373. Truth in Advertising

“I’ve been thinking.”

Oh no.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I said I’ve been thinking.” C.W. was in the form of Reggie the Young Conservative. (Picture Sean Spicer without the disarming personality). Any wariness developed from a memory of the last time he admitted to thinking. This time, we were driving around looking for ideas for a column on urban planning due in a week. It was no use resisting. When he gets in this shape, he is like a bulldog.

“Okay. Share.”

“I still think I could make it in the advertising business,” he said. With that, he produced a notepad and began to study it.

“We’ve been through this already.”

“I know. We’ve had some rough times before.”

“Correction. You’ve had some rough times before.”

“Oh?”

“Remember the time you wanted my wife to become the model for ‘The White Aunt Jemima,’ and what happened?”

“Like I explained to Mrs. Big Dope, it was a brilliant plan to take racism out of an otherwise successful ad campaign. It would have worked, too.”

“Do you still have the bruise from the iron skillet?”

He pressed on. “I’ve done the research, this time,” he said. “I plan to capture and utilize the three major elements of the current mood in your country.”

“Which are?”

He consulted his pad. “Braggadocio, brevity, and bullsh… .”

“Stop there. That’s enough.”

“So, what do you think?”

“Try me." I had turned the car and was headed home.”

“Okay.” He looked and read. “Our light bulbs last a whole two weeks.”

“Oh, that it were so. What else?”

“Our print cartridges will print 20 sheets, guaranteed.”

“If they could do that, you’d have a winner.”

“We don’t have to win,” he said. “We just have to sell.”

“Ah.” A minute passed. “Have any more?”

He looked and read. “Our clothes even look good on fat people.”

“Hmm.”

He was on a roll now. “Be thin, win, never exercise again, no matter how big you’ve been.” He stopped. “We’ll have to have a spokesperson from the South, so all those words will rhyme.”

“Of course. Do you see any applications in political campaigns?”

“Oh,” he said. “That where we will excel without a doubt. Here … ,” he turned a page in a notebook and read, “Feel trapped? We tell the truth, and it will set you free.”

“Oh please.”

The truth may set us free.
But it doesn't pay the bills. - C.W.

“We fear no woman alive.”

“Barf.”

“We love everybody and everybody loves us.”

“Stop. Stop.”

“Win with us and stop the fuss.”

“You’re getting worse.” We had completed our touring by then and were back home in the living room. He had gone nonstop and was still going. I was having a beer, and he was on fire. “Here’s a great one,” he said. “Our vision of America is so simple a public-school teacher could understand it.”

“Suggest you don’t try that one out around the mistress.”

“Oh,” he said, “here’s one I did just for her. He flipped a page. “We promise to round immigrants up like a bunch of stray dogs and … ,”

A voice from the kitchen interrupted him. “As soon as I find my skillet,” it said, “I’m going to round somebody up.”

I had turned toward the sound. When I looked back, Reggie, C.W., whoever, was gone. Since then, I’ve heard no more about this advertising business.    

See also:

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

367. Questions

Oh no. It was going to be a “Why? Why? Why? day.” C.W. bounded in, having assumed the shape of Little Ricky, the troublesome ten-year old. I tried to sprint from the room but he blurted out, before I could escape, “Why do they want me to buy gifts on every day we celebrate something?”

“Have you been watching commercial television again?”

“Yeah, the UFO Channel.”

“I didn’t know there was a UFO Channel.”

“They used to call it the History Channel,” he said. “Why do so many of your species believe in aliens from outer space when they watch TV, but they don’t believe in me when they read your attempts at humor.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why do they think aliens would come to Earth and just fly around forever and not land?”

“Because they think the aliens know that we would kill them the moment they land.”

“Why don’t they understand that is impossible? Your species hasn’t invented the Cosmological Ossifying. Neutralizing, Desensitizing, and Unifying Mechanism yet?”

“I don’t understand why that is important.”

“Didn’t you know that CONDUMs are the only defense against unwanted aliens? Why doesn’t your species understand more about science?”

“We are busy with other things.”

“Such as creating bizarre television commercials?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To sell things.”

“Why do they make automobile commercials featuring men and women driving cars on public highways at two or three times the legal speed limits?”

