420. Friends

 Brief post this morning. C.W. has gone missing. No reason for alarm, or joy, or relief. I suspect he is with my wife. Almost certainly.

Now don’t let your imagination run wild. I may be guilty of having mislead you in the past. I may have implied that C.W. and my wife may never get along too well. That’s not exactly true. He does annoy her at times, but she is not above using him for escort services when I’m not available.

Not that kind of escort services.

It’s this way. My wife likes to screw with the heads of people in Arkansas. It’s her way of getting back at them for electing the two people we have to call our Senators these days. It may be a little cruel, but, if it brings her joy, I’ll not deny her the pleasure.

Besides, said senators are a couple of reprehensible lemmings. But that’s for another day.

Today, just let me explain that her periodic urges for fellowship have to do with C.W.’s ability to shift shapes at will. And if he is in trouble for some malfeasance or other, he’ll agree to do it for her.

Here’s the deal and how it includes C.W. Let’s just say that he's not above shaping to please, and

This shape pains me considerably.
But I'll do it for Mrs. Big Dope. - C.W.

- She would walk down any Main Street in America with Steven Tyler,

- She would walk into any sleazy bar in the South with Billy Gibbons, and

- She would walk through Times Square in New York City with her head held high if Matthew McConaughey walked by her side.

So, I’m not sure where either my wife or C.W. are this morning, but if you see a cute little number walking through your local Walmart alongside Harrison Ford, just nod and walk on by.

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.

408: Gifts For Politicians

C.W. as what? You would never guess.

A clown. Yep. He waddled in wearing those big floppy shoes that clowns wear. He eased across the floor, feet flopping like a couple of beached groupers. Lip makeup covered half his face and orange hair sprouted in all directions from his face. His attire was equal to the task.

“What the …?”

“Greetings Earthling,” he said. “Did you hear the one about the preacher who got confused and told his youth congregation to go all the way for Je …”

“Wait. What’s going on here?”

“Then he called for the hymn, ‘Oh Why Not Tonight? to be followed by the first and last verses of ‘Almost Persuaded.’”

“Stop it,” I said, stifling a guffaw. “Can you tell me what’s up?”

“They say the congregation had nearly doubled within a year.”

“Will you stop? That’s not funny.” But I was laughing so he paid no mind. “What is going on?”

“I’m ready to make an ad for our new business.”

“What new business?”

“Gifts Reviving Ornery Politicians Everywhere.”

“Say what?”

“Our motto is ‘Don’t mope. Grope.’ Catchy huh?”

“You’re going to have to explain this to me.”

“It’s as simple teaching a dog to sing,” he said. “And you don’t need the whip and wienies.” He laughed. So did I.

“I’m confused.”

“Have you noticed,” he said, “how sour and heinous so many politicians are these days?”

“Well, …, come to think of it, yes.”

“What kind of laws do they make when they are ‘in the mood’ so to speak?”

“Not good ones.”

“What kind of things do they say when they aren’t happy?”

“Mean and spiteful?”

“So what’s the solution?”

“Beats me.”

“Ah,” he said. “It’s time for them to GROPE. Imagine you have a senator who wants to invade some country simply because it’s there and he’s a sourpuss.”

“I think we have one of those.”

“Bingo! So here we go. You just send off to our company and buy a gift for him, one complete with our logo and a note saying ‘Have a happy GROPE,’ and watch the change.”

“Our company?”

“We’ll get to that later. Now what gift to we send to said senator?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“A banjo, stupid. It’s a scientific fact that one cannot frown, think evil thoughts, and play the banjo at the same time.”

I nodded, and an image of John Agar and movie monsters came to mind. “It just might work.”

“For tough cases we’ll switch to accordions, Myron Floren-sized accordions.” I chuckled at the thought.

He continued. “Can you imagine Trey Gowdy wanting to persecute someone while he’s playing “Lady of Spain?”

I had to agree. “He wouldn’t even want to go after Hillary again.”

“Correctamundo. Now, imagine that we had a president who hated everyone who wasn’t related to him or had loaned him money.”

“That’s not hard to do.”

