210. Punditry

 C.W. is back on his dream of becoming a pundit. He showed up in a nice dark suit, immaculately groomed gray hair, and a stuffy Caucasian demeanor that made every attempt imaginable to look above average.

“It’s easy,” he said. “All you need to be a good pundit is gray hair and constipation.”

“Say again?”

He looked at me as if I had just belched out loud at a formal dinner party. “Simple,” he said, “the gray hair is to make you look distinguished and the constipation is to make you look concerned.”

“Uh,” I said, “isn’t there a bit more to it than that?”

“Not much,” he said. “Once you decide where you are going, it is a simple process to get there.” He studied me. “For example,” he said, “you are President Obama.” He cocked his head sympathetically, “Mr. President,” he said, “there is a conspiracy theory being stated that you are a secret alien taking on the shape of an American to prepare the earth for an invasion from outer space.”

“A conspiracy theory?”

“Yes sir, a conspiracy theory.”

“And I am supposed to respond to that?”

“Sir,” he said, taking on a more threatening look, “are you saying that you refuse to respond to it?”

“You are crazy,” I said.

“I got you there, didn’t I?”

“No,” I said, “you exhibited once more that you are a whacked-out idiot.”

“Mr. President,” he said, ignoring me, “is it really true, as Sarah Palin says, that you intend to extend your defense cuts by making American families board our military personnel?”

“Have you gone totally mad?”

“Shall I take that as a ‘yes,’ Mr. President?”

“C.W.,” I said, “Our bill of rights protects us from that very thing. A pundit should know the Bill of Rights.”

“What’s that … the Bill of Rights?”

“It’s the first ten amend…,” I began before stopping. “For goodness sake, C.W., you have to know American history to become a pundit on TV.”

“Says who?”

Wow. He had me there. I thought about some recent clips I had seen and decided I might be on shaky ground.

“See,” he said as he leaned toward me as a father might when explaining the facts of life to a son. “We pundits no longer see the need for such nonsense. We operate in a post-factual paradigm. Haven’t you ever watched Fox News?”

“Only while picking something up at the used tire shop.”

“Then you know the Reagan Doctrine that guides the moral compass of media pundits.”

Facts? We don't need no stupid facts. Now that's the style of
 a good pundit these days. It frees up a lot of our time. - C.W.

“And that is?”

“Like he said, ‘Facts are stupid things.’”

“I think if you research that, you will find he has been misquoted, or at least mischaracterized, by history.”

“Research is for sissies. We have a job to do, as pundits, and we can’t be distracted. Besides, if The Great Communicator said it, it is true.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “with a new paradigm, you might adopt a new name as well.”

“So I and my colleagues will no longer be pundits?”

“No,” I said, “I think the term ‘pundidiots’ suits you better.”

 

Now click an ad for my new computer. - C.W.

And check out www.wattensawpress.com

157. Cults

C.W. is threatening to leave me of all things. That didn’t exactly sound right now, did it? What he said was that he wanted to get married and would have to move away. He looked like a marriage prospect. Polo shirt, shorts, walking shoes and a haircut that must have cost more than my last trip to the grocery.

“First,” I said. “You are an alien. How can you get married?”

“Do I look like an alien?”

He had me there. “No, you would fit right in most places.” It was true. He was a model for the perfect yuppie.

“That’s what’s important,” he said. I must have had a questioning look. “Fitting in.”

“Don’t you fit in here?”

“Oh please,” he said, looking around. His eyes rested on a disassembled toaster oven on a pad of newspapers covering the kitchen floor.

“My wife has been working on it,” I said.

“For the last three months?”

“What is eating you?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I just want to get married and she insists on living where everyone is just like us.”

“Aliens?”

“Perfect specimen.”

“As in?”

“You know … white, tall, and handsome.”

“Everyone?”

“We would allow some mascots.”

“What would you do for fun?”

“We would go to this church where people like us go. There’s a whole chain of them.”

A chain of churches?”

“Full of people like us.”

“White, tall, and handsome?”

“Maybe one other.”

“One other?”

He looked hurt, “We believe in diversity,” he said.

“So who is this person you want to marry?”

“Someone I met on the Intenet.”

“And she lives …?”

“In this perfect city.”

“And goes to this perfect church?”

“Yes, and the children there all go to perfect schools.”

“And what does ‘perfect school’ mean?”

“Well, uh … you know … just perfect.”

“You want to move to a ‘white-flight’ city?”

“She doesn’t call it that.”

“What does she call it?”

“A community of choice.”

“Because one chooses to be …?”

“Like everyone else.”

“So what are you going to do with your collection of Whoopee Cushions?”

He looked at the floor. “Well, Mrs. Big Dope has always wanted them.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“How about giving them to your friend Wayne?”

