426. Newscast

Sometimes C.W. likes to pretend he is a news analyst and give me a recap of the week. He has this shape he likes when he does it, very grave and serious. He looks more like one of the great newscasters of the past. He always starts the same way, as he did yesterday.

“Good Saturday to you. It has been a week of weeks here in America, I’m Charles Wellingham here to tell you all about it.”

I don’t move, as a general rule, that is, until he makes a gaff. He records the broadcast and I worry that someone might see one.

Anyway, back to yesterday. He took a deep breath.

“Sad to say, my fellow Americans, our country seems to continue sinking into a hole from which it may never emerge.”

I listened.

“What kind of hole, you ask? That depends on you, fellow citizen. Some call in a ‘hole of despair.’ They see your species adopting attitudes that draw social lines that may never be crossed. ‘Where,’ they say, ‘did civil discourse go?’ We may never know. A species that wears baseball caps on backwards can’t be expected to contemplate complex thoughts, or follow the tenuous paths of reason.”

He looked at me for approval. I nodded and he proceeded.

“Others don’t speak of despair. They sense a moment of triumph. They see our country as being directed by more spiritual forces. The only hole they see affecting America is what they might like to term ‘a glory hole,’ and they praise its promise.”

“Uh.”

He had started to speak again, but stopped. He looked at me and said, “What?”

“I’m not sure I would use the term ‘glory hole’ if I were you.”

“You’re not me, but why? Too religious?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Okay.” He made a note and continued. “We leave our holy-roller friends to their thoughts and continue.”

“Uh.”

He sighed.

I said, “I don’t thing they like to be called ‘holy rollers’ anymore.”

“Well, you can’t please everybody. Let’s continue.” He consulted his notes, assumed his camera-face, took a breath and said. “We lost some more of America’s school children to gun violence this week. That’s getting to be a ‘below the fold’ occurrence in our country. We may stop reporting it entirely, except perhaps in the community news. That would become a sad non-commentary, don’t you think?”

He looked a me. I nodded. Pretty good. He continued.

Oddly, the president of those dead school children refuses to address this whole culture of gun violence. Some of you may think that’s queer.”

He looked at me. I nodded again. He was getting into his groove.

“It’s queer, all right,” he said. “You might say the president is acting as queer …,” he searched for words, “…, let’s say queer as a three-dollar bill.”

I straightened. “Uh.”

“Now what?”

“Not sure I agree with your journalism work there,” I said. “Try a different simile.”

“Why?”

“Because I said to.”

“Okay.” He made a note and continued. “The president’s behavior seems to puzzle nearly everyone these days, everyone that is except the man we journalists who cover government are calling ‘The Walrus.’”

I let that one pass. It seemed to fit.

“We have learned from a trusted source inside the White House that fellow staffers don’t refer to the president’s most trusted advisor as ‘The Walrus’ but as,” I could tell he was undergoing an internal translation, “a small syringe for douching the vagina, especially as a contraceptive measure.”

“Wait,” I said. “Why don’t you just leave out that part?”

“Is there a better translation?”

 

Oh dear. - C.W.

“No, well, yes, but I think it’s best avoided on a formal broadcast.”

“Damn,” he said, making another note. He continued. “Rumor has it that the president, whom most staffers now lovingly refer to as ‘The Cheeto,’ called the Walrus in last week to discuss reports that the Catholic Pope was getting concerned about our warlike actions in the Middle East.”

He made that motion newscasters use when they turn to face another camera. “What, you might ask, was the response from the Walrus? Insiders report this: ‘How many nukes does the Pope have?’ The Cheeto thought that was cute, sources also say.”

In further news, we have learned that the Walrus and the Cheeto have eliminated several governmental functions. One of those was the office of the command center for dealing with disease outbreak. He termed the office, if our sources are correct, ‘As useless as mammary ducts on a boar hog.’ Fox News science expert Sean Hannity agreed, praising the action as ‘draining the area of low-lying, uncultivated ground where water collects.’”

He made the motion of returning to the original camera.

“Now for international news, we regret to inform you of another outbreak of the Ebola virus in Africa.”

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

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419. Fear

If you could only see C.W. in his actual form, it would … it would … well it would put you off your feed, really ruin your appetite. I’ve seen him. Trust me.

Sometimes we go walking early. Real early. Before sunrise. We decided to give it a shot today. Left Head had heard that a lot of people were getting up way before sunrise and he wanted to see what they were doing.

“I think it has something to do,” Right Head said, “with all those male enhancement ads we’ve seen posted in front yards.”

