292. Lies Are Us

“You’re what!”

“Calm down.”

“Look, how many get-rich schemes have you tried over the last five years?”

“This one is different.’

“In what way?”

“Give me a moment.”

“C.W.,” I said. “The fans and readers are getting sick of your ideas for making money.”

“There you go again. You’ve just proven my point.”

I felt stupid. I was talking to Richie, the Young Conservative, one of the Alien C.W.’s favorite shapes. “What point,” I said, “have I proven?”

“You just told a lie.”

“What lie?”

“You just introduced or worked in gradually that my fans are not loyal.”

“I insinuated that your fans are beginning to think you are insane and careless with the facts.”

“My point exactly.”

“What point?”

“That," he leaned back and smiled, “your species delights in using falsehoods for achieving their ends.”

I thought about if for a moment. Actually, he had a point. I considered all the ads I had seen proclaiming how Windows 10 was a step forward in human evolution. “But how,” I said, “are you going to make money from falsehoods?”

“By giving them away.”

“Say what?”

“Got you, didn’t I? Of course I won’t give them away. I’ll just pretend to. Haven’t you ever heard of a Love Offering?”

My head was spinning. To whom will you sell, give away, or whatever, lies?”

“Not corporations,” he said. “There are firms that already have that business sewed up.”

“To whom then?”

“Politicians of course, you silly boy. Haven’t you noticed what they have been getting away with?”

“So,” I said, after a moment’s reflection, “what sort of lies will you sell?”

“Harmless ones.”

“What?”

“Ha,” he said. “Got you again.”

“Maybe,” I said, “you could give me an example.”

“I thought you would never ask.” He produced a notebook and began to read. “How’s this?” he held up a picture of a current presidential candidate and read, “My opponent inherited a fortune and never had to work, but says he thinks you and I don’t work hard enough. Isn’t that a beaut? My company, ‘Lies Are Us’ will make a bundle from that.”

“Except for one thing,” I said. “It’s the truth.”

“What?”

“It’s true, I said. You can’t sell that for a lie.”

His face fell. Then he brightened and held up another photo and read from his notebook. “This candidate,” he said, “operates on the brains of living people, no doubt using antibiotics to prevent infection, but claims that the most basic and underlying principles of natural science are tools sent by something called “Satan” to ensnare us into a life of sin. What do you think? It’s a little over the top but I think it will sell.”

“I’ve got some bad news for you.”

“You are kidding,” he said, after I explained. He tossed the photo aside with a dejected look. “Well there’s this one,” he said, hold up another photograph while he read, “My opponent’s party once elected, as President of the United States of America, this candidate who had to have his daily schedule approved by his wife’s astrologer.”

I shook my head slowly.

“Know what?” he said, dropping the photograph.

“What?”

“Facts are stupid things.” Suddenly his face brightened. “Say,” he said, “I could sure sell the lie that a presidential candidate once said that on national TV.”

We're lucky this man is not around.
He would try to tell us that our
President isn't a citizen. - C.W.

He almost cried when I told him.

“Maybe I’ll have to face the fact,” he said slowly, “that no American political party would ever  follow the premise of the propaganda minister of another country, who said, ‘If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it. The lie can be maintained only for such time as the State can shield the people from the political, economic and/or military consequences of the lie. It thus becomes vitally important for the State to use all of its powers to repress dissent, for the truth is the mortal enemy of the lie, and thus by extension, the truth is the greatest enemy of the State.’"

 

He smiled at me with a kind look. "Your species,” he said, would never do that.”

“Now,” I said, “you’ve hit on one.

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- C.W.

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267. Facts

“What on earth are you doing?” There was Eddie the Entrepreneur sitting in the middle of my living room floor amidst a pile of posters and paper scraps. Of course it was C.W. in one of his favorite shapes, the young genius who will someday match Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg in fame and fortune.  He looked up, pushed his long, shaggy hair to the back of his head, and stared over his horn-rimmed glasses at me.

“I’m glad to see you,” he said. “I need to test some ideas.”

“Ideas for what?”

“My new non-difference between the amount earned and the amount spent in buying, operating, or producing something.”

“Do you mean your non-profit?”