“Well, teaching him to GROPE is the answer, by jingo.”

“He might already know." I smiled, but C.W. didn't. "Anyway, go ahead. How so?”

“Ain’t you never heard of a ‘whoopee cushion’ dear boy?”

This one made me laugh just thinking about it. “That just might keep us from becoming a third-world country.”

“A what kind of country?”

“Never mind. You have my attention. Go on.”

“Suppose some dour evangelist, say the son of a famous preacher even, decides to become a spokesman for some political party and starts advocating divisiveness and hatred toward the other party.”

“That could happen for sure.”

 

Happy politicians make better laws. - C.W.

“How’s he going to look after he begins to GROPE?”

“How?”

“Can you imagine preaching hatred while you are tap dancing?”

“Oh stop it.” It took a moment to get the image out of my head, but I finally stopped laughing.

He took on a serious look, or at least as serious as could imagine in his current shape. “We’ll have some subsidiary products for victims of politicians as well.”

“How so?”

“Have you ever had to suffer Fox ‘news’ on the telly while you are in a waiting room and you can’t find the remote?”

“Oh yes. That’s why I carry ear plugs.”

“Some pals from Falloonia have developed something better for that—an app.”

“What does it do, change the channel?”

“Oh, better than that.”

“How?”

“It’s called a ‘Remotely Activated Fart Transmittal.’ Can you imagine RAFT’ing a vice-president while he’s in the middle of denouncing someone?”

This time I couldn’t stop. He kept on, but my cackling drowned him out and I couldn’t see him through my tears.

I gained a moment’s composure. “We’ll call it ‘Penceification’ and make a fortune.”

This cracked us both up.


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 makes him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

380. Dancing

“Just what the hell is going on in this country?”

C.W. sometimes asks me questions to which I don’t have an easy answer. He did this just the other day. We were walking, he and I, in our favorite park in Little Rock, along the river. He was in a form quite similar to the title character from Zorba the Greek, the book by Nikos Kazantzakis. He actually had transformed himself into a fair resemblance to Anthony Quinn, who played the Greek in the movie.

Anyway, he had just asked me a tough question, and I was still forming what I thought was a satisfactory, if not sufficient, answer. I answered carefully.

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Then what's the use of all your damn books if they can't answer that?” he said, borrowing a line from the book and, later, the film.

I thought hard again. After all, my job is to explain America to him, at least explain my little postage-stamp portion of America. I concentrated hard on an appropriate response.

“I don’t know.”

He raised a hand in exasperation, just in time to make a bicyclist veer sharply, lose control, and rush down an embankment into the Arkansas River.

He slapped his knee. “Hey boss, did you ever see a more splendiferous crash?’

I was glad to get his mind off other questions, but a little anxious to move on. I motioned us ahead. We walked on for a minute before he spoke again.

“Splendiferous crash,” he said, repeating the phrase. “Hey,” he said, “let’s get in your truck and go knock over something silly.”

“I think that it might not be funny if we did it. We could get in serious trouble.”

He turned and glared at me. “Life is trouble. Only death is not. To be alive is to undo your belt and look for trouble.” It was at this point that I realized he had, indeed, been reading Kazantzakis and was jacking me around.

“Since you have obviously been reading,” I said, “have you ever heard of John le Carré?”

“Who hasn’t?” he said. What about him?”

“He said, in 2003, as we were preparing to bomb Baghdad, ‘America has entered one of its periods of historical madness.’ So, this isn’t the first time that we have gone mad, as a country. Maybe the worst, but not the first.”

“You know,” he said, “a man needs a little madness, but for a country, it can be fatal, this madness.”

“I suppose so.”

“Speaking of madness,” he said. “I met a couple of women while you were in the restroom.”

“And?”

“They are looking for some fun. They even told me what hotel they were staying at.”

“I’m married,” I said. “Or don’t you remember?”

“You could just watch and take notes for your next novel. Why not unloosen your belt and look for trouble?”

“Why don’t we just keep discussing politics. Have you read the latest postings our president has put on the internet? Most people have forgotten about the fall of the Ten Commandments in our city, and are laughing about those tweets, now.”