We all looked at him. “What the hell are you talking about?” Middle Head said.

It dawned on me. “I don’t think that is the context indicated by the word ‘arisen’ on those signs,” I said. I explained it to them.

“Oh,” said Right Head.

“Let me ask you something,” Middle Head said.

“Not too complicated,” I said. “Nothing about politics. It’s too early. I can’t even begin to explain current evens this early in the morning.”

Middle Head went silent. “Go ahead and ask him,” Left Head said. “We’re supposed to report on it.”

“Yeah,” Right Head said. “Remember the last time we failed an assignment?”

I remembered. The Falloonian Elders had cut off their supply of a favorite magazine-type transmittal that they love so well. “You,” I said, “didn’t get your feeds of ‘Naughty Triple-Heads,’ for several months.”

“Ask him,” Left Head said to Middle Head. “I need to finish this week’s report.”

“Well,” Middle Head said,” swiveling toward me, “it has to do with this thing so many of your species has about threatening your young children so horribly.”

“We don’t do that,” I said.

All three heads snapped toward me. It scared me a bit. “We love our children,” I said. Then, on further thought I said, “Some individuals love them a little too much, and in the wrong way, but we punish those if we catch them.”

Left Head, shook back and forth, Middle head rolled three of his eyes, and Right Head chuckled in amazement.

“What?” I said.

Middle Head spoke. “Why are all these people getting up so early today?”

“You mean besides us?”

“Precisely.”

“For a religious service,” I said.

“And that service celebrates what?” Left Head said.

“I’ve told you before,” I said. “They celebrate the death and resurrection of a beloved religious figure.”

“Who did what?” Left Head bore down on me.

“Who died for their sins, arose from the dead, and ascended into glory to wait for the true believers.”

“True believers,” Left Head said. Middle Head leaned out toward me. Right Head smirked the way he does when he senses mental carnage about to erupt.

“Yes,” I said, “the true believers will join their leader in a place called ‘paradise.’ They will be with that leader forever, you know: the Galilean. Don’t tell me you don’t know who the Galilean is.”

“We’re not talking about the Galilean,” Middle Head said. “We’re talking about those who claim that they speak directly to him.”

“Yes,” Right Head said, “the Chetedidcherltans,” using a Falloonian term I can’t translate in a family-oriented blog.

“Think about it,” Left Head said. “What do those folks promise to young children who don’t necessarily accept the concept of a person dying, then arising three days later, and wafting away in a cloud? Those kids that might analyze things a bit differently? Those who believe thinking is a free gift and should be enjoyed? What’s in store for them?”

“Hint, hint,” Right Head said, “torment, pain, suffering, flames, fire … am I getting warm?”

Left Head continued. “Why would a civilized and benevolent society implant such primal fear into young minds … images of their little bodies burning in a place called ‘hell’ for thinking about things on their own?”

“Yeah. Why?” Right head said.

 

The true believers have chosen some
strange figures to lead their religion. - C.W.

“Now just stop it,” I said. “We love our young folks. We would never, as a society, wish danger, disparagement, or punishment on them for what they believe or don’t believe.”

The three heads looked at one another in turn. Finally, two of them nodded at Middle Head, and he spoke.

“I don’t think you’ve been paying attention to things lately.”

 I stopped and listened. I swear that, far off in the distance, along Wattensaw Bayou near a place they used to call "the baptizin' hole," I could hear the soft strains of Softly and Tenderly.

Morning Thoughts: Miracles and their use …

C.W. and I were talking …

He noticed I seemed in a pensive mood and offered his normal sympathetic entree, “What’s eating you, Big Dope?”

I explained that I was thinking of topographic maps. That puzzled him. Those are maps used in my profession that show representations of ground relief, usually using contour lines. The best and most expensive are prepared by professional surveyors.

The cheap ones can be assembled from topographic maps prepared by the United States Geological Survey. That’s what we did years ago. I spent many a day or two, in my early career as an urban planner, assembling such maps for a specific property, city, or region. It involved multiple trips, sometimes, to agencies, photographers, and printers. The final result was a taped-up affair presented to a draftsperson for use in a project.

He wanted to know why I was thinking about it.

I told him, “current times.”

“Current times?”

“Yep. Want to know what it takes to produced such a map today?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Maybe half-dozen punches on a computer keyboard.”

“So?”

“That’s just a personal example of the miracles of the digital age and for what marvelous things a computer may be used.”

“Why does that bother you?”

I pointed to my computer screen. He looked. There, on a social media website, someone had accused one of his dear friends of being a baby-killing cult member because of his socio-political view of the world. The time-stamp indicated a point well into evening “drink time.”

