”

“You don’t like her much, do you?”

“I don’t know her,” I said.

 “But you don’t thinks she would pass the pass ‘The Trip To the Calvinasian Galaxy Test,’ I reckon.”

“The Trip To the Calvinasian Galaxy Test?”

“To take a long trip confined in a spaceship with a nutcase.”

“We call it,” I said, “The Trip To California Test.’ And no, I hardly think I would like to make it with her. Besides, she’s breaking the law and violating her duty to observe it.”

“But she cites a scripture to support herself.”

“So do parents who beat their children to death.”

“Are you telling me,” he said, “that your species is free to cite any scripture that supports their insanity and ignore those that don’t?”

“That’s pretty much it,”

“That’s Kopapilakrapuhdae,” he said.

Making sense of things in Kentucky is
as hard as making sense of banjo music. - C.W.

“No doubt,” I said.

“So, say I … uh … say a woman was to bust up all her husband’s guitars and banjoes, based on the scripture that says ‘Make a joyful noise,’ and the sounds y…, uh, the man was making wasn’t very joyful, there would be spiritual absolution?”

“Not at all,” I said, “any scholar of the scriptures knows that a woman exists solely to serve her husband, and that would hardly be serving him, now would it?”

“Have you explained that to Mrs. Big Dope?”’

“She doesn’t need to understand it. As Job said, ‘Can anyone understand the spreading of the clouds, the thunderings of his pavilion?.’”

He started to cackle and said, “That’s purty good, so …” he stopped and turned toward the TV. “Wait,” he said, “they’re going live to Kentucky. Hey … can you hear that banjo music playing?”

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Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

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Mistakes

Woke up this morning and found Harry Truman watching television with the sound turned down low. Well, it wasn't Harry Truman but C.W., and I guessed it right away. I'm perceptive like that.

"What's up?" I said.

"Do they really intend to run this guy for president of your species?"

I looked. He was watching a speech by Donald Trump. "If the nominating convention were to be held tomorrow, they just might," I said. "He seems to be striking a chord with the base and the base rules at present."

"What if he says something really stupid?"

"Uh," I said, resisting the urge to state the obvious. "what do you mean stupid?"

"Oh," he said, "I mean something that his constituency would consider crazy or ridiculous. A statement so over the highest or uppermost point, part, or surface of something that he would lose his support."

"And what might he say that would be 'over the top' as far as his constituency is concerned?"

"Oh," he said, "I don't know. Maybe 'blessed are the poor.' That ought to do it"

250. Blacklists

Oh my, I thought someone was staging a production of Animal Farm in my living room. It was that extraterrestrial rascal C.W., of course, but what the …? I thought it was a pig wearing a silk suit sitting at my computer.

Actually, he had taken on the form of that TV evangelist John Hagee. It was pretty frightening.  “What on earth?” I said.

“Making a list,” he said. “Be quiet or face the wrath of God.”

Well I certainly didn’t want to risk that, so I sat on the couch and waited until he had finished a thought.

“There,” he said. “That should about do it.” He looked up at me.

“Do what?”

“Complete my list of forbidden customers—ones that good Christian salespeople can no longer serve.” He studied the screen for a second, and started typing again. “Divorcees,” he said.

“You’re making a list,” I said, “of people that Christians can’t serve?”

“The Conference commissioned me,” he said. “Badly needed now. Badly needed. Lots of sin going on in these end-times.”

“And the point is?”

He grimaced. “Can’t risk a good Christian selling goods or services to the wicked and damned,” he said. “Might be contagious. Just like those ‘homo-weddings’ that the Bible wouldn’t allow.”

“You mentioned divorcees,” I said.

“Oh yes. Hell a lot of those wicked folks running around wanting to do business with the sanctified.”

“Divorcees?”

“Don’t you read your Bible? Christ was real clear about that.” He pointed to a large-print Bible belonging to my mother-in-law. “Right there in Matthew Nine, ‘I tell you that anyone who divorces his wife, except for sexual immorality, and marries another woman commits adultery.’ Christ himself said it then, and I’m telling you now,” he said with a smug expression, “we can’t have us godly folks serving such base sinners.”

“Jesus never married,” I said, “so he didn’t have to face that possibility.”

