273. Protection

 “No, she absolutely will not.”

“Well at least ask her.”

“You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

C.W. rubbed the side of his head. “What do you think happened?”

“I could have warned you,” I said, “if you had only checked with me first. And why did you decide to look like Matthew McConaughey today?”

“I thought it might help,” he said. “You know how much Mrs. Big Dope adores Matth …”

“I get the picture,” I said. “But she still said no?”

“That’s why I need your help.”

“Why do you think I could talk her into it?”

“You talked her into going to Gatlinburg, Tennessee once. She told me all about it. A man that could do that could talk someone into about anything.”

“That’s why my credibility with her is still near zero.”

“I know she could help me, though, if she only would.”

Against my better judgment, I entered his dream. “What exactly is it you want her to do?”

“Sew.”

“Sew what?”

“Gun belts and holsters.”

“And why?”

“Are you kidding? They’ll sell like Confederate flags in this state. Everyone will want one.”

“I won’t. My wife won’t. My mother-in-law won’t. None of my friends will.”

“That only takes a half dozen people in the state out of the market.”

“Besides,” I said, “you remember her response when you asked her to help with your last venture, sewing those very flags?”

He rubbed the other side of his head. “This is different.”

“How?”

“Didn’t you read what your Attorney Applicable to the Whole said?”

“Our Attorney General isn’t known for her legal perspicacity.”

“She said people in your state are free to carry guns around on their hips as long as they don’t intend to harm anyone.”

“And,” I said, “exactly why would you carry a weapon on your hip if you didn’t intend to harm someone?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” he said. “Besides, I intend to specialize.”

“Specialize?”

“Yep, mine will be designed only for going to Walmart,” he said.
 

All you need is love. - C.W.

“For going to Walmart?

“Yep, the belt will have a big red heart sewn into it just above where one’s butt-crack shows.”

I couldn’t speak.

“And,” he continued, “you can get them in custom colors to match your best tattoo.”

This time I did manage a groan.

“And the shoulder model will be designed around the gap in a sleeveless tank top and will be sweat-resistant. No more cold steel against bare skin."

“I need,” I said, “to go do some things.”

“Wait,” he said. “You haven’t heard the name of the product.”

“No,” I said, “nor do I want to.”

“I call it a “Get Out of My Way.”

I stopped in mid-stride and turned to look at him. “You are going to produce a holster and belt for carrying a pistol to Walmart and call it a “Get Out of My Way?”

He suddenly looked pleased. “I knew you would like it. Yep,” he said. “A Get Out of My Way, for when ‘Excuse me’ just sounds too timid.”

Please click some ads. I get no help from my friends.

Oh, and see www.wattensawpress.com

And ... www.allhatnocattle.com

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

Available at major on-line retailers, or
www.wattensawpress.com

263. Protection

I found C.W. jotting notes in furious fashion this morning in the form of a "full-bird" colonel of the American army. When I entered, he looked up. "Ahem," he said, "just the person I wanted to see."

"Uh oh," I said, turning to leave.

"Wait soldier," he said. "I need to ask you some things, so get your butt over here."

I did as I was told.

"Now," he said, "you served in the military didn't you?"

"U.S. Navy, sir," then catching myself, I said, "hell yes C.W., you know I did."

"You carried a weapon, right?"

"For eleven months and 28 days," I said, "but who was counting?"

"Assault rifle?"

"M-14, M-16, M-60, .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol, M-79 grenade launcher, and, for most of the time of the Tet Offensive, a sawed-off 12-guage shotgun." I smiled briefly thinking of the scenes. "Even the colonels showed respect for that one."

"Ahem, yes," he said, scribbling again. "Any how long did it take to insert a magazine, charge the weapon, and take aim when you thought trouble was coming?"

"Say what?"

"When danger approached, how long did it take you to prepare for it, to have your weapon loaded and at the ready?"

"Uh, C.W., ..."

"Colonel Rankhoher to you."

"You didn't get ready if you knew danger was there." I said, "You stayed ready."

"You inserted a magazine into your weapon?"

"You locked and loaded the son of  bitch, took the safety off, pointed it to where you thought the trouble was coming from, and put your finger on the trigger," I said.

"Ahem," he said, and made a note.

"My friends in the infantry even sometimes employed a "mad minute" in which, at a pre-determined time, everyone on the perimeter would fire for sixty seconds in the middle of the night in the direction from which potential danger might come."