"How long do you think it took to develop that friendship?"

He thought before he spoke, a bit unusual for him. "Maybe years. Many years."

"How long to produce such anger?"

He thought long and hard this time. "A year or so, if one watches the right TV networks and listens to the right radio stations. Some of the churches your species has produced could speed the process. Hours on hours of concentrated effort might shorten it to months."

"And this posting?" I pointed to the message on my computer screen again.

“That only took one punch on a computer keyboard,” He said.

It takes eons of love to built a city.
Hate can destroy one in days. - C.W.

342. Realities

“Hey,” I said, “wake up.”

“Grnmmpt.”

“Wake up. It’s almost noon.”

C.W. was asleep in my favorite chair in the shape of Wrangler Bill. He wore dark clothing and had a broad-brimmed Stetson hat in his lap. Imagine a cross between “The Gambler” and a carnival barker. He had been snoring with loud grunts when I walked in. Now he opened one eye in partial wakefulness. “Screw you,” he said.

“You’re going to think screw you if my wife catches you tossing cookies to her dogs again. She said she counted ten separate piles of crumbs on the kitchen floor.”

He opened the other eye. “Mrs. Big Dope’s problem,” he said, “is that she is still stuck in a reality-based world that doesn’t exist anymore.”

I stepped closer to him. “Now where did you learn that phrase?”

“On TV,” said. “Ask Sean Hannity. Sean Hannity knows. Sean Hannity, Sean Ha…”

He drifted off to sleep again. His hat slid off his lap and onto the floor. I picked it up and swatted him the face with it. “Wake up,” I said. “She’s coming back soon. Do you have that ten dollars you borrowed from her?”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’ll trickle down.”

“It will what?”

“It will trickle down to her,” he said. “Or at least it would if there were no taxes.”

“No what?”

“Taxes. If we didn’t have to, well …,” he stopped or a moment, “if you didn’t have to pay taxes, the ten dollars would be back in her hand in days.”

“Where did you hear such an idea?”

“At the Libertarians’ Club meeting I attended last night.”

“You told her you would pay her back today.”

“I never said that.”

“You said that. I heard you.”

“I never said that.”

“We both heard you say it.”

“I never said that.”

“I think she will agree with me.”

“Sure she will,” he said. “You’re both liberals … all bound up and constrained by facts.”

“The fact is,” I said, “she will make you regret it if you don’t pay her back.”

“I have a detailed proposal for doing or achieving something.,” he said.

“A what?” Then I thought. “Do you mean you have a plan?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Your Galactic Universal Translator needs adjusting again.”

“My GUT is fine,” said. “I have the best GUT in the country. Everyone admires my GUT.”

“But what kind of plan do you have to pay your debts?”

Using this man for validity would
 be like using  Bernie Madoff for

 financial advice if you ask me. - C.W.

“A great plan,” he said. “It will be the greatest plan you ever saw.”

“That’s what you told me when you promised to clean your room and didn’t.”

“I never said that.”

“I’ll tell you what.” I said.

“What?”

“My wife has plans to deal with people, and that includes you, who don’t operate in a fact-based world.”

“I have a plan to deal with Mrs. Big Dope,” he said. “And it is a great plan.”

“Really? What’s the plan?”

“The same one I use to deal with all women.”

“And that is?”

“I just look them in the eye and grab their …”

“Shut up,” I said. “Stop. Not another word.”

“Hand,” he said, “then I tell them to trust me. It works every time.”

“You disgust me,” I said and turned away. The back door opened and I heard a female voice.’’

“Do you have the money you owe me?” it said.

“Yes I do,” C.W. yelled toward the voice. “I gave it to Big Dope to give to you.”

I swirled around, but he had vanished.

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334. Feelings

“Got a minute?”

I looked up. There was a favorite character that C.W. loved to shape himself into: Reggie the Young Conservative. Given the events of the last couple of months, this might be interesting. “Sure,” I said. “Have a seat.” I laid my book on a side table as he took a seat in front of me. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been to a party conference,” he said, straightening his bow tie.

That didn’t surprise me. He has been known to infiltrate all sorts of gatherings due to his ability to adapt his shape to the needs of the hour. I asked, “What type of conference?”

“A policy conference. We’re finalizing our platform policies for the big election.”

I knew what he wanted but I decided to play it coy. “That’s nice,” I said.

He fidgeted and opened a notebook he had carried in with him. When I didn’t respond, he said. “Wouldn’t you like to hear them?”