“He wouldn’t live a week.”

“I dunno then.”

“Speaking of Wayne, what will you do with the ‘Beer - Helping White Guys Dance Since 1842’ poster he gave you?”

He looked genuinely surprised. “I can’t take it there?”

“Hardly. And what about those geese on the pond that you have trained to march in unison and quack ‘Gooseland, Gooseland, Uber Alles?’”

“Oh gee,” he said.

“They won’t let you in an apartment with those.”

“Oh,” he said, brightening. “No apartment. You have to loan us money to buy a house. They don’t allow apartments.”

“They don’t allow apartments there?”

“No, children who live in apartments drag down the schools’ test scores.”



Marching to the beat of a different drummer is bound
to keep you out of step with your neighbors. Just look
at Big Dope. - C.W.

“This sounds like a cult to me.”

“A what?”

Before I could answer, we were interrupted by loud voice from the back of the house. “You two have one second to get these geese out of here!”

We raced toward the sound of a quacking that sounded suspiciously like the tune of “The Horst Wessel Song.”

“You would leave all this?” I said as the feathers began to fly.

“In a heartbeat.”

117. Citizenship

“Ich bin ein Amerikaner.”

“What?”

“Ik ben een Amerikaanse”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Soy un Americano.”

“Will you stop it?”

“Je suis un Américain.”

“C.W., will you shut up for a second?”

“Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?”

“I want you to shut the … to tell me what you are doing?”

“I am preparing,” the figure of a young farm worker, dressed in work clothes and a straw hat said.

“Preparing for what?”

“Citizenship.”

“Citizenship?” I said.

“The Falloonian Elders think it would be nice if I could demonstrate an ability to pass.”

“Pass what?”

“Pass as a citizen of your country.”

“Why the languages?”

“Quotas.”

“What do you mean quotas?”

“Don’t you have quotas for citizenship based on country of origin?”

I thought. “Good point. Best you forget the Spanish. Stick with the northern Europeans.”

“I agree,” he said. “Want to help me with the test?”

“What test?”

“The Elders sent me some practice questions based on my monthly reports and they wish me to study them.” He held up a large sheath of papers. He read one and then said, “For example, ‘The teacher at a major university will receive the highest salary for teaching:  1.physics, 2. heart surgery, 3.chemistry, or 4.football.’ That’s a no-brainer, right?”.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Here’s another. ‘Marijuana is considered an illegal possession in the United States because, 1.it makes a person do silly things, 2.enforcement creates jobs, 3.it keeps amateurs out of the production and distribution processes, or 4.all of the above.”

“Who did you say wrote these?”

“Our planetary research institute. I send them material such as newspapers and social network videos.”

I must have looked startled.

“How about this one? ‘Social concern for the nation’s needy children ends 1.upon graduation from high school, 2.after adolescence, 3.after pre-school status, or 4.after gestation?’”

“And your answer would be?”

“I’m stumped. It would seem to depend upon your political persuasion.”

“And they think these questions will be on the citizenship test?”

“Based on your popular media outlets, yes. Here’s another, ‘The founders of the United States did not wish to maintain a standing army. Today we consider this attitude 1.stupid, 2.out of date, 3.bad for the economy, or 4.chicken shit.”

“Chicken shit? Is that really a choice?”

“That’s what they sent me.”

“What kind of material are you sending them?”

“Oh, talk radio broadcasts, news segments, blogs. You know. Typical Americana.”

“Are you sending them Fox News Broadcasts?”

Just think fans. Before long I can say "Hello my
fellow Americans." - C.W.

“Want to hear another?”

“C.W.!”

He looked at the floor. “I may have sent them a couple.”

“Sean Hannity?”

“He’s very popular.”

“Rush Limbaugh?”

“How could I ignore him?”

“Don’t tell me that your superiors think they are typical of our country.”

“Jag är en Amerikansk,” he said, returning to his studies.

116. Churches

I wish you could have seen C.W. this morning. Dolled up is not the term for it. His tailored suit must have cost close to five thousand dollars and I could have combed my hair using the reflection in his hand-made shoes. The cost of his tie would have provided me with a week’s supply of clothing. A jewel-encrusted Rolex sparkled on his wrist.

But the best part of it was his hair. It must have stood up four inches from his head and not a hair was out of place. I couldn’t help staring.

“What?” He said, looking up from a Bible he was holding.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Then leave me alone. I’m about my father’s work.”

I turned to leave.

“Aren’t you at least curious?”

I looked around. “No.”

“I’m starting a new church,” he said. “A real one-liner.”

“A what?”

“You know,” he said, pointing to a text. “A church formed from one selected line.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Somebody already took the handling of serpents,” he paused. “Besides, I don’t like snakes.”