"Did it accomplish anything?"

"Just woke everyone up."

"But in actual battles ..., let's discuss the efficacy of prepared combatants."

"In actual battles," I said, "they estimate it takes 50,000 rounds to kill a single enemy combatant."

I think this would detract from
the movie, but who knows? - C.W.

"Oh dear," he said, writing again.

"The snipers do much better," I said, "around 1.3 rounds per kill, but they are prepared and have the elements of surprise and distance. And of course the rate is much better for civilian hits, say when firing into a village."

"Ahem," he said. "So the most reliable position for protection with a firearm is to be on the ready, weapon charged and aimed, and finger on the trigger." He resumed making notes.

"If you want to meet that one in 50,000 goal," I said. Then it dawned on me. "What are you doing," I said, "preparing a safety manual?"

"Ahem," he said. "No. It's a preparedness protocol for arming citizens to protect theater audiences."


Click an ad so I can buy some more ammunition. - C.W.
See also: www.wattensawpress.com

A Time To Mourn

We went for a ride yesterday, C.W. and I, mostly to give my wife a break from him. We've been indoors because of a high heat index, a phenomena that seems to bring out the worst in a Falloonian. After he had played his "fake dog poop" trick on her for the umpteenth time, I invited him to go for a drive. She lowered the baseball bat and nodded her approval.

Going down a side road, we passed a large Remington Arms factory located along Interstate 40 near Little Rock. As we went by, I sensed C.W. jerk around and stare at the grounds.

"Stop the car," he said, whereupon I noticed that he had assumed a shape much like that of the late Walter Brennan when he played "Grandpa Amos," on the TV show. "I want to talk to that man," he said.

I slowed to a stop and looked. A man was draping black bunting, signifying mourning, along the fence bordering the factory where they produce ammunition. Before I could speak, C.W. had exited the car and was limping toward the man. I had no choice but to follow.

When he approached, the man stopped his work and stared in disbelief, and for good reason of course.

"Hello brother," C.W. said. "Putting up mourning cloth for our servicemen who were murdered?

"Huh?" the man said, still staring in wonderment.

"Our military men."

"What military men?"

"The recruiters who got killed."

"Don't know nothing about no recruiters gettin' killed," the man said. "This is for Obama."

"Oh no," I said. "Did something happen to the President?"

"Not yet," the man said. "But we're getting ready for when he leaves office."

"Whatcha mean, son?" C.W. said.

"He leaves office after next year," the man said, "and we're in deep mourning about it."

"You mean you liked him?" C.W. sounded truly incredulous.

"We love him."

"Son," C.W. said, "you're not making a bit of sense."

"Best thing that ever happened to us," the man said. "We haven't slowed down a bit since he's been in office. Uncle Wayne seen to that."

I joined in. "Uncle Wayne?"

"Uncle Wayne LaPierre."

"Of the NRA?"

"Who else?" the man said, sounding a bit peeved.

"But," I said, "he hates President Obama. Don't you all?" I gestured at the plant.

"Are you kidding," the man said. "Best thing that ever happened to us. Don't you keep up with the stock market?"

"I do," C.W. said, lying. "What about it?"

It was as if Joseph Goebbels had
suddenly awakened to find there were no
Jews around anywhere. - C.W.

"You can't be serious," the man said. "Can't you imagine what happens to our stock every time Uncle Wayne hints that a colored feller is going to take away peoples' ammo?"

We watched as he made the motion of a rocket taking off.

"But he hasn't," I said.

The man looked at me as if I had just said the weather was hot. "And what goddam difference does that make?" He returned to his mourning bunting.

"So you'll be sorry to see him go?" C.W. wanted to make sure he understood.

"We'll be in deep mourning," the man said. He looked crestfallen. "But we have hopes. We may be tearing this stuff down after next fall's election."

C. W. leaned forward. "And why is that?"

"Are you crazy?" the man said. "Do you know how many little 'a-rab' countries there are and how many bullets it would take to whup them all?"

See also www.wattensawpress.com

255.Fear

Oh my goodness … the Alien C.W. has locked himself in his room and won’t come out. “Because of the news,” he says. He swears we must be manufacturing the news, much like The Onion or that Fox Channel. “Everyone is doing it now,“ he says.

I can’t tell what shape he has assumed this morning. It sounds a lot like the character of “The Beaver” on the old TV series.