“I think it satisfies some innate desire for mastery of the universe.”

“Your species wants to be master of the universe?”

“Quite so.”

“Why? It’s not a very manageable place. Your people could get drawn into endless conflicts that would drain your energy and resources.” He stopped, thought, shook his head, and said, “But that has never bothered you before. Why?”

“Why don’t we stick to television commercials?”

“Why don’t they make movie ads that make you want to see the movie?”

“To keep the crowds down?”

“Oh.”

“I was kidding.”

“No, I think you might be right. Now, why do the food ads feature meals of two or three thousand calories when your country has such a profound obesity problem?”

“We love to eat.”

“Why? Species in other galaxies regard it as simply a refueling necessity.”

“We orient our lives around eating.”

“Why? It just makes you fat.”

“We don’t care.”

“Then why are all the models on TV commercials so thin?”

“We love diets, too.”

“So why do the diet commercials say you can eat all you want and lose weight? Why has your species abandoned any sense of understanding science?”

“So many of us believe in a higher truth than science.”

“Why? There's no such thing.”

“Just because. Maybe it makes us more manageable.”

 

This child just discovered how
you elect presidents. - C.W

He thought about this. Then he said, “That reminds me. You still haven’t answered my question about this gift-giving obsession that the marketing segment of your species has.”

“What got you off on that?”

“Your religious holiday called Easter is coming up.”

“Yes.”

“I just saw this strange ad. Why would gift-giving be related to Easter?”

“You saw an ad for gift giving related to Easter?”

“Yes.”

“What did it say?”

“It said, ‘While you wait to celebrate The Resurrection, why not resurrect your marriage with a gift from Jay’s Jewelers.’ You’ll be her savior forever, and remember, resurrection is contagious.’ Why?” He looked at me and waited for an answer.

I wasn’t sure what the question was, and could only offer, “It seems that our country is out to test the absolute lower limits of propriety and good taste.”

“Why?”

Also check out www.allhatnocattle.com

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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.

220. Simplicity

He burst into the room as if the house was on fire. “I’ve got it,” he said. “I need your help.”

My goodness but he was excited. He had assumed his Reggie the Young Conservative shape and was wearing a silk shirt, bowtie, and chinos, set off by white buck lace-ups and argyle socks.

“Calm down,” I said. “What’s up?”

“What’s up?” he said. “Political campaigns, that’s what's up. We can’t lose.”

Oh no. We had been through this before. He is constantly thinking up new ways for politicians to be elected. It fascinates him that we elect leaders the way we do. He calls it “institutionalized trickery.”

“So,” I said. “What is it this time?”

“Controlled Response and Simple Solutions,” he said. “How’s that as the name of my new consulting firm?”

Sounds crass,” I said. “How does it work?”

“I got the idea from one of your people who is a holder of or a candidate for an elected office.”

“They aren’t my ‘politicians,’ by any stretch of the imagination,” I said. “but go ahead.”

“Your species loves simple solutions to complex problems,” he said. “It is a symptom of undeveloped cognitive systems.”

“You mean we’re stupid?”

“No,” he said, “you just act stupid. But don’t let’s change the subject.”

“Let us not,” I said. He was beginning to annoy me.

“A person on parole from one of your penal institutions commits a crime,” he said.

“Yes, and?”

“One of your politicians offers a solution. Just eliminate parole.”

“Seems I heard that. I don’t think he has thought that through completely.”

“Of course not,” he said.”That’s the combination of qualities, such as shape, color, or form, that pleases the aesthetic senses, especially the sight, of my method.”

“The ‘beauty’ of your method is cynical,” I said.

“Exactly. Now name a major problem facing your species.”

“Poverty”

“Now, here’s what we will do. Put all the poor people in your country to work making pizzas.”

“And?”

“That’s it. No more poor people and everyone has all the pizza they want.”

“How about the resulting obesity problem?”

“Free motorized wheelchairs.”

“What about other health problems?”

“More churches. The state will build them.”

“More churches?”

“Sure, lack of faith is the cause of illness. We don’t need health care. Just more churches.”

It was useless. Still, I was intrigued so I played along. “What about the growing army of terrorists lined up against us?”

“Haven’t you heard?” he said. “We kill them all.”