“I’ll bet that man doesn’t even like dolphins,” he said. The he returned to the other subject. “About those women … .”

“I said no.”

“Don’t you believe in God? Can’t you imagine a hell with a special place for the politicians who are ruining your country?”

I didn’t answer, so he took my silence for an affirmation of faith.

“Well,” he said, “God has a very big heart but there is one sin he will not forgive: if a woman calls a man to her bed and he will not go.”

I feverously searched my brain for a logical refutation.

“Shut up,” I said.

Then he began to dance. Out across the grassy area of the park he pranced, swirled, and bowed. Then he pointed to the sky and clapped his hands to a rhythm only he heard. I spun around to head the opposite direction and nearly collided with a jogger.

It was the junior U.S. Senator from our state. He stopped, looked at C.W., and then stared at me.

 

A sure way to overcome madness. - C.W.

“What is that man doing?

“I think he’s dancing, sir, I said.

“Why don’t you make him stop?”

I’d had about enough by this time. I don’t even know what came over me. I said, “Why don’t you do a better job taking care of our country?”

“Why don’t you contact my office if you have a complaint about the way I do business?”

I guess it was the influence of C.W., memories of Zorba, or thought of collective insanity, but an appropriate response to both questions popped into my head this time. I answered before I realized it.

“On a deaf man's door, you can knock forever.”

He stiffened. “I order you to make him stop.”

“No,” I said, unloosening my belt, “I’m going to let him teach me to dance.”

See also:

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

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.

316. Confusion

C.W. walked in to where I was writing and plopped into a chair. I looked up and saw what appeared to be one of those pundits they bring on television news to explain the inexplicable. He was dressed as a Lt. Colonel of the Army, so I guessed he was supposed to be “our military affairs” expert. Yes, they often forget that a Lt. Colonel (Ret.) is someone who never made it “to the Boardroom” as they say. Anyway …

“What do people mean,” he said, “when they refer to “Bible-humping?”

“Say what?”

“Bible-humping,” he said. “Are they referring to the antics of King David, or maybe those randy Corinthians?”

“Say what?”

“I read your Bible,” he said. “Maybe they were talking about King Solomon. Now there was a dude that liked women.” He thought. “Or maybe pomegranates, or breasts, or both. Whichever way, he had a real case of it.”

“Bible-humping?”

His head snapped with a slight motion as if he hated to leave an image. “That’s what I said.”

I hit “Control-S” on my computer and leaned back. A mental door opened and a thought emerged. “Do you,” I said, “by any chance mean “Bible-thumping?’”

He had been on the verge of saying something, but this stopped him cold. He thought. "It’s her again,” he said, his eyes reverting to a cold gleam.

“You’ve been listening to your Galactic Universal Translator, haven’t you?”

“My GUT is fine,” he said, “but someone has been hacking into the updates they forward from my home planet.”

“Oh,” I said, knowing it came out sounding a little weak.

“How do you stay married to her?” he said.

“Well,” I said, “for one thing I don’t come to the door, when she’s alone, in the shape of one of her old boyfriends.”

“She shouldn’t have kept his picture and showed it to me,” he said.

“She showed you the picture of one of her old boyfriends?”

He shrugged. “Sort of.”

“What do you mean, sort of?”

“I, uh, more or less came across it.”

“Were you going through her stuff again?”

“Collecting valuable data," he said. “That’s all I was doing … research.”

“You weren’t wearing her things, were you? We’ve talked about that.”

“Know what she said?” he asked, ignoring me.

I persevered. “Were you?”

“She said, ‘Now you can see what I could have had and compare it to what I got,’ and she took it away from me and held it to her, pomegranates, I mean her breasts.”

Have I ever mentioned the fact that sometimes C.W. lies when it suits his purpose?

“I doubt that,” I said.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “Now about this ‘Bible-thumping’ thing. What do they mean?”

“It’s a saying,” I said, “that refers to the act of using Biblical references to justify questionable actions or beliefs.”