I tried reasoning with him. “Come on out, and let’s talk about it,” I said.

“Go away,” he said. “I’m sick of earthlings.”

“Whatchew mean?” I said in a feeble attempt at humor.

“Are you pretending to be African-American?” he said.

Oops. Not a good approach. I tried another. “Let’s go for a walk with our neighbor George,” I said. “He wants to come over.”

“Did you say, ‘He wants a comb-over,’ like that comedian in New York?”

“Uh, … what comedian in New York?”

“The one pretending to be running for President.”

Oops, again. Another poor choice.

“Oh come on,” I said. “Let’s go out for a cup of coffee.”

“I’m afraid someone will shoot me if I go into a coffee shop.” I distinctly heard him sniff, then say, “It ain’t safe for a man out there.”

“Then change to a woman.”

“Like that athlete did?” he said. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“You’re really upset, aren’t you?”

“Are you seriously asking me that? There isn’t a country on a planet in a galaxy in this universe that could think up the crazy things that your news reports. I want to go back to Falloonia.”

“Look,” I said, “maybe you need some quiet time. Let’s go sit in the church down the street for a while and meditate on things.”

“Ooow,’ he said. “A church? Haven’t you seen what just happened in Charleston?

Please click some ads. I need to buy a ticket home for a rest.

Oh, and see www.wattensawpress.com

And ... www.allhatnocattle.com

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

Available at major on-line retailers, or
www.wattensawpress.com

 

 

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.

209. Refuge

It was too late. I tried to hide but they—he—saw me. It was C.W. in his classic form of Lucky and Lefty, the conjoined twins. Oh dear.

“Get in step, asshole,” I heard Lefty say.

“Walk straight, you dink,” the other said.

“Hey look, dumbnuts, it’s Big Dope,” Lefty said. They immediately started toward me.

I waited with trepidation.

They stopped in front of where I sat in the shade of an oak tree and then simulated a sort of “come to attention” move.

“Your Royal Cluelessness,” Lefty said, with a mock salute.

“Boys,” I said, acknowledging their presence. It was then that I noticed a large leather strap across Lefty’s shoulder and leading around his torso. Just as I did, he turned inward suddenly.

“Goddammit,” Lucky said, “how many times have I told you not to do that?”

“Just exercising my rights,” Lefty said revealing a nasty-looking assault rifle held across his back.

It startled me. “What the hell?”

“Would you just look,” Lucky said. “He has gone totally psycho.”

“Get that thing away from here,” I said.

“When you pry it from my cold dead hands,” Lefty said. “But we’ll be gone soon.”

“Damned if we will,” Lucky said.

“My little friend here says it's true,” Lefty said, patting the muzzle of the rifle.

Lucky looked at me with a horribly pained expression. “Know where he intends to go?”

I said, “Texas, maybe?”

“How did you guess?” Lefty said, eying me suspiciously.

“Uh, isn’t that where nuts like you feel most at home?”

“No,” Lefty said. “That’s where the good targets are.”

I said, “What good targets?”

“Them kids.”

Before I could respond, Lucky said, “He wants to go to Texas and shoot those refugee children as they come across the border.

I was aghast. “You can’t do that.”

“Sure I can,” Lefty said. “I’m a damn good shot … except when ‘shit for brains’ here flinches.” He motioned toward Lucky.

“Can’t you do something?” Lucky said.

“I’d like to see him try,” Lefty said as he pulled the strap away from his chest and let it pop. “The one person you don’t want to mess with is a motivated American with a gun.”

“First,” I said, “you’re not an American. You’re an alien yourself. Second, America hasn’t settled an issue with guns since World War Two. Third, you can’t shoot children, not even in Texas.”

Lefty said. “Sure you can. They’re just quicker, that’s all. You have to lead them a little more.”

Lucky said, “Please, Big Dope.”

I said, “Want to tell me what has you so exercised, Lefty?”

“Them kids need to go back home,” he said. “They come from South America and they need to go back to South America, or be shot.”

“Want to know the weird part?” Lucky said.

“Sure,” I said.

“You didn’t know us then, but remember when that young boy, Elián González washed up in Florida after escaping from Cuba?”

“Yes.”

“Guess who wanted to shoot some feds for sending him back to his father.”

I looked at Lefty. He said, “Well that was different.”

I said, “How?”

“Just was. That’s all.” He looked away.