“Uh,” I said. “We’ve been trying that for 14 years.”

“And?”

“It doesn’t seem to be working.”

“We’ll arm our drones with ‘mini-nukes’ and watch them scatter like cockroaches while we show them our love.” He smiled. “Similes and metaphors come free with my consulting.”

If your species really believed the world was complex,
you would only elect smart people to office. - C.W.

I rose to leave. “I’ve got things to do,” I said. “They are predicting a vicious winter on account of global climate change.”

“Cute kittens,” he said. “Your species is crazy about cute kittens.”

“I don’t get it.”

“How can you worry about approaching climatic catastrophes while you are videoing cute kittens?”

I thought I heard it thunder somewhere far away.

 

Click an ad. We need money for campaigns.

And check out www.wattensawpress.com

- C.W.

 

 

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.

207. Campaigns

Guess you could say the Alien was upset. He came charging into where I was working on the computer, still in the shape of Richie the Young Conservative. Only this time his expensive-looking haircut hung in disarray and tears had spotted his chinos. He was still sobbing.

“It’s your wife,” he said. “She’s trying to ruin me.” His face contorted into a set of wrinkles.

“My wife?”

“Mrs. Big Dope … she’s going to ruin my career.”

“And what career is that today?”

“You know,” he said, “my political advertising career.”

“Oh right,” I said. “You’re going to get rich producing political ads.”

“Not if she has her way,” he said. “You’ve got to stop her.”

“Me?”

“She’s your wife and you are the paterfamilias.”

“Why don’t you calm down and tell me what’s going on,” I said. “And, by the way, I control her about as much as a weather reporter controls rain.”

He drew a breath. “She thinks people are in a state of having one's interest, forbearance, or indulgence worn out with political ads.”

“They are ‘weary’ of them indeed,” I said. “So what is the problem?”

“She’s designing a new way to campaign.”

“And?”

“The way she put it to me is this …” He drew a deep breath. “She has this plan that instead of making TV ads that compare the other candidate to bird droppings or cow poop—you know, the Amerian way—the candidates would take their political contributions and donate them to worthy causes.”

“Say what?”

“Health clinics for the poor,” for example,” he said, “or animal shelters, schools, public work projects, homeless shelters,” He stopped. “Oh,” he said, “the horror! The horror!”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “Each candidate would donate her or his campaign contributions to charitable causes?”

“Not churches though,” he said.

“Not churches?”

“No. She said something I didn’t quite understand about too much campaign money already being spent to purchase rattlesnakes. No churches. Just worthy causes.”

“I see,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I did. “So what next?”

“People would vote on the candidate that they thought did the most good with their campaign contributions.”

“Oh,” I said. “So the public would actually gain from the political process.”

“Not me,” he said, almost in a wail.

“Or the other ad agencies and television stations.”

“It’s un-American,” he said. “Diverting free speech that way.”

“It’s an interesting thought,” I said. “So we would be voting on the basis of good works?”

“Hell,” he said. “Can you imagine?”

“Not really.”

“My clients might as well be forced to admit what they believe in. Your species should vote on faith.”

“Faith?”

“That the other candidate is worse.”

Could you imagine campaign contributions
going to help the undeserving poor? - C.W.

“Not on the basis of doing good?”

“Never. How idiotic.”

“And my wife thought this up?”

“You’ve got to do something,” he said.

“You know,” I said, “I think I will.”

“What?” he said, looking relieved.

“I think I’ll go in and tell her I love her.”

“Oh,” he said. “The horror! The horror!”

Click an ad. I still need that new computer. - C.W.
And check out www.wattensawpress.com

Confusion

Good morning friends and followers.
It's raining here and I'm trying to get some nagging questions about your species answered. My keepers, Mr. and Mrs. Big Dope, said to quit bothering them and to ask my readers. They threw in one question each while they were at it. So, here goes:

Why do Americans put 10 pillows on a bed upon which two people sleep?

Why does the media quote someone named Joe the Plumber?