“Oh,” I said, “of course,” as if I had realized what he was up to for the first time. He gave me a dirty look.

“They’re great,” he said as he opened the notebook. “They’ll produce a landslide for us without a doubt.”

“That’s nice,” I said.

“Ready?”

I nodded.

“Number One,” he said. “Anger.”

“What?”

“You heard me … anger. Don’t you know what anger is.” He looked confused. “Think of Mrs. Big Dope.”

“I know what anger is,” I said. “I’ve just never thought of it as a political party platform.”

“You’re stuck in the past,” he said. “Number Two,” he looked to see my reaction. “Resentment.”

“Resentment of what?”

“Not what,” he said. “Whom.”

“Then whom?”

“People who don’t normally vote for our party.”

I groaned. “C.W. …”

“Reggie,” he said.

“Reggie,” I said. “Resentment is not a policy.”

“Three,” he said, “Paranoia.”

“Would you stop this? I get your joke. It scares me but I get it.”

“What joke? Number Four, Science …”

“Now,” I said. “That’s better. The advancement and support of science would be a great party platform."

“Is evil,” he said. “Number Five. Education ...”

“Well at least you are on the right track there. We need a better educational system for all.”

“Is unnecessary,” he said. “Number Six, Faith.”

“There you go again,” I said. “Faith in what?”

He gave me his best ‘dumb question’ look. “The Party first, guns second, exceptionalism third, and religion fourth.” He stopped and checked a note. “The right religion of course. Number Seven, Fear.”

Now that's the look we want on the face
of the voter at the November elections. - C.W.

“What do you mean? Fear is not a policy.”

“A policy is what makes a person vote your way, isn’t it? Shouldn’t it move people to action?”

“Well I don’t know …”

Just then, we heard a loud female voice from the kitchen. “Get in here right now,” it shouted. I rose and started hurrying in that direction.

He watched me, smiling, and I heard him making a note to himself as I left. “Move fear up to Number One,” he said.

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326. Anger

C.W. was scowling, muttering under his breath, and punching the keyboard of my computer like it was his opponent’s chest in a professional wrestling commercial. “And who knows what part Obama may have played in this?” he said in a growl. “You can bet he was in on it.”

“What the?” I said. He was as close to the shape of a famous “hate-television” personality as you could get, complete with half-glasses and floppy cheeks that shook each time he spoke. Some drool was dripping toward his chin. I looked at him and shook my head. “Would you mind telling me what you are doing?”

“Traitors,” he said into the laptop, ignoring me completely. “Takers. They probably want her to die.”

“Stop it,” I said. “You’re going to damage my computer.”

“Liberal press,” said, punching again. He finally acknowledged my presence with a scowl. “They all ought to be hauled out for Second Amendment justice.” He typed again with a greater vengeance.

“Would you calm down,” I said, “and tell be what is going on”

He read over what he had written on the screen and jabbed at the keyboard once more. I assumed it was a “send” command as he then turned to me and smiled. “Good morning,” he said, closing the laptop. He motioned toward the couch. “Sit.”

“I don’t suppose,” I said, “that there is any possibility you might tell me what’s up?”

“Sermon on the Mount good deed work,” he said. I just stared, and he continued. “You know the young daughter of that poor family down the highway,” he said, “the one scheduled to start college in the fall?

“That sweet child, Brittany?”

“Herself.”

“What about her?”

“She’s in the hospital.”

“No,” I said. “What happened?”

“Car hit her while she was jogging. Broke her leg.”

“Oh no. Will she be okay?”

“Eventually,” he said. “If we can round up enough money to pay her bills.” He smiled. “That’s what I’m doing.”

“Say what?”

“I’m posting with your contacts, getting them to donate money to one of those fund-donating sites, to help Brittany get well and head off to college on time.”

“You what?”

“It was Mrs. Big Dope’s idea.”

“Explanation please.”

“Don’t you remember when she told me to get out her sight and do something for the good of society, like drowning myself?”

I thought, “Which time are you talking about?”

“The most recent,” he said. “But I decided not to do that.”

“Obviously,” I said. I began to see where this was going. “So you decided to …?”

“Help the poor in spirit, the needy, the righteous even. Brittany sure fits that description, right?”

“So you’re telling me,” I said, “that’s what you were doing when I came in?”

“Of course,” he said.

“But you were muttering and screaming and even drooling in anger?”

“Silly boy,” he said. “What do you think sells in America today?” Before I could speak, he answered for me. “Anger,” he said. “Anger and fear. Oh, and don’t forget … greed.”