“And,” Lucky said, “he claims to be this big Christian.”

“Don’t you say nothing about my Jesus,” Lefty said.

“I won’t,” I said, “except that he was once a refugee whose family fled into Egypt to escape persecution from Herod.

“That was different,” Lefty said.

“And how, exactly?”

Big Dope says that this photo may have created
an eight-year nightmare for America. - C.W.

“Well everybody knows that Jesus was an … uh … an American.”

“Tell me,” I said. “Do you have any bullets for that gun?”

“No,” Lefty said. “We’re broke. That’s why we come to see you.”

“Boys,” I said, “pull yourselves up a chair. You ain’t going nowhere.”

 

 

Be sure and click on an ad. I need ammo. - C.W. (Just kidding. I need a computer)

And also check out Big Dope's book at www.wattensawpress.com

Shopping

Dear Friends and Followers

Big Dope is out “fat walking” so I take this opportunity to communicate.

As a public service, I am preparing a draft re-write of the Arkansas Criminal Code. I could use suggestions for §(a)(B).201-Shopping. An example: for the crime of blocking the aisle in a supermarket while talking on a cell phone, should the punishment be a few years of hard time or a long sentence of house arrest? Another: for parking with one set of tires on the line of the parking stall, would 500 hours of community service be sufficient? I’m thinking a six-month sentence for the crime of waiting until the cashier announces your total before beginning to rummage in a purse looking for a checkbook or a wallet for a credit card. Fair? Men shopping without a Certificate of Graduation from Husband School would be permanently barred from the venue, freeing up a lot of everyone’s time. Sound appropriate?

Finally: I am proposing that the following be posted at conspicuous locations in all stores.

 

RULES FOR SHOPPER BEHAVIOR

1. IF YOUR POSTERIOR IS WIDER THAN YOUR SHOPPING CART, PLEASE WALK SIDEWAYS THROUGH THE AISLES.

2. PLEASE KEEP ALL WEAPONS CONCEALED UNLESS ACUALLY OBSERVING A SHOPLIFTING IN PROGRESS..

3. PLEASE REFRAIN FROM DISCUSSING THE FOLLOWING ON CELL PHONES AS YOU SHOP:

- VISITS TO PHYSICIANS

- PREGNANCIES

- ARRESTS OF CHILDREN

- SORRY HUSBANDS

- BOWEL MOVEMENTS

- SEXUAL ACTIVITY IN GENERAL; FREQUENCY THEREOF IN PARTICULAR

4.  THIS STORE IS NOT OBLIGATED TO STOCK ANY ITEM OR BRAND THAT YOU MAY HAVE PURCHASED PREVIOUSLY SO DON’T ASK.  (WALMART OUTLETS ONLY)

5.   A MAXIMUM OF FIVE CHILDREN MAY RIDE IN A SHOPPING CART AT ONE TIME.

6.  SHOPPERS TASTE-TESTING FRUIT SHOULD NOT RETURN PEELS, CORES, SEEDS, OR OTHER REMNANTS  INTO THE DISPLAY BINS.

7.  PLEASE TAKE WRAPPERS FROM CANDY CONSUMED BY YOUR CHILDREN WHILE SHOPPING TO THE CASHIER TO BE ACCOUNTED FOR AT  CHECKOUT.

8.  PLEASE COVER ALL TATTOOS EXPRESSING DEATH THREATS TOWARD THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES WHILE SHOPPING AT THIS STORE.

9.  PLEASE REFRAIN FROM CONVERSING WITH OTHER SHOPPERS WHILE CHECKING OUT.

10. PRACTICAL JOKES SUCH AS PLACEMENT OF CONDOMS, LAXATIVES, OR FEMALE UNDERGARMENTS IN ANOTHER’S CART ARE STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.

As always, I wish you a feeling of happiness day. (Editor’s note: He, of course, means “pleasant”).

Remember: it is vital that you get a
clear line of fire when making
a "Citizen's Kill." - C.W.

Your Friend.

C.W.

Also: Check out www.wattensawpress.com

 

189. Athletes

C.W. is fascinated by the Olympics. He stays glued to the tube watching them, except when “Big Bang” theory runs. (Nothing gets between him and Penny).

Timed events intrigue him. “Your species surely places a lot of importance on who skis down a hill a portion of a second faster than anyone else.”