“Like it’s okay for a king to send his best friend to be killed in battle so he can get the friend’s wife alone and …”

“It can refer to any number of things, such as slavery, that people use their interpretation of the Bible to justify.” I said, interrupting him.

“Like electing scoundrels to public office?”

“That too,” I said.

He stood and assumed a look of panic.

“I’ve got to go,” he said.

“I … will go up to the palm tree, I will take hold of the

 boughs  thereof: now also thy breasts shall be as clusters

 of the vine, and the smell of thy nose like apples ..."

If this refers to, “the glorious and splendid clothing

 worn  by the saintly,” then I’m confused, - C.W.

“Where?”

“To check my GUT.”

“It does make one a little nauseated to think about it, doesn’t it?”

“Not that,” he said. “It’s my translator.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t think she was finished,”

“What makes you say that?”

His eyes rolled upward as if he may have been mentally scrolling a list. Then he looked straight at me and said, “There’s no such thing, is there,” he said, “as a holy-stroller?”

312. Professions

“Let’s see. Cost of equipment per client. Rental fees. Personnel costs. Training. What else?”

Oh no. I could tell by the dialogue that C.W. was onto another of his get rich schemes. Don’t ask me why. I don’t even think they use money on Falloonia. I turned and tried to slip away, but he heard me. Unfortunately,

“Hey Big Dope. Come here. You will want in on this. Don’t you have a good friend who is a cinematographer?”

I contemplated running away, but I get a kick out of his schemes sometimes, so I walked into the next room to fine a perfectly formed shape of what Cecil B. DeMille must have looked like in his prime. He was pouring over sheets of paper and scribbling with a furious intensity that reminded me of a schoolboy running out of time on a test.

“What the …?”

He looked up and flashed a smile. “How much do those little gadgets cost that you can hook up to a cell phone and make credit card charges?”

I ignored him. “What are you doing?”

“Working on a plan to make us rich.” He drew a line under a column of figures with a flourish and smiled again. “To an extreme and often disgustingly extent rich.”

“So how are we going to become filthy rich this time?”

“Prostitution.”

That stunned me. “Prostitution?”

“Actually prostitution plus.”

“Prostitution is illegal almost everywhere in this country,” I said. “You are going to get us all arrested.”

“Oh no,” he said, “and besides, they can’t imprison me. I’ll just change to an insect and fly out.”

“Some folks around here already think of you as an insect, so don’t press your luck in a house with so many fly swatters.” Then I thought. “But what about me? I couldn’t fly out of jail so what would happen to me?”

“I’ll change into a priest and bring you reading material,” he said. “But anyway, nobody is going to get arrested.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Prostitution Plus,” he said. “That’s what we’ll call it.”

“And how does that make a difference? Prostitution by any other name is still illegal.”

“Ah yes,” he said. “But art films depicting intimate behavior among consenting adults is not.”

“You mean porn films?”

“We prefer the term ‘results of vintage adult situations,’ as more sophisticated,” he said. “Now, here’s the deal. How does a prostitute normally approach a john?” He laughed. “That’s what we call them in the business: ‘Johns.’ Is that cute or what? I would prefer ‘chumps,’ and Mrs. Big Dope agrees.”

“You mentioned his to her?”

“Yes. I had to ask someone how working women or men approached their chumps, …  uh, … Johns, … uh prospects.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said to ask you.”

“Let’s just stop this right now,” I said. “We’re still talking about accosting someone with a proposal for participating in an illegal act.”

“Isn't it odd among your species," he said, that politicians can sell their souls for money but people can't rent their bodies for pleasure? Anyway, so a person says to a stranger, 'Hey mister. Want to make an art film?' That’s an illegal proposal?”

That stopped me. “Well,” I said, “what about the sex?”

“Incidental,” he said. “Just part of the plot line.”

“But the, uh, John will pay?”

“Of course, but only for the studio, equipment rental, actor’s fee, and the cost of the complimentary copy of the DVD.”

I let that one pass since my mind was whirling.

“So?” he said. “You considering it?”

“No,” I said. “I’m having a ‘John Agar Moment’ and I have to think.”