“You’re … you’re … you’re … uh crazy,” I said, sputtering as I did.

“I’m not a member of the species from which fifty million of its members have voted for someone who has been described as “… a pathological liar, peddler of vile racist, misogynist, xenophobic ravings and [a] sneering trampler of our most fundamental American values.”

Our hero and the founder of our style
of spreading love and goodness. - C.W.

That rendered me speechless. He continued, “And those are considered good points by his supporters.”

Taking a deep breath, I said. “So you decided to do good by doing evil yourself?”

“Hate sells,” he said, “and Brittany needs help. “Excuse me a moment,” he said. “Had an idea.” He picked up a notepad and pencil. Then, reverting back to his “hate purveyor” form, he wrote, muttering as he jabbed his pencil into the paper, “Hate that chocolate-brown president of ours as much as I do? Then let’s ruin his day by helping a little white girl.” He looked up and started to say something, but then had a thought. “Oh,” he said, writing, “and a Christian one at that.” He looked at me and smiled. “See how easy it is?”

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304: Truth

“It seems to me a person with an imagination could make a lot of money.”

“So,” I said, “you have an imagination?”

“Quite so.” C.W. was walking with me in the snow that had fallen overnight. He resembled the late actor and comedian Robin Williams as he stepped gingerly in the five-inch layer of white. “I can think things up with the best of them.”

“What sort of things?” We exited a wooded area and turned onto a country lane offering a pleasant vista of snow-covered branches arching over a straight path that seemed to lead somewhere peaceful.

“Things for the news to report.”

“Made up things?”

“Sure. That’s what sells,” he said, stepping over a fallen limb.

“Made up things sell?”

“Your media doesn’t seem that obsessed wth accuracy these days.”

“So you make things up, they report, and the people abide.”

“Pretty much so.”

“You will invent ‘facts’ and sell them to the press?”

“Ya got that right, Pilgrim,” he said, trying to mimic John Wayne.”

“Give me an example.”

“Let’s see,” he said. “Something really ridiculous. Hmmm. We could sell them a proven fact that every time taxes have been cut in your country, tax revenues have increased.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“What?”

“That’s been done. In fact, that fantasy news channel runs that almost every day.”

“Drats.”

We walked in silence for a while, enjoying the solitude. Then he broke in. “How’s this? I read where the taxes in your country rank 26^th out of the 30 countries in the world-wide Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development. Let’s sell the fantasy that your taxes are the highest in the world.”

“You haven’t been paying attention, have you?”

“Been done already?”

“Every night on fantasy news.”

“Drats.” He brightened. “Iraq bombed the World Trade towers.”

“Done.”

“I know,” he said. “We’ll pick out a decorated war veteran and say he was a coward.”

“Have you ever heard of John Kerry?”

“Who?”

“Let’s just say that has been done already as well.”

“Drats.”

“Look,” I said. “I’m not sure this is a good idea. I don’t think you could get rich making things up for the news.”

“Bill O’Reilly has.”

He had me stumped there. I suggested we walk back to the farmhouse and that he let me offer him some proof. We chatted about other things. He was curious about the vast differences in the price of vodka in the U.S., given the fact that import standards require that it be pure, odorless, and tasteless. We were still discussing the field of marketing when we arrived home. “You mean,” he said, “that a chemical compound like bleach, that only exists in one form—a single, specific chemical compound—can be marketed for different prices?”

Words are like some of your politicians
and professionals I could name. For enough
money, they'll do anything you want. - C.W.

“Welcome to America,” I said.

“But if you alter the composition by one atom, it’s no longer bleach,” he said. “Everyone knows that.”

“Apparently we don’t” I said. “Check next time we go to the supermarket.”

“What do you have to show me?” he said, slumping in a chair.

I retrieved a stack on news clippings I had been saving and began showing them to him. I began with one claiming that residents of Colorado were buying marijuana with food stamps. Then one asserting that a U.S. Senator lost his family’s health insurance because of the Affordable Health Care Act. He read them carefully. Once, he looked up at me. “But the President of the United States was born in Hawaii,” he said. “Isn’t that one of your states?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “But who cares?” Then he saw a claim by a woman whose son had beat his wife and threatened her with a rifle.

“No,” he said. “She’s not claiming that the President made him do it?”

I said nothing. He handed the clipping back with a downcast look.

“You may be right,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t make up stuff like this.”

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232. Scripts

“Be quiet,” he said. “I’m working on a script.”