“That’s where true honor resides,” I said. “in that blessed millisecond.”

“You forget how many light-years I traveled to get here,” he said. “So a portion of a second is lost on me.”

“It’s all relative,” I said.

He looked to see if I was making fun of him. “Your wife says that sometimes she thinks you are an idiot,” he said.

“Besides,” I said. "Some competitions aren’t based on timing. They are judged.”

“That’s another thing,” he said. “How does one judge another person’s ability to play on a snowboard?”

He had me there.

He said. “How did these so-called ‘games’ start, and when?”

“They started in ancient Greece, a few hundred years before the Common Era,” I said. “It is my understanding that the Greeks intended them to show the physical qualities and evolution of the performances accomplished by young people. They also encouraged good relations between the cities of Greece.”

“Ancient Greece?”

“Ancient Greece.”

“They had snowboards?”

“Uh no,” I said. “Olympic officials add new types of competition from time to time.”

“They can do that?”

“Yep.”

“So, maybe banjo playing is on the horizon?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But not likely.”

“So the Greeks didn’t shoot rifles as an Olympic sport?”

“Uh, no.”

“What did they do?”

“Oh,” I said. “Manly things like wrestling and boxing.”

“Wrestling?” he said. “Did they wear those stupid getups like they wear now?”

“No,” I said. “they had a different kind of wrestling. It was done in the nude, I think.”

His head snapped around. “The nude? Men and women wrestled in the nude?”

“Just men,” I said. “Women weren’t allowed to participate.”

He pondered this. “Strange,” he said. “I guess boxing was manlier. Probably a little bloody too.”

“Oddly, no,” I said. I once read where Melankomas of Caria, crowned Olympic boxing champion in 49 B.C., went down in history for the way in which he fought. His movements were light, simple and fascinating. He would defeat his opponents without ever being hit himself, or ever dealing a blow.”

“You are confusing me,” He said. “This doesn’t sound like the sort of entertainment that Joe Half-dozen Carton would enjoy.”

“Joe Six-Pack would not want to watch naked men wrestling,” I said. Then I thought. “Or would he? Let me think about that.”

If I can only determine how your species
got from here to "Ski-and-Shoot" competition,
I will have made some progress in figuring
you out. - C.W.

“So did the old Greeks give the winners a big reward?”

“No,” I said. “they tied ribbons around their brows, placed garlands of flowers on their heads, and had them run around stadium”

“Still naked?”

I shrugged. “One can only imagine.”

He was quiet for a moment. “That explains a lot,” he said, slumping in his chair. Then he bolted upright. “Got to go,” he said as he jumped up. “Figure skating is about to start.”

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.

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.

165. Civility

It always brings me mixed emotions when C.W. appears in his favorite form. Yes, I mean Lucky and Lefty, the conjoined twins. Their funny way of walking amuses me and this recent time proved no exception. I was resting under a tree from the summer heat when I saw them coming. It took awhile to reach me as they, as usual, would stop every 20 steps or so and spin in circles for a few seconds changing directions each time.

When they finally reached me, Lucky was complaining about the heat. “Goddam planet is like Venus this time of year.”

“Now Lucky,” Lefty said, “Remember...”

“Why don’t you blow it out our …,” he said, then caught himself. “Of course you are right, brother of mine. I forgot.”

“It’s only natural,” Lefty said. “It must strain your little half of our brains to remember anything.” Then he too, seemed to catch himself as Lucky turned his head quickly in his direction. “Ooops.”

“I would certainly think so,” Lucky said. “We each must be more diligent.”

“Quite so,” said Lefty, smiling toward Lucky.

“Peace be with you,” Lucky said.

“And with you,” Lefty said.

I groaned. “What the hell?”

“Pray be nice to us, Big Dope,” Lucky said.

“Now brother,” Lefty said.

“Oh yes,” Lucky said, looking toward me. “Mr. Big Dope.”

“Fellers,” I said.

“Yes?” They answered in unison.

“Mind letting me in on your secret? Or joke? Or whatever?”

“Why, what can you mean, dear friend?” Lucky said.

“We are your friends, aren’t we?” Lefty said.

“And what has brought about this sudden burst of nicety? I thought you guys despised one another.”

“Us?” Lucky said in mock surprise.

“Yes you. What’s up?”

“If you must know,” Lefty said. “We are trying to set an example.”

“A good example,” Lucky said.

