260. Leading Women To Bed

If there is one thing C.W. is determined to do during his stay with us on the planet, it is to write a best-selling “how-to” book. Past attempts have been strange and unsuccessful, but his most current scheme topped them all.

I found him furiously pecking at my laptop this morning, looking exactly like a young Phillip Roth, and muttering aloud.

“That’ll get her,” he was saying, “she's as good as in the sack.”

“What on earth?” The scene shocked me.

“Later,” he said, “I’m onto something having a high degree of heat or a high temperature.”

“You may be onto something hot,” I said, “but you’re doing it on my computer. Remember when you left stuff on my hard drive and my wife saw it? And your Galactic Universal Translator is malfunctioning again.”

“My GUT is leading me to success,” he said, “and Mrs. Big Dope will love this.”

“This what?”

“This mega-seller written just for men.”

“Oh really? And what mega-seller might that be?”

He looked up. “How To Get Any Woman Into Bed.” He raised his eyebrows and smirked. “Got the title off the internet. Want to hear some of it?”

“C.W.,” I said, “you have had some crazy ideas before but this takes the cake.” Then I stopped and thought. “Hear some of it?” I thought again. “Maybe just a line or two.”

He scrolled back a ways. “Here’s Number One,” he said. “Mark the way to the bedroom very carefully with directional signs.”

“Say what?”

“Women need to be led,” he said, "carefully led."

I was stunned. “And where did you get that idea?”

He reached into his pile of research material and pulled out a worn Bible. “Here,” he said, holding it up. “You got a problem with that?”

“Go on,” I said.

“Number Two,” he said in senatorial voice, “post a set of rules for use of the bed in a conspicuous place near the bed itself.”

“What on earth?”

“Women need the guidance of men,” he said. “Don’t you read the newspaper accounts of your legislators?”

“Are you crazy?”

“Number Three,” he said, ignoring me, “have the bed decorated in bright colors.”

This time I couldn’t speak. I sank into chair, dumbfounded.

“Bright colors attract the female of the species,” he said, flourishing a book on zoology.

I waited.

He turned back to the computer. “Number Four,” he said, “place large, over-sized toys on the bed.” He turned and smiled. “Women are attracted to big th…”

“Stop it,” I said. “What can you possibly be trying to do?”

“Get women into bed,” he said.

“Into bed? And why, exactly?”

“So they will get out of the way and leave us alone.”

“Us?”

“We men.”

“Why would we want them out of the way?”

“So we could do things,” he said, exasperated.

“What things?”

He thought for a moment. “The sort of things you and I do after Mrs. Big Dope goes to bed.”

“I think,” I said, “speaking of her, maybe you should preview your idea to her.” I thought about it for a second or two and nodded. “I think a woman’s perspective might be helpful, and I think I hear her in the kitchen.”

“Great idea,” he said. “She’ll give me a few more pointers, too.” He grabbed the laptop and a few books and sailed off.

What can I add? In a few moments time, he came running back into the room followed by books sailing toward him. He reached safety, placed the computer on a table, and turned to me. “I’ve got a new idea,” he said.

The relative weakness of women is a long-standing
tenet of your culture for some reason or other. - C.W.

“She didn’t like the old one?”

“It’s not that,” he said quickly. “It just doesn’t take her long to review my work and offer editorial comments.”

“Oh?”

“And a new title,” he said.

“What might that be?”

He looked to make sure we were alone. “Fifty Ways of Longer Life for Men.”

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Oh, and see www.wattensawpress.com

And ... www.allhatnocattle.com

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

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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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