Why is Sarah Palin considered relevant?
Why would a person who doesn’t plan to assault anything want an assault rifle?
Why is the British royal family considered newsworthy to Americans?
Why is the British royal family considered newsworthy to the British?
Why do some people who say that “God” made a disabled person the way he is refuse to say that “God” made a gay person the way she is?
Why is prostitution illegal most everywhere in your country?
How do deniers of natural selection explain breasts on the male species?
Why do Americans want the Ten Commandments on courthouse lawns but not the Beatitudes?
This one from Big Dope himself: Why do some people who wear American flag pins on their lapels vote to refuse funds to support American veterans?
And this one from Mrs. Big Dope: Why are expensive women’s clothes purposely mislabeled as smaller sizes?

I can't look at this too long.
It makes my electrodes smoke. - C.W.

 

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201. Politics

“Absolutely not.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“I could give you a thousand.”

“Give me one good one.”

“Look, C.W.,” I said. “I’m not telling you again that I can’t get into politics.”

“I’m not asking you to get into politics.”

“Oh?”

“I’m just asking you to run for office.”

I said, “We need to have a long talk someday.”

“Don’t you want to save your planet?”

“Save my planet?” I said. “I’ve spent years trying to do that.”

“It needs you,” he said. He was in the shape of a soft, pitiful looking man with a balding round head and wire frame glasses. He looked vaguely familiar but I was too agitated to place him. “I’ll write your ads for you,” he said.

“Oh boy,” I said.

“How about this one, ‘Vote for me, the other sonsabitches are crazy.’ Neat huh?”

I had to look to see if he was kidding. “What makes you so determined I should run for office?”

He looked at me as if I had just said the moon was ablaze. “Why because the other sonsabitches are crazy,” he said. “Since I entered the political ad writing business, I have met nothing but demagogues, morons, radicals, provocateurs, religious nutcases, and one-issue wonders.”

“Sounds normal.”

“Did I mention that most are dulled craniums?”

“I think you mean ‘numbskulls,’ and yes they are.”

“Why do you repeat what I say? Why won’t you run? Do you want them in office? Some of them think you can run the government without money.”

“I know.”

“Some of them want the male of your species to run everything,”

“I know.”

“Remember how well that worked out in 1914 and 1939?”

“I know.”

“Some of them think the universe is 6,000 years old. Hell, it took me longer than that, by your methods of timekeeping, to get here. Your planet is becoming a flippant witticism, you know.”

“A joke. I know.”

“So why? Why won’t you jump in? I’ll manage you.”

I had to look again to see if he was kidding. “Behavioral baggage,” I said.

“What is that?”

“I haven’t always met society’s definition of acceptable behavioral standards.”

“A circularer.”

“A ‘rounder’ so they say, and you need to get your Galactic Universal Translator adjusted.”

“I trust my GUT,” he said. Then he brightened. “Say, that gives me an idea. I know just how to fix your problem. Get ready to run.”

“Fix what problem?”

“Your troublesome past.”

“And how would you fix that?”

“Well,” he said. “You’ve been pretty straight for a long time now, right?”

“Except for hanging out with aliens.”

He ignored me. “We’ll use the ‘Salvation Stick’ trick.”

“The what?”

“We’ll go back to just this side of your last malfeasance and plant a stick in the ground on a given day.”

“And?”

“You’ll say the Lord saved you from your life of sin on that day.”

“And?”

I don't know why Big Dope is concerned.
Running for office in your country seems
pretty simple to me. - C.W.

“Nobody is allowed to question anything before that date. That is your ‘Salvation Stick’ day and anything before it is off the table.”

“You have got to be kidding.”

“I wouldn’t kid about anything as serious as saving your planet. It’s about to fry, don’t you know?”

“Yes, but ‘Salvation Stick?’”

“It worked for President Small-Plant, didn’t it?”

“Out,” I said. “Out.”

 

 

Be sure to click an ad so we can pay the bills. - C.W.

Also check out: www.wattensawpress.com

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?”

 

 

 

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Wish List

Evidently C.W. is into making lists. I found this in his files on my computer.

10 .Wish that I could become as good a salesperson as the one who convinced young girls that putting a jewel stud through their nose is sexy.

 9. Wish that I could exact a toll on the use of the word “awesome.”

 8. Wish I had a cute cat.

7. Wish I could afford all the things TV says I must have on a minimum wage salary.

And I wish I understood the obsession
American's have with vampires, car chases,
and Britain's Royal Deadbeats. - C.W.

