THE ACT OF  WAR

An old friend showed up this morning. Yes, it was the Alien C.W. Showed up, best as I can guess, as Mark Twain. He was still up to his old tricks. Said he had been visiting other galaxies where the craziness wasn’t as severe. He acted as if nothing had happened, which was unsettling.

“Had a question,” he said, “how long do your wars last?”

“What do you mean?”

“What is the Standard Unifying Consistency Kinetic for engaging in a war. Your government must have an SUCK factor for controlling costs and casualties. And the private sector must have a metric for projecting Pundit Underwriting costs. The PU factor must be severe in times of war.”

“And you want to know how long they last?” I asked.

“It’s a phenomenon unique to your planet,” he said. “Same as your penchant for knowingly being burnt by overexposure to sunlight.”

“They last as long as they last,” I said. “No longer. Once side just quits and then the other has to as well.”

“Sort of like your standard act of sex?”

I stopped to think, and he continued.

“If you don’t have a SDF, they, wars that is, could last 20, maybe 100 years,” he said. See, some of the other galaxies are wondering about your planet passing the Chiroptera Scat Stability test. Too low on the CSS might bring about serious action. The ship from Tulegria that dropped your Initiation Cells on Earth are beginning to fear they have made a mistake.

“The what kind of test?”

“It’s named after a joke about bat dropping and insanity. Tulegrians have this weird sense of humor.”

“You mean like bat sh--?” I stopped.

“Precisely. Now our research shows that not only might these irrational acts be indeterminate, there is also the profit motive. Is it really true that both sides in these CSS acts are financed from the same sources? If so, that will increase scrutiny and accelerate repercussions.”

“What sort of repercussions.”

“You are familiar with the concept of a virus, aren’t you?”

212. War

“Tell me about war.” Oh no. I hate it when C.W. gets like this. He assumes the form of a 12-year old boy and starts asking questions for which I don’t have good answers.

I said, “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know why.”

“I don’t think there is a good answer,” I said.

“Good people die in wars,” he said.

“That they do.”

“Then why do some of your species love it so much, including many in your country?”

“I wish I knew,” I said.

“You’re celebrating the beginning of one a hundred years ago,” he said. “Why?”

“I don’t think we celebrate it,” I said, “I think we simply observe it.”

“The delicately complex and understated inferences of your language confuse me.”

“The ‘subtleties’ of our language cause much confusion,” I said.

“Could that be one of the reasons you love war so much?”

“I don’t love war.”

“Do you hate it?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you protest it?”

“Don’t you have something you could be doing? Have you reported to the Falloonian Elders lately?”

“This War of the Entire World Number One,” he said. “Why did it start?”

“Someone assassinated an archduke.”

“He must have been an important one.”

“Not too important, but it set two countries at one another.”

“For revenge? Couldn’t the guilty country simply have paid the other what the man was worth?”

“The country wasn’t guilty,” I said. “just one person.”

“A corporation person?”

“No,” I said, “the other kind. Corporation persons don’t go to war.”

“Why not?” he said. “They stand to make lots of money from them.”

“Hey,” I said, “why don’t we go fishing?” He has taken up this activity lately and it has become one of his favorites, as long as I bait his hook for him.”

“So all the countries of the world chose sides and went to war because one archduke was killed?”

“Not exactly.”

“Why exactly?”

“Only two went to war.”

“That’s not the whole world.”

“Only two at first. Then there were treaties and alliances.”

He thought for a moment, “Things written on paper?”

“Yes.”

“The entire world went to war because of things written on paper?”

I thought for a moment.“I’m afraid so. Those dragged the other countries into the conflict.”

“Things written on paper?”

“Yes.”

“What was written on your country’s?”

“Uh …,” I struggled. “Our country didn’t have one.”

“But it entered in anyway?”

“Late in the conflict,” I said, “but yes, we entered the fray.”

At times like this, when he struggles to assimilate illogic, I swear I can smell electrodes frying.”

“I’m beginning to understand,” he said.

I was relieved. “Now,” I said, “let’s dig us some worms and go fishing.”

He ignored me. “Other countries go to war over things written on paper and your country joins in because it seems like fun.”

“That’s a gross generalization,” I said.