I was mystified.

“And Joseph Smith grabbed ‘Be fruitful and multiply.’ Now the Duggers have it copyrighted.”

“Would you explain to what you are talking about?”

“Money,” he said. “More money than you can imagine. Do you know how many cars, boats, and mansions Joyce Meyers owns?”

“A bunch I think.”

“More than a bunch. Now I plan to cash in”

“You make it sound simple,” I said.

“It is. All you have to do is find one line in here,” he said waving his Bible at me. “And you form your church around it.”

I must have looked mystified.

“Have concerns about your sexuality and want to overcompensate? There’s a line that lets you start a church based on preaching against members of your species born with a same-sex physiology.”

“So I have heard.”

“If you enjoy your same-sex physiology, there’s a line for that too,” he said. “That’s the beauty of it.” He looked at his Bible lovingly.

“So what’s yours?”

“I thought you would never ask,” He said. Then he looked at me with a conspiratorial wink. “You know how I hate physical labor.”

“I have noticed a tendency to, as they say, get rich quickly and easily.”

“Quite so,” He said. “So here it is.” He turned to a bookmarked page. “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin.” He looked up and smiled. “It goes on further to say don’t worry, your heavenly father will provide for you.”

“So?”

“Don’t you see the appeal of a church that teaches it is a sin to work?”

I thought for a moment. “But won’t someone have to?”

I was going to base my church on a
commandment of gluttony but that
was aleady taken. - C.W.

“Sure, the unrighteous,” he said. “And maybe Methodists and Jews.

“What if they don’t want to?”

“That’s the secret to it,” he announced with a note of triumph. “Don’t you realize that yours is a Christian nation and the government will make them?”

“Now who told you that?” I said.

“Joyce Meyers.”

114. Beliefs

C.W. had warned me that he was seeking a new vocation. He was going to become rich as a writer. So it was no surprise when I found a completed manuscript on my kitchen table for review.

 

It was entitled, “A Real History of the United States - By the Conservative Youth Movement.” Since he had not arrived by the agreed upon time, I took the opportunity to scan a few sections. Here is one.

As our brave forefathers settled this great country, they sought business alliances with the Native Americans who claimed to own the land. They paid 15 percent above appraised value for all lands acquired, hoping that the recipients would use the proceeds to establish themselves in a legitimate business. What did our “Redskin Brothers” do with the money instead? Why, they spent it instead upon liquor, cheap cosmetics, and weapons of mass destruction, causing great burdens to the white minority.

Another:

Our wise forefathers foresaw a shortage of labor in the New World, so they sent ships to the Continent of Africa, offering good wages, free transportation, and food and lodging to unemployed warriors. Upon arriving, however, these ingrates squandered their wages on music and refused to get an education. Our forefathers, then, were required to house and keep them for over 200 years

Still another:

In 1861, the northern states, without provocation, sent troops into the southern states to strip property owners of their land and belongings. A terrible war ensued.

And this:

As Great Britain and Russia lay defeated by Hitler’s forces, the United States was forced to take over World War Two and defeat Nazism single handedly. Three infantry divisions, led by John Wayne, Ronald Reagan, and Clint Eastwood respectively, stormed ashore on the Normandy Coast and proceeded  to fight their way across France, into Germany, and finally into Berlin itself.

My mouth dropped open at the exact moment he entered the room. He appeared as a freshly scrubbed youth in a brown uniform, complete with leather attachments, short pants, and highly polished shoes. A logo featuring the letters CYM covered the front of his shirt.

“Big Dope,” he said. “Greetings.”

“C.W.,” I said. “Are you serious about this?” I waved the manuscript at him.

“Of course,” he said. “I just received word from Wal-Mart that a half-million copies have been pre-sold. With the stockholder-gifts, the Hagee Ministry pre-sells, and the Texas schoolbook orders, we are already into our third printing before the first publication.”  He paused. “Conservative books are very popular.”

“But,” I asked. “Does anyone actually read them?”

“Who cares?

I was beginning to feel weak. I must have grimaced.

The Conservative Youth deserve an
accurate hisory of our country, - C.W.

“What?” he said.

“But these are all lies,” I said, shaking the manuscript again.

“That may be true,” he said. “But it is also irrelevant.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “There is something you must understand about lies.” He took the manuscript from me and held it in front of me.

“They,” he said slowly. “Are the stuff that dreams are made of.”

111. Idiocies

There was no doubt that it wasn’t James Madison in my living room so I had to assume it was C.W. Why he chose this particular form would become obvious soon enough. With his powdered wig slightly askew, he was sitting at my desk thumbing my pocket edition of the U.S. Constitution and mumbling to himself.

 

“What’s cookin’ Satch?” I said.

“Imbecile,” he said.