“There you go repeating me gain.”

I ignored him. “So what are you not going to make a profit in now?”

“This,” he said, holding up an ad mock-up. There in bold type was a call-to-action for one to “Cure Cognichasm.”

“Cognichasm?”

“Yep. You all need to be cured of it.”

“What is your solution?”

“A seven-week course designed to cure one of the greatest mental shortcomings of your species,” he said.

“And that is?”

“Your apparent inability to connect cognitive phenomena,” he said, “and the mental chasm it produces.”

I began to sense his meaning. “And you got this idea when?”

He looked at me sternly. “You know very well when.”

“Those ten so-called ‘presidential candidates’ didn’t constitute a fair sample of the ability of our species to engage in linear thinking,” I said.

“Well they did mention a cure for a problem that was tried by the Chinese, with no apparent success, centuries ago. That’s a pretty big cognitive gap.”

“They were just kidding about ‘building an immigrant-proof wall’ and maintaining it,” I said. “After all, they were appearing on an entertainment venue.”

“Forget them,” he said. “Between the ten of them, they couldn’t connect two dots if they were standing in a field of sunflowers.” He consulted a sheet of paper filled with typing. “Let’s look at some examples.” He read for a few seconds. “Here’s one,” he said. “We can stop teen pregnancies by telling teens not to have sex.” He gave me a smug nod. “Now just how disconnected is that from reality?”

I was on the defensive all of a sudden. “I didn’t come up with that,” I said, “but some people believe it.”

“Oh yes,” he said, “the teens of your species have such a long history of doing exactly what adults say.”

“That’s a strained example.”

“Oh really?” he said. “Try this instead: Sex education leads to teen-aged pregnancies.”

I couldn’t think of an answer, so he kept reading.

“Cutting revenue inflow increases available revenue.”

I said nothing.

“The more you charge on your credit card, the more money you make.”

I said nothing.

“The only way to save a country is to destroy it.”

I said nothing.

“Facts are stupid things.”

Silence on my part.

 “Training children to excel on standardized tests makes them more educated.”

Oh dear.

“The drinking of whiskey puts the spirit of conviviality in one’s heart and enhances our existence.”



What can I add? - C.W.

“Now wait just a minute.”

“Oh,” he said. “Excuse me. My mistake.” He ran his finger down the list. “Here it is: The drinking of whiskey destroys our families, communities, and civic organizations.”

“And your point?”

“Each member of your species tends to interpret facts to fit its own beliefs.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” I said. “We can be as logical as the next species, perhaps more so. And we are a pleasant example. You said yourself that drinking whiskey—especially, I think, Four Roses Single-Barrel—helps a lot.”

“You aren’t much help,” he said, “maybe my fans can come up with some examples.”

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

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257. Writing

It is uncertain as to whether I have mentioned this, but C.W. exhibits a tendency toward imitation. I think it is part of the training he received on Falloonia prior to coming here. Anyway, he sometimes goes to great lengths to imitate things he sees Earthlings do.

For example: he remains impressed by the fact that I have written a book and am on the verge of completing another. Evidently, reading is considered an admirable pastime on his home planet.

"How would a species that doesn't read ever expect to explore our marvelous galaxy?" he says. Good point.

So it was no surprise when I caught him, or at least him as Johnny Ray, the adolescent student, busily blasting away at my computer and muttering to himself.

"There you go," he said to the computer, "thrust it in and rotate. That'll make her scream. She loves it."

"C.W.," I said, yelling to get his attention. "What are you doing? Mrs. V can hear you."

"Now she's moaning," he said, ignoring me. "You got her motor purring now. She'll take you anywhere you want. Oh baby, baby."

"Johnny Ray, " I said. "Stop it."

That finally got his attention. He evidently wasn't answering to "C.W." today.

"Wait one," he said, "This gal is hot and ready to go."

"Stop it," I said. "What are you doing."

He finally looked up at me. "Writing," was all he said.

"I can see that," I said, "but what are you writing?"

"A novel."

"About what?"

"A time machine," he said. "It's creator has just inserted the rod that energizes its engine and it is becoming operational."

I covered my face with my hands. "And where did you get the idea for a novel? And what is it about, other than a time machine?"

