399. Beliefs

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

“What the … ?

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

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

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

“Well?”

“You look like a damned clown.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And that aspect is?”

“The obsession your species has with conspiracy theories.”

“Oh?”

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

“And the Falloonians think that was funny?”

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?”

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

“Oh.”

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

“You mean the Milky Way?”

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

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

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

“How old is he.”

“In earth years?”

“Yes.”

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

He scrolled a bit, with great ceremony.

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

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

“Stop, please,” I said.

 

What? - C.W.

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

“Stop stop.”

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

“That’s enough,” I said.

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

That caught my attention.

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

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

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

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

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

179. Presidents

“Looks like some folks are pissed off at the President.”

With these words, C.W. plopped himself onto the couch and began eating an apple. He tilted his Stetson hat to the back of his head and crossed one leg over the other. His boots were of dark leather and as polished as his oversized belt buckle.

I said, “What the hell are you supposed to be, a cowboy?”

He smiled and chewed his apple. “Just a citizen of the world, Pilgrim.”

“Oh please,” I said.

“I been studyin’,” he said. “Studyin’ about the presidency.”

“I fear for us all,” I said. “Are you the second coming of George W. Bush?”

“Who was he?” He laughed, then added. “Just kidding.”

“So what have you learned? I’m terribly interested.”

“Sarcasm won’t get you nowhere,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. “Go on.”

“Well,” he said. “Seems a large group of folks gets really irritated with the president of these here United Sates from time to time.” He pronounced it “yooo-nited.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Like when that feller Lincoln freed those who were the legal property of another and forced to obey them.”

“Lincoln didn’t free the wives,” I said, unable to resist screwing around with him. "You need to adjust your Galactic Universal Translator.”

“I trust my GUT,” he said.

“You Texans seem to have a problem with that.”

He ignored me. “Anyway, it was the coloreds that he freed.”

“We don’t call folks that anymore.”

“And it really pissed some people off.”

“It did indeed.” I decided to let him continue.

“Then there was the furor that the second Roosevelt caused when he enacted them programs to help the poor and elderly, you know, some of the least of those among you.”

“Continue.”

“Oh,” he said, “and look what happened when Harry Truman integrated the armed services.”

“Not pretty.”

“Nope. Seems like his policy of ‘if he fights alongside you he can sleep alongside you’ didn’t set too well with some.”

“You do have a point.”

“And lord,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you what happened when Eisenhower and Kennedy took on the educational system in our southern provinces.”

“Uh. No.”

“They’s folks still pissed about that and you see what it has caused: the motion of an object emitting all spectra of light it receives in or through a medium, especially through the earth's atmosphere or through space.”

“White flight,” I said.

“Ain’t that what I just said?”

Never misunderestimate the fact that, where
politics are concerned, a good smile and a
good hat get a person a lot further than doing
good deeds. Hell, a person won't need no
 "nucular option" then. Heh. Heh. - C.W.

“Please continue.” He was beginning to make a point.

“The passage of the civil rights acts of the 1960s by our native son—who by the way we don’t claim no more—Lyndon Baines Johnson cost his party the south. Maybe forever.”

“But look at the good the laws did.”

“My point,’ he said. “It seems to me that if a president wants to get his ass in a crack, the fastest way to do that is to try to help folks. Look at this current occupant.”

What could I say? “So your advice?”

He thought. “I reckon it’s this. If you want to be beloved by some people, cut out all that ‘do-gooder crap.’ Do no good. That’ll get an airport named after you faster than anything.”

“But what about the people who need help?”

“There you go again,” he said.

177. Conspiracies

Perhaps the faithful reader has noticed that C.W., the visiting Alien, who is able to assume any shape he wants—at will—can prove tiresome at times. If that is not the case, please allow me an example.

He showed up this morning before daylight, a time I relish because of its quietude, in the most awful getup you can imagine.

He said he was a “Master of Intrigue.”

Now if the readers are old enough to have enjoyed the “Spy vs. Spy” episodes in the Mad Magazines of the 1960s, you can imagine how he appeared. If not, just take my word for it. It was weird, even for the alien.

He entered by sliding along a wall and eyeing me between glances to and fro to see if anyone else was in the room. Assured that we were alone, he eased into a chair.

When I acknowledged his presence, he said, “Did you know that Hillary Clinton orchestrated the destruction of the World Trade Towers?”

I refused to honor him with a response.

“It’s true,” he said.

I said, “Would you please leave?”

“Can you not stand the truth?”

“Truth I can abide,” I said. “Insanity unhinges me.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that she was only a few hundred miles away and was overheard to say to an aide, ‘It will be quicker by plane’ that very morning?”

“Don’t you have something to do?’

He changed the subject. “Want to know who killed JFK?”

“I already do. It was a man named Lee Harvey Oswald.”

“Ha,” he said. “That’s what they want you to think.”

“Who is they?”

“The CIA, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the FBI, LBJ, the United Nations, organized crime, Fidel Castro, the Dallas Police Department, the staff at Parkland Hospital, the Texas Rangers, and Walt Disney.”

“Walt Disney?”

“He was in on it too.”

I said, “C.W., who have you been talking to?”

“I just listen and watch,” he said. “It’s all there on the History Channel.”

“The History Channel?” I closed my eyes.

“And Fox News.”

I sighed.

“What?” he said. “Don’t you believe in conspiracies?”

“I try not to let the thought of them destroy my cognitive capacity.”

His face turned into a snarl. “So you don’t believe they happen?”

“Oh, on occasion,” I said. “We did have the so called ‘Watergate Conspiracy’ some years ago.”
 

“That was the one set up,” he said, “by Jimmy Carter to ruin Richard Nixon’s presidency.”

I ignored him. “Then there was the short-lived conspiracy by Ronald Reagan’s crew to sell weapons to America’s archenemy the Ayatollah Khomeini for cash with which to fund a war in South America. All illegal and treasonous.”

He said nothing, so I continued. “Want to know the interesting part?”

He said, “What?”

“Those involved a mere handful of folks and they unraveled almost immediately.”

By carefully choosing our sources of
information, we can adopt any paradigm
of reality we choose. That's exciting. - C.W.

“So?”

“So,” I said. “Maybe vast conspiracies would be more difficult to maintain than we could ever imagine.”

“So they never happen?”

I said, “Oh they can. Look at how Yoko Ono, Mick Jagger, Ike Turner, Peter Townshend, and Paul Anka conspired to break up the Beatles.”