“Well aren’t we touchy?”

“This thing,” he said, waving the Constitution at me. I noticed he the pages were crumpled, dog-earned, and covered with notes and underlines. “This thing is so short. I don’t remember that.”

“I thought you wanted it that way,” I said. Why not play along?

“I can find no provision for ‘aclona++snocry.’’’

“A- what?”

He thought for a second. “It’s serious crime on our planet.”

“And it is?

“Something of a cross between ‘knowingly uttering nonsense and scaring the children.”

“Examples?”

“Publicly stating that a female of your species physiologically disables her reproductive system after being beaten and violently impregnated against her will.”

“I see.”

“Or claiming that data showing increasingly warming temperatures around the globe are false because some mythical father-figure in the sky simply wouldn’t permit it.”

“Be careful with that one.”

“Stating that supply creates demand or that if you give all your riches to a few, much of it will magically trickle down to the remainder.”

“I see.”

“Or denials of the scientific processes of natural selection even after the Trogotherans dropped Charles Darwin off here in 1859 to explain it all.”

“And your point is?”

“That there no laws against this, as hard as we worked to produce such enlightenment?” He waved the Constitution at me.

“Laws against stupidity?”

“Laws against spreading it.”

“And on Falloonia?”

“On our planet, we take it quite seriously.”

“And the punishment is?”

He thought. “It would be your equivalent of Vacation Bible School as produced at Alcatraz.”

 

I shuddered. “Maybe you better check your Eighth Amendment there.”

“Levity is not appropriate when discussing this,” he said and he flourished the Constitution again.

“So what do you propose?”

“We would have the punishment fit the crime.”

“So, the ‘supply-siders’ might be given a batch of Facebook stock and forced to sell it?”

“Precisely.”

“And the ‘trickle-downers’ might be forced to live for a while at the bottom of the pile.”

If it should happen that the proposed
broom-handle remediation should
prove unsuitable to the task of
providing enlightenment to those of
the species who would aspire to
regulate the personal behavior of other
genders, a more enlightened approach
involving electrodes might suffice to
provide mental reformation. - Publius

“You are getting the picture.”

“And the ‘legitimate rape’ fellers?”

He straightened his wig, gave me a deliciously wicked wink, and began to lift himself off the floor with the handle of a broom that he had laid nearby.

“Glad you asked, Big Dope. Stand up and I will show you.”

“Uh, thanks Publius, I think I get the picture.”

110. Fixes

C.W. needs our help, he says. The Falloonian Elders are having trouble believing some of the reports he is sending. The latest has to do with our treatment of pets, the poor, and the elderly.

“I know what I send the Elders doesn’t always provide a peal of verisimilitude,” he said.

“You mean a ‘ring of truth’”?

“That’s what I said, my son.” His condescension arose from his appearance, no doubt. He had chosen to appear as a high-ranking Catholic clergyman. I wasn’t quite sure of his rank, not being of that faith, but if expense of attire correlates accurately with title, he was up there.

“Pets, the poor, and the elderly,” I said, returning to his original theme.

“Yes, they are amazed, but somehow pleased, when I relate how much care and love your species lavishes on personal pets.”

Just then, as if to prove the point, the latest addition to our family, a young stray dog that my wife had rescued from under an abandoned church building, trotted into the room. She took one look at C.W. whined, backed off, and fled the room.

“I think that is some 20 or so strays that you have rescued over the years,” he said.

“At least,” I said.

“Of course the Elders are not as sharply honed about your interspecies sporting habits.”

“I’m not as ‘keen’ about them myself,” I said. “I gave up hunting when my military career ended.”

“The Elders would prefer that you engage in competitive sports in which both parties knew that a game was afoot.”

“Understandable,” I said.

“Now, about the others.”

“The poor and the elderly?”

“Yes, the Elders don’t believe me when I tell them that one of your political parties would like to pitch them out amongst the Canus Lupi.”

“Well, they don’t call it ‘throwing them to the wolves.’”

“What do they call it, my son?”

“Well, uh,” I struggled. “They would call it building self-reliance.”

“And they would call sodomy a case of following too closely?” He loves this quote by William F. Buckley, Jr. and I regret relating it to him.

“So, do you have a plan?” I tried to redirect him.

“Yes, my son.” He arranged his robe. “Why don’t you simply make pets of your poor and elderly?”

“Pets?”

Be kind to pets, not gays. - C.W

“Yes,” he said. “You could sell them in shops, give them silly names, teach them tricks, dress them in ridiculous outfits, and …” he blushed, “Have them ‘fixed’ when appropriate. This would be okay for pets but not full-fledged people, don’t you see?”

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“But,” he said. “There is one thing.”

“And that is?”

“You can’t transport them on the top your cars.”