"From reading the news," he said, "and it is about victors and victims."

"As in?"

He leaned back and smiled. "It's about the future."

"I thought that might be the case," I said. "What about the future?"

"It's like this," he said. "The powerful class has eliminated education and intellectual curiosity from among the victim class."

"Now where did you get that idea?"

He ignored me and continued. "And they have created a race that just prances around clueless all day, never questioning their fate or purpose, totally trusting in a mysterious higher power."

"And?"

"The power class becomes so depraved from all that unrestrained power that they even hate the illuminating power of sunlight and have taken to living underground."

"I see," I said. "Would you be interested ..."

He interrupted me. "That's not the best part."

"Oh?"

"No, the ruling demons feast on the helpless above-grounders, since food can't grow underground. It's a metaphor for symbiotic relationships among the classes: pleasure and sustenance and all that. Bound to be a best-seller." He leaned back and crossed his arms.

"I hate to tell you that it's already been done," I said.

"What, taking education from the masses, disempowering them, and devouring them?"

"Well," I said, "we'll talk about that later. What I mean is ... that book has been written."

"It's what?"

"Afraid so, by a man named H.G. Wells, back in the late 1800s."

Earthlings need to remember that their
future rests completely in their hands. - C.W.

His face fell. "Drats," was all he said.

"Sorry," I said.

"No sweat," he said. "I have a backup plan."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. A novel about a bunch of animals with no moral foundation other than self-enrichment taking over your farm and running it."

"Oh," I said, "that sounds like a good one. Go for it."


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246. Fresh Ideas

“So you want me to help you?”

“Please, I’m asking earnestly or humbly for something.”

“You are begging for my help?”

“Absolutely.”

There he stood, in his best chinos, looking much like a combo ad for Gucci, Lacoste Lopez, and  Ralph Lauren. C.W. was in one of his favorite forms, Reggie, from The Young Conservatives Club.

“What sort of help do you need?”

“I’m going to work in what your species calls a political campaign for the first time ever.”

“You are going to do what?”

“I’m going to help elect a candidate. I may get to go to Washington, they tell me.”

“I see,” I said, but I didn’t. “I thought you were permanently assigned here.”

“Oh, but if I can get a ‘behind the scenes’ posting, it will boost my career.” He paused and scratched his nose. “But first we must get through the first or highest in rank or importances.”

“You mean the primaries.”

“You are getting bad about repeating everything I say.”

“Never mind,” I said. “Which candidate are you working for?”

“Number Five.”

“Uh,” I said, “and who is that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Some campaign workers were having a hard time keeping them separate, so we just go by numbers, now.”

“I see,” I said, but I wasn’t sure I did. “So what is the major campaign issues that your Number, uh …, Five is going to focus on for the campaign?”

“That’s what you are going to help me with.”

“Oh,” I see, but I didn’t.

“Take a look.” With that, he turned took me to the kitchen table where a laptop computer was fired up and waiting. Across the screen was the beginning of a list, from One to Five, with the word “Against” behind each number.

“So let’s start filling in,” he said. “What goes by the first number?”

“C.W.,” I said.

“Reginald, please,” he said.

“Reggie, those are all negatives. What will Number Five be for?”

He looked at me as if I had just said that dry was wet. “Please,” he said, “our party has evolved beyond the advocacy paradigm.”

“The what?”

“You seem to be stuck in an era of reality and advocacy. That’s old fashioned. Get over it. Now let’s get busy. I have a deadline.”

I’d never seen him so forceful and full of hope. “Okay,” I said. “How about, uh, say, for the first number …Hillary Clinton.”

“Can’t,” he said. “Candidate Two, said early on that he would like to have her.”

I left that one alone. “President Obama?”

“Candidate Three, we call him ‘The Charmed One,’ captured him a month ago.”

“The Charmed One. So he is special?”

“Not particularly. It just means that maybe the third time is charmed, as you say.”

“I see,” I said, but I most assuredly didn’t. “War?”

“Please,” he said, “let’s be serious. We’re wasting valuable time.”

“Education?”

"Candidates One and Four are fighting over that one. Each claims he knows more about it.”

“Science?”