6. Wish pot worked on Falloonians.

5. Wish I could play the banjo but didn’t so I could contribute to western civilization.

4. Wish I could design a tattoo than would make a 300 pound, pot-bellied moron into a hunk.

3. Wish Big Dope would let me wear my saggy trousers in public.

2. Wish “all you can eat” buffets didn’t make you fat.

 And …

 1. Wish I could buy Ted Cruz a Whoopee Cushion.

Of course:
Wish my friends would visit www.wattensawpress.com

Shopping

Dear Friends and Followers:

Big Dope took me to shopping with him yesterday and I came back more confused about your species than ever, to wit:

1. Every Falloonian teenager knows that bleach is one of those unique substances that cannot be altered. The compound is either bleach or it isn’t bleach. Any attempt at altering it results in a compound that is no longer bleach. So why, I ask, are there multiple brands with a great range of prices?

2. I have read where the standards for importing or producing vodka in the United States are simple and straightforward. It must be colorless, odorless, and tasteless. Someone please explain to me why there are so many offerings and why some are so much more expensive than others.

3. Isn’t a person with access to a public and regulated water system who buys bottled water a bit like a person with a sexy and willing spouse who goes to a brothel?

Your Friend C.W.

174. Love

“Mock me if you wish, but I know what your species needs,” C.W. said, as I curled up on the couch laughing. “Your kind always scoffs at the prophets.”

Get this. He was—excuse me while I stop and laugh again—in the shape of a 1960s hippie, complete with robe, headband. and beaded necklace. A strong odor of incense oozed through the room.

“I can’t help it,” I said.

He said, “You will see, my friend. Peace be unto you.”

“Oh,” I said, straightening up. “What the hell? What’s up?”

“Simply this,” he said. “I have chanced upon what your country needs to work itself away from this awful state you currently occupy.”

“Awful state?”

“There was another shooting spree,” he said. “Or haven’t you heard?”

“At an airport, right?”

“Yes,” he said. “And it seems the shooter had been motivated by a sinister force that is endemic to your country.”

“And what sinister force might that be?”

“Media inspired hate,” he said. “From radio, television, and printed sources.”

“You mean like hate radio?”

“It runs constantly. It can flow without stop through a person’s mind like a never-ending poison. And your species has no internal antidote for hate.”

“You will provide an external one?”

“It is my destiny.”

I said, “And you have a plan?”

“A simple one. You might say: a kind and gentle one.”

“And that is?”

“Love radio.”

I thought about this. “You would counteract the effects of ‘hate radio’ with ‘love radio?’”

“Exquisitely simple, yes?”

“Love radio.” I pondered this.

“And later we can expand to ‘love TV.’”

I said, “You know that it would cost money to do this?”

He said, “Of course I do, my friend.” He sat and smoothed his robe. “That’s where you come in.”

“Me? I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Of course not. You’ll have to find sponsors.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “And who, may I ask, is going to sponsor a program about loving one another?”

It was his time to ponder a question. “Drug companies?”

“Are you kidding? It would put them out of business.”

“Car makers?”

“They sell on fun, envy, or implied power, not love.”

“Jewelers?”

“You would be direct competition.”

“I know,” he said. “Mega-marts.”

“Uh,” I said. “I don’t know if you have noticed but they don’t even love their own people enough to pay a living wage.”

“Maybe the churches would help.”

“Too late,” I said. “They have moved into prosperity and paranoia as dominate messages. The few that still preach love are drying up and wouldn’t have any spare cash for you.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “There must be some source of funding for love.”

“Afraid not,” I said.

I'm confused. If one can't sell love
in your country? What can one sell? - C.W.

“I’ve got it,” he said and his face brightened.

I said, “Please share.”

“Gun manufacturers.” He pointed a finger at me. “Bang.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No,” he said, giddy with excitement. “I have heard them on many an occasion state that their only goal is to allow us to protect the ones we love. There you go.”

“Maybe you should stick to selling flowers,” I said.