If she is a senator offering to sell her vote,
then it's a perfectly legal act. How odd. - C.W.

“You mean that actor that played in the science fiction movies years ago with all the monsters and such?”

“Yes.”

“So what moment do you refer to?”

“The moment at which his girlfriend comes up with a way to destroy the monster.”

C.W. thought. “And what does he say?”

“It just might work.”


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.

298. Going to War

Aha. Prepare to be fooled, amazed, and delighted. This is your friend C.W. writing. Why you might ask? Good sentence worded or expressed so as to elicit information. What? Oh. My GUT is telling me something. (Editor’s note: Galactic Universal Translator). Make that “good question.”

It’s this way. Big Dope is preoccupied and asked me to take over the reporting duties this week. As he stated on a VisageDocument post last week, he is now the one looking to make a fast dollar. It’s with a new book outlining ways to fail the military draft induction physical.

When he first mentioned it, I had to ask. “What is a draft induction physical? Better yet, what is a draft?”

“You’ve never heard of a draft?”

“Like when your species pulls young college students out of their classes to make them play a child’s game for money?”

“Kinda, but not quite.”

I consulted my GUT. “Like when poor preparation allows a noxious wind to blow through your environment?”

“Kinda, but not quite.”

“Like a poorly thought out first attempt that deserves much additional thought and revision?”

“Kinda,” he said, “but not quite.”

“Oh,” I said. “I know. It’s like what race car drivers do. You line up behind someone else who is actually putting forth the effort from which you benefit while you do nothing at all.”

“Bingo,” he said. I was more confused than ever.

When he explained, I was astounded. “You claim,” I said, “that your country once forced young men to join the military and perhaps go to war against their will? That’s absurd. I don’t believe you.”

“Trust me on this one,” he said.

“So they are going to resume this barbaric practice?”

“If 53 percent of my species has its way.”

“How does one avoid it?”

“Two ways,” he said, “and the first is how I’m going to make money.”

“Articulate.”

“One simply fails the physical exam given just before induction. I’m documenting all the ways we tried it back in the 1960s, but for this new generation.”

“What kind of ways?”

“Oh,” he said, “ways like eating a half-bar of soap before going to the induction center to cause false readings, or ingesting massive amounts of aspirin to elevate you blood pressure, lifting huge weights to induce a hernia.”

“My goodness,” he said. “Did they work?”

“Nope.”

Now I really was bewildered. “They didn’t work, but you are going to write a book documenting them for future use?”

“Yep.”

“I’m confused. How can you convince people that they should buy a book outlining solutions that don’t work?”

Well ... you have to admit, don't you?
It is nice to feel wanted. - C.W.

“You see,” he said, “a population illogical enough to vote for political candidates that promise to take their country into a foreign will fall for anything.”

He had me there. No use arguing the point. “But,” I said, “you mentioned that there were two ways to avoid this draft.”

“Quite so,” he said. “The other will work 100 percent of the time, but for only one percent of the young men and women facing the military draft.”

“And,” I said, “what is this absolutely foolproof method of avoiding military service?”

“Same thing as always,” he said.

“Which is?”

“Tell them your daddy’s name.”

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.

244. Rights

For goodness sake. I looked up this morning and here came C.W. in drag. I don’t mean that he had assumed the shape of a woman. He can do that anytime he wishes. In fact, up until a couple of months ago, he loved to do Marlene Dietrich singing “See What the Boys In the Backroom Will Have.” Unfortunately though, my wife caught him at it one day and he doesn’t do it anymore, plus we now have to keep the kitchen door open all the time. But that’s a story for another day.

No, today he was really in drag. That is to say that he was a man dressed as a woman. Further, the man’s shape that he had chosen was that of the Junior Senator from our state who has been in the news a lot lately trying to undermine the President.

All I could manage was “What the …?”

“How do you like my outfit?” she … he … said.

I still couldn’t speak.

“Your friend—what’s his name, your woodworking pal—helped me pick it out.”

“My friend?”

“I told him I wanted to be one primarily devoted to his own advancement in public office, or to the success of a political party.”

“A what?”

