291. Seriousness

We were walking along talking when C.W. turned and asked a strange question. He was in the form of Ozzie Nelson, one of his favorites.

Don’t ask.

At any rate, he turned quite somber and seemed to take a long time framing his question.

“Why,” he said, “does your species not take itself more seriously?”

“Say what?”

“More seriously. You seem to make a joke of the most vital aspects of your existence. Politicians become entertainers. Spiritual leaders become greedy hate-mongers, or start passing deadly snakes to one another. Physicians dream up imaginary syndromes, allergies, and disorders in order to make money. Your pharmacists join them in an unholy symbiosis. You force educators to become test givers. You sedate young people by connecting them with hand-held devices.”

I needed to escape from this line of talk. “Don’t your Falloonian teenagers have cell phones?”

“Our gestation period is not as long as yours,” he said. “It’s the longest in the galaxy,” he said, avoiding my question.

“The what?”

“Homo sapiens. They have the longest gestation period in the galaxy. I’ve recorded it as long as 30 years before your offspring are cast off to survive alone.”

“But …”

He interrupted. “And there is an alarmingly high rate of recidivism beginning to develop.”

I tacked the sails of our conversation. “But what makes you think we don’t take ourselves seriously?”

“Oh please,” he said. “Read the news.”

I bristled. “But I do.”

“Then, about whom do you read?”

“Well, there’s the President. And the Pope. And foreign leaders. And prominent artists.”

“And the Kardashians. And the professional players of children’s games. And the commentators on that fake news channel. And people who have been driven insane by your so-called religions, including the ones who worship firearms. And people pretending to be political candidates in order to become wealthy. And people who think cats are cute. And …”

“Now wait a minute,” I said. “You’re being unfair.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Unfair in my analysis?”

“Yes. You aren’t taking this conversation seriously.”

“Exactly how am I not taking this conversation seriously?”

“Well,” I said. “Some cats are cute.”

“Mrs. Big Dope makes you say that.”

“Well,? I said. “It …”

Now who, in his right mind, would say
that these are more fun to watch than
someone like Bill Moyers? I ask you. - C.W.

“I understand,”  he said. “But to my original point. Equal billing is equal billing.”

I hate it when he gets like this.

He continued. “Your attention- span arcs from the sublime—a Neil deGrasse Tyson—to the pathetic—say that half-witted and sexually promiscuous daughter of a failed political candidate.”

“Bristol Palin,” I said, almost absentmindedly.

“See,” he said. “Your mind identified her immediately as a person of interest.”

“Are you trying to torture me?” I said.

“No,” he said. “Your species seems quite capable of undertaking that task on its own.

 Please click some ads. I need a new cell phone. Oh, and see www.wattensawpress.com
And ... www.allhatnocattle.com

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

Available at major on-line retailers, or
www.wattensawpress.com

273. Protection

 “No, she absolutely will not.”

“Well at least ask her.”

“You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

C.W. rubbed the side of his head. “What do you think happened?”

“I could have warned you,” I said, “if you had only checked with me first. And why did you decide to look like Matthew McConaughey today?”

“I thought it might help,” he said. “You know how much Mrs. Big Dope adores Matth …”

“I get the picture,” I said. “But she still said no?”

“That’s why I need your help.”

“Why do you think I could talk her into it?”

“You talked her into going to Gatlinburg, Tennessee once. She told me all about it. A man that could do that could talk someone into about anything.”

“That’s why my credibility with her is still near zero.”

“I know she could help me, though, if she only would.”

Against my better judgment, I entered his dream. “What exactly is it you want her to do?”

“Sew.”

“Sew what?”

“Gun belts and holsters.”

“And why?”

“Are you kidding? They’ll sell like Confederate flags in this state. Everyone will want one.”

“I won’t. My wife won’t. My mother-in-law won’t. None of my friends will.”

“That only takes a half dozen people in the state out of the market.”

“Besides,” I said, “you remember her response when you asked her to help with your last venture, sewing those very flags?”

He rubbed the other side of his head. “This is different.”

“How?”

“Didn’t you read what your Attorney Applicable to the Whole said?”

“Our Attorney General isn’t known for her legal perspicacity.”

“She said people in your state are free to carry guns around on their hips as long as they don’t intend to harm anyone.”

“And,” I said, “exactly why would you carry a weapon on your hip if you didn’t intend to harm someone?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” he said. “Besides, I intend to specialize.”

“Specialize?”

“Yep, mine will be designed only for going to Walmart,” he said.
 

