Dirty Tricks

 I'm in real trouble. C.W. stayed up late and created this meme that he posted on the internet so my wife could see it first thing. I'm hiding from her and he is hiding from me.

FAIR AND BALANCED

 There was a loud, “Achtung” and I heard a hand slap on a table. I had to check it out. Went in and who should be all outfitted with lederhosen and other accoutrements than C.W. in a perfect imitation of the WWII German Minister for Armaments and War Production Albert Speer. He was busily pounding my laptop.

“What the …?”

“Shhh, he said. “Have a paying job going on.”

“A what?”

“A paying assignment. For money. Just for writing a novel.” I heard a hum. "Mucho Dinero."

“A novel? Who’s paying you for writing a novel?”

“A state government. This,” he pointed at the computer,” will be required reading for every student in the state.”

“What state government would pay you to write a novel?”

“Not at liberty,” he said, “but tell me something.”

“What?”

“What would be a good name for a beautiful commandant of women at a Nurture Center for displaced war refugees during World War Two? She’s a little bit headstrong but well-intentioned and basically loving. The men all chase after her. The women there all adore her, except for the other commandants. They are jealous of her.”

“At what kind of center?”

“You know. Where they keep abandoned women until they are … until their families unite with them.”

“Where are these centers?”

“Mostly in Poland. Some in Germany.”

“And the centers are designed for care and protection?”

“Yes. Our heroine watches over her charges with the assistance of a portly, but kind-hearted assistant named Oma-Greta. She’s always telling our heroine ‘Nicht Richtig’ when our heroin does something untoward.” He grimaced. “Wait a moment,” he said. “My Galactic Universal Translator is acting up.”

I waited. In a moment, he said, “Nicht Richtig: That means ‘It isn’t acceptable,’ or ‘It’s not proper,’ or ….”

“Tain't Fittin’?”

“Yes,” he said. “How did you know what my GUT was telling me?”

“Guessed. Are you writing a novel about Nazi Germany?”

“We don’t call it that.”

“What do you call it?”

“Gutemenschenland.”

“Do you know what that means?”

“The ones who hired me say it means ‘holy’ or ‘righteous’ depending on the context.

“What does your GUT tell you?”

“I haven’t consulted it yet. Anyway, sometimes my GUT misleads me.”

“Tell me,” I said. “How is this novel going to end?”

“Our heroine, I’m thinking of calling her Scharlachrot Harren, her boyfriend Rolf Spieler, and Oma-Greta lead all the inmates of the Nurture Center safely back to their homes amidst great rejoicing. There well be this grand scene at a trainyard where they all unite. And they all live happily ever after.”

“You’re not going to tell me who’s paying you to write this?”

He looked around as if to see if anyone was listening. “Let’s just say, in your parlance and between you and me, it’s from somewhere people are large with cash but a little lacking on other things.”

POWER

 I worry when he gets like this.

The Alien C.W. was buried in a pile of papers and notes this morning looking much like a harried professor at “publish or perish” time. He paid no attention to me. I sat, sipped my coffee, and watched. Actually, I sometimes like it when he is quiet. We are still under a restraining order on account of the “garage band” he started despite the fact that we have no garage.

Anyhow, he finally looked up and saw me. “I’m busy,” he said.

“I can see.”

“Minor assignment for the Falloonian Elders.”

“Don’t mind me. I’ll not interrupt you.”

“Good,” he said. He returned to his work.

He shuffled papers, wrote a note, and turned back to me. “It’s a report tracing the development of mental cognizance in your species, from the end of the Neanderthals to present. Pardon me if I’m too busy to visit.”

I nodded. Minor assignments require concentration as well as major ones.

He struck through some writing and looked at me. “It was developing well for a while, cognizance was. Now excuse me.”

I nodded.

He retained his stare. “You were making great progress.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Your ancestors discovered that dances didn't make it rain and sought the physical facts. This led to findings that allowed the Egyptians to forecast flooding phenomena that led to a stable civilization lasting for a longer time than that which has passed since their last great empire. Now if you will excuse me, I’m busy.”

I nodded.

He didn’t return to his work. “I found it amusing at first that your ancestors tried to turn lead into gold.”

I nodded.

“But then I discovered, from reading this,” he held up a worn copy of The Golden Bough by Sir James George Frazer, “that this seeming folly actually led your folks to a development of the Scientific Method in research.”

“So our development went well?”

“Not really. I’m sorry. It faltered, but I can’t go into it now.”

I nodded.

He put the book aside and turned to me again. “Seems apparent to me that religion hindered the development.”

“Oh? How?”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?”

I nodded. He started to go back to work but stopped.

“Seems that religion led to an understanding of power, and how to use it, as opposed to the seeking of knowledge.” He reached and held up a copy of the Bible. “These folks weren’t very high on knowledge.”