173. Politics

So I came in yesterday and caught C.W. at my computer again. I’ve given up on keeping him away although he has some method of accessing my password-connected websites. He won’t tell me how he does it but I know he does for I sometimes find weird purchases, like the time he ran up a sizeable bill at Victoria's Secret and charged it to my credit card. We had words over that but did that stop him? No. I’m now paying for a set of DVDs titled “Ten Weeks To Banjo Fun.”

Today was even weirder. He was working on, of all things, a campaign poster. In big letters on an Illustrator worksheet were “No Government. No Time.”

“What the hell?” I said.

“I’ve decided that you should run for political office,” he said.

I said, “That’s crazy.”

“No,” he said. “That new senator from Texas is crazy. You are just unstable.” He thought for a moment. “But don’t worry. I’m your campaign manager. We’ll keep that from the public.”

He did resemble a campaign manager, I suppose. He was paunchy, bald, and had little snaky eyes that darted back and forth like black hummingbirds.

“You will be my campaign manager?”

“You bet. We’ll sell you to the public as the real deal. You’ll be as popular as a whore on a troop ship.”

I had to sit down. “C.W.,” I said slowly, not knowing where to start. “Do you know anything about politics in America?”

“All I need to know,” he said.

“Then you know that a politician has to have a spotless past.”

“Oh please,” he said. “That is so passé. Didn’t you learn anything along the way? We’ll use the ‘Salvation Strategy’ that worked so well for Junior Bush.”

“The Salvation Strategy?”

“Yep. We’ll pick a date when you repented of your sinful past and accepted salvation. Then we’ll forbid the press from questioning any aspect of your behavior prior to that day.”

“The Salvation Strategy. I see.”

“Works like a charm. You are reborn as a politician. Now,” he said. “We need to get you fitted for some new clothes.”

“C.W.,” I said. “Politicians have to be knowledgeable about things like the economy and foreign relations.”

“Old-school.”

“They have to be experienced.”

“Yesterday’s paradigm.”

“They have to be charismatic.”

“Charisma is as charisma does.”

I said, “Now just what the hell does that mean?”

The difference between a politician and
a bubblehead doll is simply a matter of
brains. You shouldn't worry, though.
You don't elect your politicians because
 they have intelligence. - C.W.

“It means,” he said, with exasperation showing in his voice. “That we can market you like the latest model of a classy car. So don’t worry.”

I don’t know why I made the effort but I did. “A politician has to have a platform on which to base a campaign.”

“Sure enough,” he said. “And we have the most sure-fire platform there is. The one that has propelled more politicians into office over the last few years than any other.”

“And what,” I said. “Is this magic platform?”

“Are you completely clueless? Can’t you guess?”

“No,” I said. “Clue me in. What will I tell the public to convince them to elect me to run the government?”

“Simple,” he said. “You just tell them that you hate the government.”

166. Logic

I love it when C.W. does his Marie Magdalene "Marlene" Dietrich thing. (Yeah that was her real name). That is I love it except when he (she) tries to light up. That’s a no-no and we both know it.

Anyway, she comes in and takes an elegant position on the couch while I’m trying to pay some bills, so the distraction is welcome. She was attired in her famous pant-suit outfit and her dark eyes sparkled. I felt chills.

“I’m bushed,” she said.

“Oh? From what?”

“From tinkink,” C.W. has her precious accent down perfectly.

“Thinking what?”

“Vy your speeshies has such problems vis logic.” She reached for a cigarette but I waved it off. She made a pouting face. “Vee invented logic you know. Vee Germans. Your people.”

“I thought it was the Greeks.”

“Oh, zem,” she said. “That vas not logic. It vas simply complex tinkink.”

“Oh,” I said. “So what has you so tangled up in logic today?”

“Vell,” she said. “It concerns your concept of Zee Almighty.”

“The Almighty?”

“God, Jesus, vatever. I’m named after his girlfriend you know.”

I let that one pass. “So what has you concerned?”

“Haf you seen dis commercial, on your TV, about a lover-matching site on zee internet called ‘Christian Mingle?’”

“Once or twice. I don’t pay much attention since I made my match 41 years ago.”

“Vell,” she said. “You remember how it claims to allow you to ‘meet God’s match’ for you?”

“I seem to recall.”

“Do zey tink that Zee Almighty is zat hepless?”

“Helpless?”

“Yah. Hepless?”