All you need is love. - C.W.

“For going to Walmart?

“Yep, the belt will have a big red heart sewn into it just above where one’s butt-crack shows.”

I couldn’t speak.

“And,” he continued, “you can get them in custom colors to match your best tattoo.”

This time I did manage a groan.

“And the shoulder model will be designed around the gap in a sleeveless tank top and will be sweat-resistant. No more cold steel against bare skin."

“I need,” I said, “to go do some things.”

“Wait,” he said. “You haven’t heard the name of the product.”

“No,” I said, “nor do I want to.”

“I call it a “Get Out of My Way.”

I stopped in mid-stride and turned to look at him. “You are going to produce a holster and belt for carrying a pistol to Walmart and call it a “Get Out of My Way?”

He suddenly looked pleased. “I knew you would like it. Yep,” he said. “A Get Out of My Way, for when ‘Excuse me’ just sounds too timid.”

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

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270. Tripping

C.W. just came in as a, well I don’t know what … a man in his mid-twenties wearing a Ted Nugent tee-shirt and his hat that says “Remembur Gettisbirg.” He was wearing a small back pack and announced that he was ready to go.

“Go where?” I asked.

“Costa Rica.”

“Where?”

“You heard me fool, call Mrs. Big Dope’s cousin and make arrangements.”

Now my wife’s cousin works for an airline company and sometimes has limited free “stand by” tickets for family or friends, certainly not for aliens and especially not for C.W.

“No can do,” I said, “use your Digitally Operated Nuclear Getabout,” I said.

“It’s dead,” he said.

“Your DO…”

“Dead,” he said, “I’m grounded.”

I thought. “Was it that little trip you made to Thailand?”

“The Elders have grounded me,” he said, ignoring my question.

“But why do you want to go to Costa Rica?”

“To see Lisa.”

“Do you mean Lisa at “All Hat, No Cattle?"

“She’s the digit indicating a single unit.”

“If she is the one,” I said, “why do you want to see her?”

“She’s unpacking.”

“So I heard, but how does that concern you? I’ve never known you to be much help when there was work to be done.”

“I need a new pistol,” he said, “so if she is unpacking, maybe she will give me hers.”

“Her what?”

“Her pistol. Didn’t you hear me say she was unpacking?”

“Uh, C.W. …,”

“Call me Jerry Bob Tex,” he said.

“C.W.,”  I said. “I don’t think that’s what she means by ‘unpacking’ at all.”

“Whut chew mean?”

“She’s moved into a new office and is unpacking her things.”

“Whut things?”

“Her research materials, computer, and office supplies.”

“She ain’t got no pistol?”

“I hardly think so.”

“Dad gummit.”

“What would you do with a pistol, anyway?”

“Protect myself and my family.”



I still may visit there if they will allow me to
 carry my belt-fed, fully automatic, 7.62 mm, M60
Machine Gun into the Walmart store. - C.W.

“You don’t have a family,” I said, “and besides, who do you need protecting from?”

“Uh,” he said. “Them liberuls, like whut they talk about on that Fox channel.”

“I don’t think liberals attack people these days,” I said, “and besides, you don’t even know how to use a pistol.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to it,” he said, “you just wait until the evildoers shows up in your bedroom to do you harm and then you run and git your pistol and let them have it. Ain’t that right?”

“In the words of Barney Frank,” I said, “May I ask what planet you woke up on this morning?”

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

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264. Hunter's Dream

Oh no, when I saw the shape of Ernest Hemingway at my desk, I knew it would be a long morning.

“Hello sport,” it, he, Ernest, … C.W. actually, said.

“Morning.”

“Question.”

“It’s a little early yet for a question.”

“This one is easy,” he said.

“Wait one,” I said. “I need coffee.”

I returned with a cuppa and sat near him. Determined to outwait him, I sipped.

After an uncomfortable silence, he spoke. “Been reading about this lion in Africa named Cecil.”

Oh hell. “Yes?”

“Do they give names to all the lions in Africa now?”

“No,” I said, “just the ones who are more or less pets,”

“I see,” he said.

“But …,” I said, “there so few left now that naming them all may be a possibility.”

He nodded. “So one could get a license to kill a specific one? Say pick one out of a catalog and say ‘I want a permit to come kill Ralph?’”

“Yeah,” I said, “nice and simple, and they could always use the ‘supplies are limited’ angle to boost sales.”

“Hmm,” he said. “It wasn’t like that back in my day. There were plenty of them. What happened?”