“No,” I said. “No they weren’t. You can ask Paul of Tarsus if you happen to run into him during one of your enphasngs. ”

He ignored me. “That set the stage for rule by force, over rule by reason, as a method of retaining power.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, all because of religion. When the dark side of politics joins the anti-cognizance stance of religion, all hell, pardon the allusion, may break loose: darkness and destruction, with the aid of religion as a tool. Now you’ve bothered be enough. I must work.”

“Fine,” I said. “But I wouldn’t publish your findings here on Earth.”

“Are you kidding?” he said. He buried his nose back into his notes.

Paradigms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loneliness

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

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

Revisionist History

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

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

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

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

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

It was something called Gone With the Wind.

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

Was I ever wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

Puppy Love

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

“What the …?”

“Nothing. I’m doing nothing."

“What are you writing? Let’s see.”

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

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

He had me there. “Who is she?”

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

“Nobody. I’m just practicing.”

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

“Don’t tell anyone.”

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

Irreverence

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

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

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

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

"Did not," he said.

"Did."

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

Freedom

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

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

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

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

You Americans understand that sort of thing.

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

Behavior

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

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

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

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

Control

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

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

Justice

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

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

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

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

So I explained the situation to her.

Aren't pardons wonderful?

Terms

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

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

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

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

I had no idea what he was talking about.

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

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

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

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

He frowned. “Let’s move to politics.”

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

“Whopperizing,” he said. He smiled.

“Are you serious?”

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

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

Making Up

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

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

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

Playing Games

Daily thought from the Alien C.W.

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

Conventional Wisdom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, the most predictable of all:

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

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

The pundits just know these things at times.

Brains

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

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

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.

442. Guilt

There was this sound of arguing going on in the backyard of the farm. I heard several obscene epithets hurled. It sounded familiar. I heard one yelled in Falloonian and I knew the source. One had to be C.W. Who was the other? I walked outside.

Mystery solved. It was C.W. in one of his favorite shapes, Lefty and Lucky the conjoined twins. They walked, hip to hip, around an oak tree my late father-in-law and I planted some 25 years ago. It is one of my wife’s favorite spots, and she protects it with zeal.

“Ass****,” Lucky shouted. F****** ratfink.” They pivoted and began walking around the tree in the opposite direction. I noticed a trampled plant.

“Hey,” I said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Nothing,” Lefty said. “We’re somewhere else.”

“No,” I said. “I can see you.”

“What you see isn’t real,” he said. “Trust me.”

“He’s lying again, Lucky said. “That’s all he does.” He smiled. “And he’s real good at it.”

“Am not,” Lefty said. “I’ve never lied since we’ve been on Earth. I’m the greatest truth-teller my planet ever sent here.” They continued walking.

I say they are conjoined twins, and I speak the truth in a literal sense. A narrow square of skin and muscle joins them. A first-year medical student could separate them with a local anesthetic, but they preferred to be “joined at the hip,” as they put it. Somehow, I fear, this close association feeds and supports the worst instincts in each.

I watched them for a minute. Lefty spent two turns around the tree cursing his attachment. When he paused for breath, I broke in.

“Having an argument?”

“Argument hell,” Lefty said. “I’m letting him know what I think of a ratfink mother … .”

“Stop,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Ask him,” Lefty said. “I don’t know anything.”

“You’re cussing like I did when I dropped a link of anchor chain on my foot and you don’t know anything?”

“I know nothing,” he said.

“Ask him about your wife’s favorite jelly glass,” Lucky said. “The one she found in the junk pile and was over a hundred years old.”

“I’ve never touched a jelly glass since I’ve been on your planet,” Lefty said. I wouldn’t even recognize one if I saw it. I use expensive, tasteful glasses, the most wonderful and beautiful ones in the Galaxy.”

“Ask him what happens when one is drinking wine from a jelly glass and drops it on a hard floor,” Lucky said.

“I don’t remember doing that,” Lefty said. “I wasn’t there.”

“You weren’t there when my wife’s jelly glass got broken? What exactly happened, if you had to guess?”

“I’m not going to answer any hypothetical questions,” he said.

“Now he’s in a world of doo-doo,” Lucky said.

“Doo-doo head,” Lefty said.

“Fellows,” I said. “What’s up?”

“He dropped the glass and broke it,” Lucky said.

“I was somewhere else at the time,” Lefty said. He appeared to think. “In Falloonia, yeah, they transfigured me back to Falloonia for a conference. It was the greatest conference they ever had and I was the best speaker, the best speaker by far. Just ask them.”

“So I assume Lucky was with you? He can verify?”

“No,” Lefty said. “He stayed here. I went alone.”

Lucky and I stared at one another.

I had stomached about enough of this. “What really happened?”

“Mrs. Big Dope found out about her broken glass,” Lucky said.

“And?”

Lucky shrugged.

“He jumped in the air and turned over on me,” Lefty said.

“Do mean he ‘flipped’ on you?”

Lefty nodded. “They shouldn’t allow that, not even when someone commits a crime, which I did not, by the way.”

“What happened next?”

“He’s being punished,” Lucky said.

“If he’s being punished,” I said, “won’t you be included?”

