Relaxation

Sometimes I’m so mean I scare myself. This morning I came near the room where Bit Dope was trying to take his blood pressure. He records it for a class he’s taking and it is hilarious to watch. He’s the only person I know who can run his readings up into the danger zone just by trying to get the cuff situated on the BP machine. He was trying to get it on while, as you Earthling say, “Cussing up a storm." He was playing some musical piece to help him relax. Then I heard him going “Om, om, om,” and things got real quiet.

I waited until I thought he was ready. Then I shapeshifted into “Moscow Mitch” and walked around the corner.

Does anyone have a place I can stay for a few days? I’ll shift into your favorite movie star while I’m there.

434: Hypocrisy

It’s always nice when C.W. does his Edward R. Murrow routine. My wife, though, makes us sit outdoors on account of his smoking so much. We sat near sundown last evening under a shade tree in an Arkansas July without a breeze stirring.

I had pulled and extension chord over and placed a box fan a few feet in front of us. “Bless you, my child,” he said, lighting another cigarette. He smiled, took a draw, and put his lighter back into a pocket. “I thought the London Blitz was uncomfortable, but now I don’t know.”

“What’s on your mind?” I said. “You don’t do Murrow unless it is serious.”

“The Elders are at it again.”

“The Falloonian Elders?”

“Are there any others?”

I didn’t reply, no use when he’s on roll. Instead, I asked, “What are they wanting to know?”

“When it all started.”

“When what started?”

“The path that has led to the present hypocrisy-challenged mess your country is in.”

“Hypocrisy-challenged?”

“As in so many can’t recognize it, or refuse to.” He took a drag and exhaled. He leaned an elbow on his crossed leg and held the cigarette like an exhibit. “I think,” he said, “that it started during the so-called ‘New Deal.’ But some of my colleagues want to take it all the way back to the Civil War.” He waived the cigarette as if directing music. “The some of us place it as late as the Johnson-Goldwater election back in 1964. Then there are the radical thinkers that place it as starting the day after Nixon fled the scene. What do you think?”

“I think I have no idea what the hell you are talking about.”

He looked at me as if I had just doubted the known facts of natural selection. “You don’t?”

“Something about politics?”

He nodded and exhaled smoke. “Bingo. I’m talking about the moment when one political party became so angry and revenge-bent that it would be willing to bring the whole country down, given time, cunning, and patience.”

I nodded. The fog was lifting. He continued. “I’m torn between the New Deal and Johnson/Goldwater.”

“When the unquenchable hatred started?”

“Yes. There are two things that irritate conservatives the most.”

“They are?”

“The first is helping those who are poor in spirit, who mourn, the meek, the merciful, and who seek peace. You know, the usual crowd of losers that their favorite writer—that Ayn what’s her name— taught them to despise.”

“And the second?”

“Losing, losing in any shape form or fashion.”

“So you think those have led to an inability to recognize hypocrisy?”

“Are you kidding me?” He flipped the cigarette away and reached for another. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”

“Well, yeah. There does seem to be some double standard about confirming a Supreme Court nominee.”

“Or who is a follower of the Galilean and who’s not?”

“Yeah, there is this Franklin Graham character.”

“Just nominated, as I understand it,” he said, “to the Hypocrite’s Hall of Fame.”

“And you think it started with FDR and blossomed under Johnson?”

“Do-gooders on parade,” he said. “But they just maybe started it. There’s no disagreement, even among the parties, as to who caused it to flourish.”

“No doubt?”

“No doubt at all.”

“You mean there is a bizarre example of bi-partisan agreement as to what caused this abyss of hypocrisy and hatred?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“It was Obama’s fault.”

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

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.

379. Cures

“Ancient wisdom.”

“Say what?”

“Yes,” he said. “Ancient medical wisdom. I’ve been asked to do research and make recommendations.”

There sat Reggie the Young Conservative in all his yuppie glory amidst a pile of notes and objects. He was typing on my laptop.

“What the hell, C.W.? What’s up?”

“Helping out,” he said.

“With what? For whom?”

“Tweaking the Anti-Care Act. For the Party.”

“Do you mean the so-called Affordable Care Act?”

“Oops,” he said. “That’s an inside joke. We’re not supposed to call it that in public. Anyway, some senators say it’s not harsh enough and want some cheaper approaches. I’m tasked to look at ancient ones. I’m on Egypt now.” He reached into the pile and retrieved a note. “Here’s one. Comparison Centers. They will save a bundle.”

“What on earth?”

“Herodotus tells us that an Egyptian with a particular illness would sit by the town gate with a sign listing the symptoms. Along would come someone who had suffered those same symptoms and survived. He’d share the cure and move on, cheap medical care if there ever was such a thing.”

“Comparison Centers?”

“Yep. We’ll place them in places with heavy foot traffic. We’ll even include chairs. We’re not heartless, you know.”

“Uh … . any other cost saving ideas?”

“You betcha. Here’s an idea I call ‘shame shacks’ that will save even more.”

“Shame shacks?”

“Yes. We believe, like the ancient Egyptians, that most illness are cause by a lack of religion. So we’ll furnish quiet places for the afflicted to go and repent while they pray.”

“You have to be kidding.”

He stiffened. “If you know anything about us, you know we don’t kid. A sense of humor is a sign of weakness. Quick,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Who is Secretary of Education?”

“I see.”

“Then don’t ever accuse us of kidding about America’s future.”

“Any other ideas?” I tacked the conversation toward calmer waters.

“Happy Halls.”

“And? Ancient Egypt again?”