“A good example of what? Hypocrisy?”

“Oh dear friend, you don’t really mean that,” Lefty said.

“Okay,” I said. “You are trying to play nice. Why?”

“We are concerned,” Lucky said.

“He’s concerned. I’m alarmed,” Lefty said.

“About?”

“The current lack of civility among your species,” Lucky said.

“I see,” I said. The fog was beginning to lift.

“The Falloonian Elders are deeply bothered that your government is planning another shomachocratask” Lefty said.

“Another what?”

“Another war adventure” Lucky said.

“So you are proposing?”

“A world-wide week of civility,” Lefty said, beaming.

“Civility?”

“Yes,” Lucky said. “Civility, Everyone must be nice to everyone else for a week.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Have you ever seen an old movie called ‘The Day the Earth Stood Still?” Lefty said.

“Yes.”

“What would you do if we told you that it was more accurate than you could possibly imagine?” Lucky said.

My earthling friends, you can't imagine the
consequences of this pervasive hostility. - C.W.

“I would be nice to everyone for a week.”

“Our brother,” Lefty said and they held out all four hands.



“Wait a minute,” I said. “Would I have to be nice to the ‘pistol slappers’ as well?”

“If you are referring to our dear cosmic kinfolks, the Second Amendment Enthusiasts, then yes it would,” Lucky said.

I didn’t answer.

“Now go forth and sin no more,” Lucky said.

With that, they left me struggling with conflicting emotions as I watched them walk away, stopping every few steps to spin in a circle, first in one direction, then the other.

150. Rage

It was to be a quiet walk in the neighborhood. I had gotten three blocks from home and crossed a major street near I-30 when I was joined by a tall, neatly dressed African-American man whom I recognized immediately as one who often strolls our city’s River Market area. He eased in beside me and we walked to the next corner before he stopped and spoke.

“This is where it happened, isn’t it?”

I stopped, thought, and remembered. “Yes, along here somewhere.”

“Did you see it happen?”

“No, but I might have. I walk this way almost daily.”

“And I as well.”

“You didn’t witness it?”

“No.” He looked wistfully at the scene. “It would have been an interesting experience to report to the Elders. Your species has a unique approach to settling disagreements.”

“C.W.?”

“Who did you think it was?”

“I never knew … I mean … has this been you all along?”

“I sometimes wander the earth without you.” Before I could speak, he continued. “But tell me about this ‘rage of the road’ that is so unique to your kind.”

“This was apparently a classic case. Two motorists got into a feud on the interstate and both pulled off at this exit and stopped. One got out of his vehicle and started toward the other. The man in the second car produced a gun and shot the man three times, killing him.”

“In front of the man’s family?”

“Yes.”

“What could cause such an angry response?”

“I have no idea.”

“Perhaps one saw a car on the highway with one of those ‘these colors don’t run” bumper stickers?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps they each had seen one of those TV shows where the hero solves problems by beating up someone.”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe they watched that so-called news channel whose pundits tell their listeners that the government is coming to get them.”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps those guns of which you are so fond have an unsettling psychological effect on a person.”

“Dammit I just don’t know.”

“Have you ever carried a gun?”

“Once. For a time I carried one with me constantly, even when I ate. I stored it next to my bed at night. It was my constant companion.”

“Did it make you crazy?”

“I dunno.”

“What happened to it?”

“The United States Government took it away from me one day.”

“Well, there you go,” he said. “That’s too bad.”

“Oh no. Quite the contrary. It was one of the happiest days of my life.”

“You are weird.”

I thought this was a little bizarre coming from a shape-shifting alien and told him so.

“So we have one man dead in front of his family and another facing first-degree murder charges because of a minor fracas that either could have avoided.”

“That’s about it.”

“This worship of the gun and automobile, where do they teach it?” He pointed toward the spire of a church a couple of blocks away. “There?”

“No. They are supposed to teach just the opposite.”

“Supposed to?”

“Some of them have gotten a little off-track.”

All in all, I think music produces
a better effect on your species
than does driving a vehicle. - C.W.

“Surely your schoolteachers warn that your DNA contains dormant remnants lying ready to activate and produce violent responses during times of stress.”

I pointed at the church. “You and I have talked about this before. They don’t quite approve of teaching science to young kids.”

He stood silent for a moment. Then he lowered his head until his chin rested on his chest. “I hope …,” he said, then stopped to gather his thoughts.