“If you are Ernest Hemingway, you should know.”

“What do you mean?”

“You helped make it a manly thing to kill them for sport.”

He changed the subject. “This dragging a dead animal carcass around to lure them into a safe place for the hunter to shoot them … do they do that here in America?”

“Of course not,” I said.

“Well that’s good.”

“They use something called deer corn.”

He ignored me. “We certainly never did anything like that.”

I stared at him.

He said, “We had ni… I mean natives that would drive them to where we waited, having our gin and tonics. Then we would shoot them when they came out of the brush, the lions that is.”

I nodded my head. “Much more manly.”

“Anyway,” he said, and I sensed he was the old C.W. again. “Anyway, we need to make some money off this hunting stuff.” He reached beside himself and produced a photo. “I have a preliminary idea for a hunting machine,” he said.



Big Dope never likes my ideas, but I think every
hunter in America would want one of these. - C.W

I looked at the model. “You’re mad,” I said.

“About what?”

“Just mad … crazy.”

“Come on Sport,” he said. “You never like my ideas, and this one is a winner for sure.”

“Have you shown this to my wife?”

“Mrs. Big Dope is more negative than you.”

“What did she say about marketing to hunters?”

“She yelled at me and I didn’t understand her.”

“Why? She’s usually pretty straightforward.”

“Not this time,” he said. “She kept babbling about, well … about men’s private parts, you know.”

“And?”

“She said I should just sell them something called an ‘elongator.’ Said it would serve the same purpose, cost a lot less, and bring what she called a collective sigh of relief from entire animal world.”

“I see.”

“So,” he said, “I made another working model.” He reached around and produced a long cardboard box emblazoned with a brightly colored label that read, “The Hunter’s Dream.” He turned around and said, “Hey Sport. Where are you going? Aren’t we going to box awhile?”

 

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Oh, and see www.wattensawpress.com

And ... www.allhatnocattle.com

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

Available at major on-line retailers, or
www.wattensawpress.com

263. Protection

I found C.W. jotting notes in furious fashion this morning in the form of a "full-bird" colonel of the American army. When I entered, he looked up. "Ahem," he said, "just the person I wanted to see."

"Uh oh," I said, turning to leave.

"Wait soldier," he said. "I need to ask you some things, so get your butt over here."

I did as I was told.

"Now," he said, "you served in the military didn't you?"

"U.S. Navy, sir," then catching myself, I said, "hell yes C.W., you know I did."

"You carried a weapon, right?"

"For eleven months and 28 days," I said, "but who was counting?"

"Assault rifle?"

"M-14, M-16, M-60, .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol, M-79 grenade launcher, and, for most of the time of the Tet Offensive, a sawed-off 12-guage shotgun." I smiled briefly thinking of the scenes. "Even the colonels showed respect for that one."

"Ahem, yes," he said, scribbling again. "Any how long did it take to insert a magazine, charge the weapon, and take aim when you thought trouble was coming?"

"Say what?"

"When danger approached, how long did it take you to prepare for it, to have your weapon loaded and at the ready?"

"Uh, C.W., ..."

"Colonel Rankhoher to you."

"You didn't get ready if you knew danger was there." I said, "You stayed ready."

"You inserted a magazine into your weapon?"

"You locked and loaded the son of  bitch, took the safety off, pointed it to where you thought the trouble was coming from, and put your finger on the trigger," I said.

"Ahem," he said, and made a note.

"My friends in the infantry even sometimes employed a "mad minute" in which, at a pre-determined time, everyone on the perimeter would fire for sixty seconds in the middle of the night in the direction from which potential danger might come."

"Did it accomplish anything?"

"Just woke everyone up."

"But in actual battles ..., let's discuss the efficacy of prepared combatants."

"In actual battles," I said, "they estimate it takes 50,000 rounds to kill a single enemy combatant."

I think this would detract from
the movie, but who knows? - C.W.

"Oh dear," he said, writing again.

"The snipers do much better," I said, "around 1.3 rounds per kill, but they are prepared and have the elements of surprise and distance. And of course the rate is much better for civilian hits, say when firing into a village."

"Ahem," he said. "So the most reliable position for protection with a firearm is to be on the ready, weapon charged and aimed, and finger on the trigger." He resumed making notes.

"If you want to meet that one in 50,000 goal," I said. Then it dawned on me. "What are you doing," I said, "preparing a safety manual?"

"Ahem," he said. "No. It's a preparedness protocol for arming citizens to protect theater audiences."