“They were certain that beer would ‘gladden the heart’ in general, but when one was ill, medicines mixed with beer—and combined with spells—were thought particularly effective. Beer and wine were also prescribed for children and nursing mothers. A prescription from the Ebers Papyrus for childhood incontinence calls for the mother to drink a cup of beer mixed with grass seeds and cyperus grass for four days while breastfeeding the child.”

“So, Happy Halls would furnish free beer to the ill?”

He frowned. “Did you just use the word ‘free’ or was I dreaming? I never said beer would be free. Free is only for humans that happen to be corporations. Still, beer is cheaper and more plentiful than some medications, and many of the poor are already using it for other purposes.”

“I see.”

“Excuse me,” he said. “He rose and walked to a bookshelf and picked a volume of history. I took the opportunity to examine his papers.

 

Self-diagnosis and repentance:
sure cures for most ills. - C.W.

One caught my eye. “An onion?”

“Put that down,” he said. “We’re pretty sure we’re going to abandon that one or modify it substantially.’

I started to return it, but noticed something that made me gasp. “The onion is placed where? In a woman’s what … ?”

“Shut up,” he said. “Do you want Mrs. Big Dope to hear us?”

“And it determines what?”

“Hush.” He said.

“You don’t have any females on your committee, do you?”

“Too demanding. Not harsh enough. Too many moving parts. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, opening the volume of history. “I’ve got to get to the Chinese. If my chapter on birth control isn’t finished this week, they might throw me overboard like unwanted garbage.” He stopped, jerked his head toward the ceiling as if the overhead light had just flashed, and turned back to the book. He began to thumb the pages, muttering to himself and completely ignoring me.

“As long as they are born,” he said. “As long as they are born … as long as they are born.” He placed the book beside him and turned to the laptop. His voice trailed off and he typed with a fury I had never seen before.


See also:

Delta Dreaming
All Hat No Cattle
Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

242. Promises

“So you’re telling me,” he said, “that this is all coming about over the ownership of land?”

“Pretty much.” I dread questioning like this since I know he is practicing what he calls ‘The Dead Greek’ method of debate.  He even appeared as Socrates, complete with robe and beard.

“And these feelings are new or old—this obsession with owning the land?”

“Old by our standards,” I said. “It goes back nearly 3,000 years.”

“Odd,” he said. We were taking a break from the spring rains to walk in the woods of our farm. ”So the land must be very productive.”

“Not really,” I said. “It is arid and prone to be rocky.”

“Oh,” he said. “So its value lies in its beauty?”

“Not particularly.”

“So your species finds it worth fighting over for what reason?”

I thought. “Some of it does have oil.”

“And that was useful for what, say 3,000 years ago?”

I stopped and pretended to admire a young white oak sapling.

He continued. “Would you say this obsession is rational or irrational?”

“It seems,” I said, “that the people involved, the current inhabitants, believe they were given the promise of ownership some time back.”

“Ah,” he said, picking up a piece of dried cow manure and examining it. As if it provided some clue, he turned to me. “A promise from some legal entity that controls ownership records I suppose?”

“Uh, no.”

“No? Who made this promise?”

“Their god, so their written records say.”

“Their god is a real estate agent?”

I ignored him.

“Tell me,” he said. “Why, being half way around the world, has your country become so mired in this ownership dispute?” He tossed the cow manure toward me. I let it fall to the ground.

“It’s complicated,” I said.

“Is it of such importance that the future of your country depends upon it?”

“Some think so.”

“Ah,” he said. “The land contains a valuable resource vital to your way of life?”

“Uh,”  I said, “not exactly. Actually the other side has the most valuable resource.”

“And that is?”

“Remember the oil I mentioned?”

“Yes, that resource that had no value?”

“It has value now,” I said.

We walked in silence. He stroked his chin after a while and stopped, facing me. “There is something you are not telling me.”

I sighed. I knew this would make the electrodes in his Amalgamated Scientific Synthesizer spark. “Religion is involved,” I said.

Sure enough, the smell of wires burning told me that his ASS was getting warm.

“Religion?” was all that he could manage.

“The current inhabitants of the land are culturally and spiritually connected to an ancient religion that requires, so they say, that they inhabit the area.”

“Even if inhabiting it threatens another world war?”

“Perhaps.” The smell of electrodes frying was stronger.

“So the inhabitants of your country support them because they share the same what you call religion?”

“No, only a small portion do.”

“And the rest?”

“Mostly neutral except for politicians and a group of highly energized zealots who would support the current inhabitants at any cost.”

“For what your species calls love and sympathy?” he said.

“Not exactly.” I heard the sound of sparking.

“They admire the inhabitants and their brethren in your country?”

“Nope,” a faint flume of blue smoke rose from beneath his robe. “During most of modern history they have hated and despised the culture and its people, even, until recently, depriving them of some civil rights.” More sparking.

“They want to assure their survival out of a new sense of justice?”

“Hardly. If you must know …,” I began.

“Oh, I must,” he said, interrupting me.

“Truth is, this band of fanatics in our country plans to destroy all the current inhabitants of that troubled land of which we speak on what they believe is some pre-ordained date in the future.”

I had to step away to avoid the smell of burning rubber.

“So your, uh …"

Doesn't ownership of land on a planet that is
five billion years old seem a bit strange? - C.W.

"Evangelicals,” I said.

“Whatever you call them,” he said. “They need to keep the currently chosen inhabitants alive until it is the proper time to kill them?”

“More or less.”

“For what reward?”

“Promises,” I said.

“Promises? From whom?”

“From their god. Sounds strange, doesn’t it?” I said.

“My child,” he said, “after all this time, nothing on your planet seems strange to me anymore. Now if you will allow me to take a break, my ASS needs some relief.”

 

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See also: www.wattensawpress.com

- C.W.