“Never married,” he said. “Neither did any of those who traveled with him. They were, uh, celibate.”

“I see,” I said. “Anyone else on your list?”

“Well,” he said, “Pharisees. Jesus didn’t much care for them.”

“So your people shouldn’t serve Jews.”

“Just the Rabbis,” he said. “The others are okay.” He thought for a moment, “Besides, we need to keep them alive until we need them.”

I let this one go. “And the rich?”

“What about them?”

“I seem to remember,” I said, “that Jesus was pretty hard on the rich.”

“Oh,” he said. “That’s all taken out of context and overblown. Besides … they’re the ones with the money. Can’t quit serving us, … I mean … them.”

“Anyone who has ever made fun of a bald-headed man?”

“Yes,” he said excitedly as he began pounding on the computer again. “Thanks.”

“Let’s get back to this adultery thing,” I said.

“Let’s,” he said.

“So any couple who may have lived together before marriage or …,” I struggled with the words.

“Played the little ‘in-out’ game before they got hitched,” he said, laughing.

“Quite,” I said.

The laugh went away. “No can serve,” he said.

“Uh,” I said, “isn’t that pretty strict?”

“The Bible is the Bible,” he said. “I don’t make the rules. It says that if you can’t go without sex—absolutely can’t go without it for another day—you have to get married to do it, but you shouldn’t anyway because there isn’t a lot of time for such nonsense before the world ends.”

“When was that said, and by whom?”

“Um,” he said, looking at his notes, “About two thousand years ago. Paul said it, or maybe it was his partner Timothy. They traveled together and their notes got mixed.”

“His partner?”

“Now look,” he said, “If you’re going to be a thorn in my side, you can just leave.”

“Oh no,” I said. “I’m terribly interested. Just what are you calling your list?”

“Ah,” he said. “I have chosen a wonderful name: ‘A Holy Omissions List for Evangelist Salespeople.'”

“Oh my,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “I call it my AHOLES list.”

I didn’t say another word.

 

I just don't understand why some people think Jesus
wouldn't like rich folks. This man is rich and he
claims Jesus loves him a lot. - C.W.

 

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230. Love

Omigosh, C.W. is using the holiday break to study philosophy. Yeegads. When I walked into the living room this morning there was the form of Albert the Analyst, one of his favorites, sitting on the couch in this tweed jacket—the one with the suede patches on the elbows—surrounded by books. He looked at me through horn-rimmed glasses, partly covered with unkempt hair and said, “Peace.” He immediately followed it with, “Humbug.”

“Tis the season,” I said.

“That’s what I’m trying to make sense of,” he said. “It happens every year this time.”

“What happens?”

“This time of peace on earth and good will toward men turns so ugly.”

“No it doesn’t”

“Oh,” he said, “but it does. Just look around you. That TV show, the fake news show …”

“The so-called Fox ‘News’ show?”

“That’s the one,” he said. “When’s the last time you saw them promoting an intense feeling of deep romantic affection?”

“Uh,” I said, “I don’t think love is the cornerstone of their business plan.”

“Evidently not,” he said. “And it shows in all the strong feelings of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility we see everywhere we go.”

“Anger is not everywhere,” I said. “Look at all those presents people exchange.”

“Exactly what I’m talking about.”

This took me by surprise. “How so?”

“Just a few moments before you came in,” he said, “one of you neighbors called and I spoke with them.”

“What did they want?”

“It was a woman asking where she might find this particular present for her brother.”

“See,” I said, “that’s exactly what I mean. It’s the season for promoting peace on earth and goodwill by exchanging presents. She wanted you to help her express her love.”

He sighed and looked at me as if I had just said storks bring babies. “She wanted to know,” he said, “where she could buy some of that toilet tissue they sell that has your President Barack Obama’s face printed on each square.”

“Oh dear,” I said.

“She thought it was just what he would want,” he said, “i.e. the perfect gift for the Season of Love.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, suddenly feeling the need to suffer for humankind.

“Oh,” he said, “that’s not all.”

“There’s more?”

“I didn’t ask her, but she told me anyway.”

What better way to celebrate the birth
of the Prince of Peace? - C.W.



“Told you what?”

