Taste

Dear Ask The Alien
My brother is a year younger than I am, but the same size and height. I have caught him several times now trying on my clothes, including my best wig. When I confront him, he makes up weird stories, the last being that he just wanted to gain access to the girl’s locker room at our local gym. He also claims that he wants to familiarize himself with the way women dress in order to perfect his skills at helping them undress—when the time comes. In addition, he steals my glamor magazines and hides them in his room. Yesterday I found him practicing walking in my best pair of heels. He claimed he was simply “developing empathy.”

My question to you is this: should I offer him tips on selecting wardrobes and makeup? He has a tendency to mix plaids and stripes, and his lipstick choices clash with his skin color. Plus, his favorite outfit makes his butt look huge. And don’t get me started on his horrible tastes in jewelry. I hate to intrude on his fantasies, but I don’t want his poor grooming choices to reflect badly on our family. Any suggestions?

Signed,
Helpful Sister

 Dear Helpful Sister:

Perhaps you could subject him to what your species calls “aversion therapy.” Tie him to a chair and make him view pictures of those women they call The Kardashians. Ask him if he wants to end up like that. Then show him photos of rich and famous women. My research shows that poor taste rises in direct proportion to wealth. That should send him to a sartorial school or back to faded jeans and sneakers in short order. Oh, and please send photos, for my, uh, files.
Yours,
The Alien C.W.

Need I say more? - C.W.

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276. Why oh Why?

C.W. is worrying the hell out of me. That’s not unusual, but this time he has assumed his shape of the teenager he calls Ronald Chadsworth, the National Merit Scholar. He appears as a youngster of color with piercing eyes, curly hair, countless questions, and a voice that would remove wallpaper. He always tests my patience.

The first question he asked illustrates my point. “Mr. Big Dope,” he began—when he is polite, I shudder, “why do the media report on what people ‘tweet?’ Isn’t that a bit like reporting on what one sees written on a bathroom wall in a truck stop?”
 

“Who knows,” I said. “Doesn’t it seem easier than actually going out and digging up news?”
 

“Why wouldn’t they want to go out and dig up news? It couldn’t be that difficult.”
 

“Have you ever tried it?”
 

He thought. “No, but all you would have to do us exchange text messages with the right person. Isn’t that right?”
 

“What if the right person didn’t text back?”
 

That stumped him, so he altered course. “Speaking of the right person,” he said, “when you were my age, did they print the ramblings of a sl … uh … a … a … what you called a ‘loose woman’ as news?”

“Only if she were arrested standing over a dead body with a smoking gun in her hand.”

“So bad girls with very little education weren’t considered experts?”

“Well maybe,” I said, “in certain fields, but they certainly didn’t discuss those things in the media.” I stopped. “Why so you ask?”
 

He didn’t respond, just opened a binder he was holding to a picture of Bristol Palin.

“Why don’t you go read Shakespeare?” I said.

“Can I ask you another question?”

“May I ask you another question,” I said, “and the answer is no.”

“What’s with the lady in England that wears all the funny hats?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why is that newsworthy? Wouldn’t it be more interesting to find a turtle that could do the ‘two-step’ and report on that?”

“Find one and we’ll see,” I said.

“Or a group of cats that have formed a Mariachi band?” He stopped. “Oh wait,” he said. “I did see that in the news.”

“In the news?”

“On Visage Page.”

As I understand it, the marriage
contract says she must look silly
at all times. Weird. - C.W.

“What’s on Facebook is not news,” I said.

“Back to the lady with the hats,” he said, “why do they report on what she does?”

“She’s the wife of a prince.”

“So he buys her the hats?”


“With his allowance, yes.”

“Oh,” he said, “and what does one do to be born a prince?”

“Be the son of a prince.”

“Is that the only way?”

“Or,” I said, “he could be the son of queen.”