“Hope what?”

“I hope that my next assignment is to a simpler planet.”

148. Rights and Powers

C.W. set my wife off again the other night by coming to the supper table dressed in a sport coat and tie. He calls it his “Mr. Cleaver look.”

“Please tell him to leave and come back when we’re finished,” she said. He smiled and grabbed an ear of corn with one hand. The other held a pocket version of the U.S. Constitution which he studied with interest.

“Tell him yourself, why don’t you?”

She slammed a glass of water onto the table in front of me by way of explanation. Part of it splashed onto my shirt. “He’s your alien,” she said. “Besides, I’m still not over the fact that he’s been using my sewing machine.”

I stopped a plate that she had slid toward me before it landed my lap. “Is this true?” I asked him.

Ignoring me, he waved the Constitution. “This part that says ‘… the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.’ Does that mean what it says?”

My wife glared at me. “Can we not bring up the matter of bearing arms right now?” I said. “But yes, I’m afraid it does.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Weird.” Then he began making machine gun-like noises as he nibbled down the length of his ear of corn.

“That does it,” my wife said. “You two have fun. I’ll be in the living room.” With that, she gathered her plate, utensils, and water glass, then left us at the table alone.

“You sure made her mad,” he said. He shook the document again. “This doesn’t seem to have been written with her in mind.”

“No,” I said. “No it wasn’t.”

“Weird,” he said. “So, these rights are absolute for us menfolk?”

“Actually for all of us now.”

“Hmm,” he said. “What about this ‘…making no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof ..’ part.”

“What about it?”

“That’s pretty much of a joke, right?”

“Don’t call our Constitution a joke,” I said.

He reached into a coat pocket and retrieved a dollar bill. Slamming it onto the table, he pointed at the slogan, “In God We Trust.” When I didn’t respond, he put it back into his pocket. “And what about this Article Six thing?” he said.

“What Article Six thing?”

“The ‘thing’ where it says, ‘…no religious test shall ever be required as a qualification to any office or public trust under the United States.’”

“So?”

“So, have you ever watched one of your celebrated political debates?”

“On occasion.”

“And the first question usually asked is?”

“Sometimes they ask about the candidates’ religion,” I said. “But debates have no official standing.”

“Boy,” he said. “Mrs. Big Dope is right about you.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” he said. “Now let’s look at this section that sets up the Judicial Branch.”

“Article Three,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “Article Three ... the shortest of those dealing with the various branches of government.” He turned the pages until he found the article. He studied it carefully with a periodic “Hmm.”

Actually, your Constitution is not a  bad piece
of work for a  bunch of aged white men. - C.W.

I ate in silence until he placed the document gently on the table.

“I can’t find the part where the court elects the President.”

“It has only done that once,” I said. “And I think most everyone regrets it. We have much more respect for the separation of powers as a result of that caper.”

“I see,” he said. “Speaking of ‘separation of powers,’ could you please have your wife bring us some more water?”

140. Issues

Although the event is well in the future, C.W. has decided to vote in the 2014 elections. His latest shape had him in a tri-cornered hat with teabags hanging from it. He had a wild look in his eyes and what appeared to be toy replica of a Beretta 92FS nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistol strapped to his waist. I hope it was a replica.

“What’s up?”

“Considering candidates.”

“Oh? Still on that kick?”

“Yep. Just picked my issue.”

“Your issue?”

“Yep. Picked the issue I’ll use to select candidates in two years.”

“The issue? Only one?”

“That’s all you need, ain’t it?”

I thought for a moment. “Well some folks would look at a body of policies and issues and pick a candidate who best covered a platform of ideas that would benefit all citizens.”

“Fiddle-dee-dee! Why clutter up my mind with all that?”

“So you would vote for a candidate for public office, to lead our people in these perilous times on the basis of one issue you have picked?”

“Oh, I didn’t pick it.”

“You didn’t pick it?”

“No, my preacher did.”

“C.W., first, you are an alien and you can’t vote. Second, how could you rely on someone else to choose your candidates even if you could vote?”

He placed his hand on his pistol. “There are weirder people than me who vote.”

“That may be,” I said. “But a preacher? Is he, or she, educated in policy analysis?”

“See, you don’t know everything, Mr. Big Dope. You should know that women can’t be preachers. And he needs no analysis. He talks directly to God.”

“You have an educated man who claims to talk directly to God?”