106. Beliefs

For two days, I hadn’t been able to find C.W. anywhere. That’s not odd, for he has to make reports to his home planet periodically. And, to be honest, sometimes I find the separation refreshing. This time was different, though. We had been working on a fan letter to Stephen Hawking that had stopped at the sentence “I would trade my Capsullian Particle Disseminator for your ability to conceptualize reality.”

I think I had offended him by my editing recommendations. He went off to sulk and I hadn’t seen him since. Usually he reappears in a better humor, but not this time.

Well, one obviously cannot file a “missing alien” report with the authorities, so I waited. When he didn’t show to watch “The Big Bang Theory,” I knew something was up. I even left his favorite dish, mango and anchovy pizza, at his favorite spot overlooking the Arkansas River. Nothing. With a foreboding of sadness building inside me, I continued my morning walks alone, sometimes catching myself singing a song from the 1960s about a boy and his dragon friend.

Last night he returned.

My wife had gone to bed early and I was reading alone when I heard a thumping sound and looked up to see a middle-aged man in striped pants and a checkered shirt, the sort of attire that we used to frown upon before our great eschewing of taste in personal attire.

He was on crutches. Heavy bandages swathed his feet and he appeared to be in a great deal of pain. I didn’t say anything, just allowed him to ease into a chair and assume a comfortable position.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

“Fine,” I said. I handed him the TV remote and resumed my reading.

“Don’t you want to know what happened?”

“Fine,” I said.

“Look,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you everything.”

“Fine.”

“I’ve been to California.”

“That’s nice, how was the weather?”

He eased one of his feet into a different position and grimaced. “I got hurt,” he said.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“You’ll write it up in that stupid thing you put on the Internet.”

“Probably.”

“Can’t I have any secrets?”

“Fine.”

He studied me for a moment. “I went to a motivational seminar.”

“Did you walk there?” I asked, looking at his feet.

“No, Big Dope, I didn’t walk to get there.” He can be mocking at times.

“Then what happened?”

“I walked on hot coals once I got there.”

“You what?”

“I went to see this guy named Tony Robbins.”

“And?”

“He told me that if I truly believed, I could walk on a bed of hot coals and not be burned.”

Now. Big Dope, trust me. Just jam
your finger into that light socket.
If your belief is strong,
you have no reason to worry. - C.W.

“And you believed him?”

“When I assume the appearance of one of your species, I believe a great number of things.”

“So if I told you that you could grab a rattlesnake and kiss it without harm, you would believe it?”

“Well, maybe not that.” He paused. “Unless the snake told me it was okay.”

“So you do believe snakes can talk?”

“Can we see if there are any “Big Bang” reruns on TV? I know Penny misses me.”

105. Matches

“Intergalactic travel. Should I put that under ‘hobbies’ or ‘job description’ I wonder?”

I considered it. “It might sound less intimidating as a hobby.”

“No, wait, I already listed ‘making crop circles’ as a preferred passing of durations.”

While he pondered the most appropriate pastime, I fixed us a couple of Mexican Martinis. I love the way they affect him and he tends to forget until it is too late.

C.W. was spending Saturday evening filling out a questionnaire for an on-line dating service. It’s one of his favorite, well … ‘pass durations’ if you will. So far, his respondents were all English Majors except for the owner of a Christian bookstore in Seattle who was passing himself off as the widow of a Nobel Prize – winning physicist. (Readers will have to wait until the statute of limitations has run out on that one.}

Anyway, he was trying to broaden his constituency, so to speak. You should have seen him. He resembled a model in a men’s magazine, without that constipated look they tend to assume.

I handed him his drink and he sipped. “Marvelous,” he said.

“Just wait,” I thought. “Enjoy it,” I said.

“Cute puppies, Céline Dion music, and long walks in the spring rain,” he said as he wrote.

“That is so awful.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you put the truth down?” I said.

“Such as?”

“Analyzing String Theory literature, making homemade pasta, and buzzing around town on your Vespa.”

“I did that once.”

“And?”

“Don’t you remember driving her back to the bus terminal?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, shuddering. “But seriously, how can you expect a meaningful relationship to develop from such an orchestrated scenario?”

“As opposed to what?” he said.

“Chance encounters,” I said. “So spontaneous and romantic. Don’t you pay attention to any of the movies we watch? Consider the happy little accidents of life.”

He thought for a moment. “Such as yours?”

It was my turn to think. “Exactly,” I said.

“So you happened to meet your wife on the parking lot of your apartment complex.”

“That’s correct,” I said.

“Nearly 40 years ago?”

“Seems like the blink of an eye,” I said.

“Purely by accident?” he said.

“Purely.” I saw him cock an eye. “What are you getting at?” I said.