“C.W.,” I said, “What the …”

“I told you no talking,” said. He scribbled on a writing tablet with a blue ballpoint pen. After a moment, he, with a great flourish, added a period, looked up at me, and said, “There.”

I know I had seen that face before. It came to me—Rod Serling.

“Mind telling me what’s up?”

“Simple,” he said. “Do you remember all those TV shows we watched while your species was dwelling on the upcoming calendrical units based on the time the earth takes to revolve once around the sun?”

“New Year’s?”

“Exactly.”

“Let me remind you again,” I said, “you need to get your Galactic Universal Translator re-calibrated.”

“My GUT is fine,” he said. “I trust it.”

“That’s what a recent president said. You see where that got us.”

He cocked his head to one side and thought. Then he looked at me. “You want to hear this or not?”

“Okay,” I said, and took a seat opposite him in our living room.

“You know how much I enjoyed those “Twilight Zone” shows, remember?”

“I do,” I said, “but are they really, as you say, the most accurate portrayal of our Galaxy ever filmed?”

“Pretty much,” he said. “See what you have to look directed or facing toward the front or the direction that one is facing or traveling to?”

“I think looking forward to such a future may not seem that pleasant to us,” I said.

“Well think again,” he said. “I’m going to revive the series in a modern setting.”

I groaned.

“No really,” he said. “I’ve written my first script.” He held the writing tablet in front of me. In large block letters on the top sheet he had written, “Episode One: The Day of Oneness.”

I nodded. “Want to explain?”

“Sure,” he said. “Remember how a common theme in the old series was for the main character to wake up in a parallel universe?”

“Like the bigot who woke up in Nazi Germany?”

“You get the picture,” he said. “In this episode, the protagonist lives in a ‘time in the evening when the sun disappears or daylight fades towns.’”

“A ‘sundown’ town?”

“You don’t have to repeat everything I say,” he said. “Now why do people live in towns like that?”

“Uh,” I said, “So they can live with other people exactly like themselves?”

“And?” He leaned back like a teacher pressing for the rest of the answer.

“They don’t like people of different colored skin?”

“Aren’t you the bright one? “he said. “Now,” he flipped the page. “Our hero wakes up one morning and the entire homo sapiens species suddenly has the same skin color.”

“White?”

“Well, not exactly,” he said. “More of a very dark olive skin tone. Everyone thinks that is the best, don’t they?”

I thought, “I reckon, at least judging by the popularity of tanning booths.”

“So,” he says, “with everyone’s skin color the same, his world changes.”

“How so?”

“First, everyone leaves town and his home is now worthless.”

“Uh,” I said, thinking this over.

“It was a dismal place to live,” he said, “except for the fact they didn’t allow off-colored residents and the school kids were all white.”

“Okay,” I said. “Go on.”

“His favorite TV and radio shows go off the air.”

Again, I thought about this. “Hate goes out of business?”

“Now you get the picture.” His face framed an almost evil grin. “Then he loses his job.”

“Why is that?”

“Why do you think?”

It came clear. “The merit system kicks in?”

“I’m turning you into a genius,” he said. “So what do you think happens next?”

“I have no idea.”

“His daughter starts dating a star basketball player.”

“And?”

He frowned. “Think about it.”

I did. “Oh,” I said. “He’s pretty sure that … at least there is a pretty good chance that, … odds are that …”

He completed the thought for me. “The kid had been identifiable as an African-American before the changeover.”

“Oh, dear.”

“And we haven’t even gotten to the part where his son brings a new friend home.”

This man learned so much from
his visits around the Galaxy. - C.W.

“C.W.,” I said, “I think you may be on to something here.”

“Thanks,” he said. He lit a cigarette, and said, “Now get out. I have to work on my next idea.”

“And it is?”

“The country passes a tax that does away with inherited wealth. Each child in your country is provided a good education and a first job. Then they all start out equal.”

“Will you call it The Death Tax?”

He looked at me as though I had just asked if the Tooth Fairy really existed. “Why no,” he said. “I’ll call it The Lucky Sperm Tax.”

Click an ad and help my career. - C.W.
And see also:
www.wattensawpress.com
www.deltadreaming.blogspot.com

213. Eats

“A what?”

“A restaurant.”

“C.W., you don’t know anything about running a restaurant.” This idea was silly even by C.W.’s standards. He stood before me as the Gailard Sartain character from the TV show “Hee Haw.” You remember, the dirty, fat, greasy spoon cook. Well, want to guess what his latest adventure would be? Let him tell you.

“A dining experience for the independent-minded.”

“Independent-minded?”

“Yep.”

“Independent … as in?”