“In vat, uh what way?” I said.

“Zat he, she, vichever you choose, couldn’t send zee proper match directly to a person?”

“I see,” I said. “Without the assistance of ‘pay to match’ company?”

“Yah. Egzacly.”

“Maybe The Almighty gets busy with some other things, like world hunger or our seemingly endless appetite for war.”

“And needs help makink sure vee marry zee right person?”

“I suppose.”

“But zee ad says that Zee Almighty sends zee person. Zat person must simply be routed through zee vebsite.”

“Well, it’s a cozy arrangement, I must say.”

“Does Zee Almighty get zee commission or zomezink?”

Now this would be a great visual
image of a superior being. - C.W.

I was growing weary. “Why don’t we leave the workings of The Almighty to The Almighty,” I said. “I have bills to pay.”

“One more zink,” she said.

“Okay,” I said. “What?”

“If Zee Almighty iz zo concerned about zame-zex attractions, vy not just make us all straight?” She leaned back and waited for my answer like a child waiting for her next birthday present.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I simply don’t know.”

With that, she stood, straightened her pants, shook her hair and wandered from the room singing “See what zee boys in zee backroom vill haf, and tell them I’m haffink zee same.”

101. Metaphors

“I can’t believe you don’t want in on this opportunity.”

C.W. was in a particularly annoying mode, and he has developed annoyance into a heavily nuanced art form. So just imagine.

“It’ll make you rich,” he said.

“I’m already rich,” I said. Thinking better of it, I added, “Metaphorically speaking.”

“Your species and your metaphors,” he said. “What’s a metaphor for? Can you eat one? Spend one? Cruise around the world on one? We’re talking real riches here.”

“You are the voice of Satan,” I said. It was early and I was groggy from a dream I had concerning Jerry Sandusky and hoe handles.

“You are a stench rising from the rotting heap of unfulfilled dreams,” he said.

“Say what?”

“Lookit,” he said. He pulled his suspenders and popped them dramatically, for he was assuming the form of the world’s greatest salesman. “You don’t have to do anything but put up a little money. You will be the lucky seed that falls on good ground and flourishes with neither toil nor spinning.”

“Oh please,” I said. “Don’t just be a carbuncle disgracing the backside of anus mundi.”

“Just listen, will you? Be a vessel waiting to be filled with hope.” He produced a pair of expensive reading glasses, retrieved a flyer from a briefcase, and thrust it at me.

I looked. Across the top bold letters announced the creation of “Fauxlar Panels, Inc.” Beneath this was a large photograph of a house, the roof of which proudly bore a series of dark panels facing the street.

“Know what the problems are with solar panels?” he asked.

“They are expensive,” I said.

“That’s one,” he said. “Want to guess the other?”

“No.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ll tell you. Orientation.”

“Orientation?”

“Yep, orientation.”

My mind flicked back to the dream state and the terror on the coach’s face as he imagined life as a great road traveled in retributive agony.

“I’ll explain,” C.W. continued, addressing me as a devoted pupil sitting at the feet of a master.

“You spend all this money to be the very face of ‘with it green sensitivity’ by adorning your house with solar panels.”

“Yes,” I said, returning to the real world. “And then?”

“You are a dense forest, shutting out all light,” he said, showing exasperation. “Then you realize you have spent your savings but your house faces north.”

“Your house faces north,” I repeated numbly. From the distant recesses of my memory, the screams of the coach broke through as he became the vessel of justice.

“And just what,” he said. “What is the advantage of spending all that money if the result is hidden from view?”

“As in, not visible from the street?” I was beginning to understand.

“Precisely.” He paused and pointed at the picture. “Fauxlar panels. They don’t do anything but they are cheap and you can place them anywhere. Voila! In the eyes of your peers, you are a great dragon guarding the future of the planet and it costs you pennies.”

Misery shall be the reward of him
 who would build a life of iniquity on a
 foundation of mankind's glorification.
 - St. Ludicrous of Salvatia

I stared dumbly at the sheet.

“And you can be a pilgrim on this journey to riches,” he said pulling out a contract. “Just sign here and write me a check.”

I thought about those who become symbols with no underlying moral foundation.

“Have you ever heard of a hoe handle?” I said.