“She just happened to walk by?” he said.

“Just happened to,” I said. “I was working on my car.”

“And it was parked by the door of her apartment?”

I thought back. “No, I had parked it in a far corner, out of the way.”

“And she just walked by dressed in jeans and a sweater.”

“No, she was dressed for a date,” I said. “Really dolled up.”

“And just happened to walk by.”

“Just happened to,” I said, with less confidence.

I can't understand why I don't get
better matches on E-Harmony with this great photo - C.W.

“Did she stroll by, or did she do that ‘Lauren Bacall’ thing.”

Realization struck me like summer lightening, and my mouth dropped. “Why that little …”

“Hold on, pal,” he said, finishing his drink. “That’s your life-partner you’re talking about and she’s in the next room.” Then he banged his glass on the table.

“Put some music on, Big Dope. I’m ready to do the Merengue.”

104. Television

My wife was off on an adventure with her mother, so C.W. and I decided to spend some time watching television. Want to guess his favorite show? Yep, you are correct. It’s the “Big Bang Theory.” In fact, he was using his multi-tasking skills to write a fan letter to the show’s female character, Penny. Appropriately, he had assumed a shape closely resembling the big brother on the old series “Leave it to Beaver.”

“How’s this sound?” he said, looking up from his writing. “You certainly have a carcass capable of generating heat.”

I thought for a moment. “I think you probably mean, ‘hot body.’”

“Exactly.”

“That might be a little strong for the first letter,” I said. But he didn’t hear me. The character in question walked across a room in the scene we were watching and it caught his attention.

“Would you look at that …, “ he began.

“I can see it,” I said, interrupting him. “May I ask you something?”

“Wait a minute,” he said. Then, after Penny had left the scene, he turned to me. “Are you sure it makes you go blind?”

Ignoring him, I continued, “I would easily understand why you like a show about four young physicists,” I said. “But you seem fixated on the only non-scientist on the show.”

“Shut up,” he said. “I just had a thought.” He returned to his letter, speaking the words as he wrote. “Physicists are a dime-for-twelve but your body is a solitary splendor that would fetch top dollar.” He paused. “How does that sound?”

“I’m sure she will be overwhelmed.”

“I think television is one of your species’ more interesting phenomenon,” he said, sticking the pencil lead to his tongue and then to the paper.

“Then why is a sitcom your favorite? Why not one of the more educational shows?”

“Such as?” he said, turning to me with a questioning look.

The question took me by surprise, and I couldn’t come up with a quick answer.

“Your so-called ‘History Channel?’”

“Well, maybe not that one.”

“Not unless one really believes that Leonardo de Vinci was an alien.”

“Well …”

“I’ve told you over and over again,” he said. “We have only planted one alien unit on Earth in all our panspermian efforts.”

“I know. I know.”

“And you know that we placed it in a remote spot to minimize the chance of catastrophe.”

“I know.”

“And?”

Dear Penny: If you would only give me
the chance, I couild teach you a thing or two
about physics that those four guys
never dreamed of. - Your fan, C.W.

“She ended up running for Vice-President,” I said.

“And?”

“You had to come here to keep tabs.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Now leave me alone. He started to write, “I want so badly to stick my tongue in …”

“C.W.,” I said.

“A dish of Falloonian Congomeracity Pudding, when I see your sweet smile.”

Then he stopped and looked at me.

”What?”

102. Diets

Where C.W. gets his inspiration I don’t know. Maybe it’s a Falloonian thing. Maybe our culture has him in its thralls. Maybe he picked the wrong earthling as his liaison. One thing I will say, though. He’s a persistent little critter.

For example, his latest caper is a venture into the publishing business. I caught him typing away in the guise of the late Orson Welles this morning. He “shushed” me as I walked into the room so I stood drinking my coffee as he pounded away.

With a flourish, he hit “save” and looked up at me.

“Just about done,” he said.

I couldn’t resist, though I knew better. “At what?”

“My new book,” he said. This is going to get me the Fallooniaskregreb++.

”The what?”

“Falloonian Voyager of the Year Award.”

“And it is?”

“A book on how to lose weight. They sell like hot breadlike pastries in your country.”

“And why, exactly, will yours sell like hotcakes?”

He looked at me as if I had just asked why women wear makeup.

“Because it will be easy.”

“Easy?”

“No effort or sacrifice whatsoever.”

I pondered this. “Don’t you have to reduce your caloric intake to lose weight?”

He laughed, and his great belly shook derisively.

“And exercise?”

He laughed again, a huge rolling response that shook his jowls in merriment.

“You are so evidenceless,” he said. “With my system, you won’t even need a pedophile.

“I think you may mean ‘pedometer’ and I may be clueless,” I said. “But I have been to college.”