“Yes and no.”

At that point, I waited.

“Yes he talks to God. No, he doesn’t need education. He installed satellite TV discs before he surrendered to preach. He says that’s where he first started receiving messages from God.”

This was not going to lead anywhere, so I chose to skip over the details. “So what issue did this ‘preacher’ choose?”

“Why don’t you guess? It has to do with life and choice.” Before I could answer, he interrupted. “Raw milk, of course.”

Stunned, I could only repeat it. “Raw milk?”

“Don’t you know anything?” He gave me smirk. “They don’t let companies sell raw milk and we want to get that overturned. It is a matter of ‘raw versus made,’ as in pasteurization.”

This was getting weirder by the moment. “Let me see if I understand. God told your preacher that you should drink only raw milk?”

“I can tell,” he said. That you don’t read your Bible.”

“I know you can be condemned for eating shellfish,” I said. “But I missed the raw milk part.”

“Thou shall not commit adultery,” he said triumphantly. “And pasteurizing milk adulterates it.”

“C.W., Uh...”

“It’s really simple,” he said. “We believe we should be able to put anything we want to in our body.” He had a sudden insight. “And those of our children too.”

I would vote for Joe Stalin
risen from the grave if
he supported my one issue. - C.W.

“Even if it kills you, or them?”

“If it is our choice.”

“So you believe in individual choice, as it relates to your own body.”

 

“Absolu…,” he began, then stopped. A stricken look came over his face. He pulled a small pad from his pocket and referred to some notes. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” he said.

131. Riots

C.W. scared the daylights out of me. I was reading when he burst into the room in a panic, slammed the door, and started pushing furniture against it.

“You’ve got to help me,” he said breathlessly.

Being still stunned, I simply looked at him. He put an ear to the door and listened. He was in a blue workman’s outfit with a nametag stating, “C.W. – Prophet” over the pocket. After a few moments, he relaxed and turned toward me, leaning his back against the door. “Thought I was a goner,” he said.

“What?”

He continued to catch his breath. When it became apparent that no one was following, he walked to a chair, sat, and began to explain.

“It all started with an assignment from the Falloonian Elders,” he said.

“Which was?”

“To report on all the furor your species has created over gun control.” He took a breath. “It’s not the first time, you know.”

“Yes.”

“So …, my conclusion was that guns are not your problem.”

“Oh, really?”

“No, your problem is your reliance on violence as the method of choice for conflict resolution, your distrust of strangers, and a general hatred of folks outside your immediate tribe. Guns are simply the easiest tool for the otherwise powerless.” He paused. “The distrust is significant. There are even entire cities, you know, where everyone there is just like everyone else there.”

“Go on,” I said.

“Well,” he said. “I didn’t leave it at that. No. I decided that what your species badly needs is a communal philosophy that counteracts these impulses.” He looked at the floor. “And, that I could design such a philosophy and spread it.”

Now I was getting interested. “So?”

“The philosophy was simple,” he said. “It would urge people to honor peacemakers, the merciful, the pure in heart, the poor in spirit, and those who comfort one another instead of blowing them away.” He looked at me for approval. “Those are the main ones. There are more. Oh, there’s also the admonition not to condemn others—say for their sexuality—so that you won’t be judged for your own sexual habits.” He smiled. “I like that one.”

“C.W.” I said. “That all sounds vaguely familiar.”

“Oh, I borrowed much of it from an old body of teachings by a group once quite prevalent in your country. It has dwindled now to a few small bands, mostly elderly, and a few so-called filthy liberals.”

“So, how it is going?”

“Not good,” he said. “I decided to try it out.”

“Try it out?”

“Yes, I saw where a large group had gathered in some huge building out on the interstate, so I assumed my most charming form and asked if I could deliver a message to them.”

“And?”

“I had to bribe them with something called a ‘love offering’ but they finally allowed it.”

“And?”

“I got about halfway through and they began to fidget.”

“And then?”

“I saw the flash of a pistol barrel. Then another. And another.”

“What then?”

“I got the hell out of there. They formed a mob and chased me here.”



As it is written:

We played the flute for you, and

You did not dance;

We wailed, and you did not

Mourn.

-The Alien C.W.

“The congregation chased you here?”

“All the way. I was terrified.”

“They wanted to harm you?”

“Harm me?” he said with alarm. “I think they wanted to crucify me!”