“You heard me.”

I thought for a moment. “Oh,” I said, “you wanted to be a politician.”

“That’s what I said.”

“And my friend helped you?”

“He used to work for the state and was a great help.”

“As in …?”

“He said all I needed to be a politician was a red satin dress and a pair of FMPs. Mrs. Big Dope got awfully upset when I asked her what those were.”

I looked heavenward and said, “If you’re up there Scotty, please beam me up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” I said. “But tell me, what are you going to do now that you are a politician?”

“Ah,” he said. “I thought you would never ask.” He grinned. “I’m fighting for aliens’ rights.”

“Aliens’ rights?”

“Yes. It is our turn to seek equality along with our other brother and sister citizens.”

“But you aren’t a citizen.”

“No, and we’re going to change that, and stop this brutal practice of not allowing us to marry whom we choose. Oh, and wedding cakes. Don’t get me started on wedding cakes.”

I didn’t know where to begin. “C.W.,” I said, “there are so many holes in that logic that I can’t respond. You haven’t mentioned getting married since you saw Lassie Come Home for the first time.”

“Times change,” he said, “and so do preferences. We deserve to make our own choices as much as anyone.”

“Have you been watching Big Bang Theory again?”

“You leave her out of this,” said. “Now do you want to be on the right side of the branch of knowledge dealing with past events or not?”\

“Oh,” I said, “I definitely want to be on the right side of history. What must I do?”

“Ah,” he said. “First thing you do is become a card-carrying member.”

“Of what?”

Now I ask you. Would you bake a
 wedding cake for this person? - C.W.

“Our rights organization. Your membership card will even have my photo on it. We’ve thought up quite a catchy name for the group. Your friend helped us with that as well and we think we picked one that serves us brilliantly.”

“And that is?”

He drew himself up proudly. A strap from his dress fell from his shoulder and he placed it back in position. “Alien Rights Secured Evermore,” he said. “I’m a charter member and chief spokesperson. Right now my people are placing posters in key locations with this photograph on it.” He struck a provocative pose.

A convulsion started deep within me and I contracted every muscle in my body in an attempt to suppress it. It sneaked past my defenses, though, and I began to shake with laughter. Tears came from my eyes and snot from my nose. I tried to speak but couldn’t. Finally, with a Herculean effort, I regained my composure enough to talk.

“Sign me up,” I said.


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The Blame Game

Dear friends and Followers:

Has anyone but me noticed the new conservative way of explaining things? For example

- A racist rant by a college fraternity is blamed on Hip Hop.

- An Arkansas legislator who gave his adopted daughter to a sex offender without telling anyone blames the state agency in charge of adoptions.

- A group of U.S. senators, 47 in all, commit an act of treason and, get this, they don’t say the “Devil” made them do it. No it was President Obama.

I suspect this is a new approach fed to these folks in their daily briefing memos. If it works then is this the way Tea Party conservatives would work history?

- Charles Manson could blame Sharon Tate for getting pregnant before he decided she needed to die.

- Lee Harvey Oswald could blame President Kennedy for getting in his way when Oswald was carrying a rifle and having a bad hair day.

- Timothy McVeigh could blame the feds for building a building beside his van full of explosives.

- Ted Bundy could have blamed the press for offering him fame.

- Charles Whitman could blame the University of Texas for building that tower.

- Adolph Hitler could blame the Jews. Oh wait. He did. Never mind. Say … you don’t suppose that is where they got the idea, do you?

- Your Forever Pal,

C.W.

 

Repeat

Dear Earthling Friends:
Big Dope is having trouble with his computer and asked me to run a previously posted effort. He'll post something later. In the meantime, I read where your newest Senator wants to invade another Middle Eastern Country. So, I chose the following and dedicate it to this man who apparently has never read history.

May 2012

It was Memorial Day weekend and I looked forward to a peaceful time at the farm. My wife was off baling hay and I wandered into the back yard to enjoy the shade and a rum and tonic. As I rounded the giant fig tree, I stopped.