Click an ad so I can buy some more ammunition. - C.W.
See also: www.wattensawpress.com

A Time To Mourn

We went for a ride yesterday, C.W. and I, mostly to give my wife a break from him. We've been indoors because of a high heat index, a phenomena that seems to bring out the worst in a Falloonian. After he had played his "fake dog poop" trick on her for the umpteenth time, I invited him to go for a drive. She lowered the baseball bat and nodded her approval.

Going down a side road, we passed a large Remington Arms factory located along Interstate 40 near Little Rock. As we went by, I sensed C.W. jerk around and stare at the grounds.

"Stop the car," he said, whereupon I noticed that he had assumed a shape much like that of the late Walter Brennan when he played "Grandpa Amos," on the TV show. "I want to talk to that man," he said.

I slowed to a stop and looked. A man was draping black bunting, signifying mourning, along the fence bordering the factory where they produce ammunition. Before I could speak, C.W. had exited the car and was limping toward the man. I had no choice but to follow.

When he approached, the man stopped his work and stared in disbelief, and for good reason of course.

"Hello brother," C.W. said. "Putting up mourning cloth for our servicemen who were murdered?

"Huh?" the man said, still staring in wonderment.

"Our military men."

"What military men?"

"The recruiters who got killed."

"Don't know nothing about no recruiters gettin' killed," the man said. "This is for Obama."

"Oh no," I said. "Did something happen to the President?"

"Not yet," the man said. "But we're getting ready for when he leaves office."

"Whatcha mean, son?" C.W. said.

"He leaves office after next year," the man said, "and we're in deep mourning about it."

"You mean you liked him?" C.W. sounded truly incredulous.

"We love him."

"Son," C.W. said, "you're not making a bit of sense."

"Best thing that ever happened to us," the man said. "We haven't slowed down a bit since he's been in office. Uncle Wayne seen to that."

I joined in. "Uncle Wayne?"

"Uncle Wayne LaPierre."

"Of the NRA?"

"Who else?" the man said, sounding a bit peeved.

"But," I said, "he hates President Obama. Don't you all?" I gestured at the plant.

"Are you kidding," the man said. "Best thing that ever happened to us. Don't you keep up with the stock market?"

"I do," C.W. said, lying. "What about it?"

It was as if Joseph Goebbels had
suddenly awakened to find there were no
Jews around anywhere. - C.W.

"You can't be serious," the man said. "Can't you imagine what happens to our stock every time Uncle Wayne hints that a colored feller is going to take away peoples' ammo?"

We watched as he made the motion of a rocket taking off.

"But he hasn't," I said.

The man looked at me as if I had just said the weather was hot. "And what goddam difference does that make?" He returned to his mourning bunting.

"So you'll be sorry to see him go?" C.W. wanted to make sure he understood.

"We'll be in deep mourning," the man said. He looked crestfallen. "But we have hopes. We may be tearing this stuff down after next fall's election."

C. W. leaned forward. "And why is that?"

"Are you crazy?" the man said. "Do you know how many little 'a-rab' countries there are and how many bullets it would take to whup them all?"

See also www.wattensawpress.com

Mid-week Musings

Dear Friends and Followers:

Big Dope is doing outside things so I have borrowed his computer (still saving for my own) and will offer a few observations of your rather odd, at times, culture.

I notice where the Attorney General of your state who, if I remember, ran on the platform that she would shoot people more readily than her opponent, offered some insight on one's right to "pack heat" openly, as Big Dope describes it. She says it is fine unless you intend, with your openly displayed weapon, to hurt someone or commit a crime. I'm confused. Why else would anyone want to strap a loaded weapon on their hip? They aren't particularly attractive. Big Dope says it is complicated and involves the size of certain organs, the level of paranoia, grandiose thinking, and a dramatic lack of understanding about one's ability to fire a weapon under pressure. He points out that a trained police office once, in a highly sensational incident on the University of Texas campus, emptied a six-shot revolver at a sniper from 50 feet away and never hit him even once. Oh well. I'll not report this to the Falloonian Elders because they wouldn't believe it anyway.

Then I read where a couple is planning to get a divorce because their country is going to recognize marriages between two consenting adults of the same sex. Seems it offends their religious sensitivity as followers of Jesus Christ. Now ... I haven't been able find in any translation where the figure of Jesus, whether one accepts him as literary or spiritual, said anything about same-sex marital situations. He was, however, from my casual reading, real clear about getting divorced as stated in your Book of Matthew: "I tell you that anyone who divorces his wife, except for sexual immorality, and marries another woman commits adultery." I submit this couple has their spiritual cognizance in complete disarray.