“What her brother was getting her for Christmas.”

When I didn’t say anything , he continued, “One of those Glock handguns.”

“I see,” I said.

“So,” he went on, “she could shoot herself the first ni…”

“That’s enough,” I said. “I get the picture.”

He leaned back. “Speaking of Christmas presents, though, have you ordered my copy of ‘No Country for Old Men,’ yet?”

Be sure to click an ad ... we must pay for the presents.
Also see www.wattensawpress.com and www.deltadreaming.blogspot.com/
- C.W.

229. Doctrines

“Hey, you want to listen to some music?”

“Can’t,” C.W. said, looking up from the kitchen table. “Got some orders to fill.” Uh oh. I sensed another of his get-rich schemes, especially as he had assumed the shape of the little guy on TV that does the OxiClean commercials. He had a huge Bible to one side of my laptop and several stacks of papers on the other. He immediately returned to what he had been doing.

“Mind if I ask what you are up to this time?”

It obviously annoyed him, but he looked up to answer the question. “I’m helping those with troubled spiritual or immaterial parts of a human being or animal, regarded as immortal.”

Did I tell you that he has been having trouble with his Galactic Universal Translator?

“You need a GUT check,” I said, “and how, exactly are you helping those with troubled souls?”

He didn’t answer, just handed me the top three sheets from a stack of papers, all clipped to an envelope. I looked them over.

The first sheet was a letter, I suppose from one of his “clients.” It read: Dear Sirs: I have started a small church that I hope will become a large one with a world-wide following. I am having trouble making my members give me money. The men say that their wives insist on buying food and clothes for their children instead. Please design me a doctrine to address this.” It was signed “Unobeyed.”

I flipped to the second sheet. The first thing that caught my eye was the letterhead. It read, “Doctrine Designers, Incorporated,” and listed my name as president. “What the …” I began.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s just a nominal office. I needed an ordained minister’s license and they wouldn’t accept an application from a Falloonian, so I got you one. Online. It was at or for a low price.”

“I don’t care how cheap it was. I didn’t say you could make me a preacher.”

“Not a preacher,” he said, “a follower of our ‘Fisher of Men and Women Doctrine.’ Don’t you read your Bible?”

It was useless. I continued reading. “Dear Unobeyed: You best introduce the Doctrine of ‘Peter’s Anger.’ Cite the Book of Acts, Chapter Five verses One through Eleven. When your flocks see what Peter did to Ananias and Sapphira, they will know how much you love them and will surely fall in line.” My signature followed, as “Minister of Doctrine.”

I fumed, but looked at the third sheet as he continued to type. It was a bill for a thousand dollars. “Uh,” I said. “How are we going to divide up the money?”

“I thought fifty-fifty,” he said.

Doctrines are like clothes. You just feel
better when they fit you  well. - C.W.

“Hmm. I continued reading. The next was from “Troubled.” It read, “Dear Minister of Doctrine: I enjoy travelling with my companion and visiting the major cities in the country. We make money by giving speeches that we call ‘Dealing With the Thorn.’ Since we have begun counseling attendees not to have heterosexual sex, we have been attacked and beaten several times. Could you please help us with a doctrine that will make them quit”

“C.W.,” I said. “This has got to stop now. Right now.”

“Can’t yet,” he said, “You’re about to solve a problem a client is having with his disrespectful children.” He picked up another sheet. “And here’s one from a man who doesn’t like to be kidded about being bald.” He fished another letter out. “Here’s a good one. It’s from a poor boat builder who starts thinking his daughters are cute when he gets to drinking.”

“Now, “I said. “It stops now.”

“Careful you don’t violate our ‘Apostate Doctrine’ and get in real trouble,” he said. “We do serve other religions, you know.”

 

Please click on an ad. Big Dope has left me unemployed again. - C.W.

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203. Religion

Sometimes I don’t know if C.W. is knowingly joshing me, or if his Retentive Analytic Transcriber—his RAT—has taken a flight of fancy. Today, I think he was somewhere between jokester and political analyst. He was shaped close enough to Glenn Beck as to be institutionalized and we were having, what I thought was, a serious conversation.

“So,” he said, “I think your species has what you earthlings call a “deep romantic or sexual attachment/intentional intense dislike” relationship with science.”