“As in, ain’t no liberal doctor gonna tell me what’s good for me.”

I said, “Oh, I see. And the name will be?”

“C.W.’s Lard Palace.”

That’s when the enormity of his dreaming hit me. “Oh, my. You have gone over the edge for sure.”

“That’s right. I got the idea from a place out in Las Vegas.”

“The Las Vegas that is ‘the rational behavior capitol of the universe?'”

“That’s the one. A place there features a sandwich that has a mere, 10,000 calories. My ‘Lard-fried Cheesecake Sundae’ will top that easily.”

And how will you get word out for this, … this, …this, ‘assisted suicide palace’ may I ask?”

“Fox ‘News’ and Rush Limbaugh of course. They’ve offered a free introductory ad already if I’ll …”

“If you’ll what.”

“I’d rather not say right now … corporate secrets and all that.”

“C.W., what are you up to?”

“You won’t tell?”

“I’m embarrassed enough just listening. No, I won’t tell.”

“They think that they can trick First Lady Michelle Obama into making a discouraging comment about the fare.”

“And?”

“They’ll run her comments nonstop.”

“And?”

“We won’t be able to handle the crowds.” He looked at me with some element of pity. “Say,” he said, “you don’t know anything about marketing to the simple-minded, do you?”

“I don’t suppose I do.”

“Just think about the appeal of ‘Michelle’s Mountain.’”

“Michelle’s Mountain?”

“Yep, Michelle’s Mountain.”

“And that will be?”

“A gallon of fries cooked in lard, covered with fried cheese strips, and served in a bucket with a picture of old Michelle Obama done up as ‘Aunt Jemima’ saying ‘Now don’t you dare eat these, honey,” on the side of it.”

“Oh my god.”

“Sean Hannity almost fell out laughing when I told him about it.”

“I can imagine he did.”

“But we will have healthier fare.”

“Such as?”

“One I call the ‘Surgeon General’s Salad,’ and is it tasty.”

“I can’t imagine what it would be.”

“Oh, it’s like a regular salad except all the ingredients are …”

“Let me guess,” I said. “They are fried in …”

Ain't your taste buds tingling already? - C.W.

“Lard,” he said. “Exactly. They’ve already requested that it be on the menu at the next NRA convention.”

“C.W.,” I said, “I think there is something I should tell you.”

“What? That I have found the secret to all the riches I need, plus that new computer I’m wanting?”

“No,” I said, “that I have read about the source of your inspiration and people are dying from eating there.”

He sighed as if I had just announced that the moon is made of molded bologna. “Don’t you see? That is what will make this place have universal appeal. You ‘rationalaholics’ will love it.”

“How in the world would a place that serves fat-saturated and cholesterol-enriched food to overweight and gluttonous people appeal to a rational person?”

He shrugged. “Well it would improve the gene pool.”

 

Click on an ad. I need that new computer more than ever.

And check out www.wattensawpress.com

- C.W.

Monday News

Dear Friends and Followers:
I found this on Big Dope's Computer Journal this morning and stole it.

What’s happening on Monday?
 

- Mike Huckabee says there is sometimes more freedom in North Korea than in America.
- Sean Hannity, the Koch Brothers, Fox News, and the Teabaggers are encouraging open rebellion against the United States in defense of a man who doesn’t recognize the validity of our country.
- Television stations in Oklahoma are editing out portions of Cosmos because “it is causing demonic possession of young children.”
- The Waltons, their rich friends, Jeb Bush, and the editorial staff of the Arkansas Democrat Gazette want to do away with public schools.
- A white supremacist nut job murders three Jewish people and nobody makes the connection with hate radio. 
I am very afraid, not for myself—for my “use module” is nearing the end of its depreciation cycle—but for the children and grandchildren of my friends. And for my country that I took an oath to defend.
I am also confused. The current agitations are being fomented by those who already have everything. What else could they need? Or want?
Finally, I am bemused by the adage that life imitates art. We are well into George Orwell’s "1984" and are heading, it seems to me, for H.G.Well’s “The Time Machine” in which the world is occupied by the the dark Morlocks and guileless Eloi. There is also Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaiden’s Tale” in which women exist only for service.
Of course, TV news has become exactly as depicted in the 1976 movie “Network.”
I don’t think it will all come to pass for I believe, as David Simon does, that the bricks will start flying before then.

I just hope that too many innocents aren’t harmed or killed by them.

 

The time to be afraid is when the dancing stops. - C.W.

 

The Blues

Dear Friends and Followers: I found Big Dope asleep at this computer this morning and the following was on it. I snuck in beside him and posted it before he woke up. Enjoy!

