321. Hate

Have you ever had to try to explain our penchant for hatred to an alien? Well I have, and it isn’t fun. Especially when the alien pops up in the form of a Marine Corps drill sergeant. There he was, sitting in the back yard under a tree with a Budweiser, one of mine. He took a sip and motioned for me to sit.

“I want to talk to you,” he said.

“That’s no surprise.”

“Sit,”

I obeyed. That’s always the best course of action when he gets like this.

“Tell me,” he said, “about this instinct your species has for hate. There seems to be a lot of it going around these days.”

“I’m not an expert on the subject,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I try not to engage in it.”

“Oh?”

“What?”

“I happen to know that you hate that little button on your vehicle key that makes the horn start honking if your thumb happens to press against it.”

I said nothing.

“And,” he said. “I know you hate Windows 10.”

“Not as much as I once did.”

“And you hate those daytime television shows that have women screaming nonsense at one another.”

“Only when I walk into a room and one happens to be playing.”

He ignored me. “And I happen to know, from talking to your friends, that you hated the year that you spent sentenced to something called ‘Vacation Bible School,’ when you were a child.”

“It was actually only a week or two,” I said. “I tell folks it was a year for dramatic emphasis.”

“You hate speed bumps.”

“They are a sign that civilization is collapsing,” I said. “And what, may I ask, is the meaning of all this?”

“The Elders want to know if it is true that your next presidential election will be decided on the basis of hate.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “There is still time.”

“Sit up straight,” he said, barking it at me with a startling degree of vehemence.

As I straightened, he said, “You, yourself, do have your good points.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You don’t seem to hate people.”

“I try not to.”

“Even people you consider your enemies. You may feel a strong aversion or intense dislike for some.”

“Yes,” I said. “I do detest some. But my mentor, The Galilean, forbids me from hating them.”

“Even those on that fake TV news show?”

“Even those on Fox News.”

“Back to your mentor,” he said. “Why doesn’t he forbid the hating of your president, and other people of color?”

Youthful exuberance and good communications
seem to be essentials for spreading hate. - C.W.  

“He does,” I said.

“Do those who claim to worship him know that?”

“Yes, but many decide to ignore him.”

“Choosing the satisfaction of hate over the promise of salvation seems odd,” he said. “But back to you. You don’t even seem to hate any particular food.”

“Well, there was something my wife cooked once. She called it ‘cornbread gravy’ and I can’t say it turned out too well.”

“May I ask her about it?”

“Please don’t,” I said.

“But you don’t hate any other food?”

“If you were a real military man,” I said, “you would know that you quickly learn to eat what is served and that being a finicky eater is a sign of weakness.”

“Speaking of weaknesses,” he said. “The Falloonian Elders are asking me if I think this growing fondness for hatred within your species will lead to its downfall.”

I thought. “There was a philosopher once,” I said, named Friedrich Nietzsche, who said, ‘That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.’ Maybe hate makes us stronger.”

He looked at me with surprise. “No,” he said. “it makes you stupid.”

Click on some ads. It costs them money and makes me some.

Also check out www.wattensawpress.com and

www.allhatnocattle.com

And buy Big Dope's book It's really quite good.

223. Ad Man

C.W. has never quite given up on his dream of becoming an ad man. This latest burst of enthusiasm developed from his viewing so many political ads that ran in our state. He was in his “Ad Man” form the other morning as I was busy with computer-aided drafting and half paying attention.

“They seem to be stuck in a loop, so to speak,” he said as an ad ended in which a candidate for state attorney general promised to destroy the President if elected.

“Yep,” I said as I clipped the unneeded ends of some lines. “There,” I said. We won’t need those any longer.”

“My point exactly,” he said.

“Good.” I said, selecting several objects and moving them to a new location. “We can save them and use them over here.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” he said.

“It’s always good to reuse old things,” I said, “even old ideas.” I imported a drawing block I had used in a previous project and inserted into my new drawing. “There. Perfect.”

“I thought you would agree,” he said.

“With what?”

“My plan to expand the political ad paradigm to other products.”

“Say what?”

“You said it yourself. It’s wise to reuse good ideas.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just look,” he said, and he produced a portfolio he had brought with him. Gold-embossed lettering on the cover said, “Red States Advertising Group.” He opened it and drew out an ad mockup for me to see. It was a large drawing of a tube of toothpaste. The copy read, “Barack Obama uses Colgate toothpaste. So, choose Crest: White teeth for white folks.”

“Are you out of your fu …?”

A female voice from the next room said, “I can hear you in there.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Don’t like that? How’s this?” He laid the first down and picked up another. It was a photo of a brand new pickup truck with a young Caucasian couple standing alongside and beaming. The copy read, “While Barack rides around in his Lincoln, you’ll enjoy your Chevy pickup, the ride of choice for real Americans.”