“We seem to have a “love/hate” relationship with many things,” I said.

“With science it is strange,” he said. “You love to take your antibiotics, even for viruses.” He stopped and shook his head sadly. “But the facts of natural selection cause you to feel uncomfortable. That is unique in the Galaxy. Don’t your schools teach the relationship between medicine and evolution, as you call it?”

“I’m not sure how much longer we will teach science in our schools,” I said. This made me feel nauseated so I moved the subject a few points to windward. “What about our obsession with religion?”

That’s when he went into his act. Here it is verbatim, with apologies to Judge Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr.

“If, when you say religion you mean the evil institution, the hateful scourge, the bloody fiend that contaminates the innocent mind, dethrones reason, destroys cities, creates misery and hegemony, yea, flies airplanes into buildings, and traumatizes young children with the image of a loving spirit figure who has a fiery pit awaiting them; if you mean the evil concept that topples men and women from the pinnacle of logical, carefree living into the bottomless pit of ignorance, and hatred, and distrust and violence, and despair, that persecutes those whom nature blesses with a unique sexuality, skin color, or gender, then certainly I think your species has a problem—a big problem.

“But, if when you say religion you mean the oil of community life, the philosophic elixir that binds people and nations, the sublime thoughts that are explored when people get together, that puts music in the hearts and laughter on the lips of those gathered, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean universal charity, if you mean the stimulating contemplation that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step in his twilight years; if you mean the way of life which enables one to magnify joy and happiness, and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies, and heartaches, and sorrows; if you mean that religion that comforts the poor in spirit, exalts the meek, honors the peacemaker and seeks universal righteousness through good will, mercy, and purity in heart, the goodness of which provides tender care for our sick children, our blind, our deaf, our pitiful, aged, infirm; and least of those among us, I think your spirituality train would be on the right track.”

Please tell me more about this kindly old man
who runs the fiery pits of Hell. - C.W.

I nodded.

“But,” he continued before I could speak, “it does seem to me that the train has veered off course of late, and a debilitating indifference has allowed it to happen.”

Out of the mouths of aliens.

“Now,” he said, “let us go and see what Kate Middleton is wearing today.”

Be sure and click an ad or two so Big Dope can pay the rent. - C.W.

Also visit www.wattensawpress.com

201. Commitments

“What the hell is all the fuss about?” I looked up to see C.W. in one of his favorite shapes, Donny Wayne Jr., the Redneck Philosopher. Backwoods people intrigue him.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“The news is all about people getting married. What’s with that?”

I thought for a moment. “Oh,” I said, “a judge ruled yesterday that it is illegal to deny couples the right to marry in our state.”

“The hell you say.”

“It’s true. It’s true.”

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

“Well, uh, … that is … uh. Why do you ask?”

“I know that people get married in your state all the time. Look at you and Mrs. Big Dope.”

“Yes,” I said. “Look at us: a picture perfect couple.”

“Except when you try to haul her treasures off.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about that anymore,” I said. “Besides, the ruling now allows people of the same sex to get married.”

This puzzled him. “All three?”

“Uh, we only have two here.”

“What do you do about …”

“That’s quite enough,” I said, interrupting him. “My mother-in-law is in the next room watching the news.”

“I know,” he said. “She kept asking me what is so gay about being married?”

I let out my breath. “It means that gay people can get married now.”

“They couldn’t before?”

“Not here.”

“With all those churches out there, they couldn’t find one that would marry them?”

“Of course they could find a church that would marry them. That wasn’t the problem.”

“What was?”

“The state wouldn’t allow it.”

“What’s the state got to do with it?”

“They must recognize the commitment in order to allow certain legal arrangements.”

“You gotta be shi…”

“C.W.” I said, interrupting him again and nodding toward the next room.”

He grimaced. “The state gets involved in allowing churches to marry people?”

“The state is involved in legalizing commitments.”

“But,” he said, “commitments are based on what earthlings call love, you know, mutual affection and compatibility, the willingness to be together.”

“Yes,” I said. “That sums it up.”

“So why does the state get involved in all that?”

“Some folks just believe it should.”