 I recall a man I worked with on my first full time day job as “filling-station” attendant. His name, I seem to remember, was Calvin and he was probably in his thirties with a family. His job was washing cars. He didn’t own one himself. He walked home and back for dinner (lunch) and one day he was five minutes late getting back, so the boss, a real Arkansas a**hole, fired him. Being late was just an excuse. The real reason? He was “uppity.” Didn’t show proper respect for his “betters.” I’ve never been able to erase the sight of him as he walked back toward home with his hands in his pockets and his head sunk into his shoulders.

I don’t imagine Calvin ever sang the blues. A person could get fired for doing that as well.

I also recall the “cotton-choppers” that traded at my father’s little country grocery store. A truck with a covered bed would pick them up before daylight to take them to the fields. They would stop at our store and buy food to eat at noon. Then, after chopping all day, they would stop back by after dark and get something for supper and, if there was enough money left, breakfast.

This went on until the crops were laid by. I don’t know what they did for food until it was time to pick the cotton.

I’ll admit I never heard them sing the blues. I never heard them sing at all. They were too tired.

I do know that I have heard stories about this farmer and that one who would “short” them on pay and laugh about it for the victims had no recourse for justice. Maybe they did sing the blues in the quiet and safety of their own homes.

I also know they led a wretched, oppressed life in which they couldn’t drink from a white water fountain, use a public restroom, send their children to a decent school, or—oftentimes—vote.

From what I understand, it must have been
those poor black folks up north that sang
 the blues. Those in the south were happy
 with their lot. Saw that on Fox News. - C.W.

I do know that anyone who would believe they chose such a life would be ignorant enough to believe that we choose our sexuality, or that we should be either rewarded or punished for it.

I do know that these experiences caused me to try to lead a life that would attend to the poor in spirit and the downtrodden and to be wary of those who worship riches too much, whether they be hedge-fund managers, corporate executives, or televangelists. I’ve also remained aware of the many unearned benefits resulting from enough northern-European DNA to have me classified as “Caucasian.”

 

Maybe that’s why I don’t watch reality TV shows about rednecks. Nor do I pay much attention to what they say or think, unless they say something that is really, really, stupid. Then it makes me remember all the Calvins I have known. All the a**holes, too.

180. Alternatives

As funny as it may sound, I find myself worrying about C.W. from time to time, like yesterday. I was minding my own business reading a magazine when a lone figure walks in, plops down on the couch, and folds his hands in his lap. It is a man of indeterminate age, casually dressed in a flannel shirt, rumpled khaki pants, and running shoes. His eyes formed two lifeless orbs that seem to watch something far away, something that he really wasn’t quite certain existed.

“Don’t make sense to me,” he said, without looking at me.

I said, “C.W.?”

He said, “I just don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“Why you people can’t see the truth.”

“What truth?”

“You know,” he said, turning toward me with no expression. “what they teach us on TV.”

I said, “Have you been watching Fox News again?”

“Haven’t you?”

“Uh, no,” I said.

“How do you keep up with current problems? For example, why is your species so concerned about the color of a person’s skin?”

I said, “Did they actually ask that on Fox News?”

“It is a choice,” he said. “A simple choice.”

“A what?”

“It is a lifestyle choice,” he said. “If a person chooses to have black skin, they shouldn’t be upset when they learn that Santa Claus is white.”

There are times when, as the young boy said when he fell into the molasses barrel, my tongue is not equal to the task. I simply stared as he continued.

“Some people want us to change our ways to fit them that choose other paths. It just ain’t right.”

“Us? Who is ‘us’”?

“You know,” he said, “the decent folks. Job creators, true believers, them that holds to traditional family values—the ones that want to save America from the dark forces. I’m talking about the ones that make the right choices in life.”

“White people?”

“That's always a good choice.”

“Males?”

“That helps. We do have some folks that choose to be wise women. Take Sarah Palin for example.” For the first time his face took on some expression. He smiled, winked, and made a clicking sound. “What a gal.”

If a person doesn't exist, does the color
of their skin really matter? - C.W.

I ignored him and continued. “Born right here in America?”

“Where else would you choose to be born?” He turned slowly and stared away again. Then he turned back and looked at me. “Say,” he said, “you ain’t one of them that believes in accepting makers of bad choices.”

“Oh no,” I said, playing along.

He seemed to brighten. “Good, he said, “come on, the Sean Hannity Show is about to start.” He stood, made a slow right face, and began to shuffle toward the door, still staring ahead blankly.