He employed one of his sudden shifts in attention. “What does it mean to ‘pull yourself up by your own boot straps?’ I see it in the news all the time? Wouldn’t that defy the Law of Gravity? And,” he said, “your species is quite concerned with observing the law, I understand.”

“It’s a metaphorical saying,” I said, ignoring his sarcasm, “indicating the social desirability of taking responsibility for your own success in life.”

“Like the lady with the hats?”

I thought. “Yeah,” I said, “like the lady with the hats.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Now …”

I interrupted him. “Have you mastered matrix algebra yet?”

“Oh,” he said, “that was easy compared to understanding your species.”

He had me there. “Well what about so-called ‘String Theory.’ Couldn’t you go work on that?”

“I knew all there is to know about that before I came to your planet,” he said. “Now tell me about birth control.”

Oh hell. “Some people don’t like it,” I said.
 

“So what do they do?”

“They try to get rid of it.”

“So there will be more babies born?”

“Yes.”

“Some to women who can’t care for them?”

“Yes.”

“Who cares for them?”

“We don’t worry about that, as long as it isn’t the taxpayers.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know. Saves money I suppose.”

“Oh,” said, nodding his head. “I understand. Now,” he said.

“Aren’t you supposed to be exploring the writings of Kant?”

He ignored me. “Tell me,” he said, “about the high cost your country pays for incarcerating prisoners.”
 

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

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215. Craziness

Oh dear. C.W. remains in this serious mood. He’s still pretending to be Walter Cronkite. I think he is watching too much news, so later today I plan to take him fishing. He loves to fish and it usually brightens his outlook.

In the meantime, he marched in last evening and told me he thinks my country is going phooknstabera.

“What on earth is that?” I was at a loss.

“Literally, it is a small airborne creature on Falloonia that excretes a sweet-smelling excrement as it flies. Sniffing it makes a Falloonian behave erratically. So the word is slang for a state of confusion.”

I thought for a moment, then said, “Sort of like ‘bat-shit crazy’ on our planet?”

It was his turn to think. “I suppose so.” Then he nodded. “Exactly.”

“So what brings this on?”

“Don’t you keep up with the news?”

“No,” I said. “I quit doing that. It’s bad for your health.”

“Then you don’t know that the world is on the verge of several outbreaks of disease, any one of which could be a final part of something, especially a period of time, an activity, or a story as regards life on your planet?”

“Do you mean the end of us?”

“That’s what I just said. Why do you repeat me so often?”

“Never mind,” I said, “we have faced disease before and prevailed.”

“Yes, but you taught science in your high schools back then. Biology. The emergence of species.”

“As in evolution?”

“As in the most basic building block of biological life in the Universe.”

“Some folks don’t want their children taught this subject.”

He looked at me as if I had just said two plus two usually adds up to four. “Phooknstabera,” was all he said.

“So what else is troubling you?”

“Has anyone within your species noticed that your planet is frying?”

“Last I heard,” I said, “something like 99 percent plus of our scientists have.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And a hand full of so-called “elected” officials can stop any effort to do something about it?”

“That’s the way our country works,” I said.

He slumped into a chair and shook his head and muttered, “Phooknstabera.” Then he looked at me. “Has anyone told you that the Middle Eastern area of your planet is about to explode into total war and some of your so-called “elected” officials are responding by making plans to shut down your government again?”



The daily "hat-check" seems to take
Big Dope's mind off the world's
problems for minutes at a time. - C.W.

“Look,” I said, “you’re getting me into a blue funk. Why don’t we do something fun?” In my mind, I could already see the fishing floats bobbing.”

“What are you going to do? Pour ice water on your head? That’s the only thing that seems to make your species happy these days, that and watching so-called ‘college’ football.”

“Or,” I said, “we could turn on the news and see what kind of hat Kate Middleton is wearing today.”

He put his face in his hands. “Phooknstabera,” was all he said.

 

Please help me get my new computer by clicking an ad. Big Dope has his password-protected and it takes me almost ten minutes to break into it. - C.W.

 

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