There, under a drooping catalpa tree sat C.W. in the form of a Prussian private of the World War I era. He sat tall and straight in a garden chair, his blond hair trembling in the breeze. He held a pointed helmet covered with heavy cloth. He saw me, drew in the late spring smells, and nodded.

“Herr Großer Dope,” he said.

“C.W.,” I said. “What’s up?” I couldn’t wait to hear. “You making a movie?”

“I am your distant cousin Gustav,” he said. “From Bremen.”

“Gustav from Bremen?” I said, playing along.

“I appear briefly on your family tree,” he said. ‘Geb. 1900, Gest. 1918.’ No kinder.”

I had nothing better to do than pretend. “Died young?”

“In my bloom,” he said. “I had the misfortune to be the last soldier in our company killed in the Great War.”

“On the last day?”

“November 11^th, at the 11^th hour,” he said. He turned and looked quietly across the field and into the trees beyond. “Reminds me of the French countryside, before the bombs came down and the trenches went up.”

“Tough break,” I said. “Buying it on the last day.”

“A dubious honor,” he said. “But far from the saddest.”

“Oh?”

“No, there were worse. On the American side. Our armies had ceased warring two days earlier,” he said. “We settled in our bunkers along the Meuse River and thought we were safe. We had no casualties for two days straight.”

“What happened?”

“Your General Pershing didn’t follow the lead of the other commanders. He wished that my country would suffer as much as possible. So he kept attacking until the 11^th hour.”

“After everyone else had stopped?”

“Charge after charge,” he said. “We had translators on loudspeakers yelling to them to stop. That the war was over.” He shook his head. “But they kept coming. The Americans suffered 3,500 casualties the last day.”

“Sad,” I said.

“Some were Schwarzen, from the Black 92^nd Division,” he said. “We thought perhaps your side deemed them dispensable. But then a white soldier from the 313^th Infantry, I learned later his name was Henry N. Gunther, came through the fog firing at us.”

“What did you do?”

“We had no choice,” he said. “He was the last on your side.”

“And on yours?”

“They sent me out to retrieve the body of a dead comrade,” he said. “A lone sniper from the American trenches took his revenge as the clock struck 11:00.”

I didn’t say anything, just imagined the scene.

“Know how many American generals died on that last day?” he asked.

“No, how many?”

“None,” he said. “Know how many colonels?” Without waiting, he answered, “None. Lieutenant Colonels?”

“None?” I guessed.

“Same for majors,” he said, his voice rising.

We sat in silence for a moment as he subdued his anger.

“I suppose …,” he said. “I suppose it was worth it.” He stopped and composed himself again. “After all, our sacrifice did, as they say, ‘end all wars.’”

I turned. “Are you making some sort of joke?” I said.

He moved toward me. I looked into his eyes and, as I did, they grew larger and became two black orbs, large and empty. Then I saw movement. My eyes remained transfixed as scenes moved across like gray horses passing through the mist.

I saw a hospital room in Manila filled with Japanese soldiers laughing and playing baseball, using infants as bats.

I saw a field of frozen soldiers at Stalingrad, their arms bent at grotesque angles and with questioning looks on their faces.

I saw Marines dead on the beach at Tarawa, a picture withheld from publication for fear it would spoil the public’s appetite for war.

I saw a line of skeletal faces peering through a fence at Dachau.

I saw a line of soldiers being calmly machine-gunned in the wasteland around the Chosin Reservoir.

I saw a group off teenagers hugging the jungle floor in terror as mortar rounds fell into them in a lonely piece of Hell near DaNang.

I saw a mob of young Iranian boys, holding plastic “keys to heaven” and screaming “Allah is great,” as they charged through a minefield to clear it for their soldiers.

I saw the murdered inhabitants of an entire village in Bosnia piled like cordwood, awaiting burial.

I saw a father running for cover, carrying a young son who was soiling himself from fear as the bombs began dropping on Baghdad.

I saw an Afghan bride and her groom explode into a bloody mess, spraying their ghastly remains among their guests, as a drone-bomb exploded in their midst.

These went away and the eyes became blank again. He turned back toward the green fields of home.