“And this current conflict in what they call your planet’s ‘Middle East’ that threatens to start War of the Entire World Number Three is being generated by things written on paper over two thousand years ago.”

Wouldn't it be nice if your corporation people said their
religion prohibited them from supporting war? - C.W.

I stopped in my tracks and thought, but I didn’t have a ready answer.

“The world may see a conflict,” he said, “involving the most modern technology, including nuclear weapons, because of words written on paper by bronze-age scribblers who didn’t even know that the earth orbits around the sun?”

I struggled hopelessly. “Well it may have been papyrus.”

He looked at me with true sadness in his eyes. “You really are a big dope,” he said.

“Hey,” I said, “I’m not the one who wants to go to war. I’d rather go fishing.”

 

Be sure to click some ads. I need that computer.

And check out www.wattensawpress.com
Your Pal - C.W.

History

Oh no. One of my worst fears realized. It was too late to back out of the room for C.W. had already spotted me.

“Come in, old Sport.” He looked up from his pile of papers and motioned me forward. “I have a couple of questions for you.”

Few of his favorite shapes are as obnoxious as one he seems to treasure above all. Yes, I am referring to Paulie Penchant, the political pundit.

He indicated that I should take a seat. He said, “I want to ask you a few questions about this fellow Mandela that just died.”

“The former President of South Africa and Nobel Prize recipient?”

“The terrorist.”

I was aghast. “What do you mean ‘the terrorist?’”

“Your country’s words, not mine.”

“C.W.,” I said. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He was wearing a pair of those half-glasses one uses for reading and he looked at me over the top rim. “Come on, old Sport. Surely you know.”

“Know what?”

“That the man was a commie.”

That rendered me speechless.

He continued. “Don’t take my word for it. Your government had the man on a terrorist watch list until 2008.” He waved a newspaper clipping at me. “You almost wouldn’t let him in your country.”

“But,” I said. “Look at the outpouring of grief.” I struggled for the words. “Look at the tributes.”

“Look at the facts,” he said. He handed me a copy of a magazine piece that chronicled then President Ronald Reagan’s veto of a sanctions bill designed to end apartheid in South Africa and free Nelson Mandela from a prison sentence he endured for 27 years.

“He didn’t like communists.” I said. “President Reagan didn’t.”

“And?”

“The African National Congress—Mr. Mandela’s group—harbored some communists.”

“There you go,” he said. “Makes him a commie in my book. So why all the tears?”

“Congress overrode the veto,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “They were always screwing around with the man when he tried to stop the commies.”

“Oh please.” I said. “Can’t you let it rest?”

He ignored me. “Look at what congress forced him to do in Nicaragua.”

“Forced him?”

“He had to sell weapons to Iran to get money for the brave Contras who were fighting the commies in South America.”

“And killing nuns,” I said. “Also selling cocaine.”

“No problem if they were stopping the commies.”

I groaned. “Back to Nelson Mandela,” I said. “We, I mean we as country, got over it.”

“Got over what?”

“The commie thing.”

“So you say,” he said, fumbling with his papers. “Look at what former Vice-President Dick Cheney had to say about Mandela.”



This is what President Obama and Michelle had to say
when they visited Nelson Mandela's former prison cell.
Seems like a nice sentiment - C.W.

On behalf of our family we’re deeply humbled to stand
where men of such courage faced down injustice and
refused to yield.  The world is grateful for the heroes
 of Robben Island,  who remind us that no shackles or cells
 can match the strength of the human spirit.

 Barack Obama and Michelle Obama

“May we please not?”

“Aren’t you a good American?”

“I try to be but it gets harder when we start quoting Dick Cheney.”

“He was your country’s vice-president, for goodness sake, a heartbeat away from the Oval Office.”

“Please don’t try to frighten me. Besides, he is no Nelson Mandela,” I said.

“Maybe not, but look at what this other ‘truth-warrior,’ this uh …” he dug into his papers again, found one and continued, “this Rick Santorum. Look at what he said.”

It was 17 degrees outside, with a howling wind and sleet, but I decided that I preferred it at that moment and grabbed my jacket.

“Hey,” I heard him say as the first blast of cold air hit me. “Don’t you want to read what Sarah Palin thought about it?”