“Just my point,” he interrupted. “Most of my readers haven’t, or if they have, they worked hard at not learning anything.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You have a magic powder to sprinkle on one’s food.”

“Too expensive,” he said.

“You have a secret combination of ingesting particular types of food that creates a magical chemical reaction that produces weight loss.”

“Too complicated,” he said. “Remember our audience.”

“You just ingest carbohydrates,” I said. “And some process buried deep in our evolutionary past reacts by burning fat.”

“We might get sued for that one.”

“So,” I said. “What is your secret?”

“You won’t let it out, will you?”

Was he kidding? “I promise.”

He looked around with a flourish that suggested some deep conspiracy. “You eat your food standing up,” he said.

“Standing up?”

“Yep.”

“You’re sh… uh, kidding.”

“A secret discovered by the ancient Mayans. Doesn’t add a single calorie. Have you ever seen a fat Mayan?”

I was speechless. Finally, I managed to respond. “You are crazy.”

“Not as crazy as people who believe you can talk to the dead.”

He had a point.

“With your understanding of science,” I said. “Wouldn’t you rather publish a fact-based treatise on healthy living?”

“Tried that,” he said. “Didn’t sell a copy.”

As I thought about it, he waved me away.

“Go read or something,” he said. “I’m already working on my sequel.

Your species loves to try anything
that doesnt' require thought, work, or
taxes to pay for it. - C.W.

“Your sequel? How are you going to top this one?”

“Oh,” he said. “It’s a book on how to have sex without contraceptives and not get pregnant.”

It dawned on me then. “Let me guess,” I said, “You do it …”

“Out,” he said.

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.

100. Gospels

The day began somewhere between bemusement and annoyance. I needed to talk to C.W. and when needed, he is often nowhere to be found. He does it to aggravate me.

Problem was, quotes were appearing on an on-line social network under my “page” quoting a mysterious document called “The Book of Ludicrous.” I can’t create a password on my computer that C.W. can’t hack, so I knew it was one of his capers.

I finally found him in a corner of the attic at the farmhouse in the guise of a renaissance scholar or something like that. He had fashioned a desk from an old dresser and illuminated his writing space with a small candle. It was stifling hot there, and sweat covered me but, as he looked up from his writing, he paid no notice.

“My son,” he said.

“We need to talk.”

“Of course,” he said. A boney finger motioned for me to wait. He finished the sentence, smiled, and looked back at me.

“What troubles you, child?”

“Have you been posting on my computer again?”

“Computer, what is this … computer?” he asked, a roguish twinkle in his eye.

I wiped the sweat away. “Cut the crap,” I said. “People are asking me about it,” I paused. “What the hell is ‘The Book of Ludicrous’?”

“Ah,” he said. “Your are familiar with my work: ‘The Gospel of Humankind’s Struggle as Set Forth by St. Ludicrous of Salvatia.’”

“What?”

“We are urged,” he said. “Urged by the Falloonian Elders to leave something of value with your species when we depart.” He pointed at his manuscript. “This shall be my gift.”

I glanced over at it.

“It is much better than pictographs cut into wheat fields, right?”

“So you are leaving?” I tried to change the topic.

“Not anytime soon,” he said. “It will be a long manuscript.”

”But why a gospel couched in satirical nonsense?”

He looked at me as if I had just asked how demons could inhabit pigs.

“Can you think of a more fitting paradigm for your species than a book of the ludicrous?”

I began to ponder this.

“I mean, think about your species’ habit of starting unfunded wars.”

That stopped me.

“Or,” he continued. “Pantyhose. Neckties. Designer pets. Or automobiles designed to travel a hundred miles an hour faster than any posted speed limit.”

“What …?” I began.

“I haven’t even approached the more fantastic tendencies,” he said. “Such as the belief that criminal proclivities may be assuaged by locking the miscreant in tight quarters for long periods with more advanced criminals.”

“Well, uh …,” I stammered.

“Who thought that one up?”

Before I could answer, he reached into a drawer and retrieved what looked suspiciously like a joint. He laid it on his desk and then pulled a wicked looking pistol from the same drawer.

“Observe,” he said. “Many of your species would have no problem with my blasting you away with this if you annoyed me.” He waived the pistol in my direction. "And sometimes you do."

“Put that down,” I said.

I still maintain that a
Falloonian female would find
pantyhose baffling at best. - C.W.

He did. Then he picked up the joint, observed it, and said, “But those same brethren would have me join the incarcerated for simply smoking this and grinning like an idiot.

I said nothing. He began to write, speaking as he did so.

“He who shall wallow with the unholy shall feed with the iniquitous.”

“Don’t suggest to my wife that pantyhose are ludicrous,” I said. Then I wiped the sweat away once more and left him to his work.