I saw a puff of smoke emerge from his ear and caught the smell of burning rubber.

“Are we overloading your circuits?”

“I’m okay,” he said. I relaxed. “Let me ask you this, in your world, corporations—that I understand exist only in contemplation of the law—are considered homo sapiens.”

I thought about this. “Yep.”

“So can they get married?”

It was a tough question but, “Yes. They merge and form lasting legal commitments all the time.”

He walked over and poured himself a cup of coffee, returned to the table, and sat. He sipped carefully, and then said, “So do you think this ruling will last? Lots of folks seemed real happy about it." He stopped and sipped again. Then he said "But, I’ve noticed that your so-called ‘evangelicals’ don’t care too much for people being happy. It sort of unnerves them, if you know what I mean.”

Imagine, a pair of corporations in holy matrimony. - C.W.

“I do,” I said. “And I am sure they will challenge the court’s ruling and try to get it overturned.”

“If they should,” he said, “I have a solution for all those happy folks—a way  to keep them happy.”

“How is that?”

“They should just re-form themselves as corporations.”

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199. Knowledge

I knew better. Everyone said I should have known better. Anyone could have told me. Would I have listened?

Apparently not.I’m visiting friends in Cincinnati, Ohio. Someone said, “Why don’t we go to the “Creation Museum? It’s just a short distance away in Kentucky.”So I thought, maybe a person should go see what it is all about.

Maybe a person should. But they certainly shouldn’t take an alien from another planet. I didn’t really. He just appeared. This young boy suddenly started following us. I knew immediately who it was but kept the secret to myself. It was embarrassing enough just to be there. It was like sneaking in to see a professional wrestling match, but some things you just have to experience for yourself.

I knew for sure it was he as soon as we reached the first exhibit that boldly stated the belief that the world was 6,000 years old. By this time he was standing with us and was evidently part of our group. He waited until a large group had assembled in front of the exhibit before he spoke.

“That’s going to come as a hell of surprise to the Roonkalarians.”

I ignored him but my friend couldn’t resist. “Why is that?” he said.

“They’ve been on their way here for a half-million of your so-called ‘years’ and they are only half way.”

A mother shielded her daughter’s ears and moved away from us. I tried to do the same but he stuck with us like glue.

He was quiet until we reached an exhibit that explained how dinosaurs and homo sapiens lived together. It was quite simple.

“It says here that dinosaurs were all vegetarians until man started sinning,” he said.

“That explains it then,” my friend said. “How they all lived together in harmony.”

C.W. said, “What is sin?”

“It’s when someone murders an obnoxious kid,” I said, suddenly realizing that a family of four had moved in beside me. I hurried off.

He was mercifully quiet until we reached a diorama depicting a nude Adam and Eve enjoying a tropical lagoon while a huge serpent hovered above them.

“Hey,” C.W. yelled for all to hear. “They ought to label this one ‘The Heavenly Hot Tub.”

I fled.

It was no use. He caught me at Noah’s Ark. There, we stood inside a “scale model” of a portion of a boat that was to have held two of every species on the planet. There was an animated diorama of an elderly Noah barking orders to workers high the scaffolding. I presume they were his sons. A small-scale cross section of the ark showed a male and female deinonychus, both docile and apparently awaiting the cruise with eagerness. That’s when it happened.

A voice rang out and everyone nearby turned to it. “Hey Big Dope,” it said, “get a load of this.”

I pretended to look around and search for the person he was addressing. No chance, he ran to me and pointed to the figure of Noah, again yelling to his workers.

“Noah was from Brooklyn. Can you believe it?”

Actually, he had a point. The voice of Noah did sound as if it came straight out of Flatbush. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw uniforms approaching and retreated from the exhibit and then from the museum.

My friends had left, pretending not to know us. One was intently studying an exhibit designed to discredit much of what Charles Darwin said and some of what he never said. The other was pretending to be part of a collection of faces depicting species close to humans, an exhibit designed disproved the tenets of natural selection.

A good job of hiding? hardly

The last words I heard were those of C.W. explaining the rudiments of space travel to a bewildered child.

I doubt that we will ever be invited back.

Plant eaters 6,000 years ago? Doubtful. - C.W.

Also visit www.wattensawpress.com