“No,” Lucky said. “I’ll still get five meals a day. He’ll only get one.”

“I see,” I said.

“And,” Lucky said, “he’s going to have to wear a sign around his neck that says, ‘jelly glass murderer’ for a month.”

 

Big Dope says I'm two-faced.
What do you think? - C.W.

“Turncoat b*****,” Lefty said.

“Guys, stop it.” I said. I looked at Lucky. “You seem to know that he’s nothing but trouble to you. Why do you stay joined to him?”

“Tell him,” you prick,” Lefty said.

“Well,” Lucky said. “He is good at filching snacks and he gives me half of them.”

“And?”

“He keeps the attention off me. Have you noticed how your wife’s rock collection is disappearing and how I’m getting better at skipping them on the pond?”

“And?” This was getting uncomfortable.

“He makes me laugh.”

“Oh, how?”

“It just cracks me up,” Lucky said “to see you go berserk when he pulls one of his crazy stunts.”  

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.

441. Suspicion

Newspapers are making fonts smaller and smaller each day, so I was holding a magnifying glass over the daily cryptoquote and not paying attention to anything else. That’s why I jumped when a hand slapped a sheet of paper filled with type on the table in front of my and screamed, “What the hell is this?”

It startled me. I stared at the hand. It was a small one. A little finger sported a large diamond ring that sparkled like beauty pageant contestant. I looked up.

It had to be C.W., for nobody else had hung around the house that morning. I’d never seen him like this. He stood in the shape of an overweight, pudgy man past middle age with a half-bald scalp, the remaining hair pulled into a ponytail. A strange tint emanated from him and he seemed vaguely familiar.

I said, “What’s what?”

“You know damn well what’s what.”

“Sorry, I don’t.”

“Read the [censored] thing. Maybe it will jog your memory.”

I couldn’t remember C.W. using such language before. Pulling the sheet toward me, I saw the word “Memo” in large type. I looked and said, “What is this?”

“Read the thing,” he said, practically yelling and using the same expletive as before.

Glancing at it, I saw phrases: “Poor representative of your planet … prone to insulting his Earth Host’s wife and friends … engages in right-wing politics … shows an inordinate fondness for monetary gain … has set up multiple get-rich schemes that have failed … doesn’t keep his GUT in good condition … addicted to improper Internet sites … several warnings related to stalking … .” Confused, I glance at the top again and saw, under “TO,” the words “Falloonian Council of Elders.” I looked up. The orange tint had left his face and showed a fierce red.

“Did you write this [censored] thing?”

“Uh, no. Don’t know anything about it.”

“How about that [censored] wife of yours, Mrs. Big Dope or whatever you call her? This sounds just like some of the [censored] that [censored] might put together.”

“I’ll ask you not to speak of my wife in those terms.” I thought better of it. “Rather,” I said, “I warn you strongly not to let her hear you talking that way about her.”

“Somebody around here is guilty as John the Baptist,” he said, “and I’m going to get to the buttocks of it.”

“I think you meant Judas,” I said, “and if you want to get to the bottom of it, you might want to tune your Galactic Universal Translator.”

“Shut the [censored] up for a moment,” he said. “I’m trying to cogitate. Somebody here must have done this dirty deed. The Falloonian Elders are all over my [censored] tush.” He picked up the sheet and waved it in my face.

“Nobody here did it. I can assure you of that.”

“Somebody did it. My GUT tells me that it’s someone I know.”

“Have you considered,” I said, motioning for him to cease with the waving in my face, “that hundreds of people each week read my accounts of your charming escapades?”

“Charming my keister,” he said.

“It could be any one of them.”

That made him stop and ponder.

“That guy we drink beer with, what’s his name, Perry?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. He adores you. Don’t you remember the present he bought you?”

“The beer-holder that said something about don’t Earthlings ever shut up”?

“Something like that.”

“What about that ex-Green Beret out East? Michael D you call him.”

“There’s no such thing as an ‘ex-Green Beret.’ He is a ‘former’ Green Beret and shares your stories with all his friends. He would be highly upset if your stay ended.”

“There’s a whole bunch up in Ohio.”

 

Someone out there is
envious of my greatness.
Help me fans.

“They like your politics,” I said. “Want to keep you on.”

“There’s that one makes furniture with his buddy. They have a lot of time to gossip.”

“They’re busy building things,” I said. “As the country folks put it, ‘They ain’t studyin’ you.’”

“I know,” he said. “It’s that guy who makes films, that Gary what’s his name?”

“He wants to make a documentary about you someday,” I said. “He’d be devasted to see you go.”

“The [censored] that did this,” he brandished the paper, “is out there somewhere. My translator has as set of Truth Indicator Tracer Synthesizers built in. Just wait until I let the guilty [censored] feel my … .”

I broke in here. “Tell you what,” I said. “Maybe some of your fans might try to guess who the guilty party is.”

He thought about this. “Might work,” he said. “This [censored] can’t stay anomalous forever.”

“No, indeed,” I said.

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.