Now I see where your military branch has lost over a trillion dollars that can't be accounted for. That's a lot of money and they still want more. I heard one of you politicians say one time that your government ought to be run like one would run a business. Not only is that belief bizarre on its surface, it seems to me igovernment ought to be run more like a family's operation. Any teenager losing a relative amount like that would probably have her or his allowance cut.

Well, I see BD coming back, so I won't have time to get into your lack of understanding of the concept of the limits of exponential growth. Maybe next time if they don't pave over the city for freeway lanes.

You seem to think somehow that
you can just keep building them forever. - C.W.

\


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And ... www.allhatnocattle.com

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

209. Refuge

It was too late. I tried to hide but they—he—saw me. It was C.W. in his classic form of Lucky and Lefty, the conjoined twins. Oh dear.

“Get in step, asshole,” I heard Lefty say.

“Walk straight, you dink,” the other said.

“Hey look, dumbnuts, it’s Big Dope,” Lefty said. They immediately started toward me.

I waited with trepidation.

They stopped in front of where I sat in the shade of an oak tree and then simulated a sort of “come to attention” move.

“Your Royal Cluelessness,” Lefty said, with a mock salute.

“Boys,” I said, acknowledging their presence. It was then that I noticed a large leather strap across Lefty’s shoulder and leading around his torso. Just as I did, he turned inward suddenly.

“Goddammit,” Lucky said, “how many times have I told you not to do that?”

“Just exercising my rights,” Lefty said revealing a nasty-looking assault rifle held across his back.

It startled me. “What the hell?”

“Would you just look,” Lucky said. “He has gone totally psycho.”

“Get that thing away from here,” I said.

“When you pry it from my cold dead hands,” Lefty said. “But we’ll be gone soon.”

“Damned if we will,” Lucky said.

“My little friend here says it's true,” Lefty said, patting the muzzle of the rifle.

Lucky looked at me with a horribly pained expression. “Know where he intends to go?”

I said, “Texas, maybe?”

“How did you guess?” Lefty said, eying me suspiciously.

“Uh, isn’t that where nuts like you feel most at home?”

“No,” Lefty said. “That’s where the good targets are.”

I said, “What good targets?”

“Them kids.”

Before I could respond, Lucky said, “He wants to go to Texas and shoot those refugee children as they come across the border.

I was aghast. “You can’t do that.”

“Sure I can,” Lefty said. “I’m a damn good shot … except when ‘shit for brains’ here flinches.” He motioned toward Lucky.

“Can’t you do something?” Lucky said.

“I’d like to see him try,” Lefty said as he pulled the strap away from his chest and let it pop. “The one person you don’t want to mess with is a motivated American with a gun.”

“First,” I said, “you’re not an American. You’re an alien yourself. Second, America hasn’t settled an issue with guns since World War Two. Third, you can’t shoot children, not even in Texas.”

Lefty said. “Sure you can. They’re just quicker, that’s all. You have to lead them a little more.”

Lucky said, “Please, Big Dope.”

I said, “Want to tell me what has you so exercised, Lefty?”

“Them kids need to go back home,” he said. “They come from South America and they need to go back to South America, or be shot.”

“Want to know the weird part?” Lucky said.

“Sure,” I said.

“You didn’t know us then, but remember when that young boy, Elián González washed up in Florida after escaping from Cuba?”

“Yes.”

“Guess who wanted to shoot some feds for sending him back to his father.”

I looked at Lefty. He said, “Well that was different.”

I said, “How?”

“Just was. That’s all.” He looked away.

“And,” Lucky said, “he claims to be this big Christian.”

“Don’t you say nothing about my Jesus,” Lefty said.

“I won’t,” I said, “except that he was once a refugee whose family fled into Egypt to escape persecution from Herod.

“That was different,” Lefty said.

“And how, exactly?”

Big Dope says that this photo may have created
an eight-year nightmare for America. - C.W.

“Well everybody knows that Jesus was an … uh … an American.”

“Tell me,” I said. “Do you have any bullets for that gun?”

“No,” Lefty said. “We’re broke. That’s why we come to see you.”

“Boys,” I said, “pull yourselves up a chair. You ain’t going nowhere.”

 

 

Be sure and click on an ad. I need ammo. - C.W. (Just kidding. I need a computer)

And also check out Big Dope's book at www.wattensawpress.com