I was speechless.

He continued with another. “Here’s one of my more popular ones.” It was a photo of First Lady Michelle Obama with an Aunt Jemima headdress. It read, “Michelle says ‘Eat Healthy.’ Let’s show her. Enjoy a Big Mac, fries, and milkshake with your family. Show that uppity female of the dog or some other carnivorous mammals.

“Uh, you don’t have the exact word and you couldn’t use it if you did.”

“Why not?”

“It isn’t fitting and it bodes ill of you. You can't call America's First Lady that.”

“That’s what they call her down at campaign headquarters.”

My aim is to cleanse the advertising
industry of old ideas. - C.W.

“Maybe so, but not in this house.”

“Drats,” he said. “You probably won’t like this one either. He held up a shot of the President’s daughters, all dressed up in gorgeous evening wear, under the heading, “These Obama kids may say ‘Black is Beautiful’ We say, ‘White is perfect.’ Ivory flakes, pure and proud.”

“I’m not sure they still make Ivory Flakes.”

“That’s okay. Purex has already put in a bid.” He tossed it aside and flashed an ad for a company called “Nobama Temps: Your source for cheap temporary labor. Low salary, no benefits, no promises, and tax deductible. The next best thing to owning a slave.”

That’s all I could stand. I started to leave the room, but he yelled out behind me. “One more, look at this sure-fire winner.”

I couldn’t help myself. Turning as I reached the door, I saw a poster featuring a huge .45 caliber, semi-automatic pistol beside an open box of cartridges, several of them scattered alongside the box.

The copy read simply, “Obama, Obama, Obama. The worst. Remington guns and ammo. The best.”

 

Click an ad and help a needy Alien.

Also check out www.wattensawpress.com

- C.W.

200. Slogans

“Sloganeer?”

“Yep.”

“Sloganeer? Really?”

“You heard me.”

“And what,” I said, “is a sloganeer?”

“It’s a person who writes slogans,” C.W. said. “I’m writing political ads now.”

“And why?”

He thought for a moment. He had assumed the shape of a cub reporter, complete with dark-rimmed glasses and a pocket full of pencils. He held a reporter’s notepad. He looked quite serious. “Somebody needs to,” he said.

I said, “So how is it going?”

“Great he said. “Want to see some of my work?”

“Why not?”

He picked up a file folder and pulled out a sheet. It was an ad featuring a full-face photo of a man in his late fifties, smiling broadly at the camera with an American flag behind him. Across the bottom, in bold type was written, “Tired of Taxes? I’ll fight to eliminate them. I’ll work for you and not for Obama.”

I stared. “Uh, C.W.,” I managed.

“Pretty good huh? He really liked it.”

“Uh, C.W.”

“Want to see more?”

Uh, C.W., do you know what office this man is running for?”

“Makes no difference to me, but which one?”

“County coronor.”

“Great. Here’s another.”

This one was simple. It just had the word “Benghazi” sprawled across it in every imaginable font of every imaginable size at every imaginable angle. Behind it was an image of President Obama. I swear the man’s skin tones had been digitally darkened until they glistened. It was an ad for an obscure state representative in the northwest corner of our state.

I was speechless. He handed me another.

“This one has a sound track,” he said with pride, handing me several sheet with the President’s face on each. The first said, “My opponent wants you to think he hates Obama.”

“Then the sound track kicks in,” C.W. said. “Ever hear a song that goes ‘Once, twice, three times a lady?’”

“I have tried my best to forget it with no luck.”

“Just change it to ‘Once, twice, three times the hatred.’”

I looked and on each succeeding sheet was a reason.

- He didn’t even grow up in one of the real states.

- He was too good to attend a regular college like your kids.

- He married a black woman.

The last sheet said simply, “I know hatred. Vote for me.”

I put the sheets down in disgust. “C.W., I said. “I’m ashamed of you.”

“What for? Because I want to be rich? Look this one.”

It showed an overweight man in army fatigues and combat boots holding a serious looking rifle. The caption read, “Against abortions? Vote for me.” It was an ad for county assessor.

C.W. pointed to it and said, “He says that one has produced some sizeable contributions.”

“I know this man,” I said. “He has had six children by five wives and has been arrested dozens of times for not paying child support. He is also under investigation for kiddy porn.”

I'm really proud of this one. I call it
"I don't need no stinkin' law books, just my
little friend here." - C.W.

“That’s what is so great about the power of my ads,” he said. “He is way ahead in the polls now.” He pulled out a sheet showing a woman in full battle gear holding an assault rifle and promising that she would do away with affordable health care if elected state Auditor.

I slumped and said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure. What do you want to know?”

“I’m not sure Cost Rica is far away enough. Can humans live on the planet of Falloonia?”

 

 

 

 Be sure to click an ad so we can eat. And check out www.wattensawpress.com