“Candidate Seven.” He nodded sadly. “And that’s a popular one. Wish I’d gotten it.”

“Immigrants?”

“Candidates One and Four are battling over that one as well.”

“Government?”

“Oh heck,” he said. “I wish. But Candidate Eight, you know, the one with the funny hairpiece, grabbed that one straight away, right out of Candidate Two’s hands.”

 “Children, women?”

“Nope, Candidate Nine, the fat one, is sitting on those.” He smiled. “Too bad for the women and kids.”

“C. …, Reggie, I’m running out of ideas. Why don’t you go against the grain and present your candidate as for something?”

He looked at me with a bit of sadness in his eyes. “Do you know what happens to our candidates who go against the grain, as you say, and advocate for something?”

“Not something good?”

He shook his head. “Have you ever heard of Archibald McGregor?”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t.”

“My point exactly,” he said. “Now get busy. Time is money.”

They rejected this design I did for the
campaign. I don't understand  why. - C.W.

I searched my brain. I really wanted to help the poor guy. “Taxes?”

Number Nine, the crazy one, still claims them, but they really don’t bother our folks much anymore, so it is a weak platform.

I wasn’t sure which candidate he was talking about, but I kept thinking. Then it came to me. “Obamacare,” I said. “That’s a winner for sure.”

 He shook his head. "Off-limits. It’s now Reaganaid.”

“Oh,” I said. “I see. And this time I believe I did.

 

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245. Campaigns

What could be worse than an alien who doesn’t understand our politics? Try an alien who doesn’t understand our politics, or our language, but decides to get involved in a campaign.

Yep. It is C.W. I came in from taking care of some family matters and found that he had assumed the exact form of Norman Rockwell and was furiously painting away at an easel.

“What the …?”

“Hey, Big Dope,” he said. “You’ve been wanting me to get a job so I have a good one. Take a look.” He pointed a t what was evidently to be a campaign poster, for Hillary Clinton of all people. “I’m going to be making ads for Hillary.” He pointed at his work. “What do you think?”

Across the top of the ad was the word “Hillary!” Under it was her face. Under that was the message he had blocked out and was finishing. It read, “Because men should not always come first.”

I blinked. Then I blinked again. “Uh, C.W.,” I said.

“What?”

It took me a while to explain, as his face drooped in disappointment. Finally, he removed the poster and threw it into a corner. Picking up a finished one from a pile, he placed it on the easel. “Well,” he said, “what do you think of his one?”

It also had “Hillary” across the top in bold lettering. Under the name this time were portraits of Bill and Chelsea. Under them, the message, “Comes with a couple of nice ones,”

I stifled a laugh. This time he didn’t take the news so well. “Do you want to see more? If you do, quit laughing.”

“Oh,” I said. “More. Please, more.”

He sullenly removed the poster and replaced it with another. It had the faces of Hillary and President Obama in the middle. Above them were the words, “Choose Hillary.” Underneath the faces he had painted, “For a great climax.”

This time my knees grew weak and I had to sit as I explained. He sailed the poster across the room and glared at me. “You are being inclined to find fault or to judge with severity, often too readily,” he said.

“I’m not being critical,” I said. “I’m just being honest.” I tried to sooth him. “Let’s see your last one,” I said. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

I only chose her to work for because I
thought her possible opponents were limp. - C.W.

“You won’t laugh?”

“I won’t laugh.”

He reached over, picked up the final poster and placed it on the easel. It had a nice picture of Hillary saluting the American flag that fluttered atop a huge flagpole. The words above read, “Choose Hillary.” The ones below read, “And keep America erect.”

When I finally managed to quit rolling on the floor and managed to stand, C.W. was gone, as was his easel.

 

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- C.W.

 

 

Excerpt:

Nelson watched the woman screaming and looked puzzled. Most in the courtroom believed that the prosecution had proven the man guilty. The jurors themselves had all agreed on it. Nelson had brought up a point during the deliberations that he didn’t see a strong motive for such a crime. The others told him that he just had a lot to learn about Southern men. And, there hadn’t been much of a defense presented. What could the man’s attorney say—that his client had threatened to kill a man and then did, but that didn’t make a boy all bad?