“Please don’t tell me,” he said. “That my species is the one making the jokes.”

 

Something you parents have to look
forward to for your children
 if the warmongers have their way. - C.W.



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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225. New Words

C.W. likes to make up words, which is humorous given the problems he has with his GUT (his Galactic Universal Translator). It is affected at times by sunspots. That can produce some interesting communications such as the one I found this morning.

“I have gone for an act of moving at a regular and fairly slow pace by lifting and setting down each foot in turn, never having both feet off the ground at once, and have left you some notes on the kitchen piece of furniture with a flat top and one or more legs, providing a level surface on which objects may be placed, and that can be used for such purposes as eating, writing, working, or playing games.”

So, while he was out walking I looked on the kitchen table and found a report entitled “New Articles of Communication Needed by the North American Species of Homo Sapiens.” I had just started reading it when he walked in, shaped as a hunter in camouflage and bright orange. He tossed his hat aside and said, “I see you found my brief record of facts, topics, or thoughts, written down as an aid to memory.”

“I found your notes and you need to adjust your translator.”

He said, “I trust my GUT. What do you think of my new words?”

“I dunno, “ I said. “I just started on them. Where did you get the idea for this one, ‘Connecdeficia?’”

“Ah,” he said, “The lack of ability to connect mental dots. That’s a badly needed one.”

“Where did you come up with it?”

“From exit interviews at your last political election.”

“Exit interviews? I didn’t know you did exit interviews.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “You won’t believe what I heard your neighbors say when I asked them what they despised most in modern America.”

“Oh?”

“I hate poor children. I really hate poor Hispanic children. And I really, really hate poor black children. And, oh yeas I truly despise the use of contraceptives.”

            After thinking for a moment, I said, “You may have a point there.” I looked at his notes. "What’s this next one, ‘Nonapplicational?’”

“Oh that’s simple. I singled out some voters who had family members dependent on governmental largesse.”

“Largesse?”

“Yes, it’s a much softer word than ‘welfare,’ don’t you think?”

“Maybe so, maybe not, but go ahead.”

“Typical was the interviewee whose grandmother had been kept alive by what you call your ‘Medicaid Program’ for the last thirty years of her life.”

“And?”

“The granddaughter voted for the party that promised to eliminate the program.”

“So her grandmother’s case was ..?”

“Non…”

“Nonapplicational,” I interrupted.

“Exactly.”

“You know,” I said, “of all the hair-brained schemes you have had, this one might be the least so.”

“Brains have hair?”

“It’s an expression,” I said. “What’s this next one, ‘Nasaladectomous’ or something like that?”

“It’s what you call an adjective,” he said. “It modifies an action whereby one  ...”

“Cuts off his nose …”

“To spite his visage,” he said. “I got this one from talking to veterans like you.”

“Veterans?”

“You won’t believe how many said they voted for a candidate simply because he was a veteran.”

“So?”

“This one in particular had cast several votes previously denying benefits for veterans.”

“They voted for him anyway?”

“ Yes,” he said, “in a classic case of …”

“Nasaladectomy.”

It was getting interesting. I looked at his motes. “Amouraprobe?”

He shook his head. “This was the strangest of all. Tell me,” he said, “would you vote for a candidate who vowed to have the government insert a metal probe into your penis for no reason?”

I gasped. “Heavens no,” I said.

“Would you like to guess how many women voted for a candidate who has vowed to insert such a probe into their …?”

A creature after my own heart. - C.W.

“Enough,” I said. “I get the picture.”

“So the word describes a phenomenon whereby the love of a physical threat produces adulation and loyalty.”

“Well,” I said, “what’s next?”

“I have to submit my recommendations to the Office of Moronascurity.”

“The what?”

“Where they obscure the meaning of words and terms so that the …”

“I understand.”

“It’s simple matter of Lambafication,” he said.” New wine is not put into old wineskins. Didn’t one of your persons regarded as an inspired teacher or proclaimer of the will of god say that?”

“One of our prophets did indeed,” I said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I think I’ll go for a walk and try to make the thought of amouraprobe become nonapplicational.

 

 

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- C.W.