98. Memorials

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 11th, at the 11th 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 11th 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 92nd Division,” he said. “We thought perhaps your side deemed them dispensable. But then a white soldier from the 313th 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.



Hans Leip, a lonely German soldier,
wrote a romantic poem during WWI that
was destined to become a popular song that
would endure for decades, Lili Marleen
Enjoy! - C.W.

 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.”

97. Obituaries

C.W. looked so proud as he handed me the card. It read, “Awesome Obits Inc.” and included a slogan: “Don’t let your Dear Departed stink in print” followed by contact information.

“What do you think?” he asked.

I just looked at him, fixed up in a beige sport coat, pink silk shirt, blue and red bowtie, chinos, and what I suppose were Gucchis. He looked like a stockbroker on steroids.

“Is this some kind of joke?” I asked.

“Joke, hell,” he frowned and grabbed the card from my hand. “This could be my true calling.”

“Which is?”

“Writing obituaries for distraught families, you know,” he smiled. “The kind your species prints in the newspapers.”

“Would you like a martini?” I asked. “I think I need one.”

“No time,” he said. “Got to deliver product.”

“Product?”

“Sure,” he said. “The orders are coming in faster than I can write them.” He produced some folded sheets of paper from his coat pocket. “Want to hear some?”

I began to consider the question, but he interrupted.

“Listen.” He unfolded a sheet and began to read.

“Politicians should pay attention. There is going to be a real filibuster at the Primitive Believers Baptist Church on Monday as the congregation gathers to win our departed brother, John, “Quickstep” Martin his angel’s wings.” He stopped and looked at me.

I looked back.

“Pretty fine, eh?” he said, handing me another.

Stunned, I glanced at it.

“With a hearty ‘Hi-Ho Silver’ and ‘This should work,’ Bobby Ray ‘Duster Man’ Coogan departed this life Tuesday to be enshrined forever in the National Repository of Aeronautical Statistics. Memorial services will be held at Johnson’s Cotton Gin on Highway 21. BYOB.”

Another followed.

“Those wishing to confirm the demise of Eloise ‘No Bid’ Congleton should plan to attend a brief service at Runyan’s Funeral Home on Friday at 2:00 p.m. Prospective attendees should arrive early as a sizeable crowd is expected for that purpose, a fact which undoubtedly would have caused Eloise to utter her favorite observation, ‘bunch of morons.’”

Then another.

“There will be a new ‘kicker’ in the Celestial Line Dance tonight as our dear sister Margauritte Simpson dons the last new pair of hip-huggers she will ever need. Known to her adult friends as “Whupper” and her high school classmates as ‘C-Cup,’ she will forever be remembered by the Bad Bob’s Cowboy Dance Hall regulars as the one who introduced the ‘bottom roll’ into boot-scootin.’ St. Peter, you’d better have your ‘Tony Llamas on and your jeans pressed tight’ tonight cause the Holy City is going to be busty.”

“Busty?” I said.

“Let me see that,” he said, grabbing the sheet and examining it. “That should read ‘busy.’ I’m still editing some of these.” He scribbled a note.


Big Dope didn’t even want me

to include a photo of Margauritte’s

favorite outfit. - C.W.

“Do you really think the paper will print this stuff?”

“Sure,” he said. “Look at this one.”

I moved it into the light.

“Seventy-two alter boys, all shiny in their starched white robes, were lined up at the Pearly Gates as Fa…” I stopped.

“C.W.,” I yelled.

“What?” he said.

“Out!”

95. Dissonance

Yesterday, I returned from a meeting to find C.W. in the middle of the living room floor with a complete circle of books and notes scattered around him. He had taken on the appearance of a young woman, apparently in the midst of studying some subject. I noticed a couple of Bibles among the reference material.


She looked up at me and smiled. “Mr. uh, Big Dope, I presume.”

“What’s up?”

“My teacher said that I could use your library to prepare my term paper.”

“What’s going on, C.W.?” I said.

“Research.”

“On what?”

“Cognitive dissonance. Are you familiar with the term?”

“Somewhat.”

“Well, I am confused, sir,” she said, maintaining the persona. Perhaps you can help me.”

Past experience has taught me it is useless to resist when C.W. is on his game. “Perhaps,” I said.

“Well,” she said, reaching for a sheet of paper filled with notes. “It says here that ‘cognitive dissonance’ describes the feeling of discomfort that results from holding two conflicting beliefs.”

“Yes, and?”

“I don’t’ find that your species evidences any discomfort at all accommodating two conflicting beliefs.”

I sat. This might be a long evening and my wife was expecting me to meet her somewhere. “And what makes you think that?”

She reached for one of the Bibles. “This Jesus,” she said. “Don’t your people worship him as an ideal?”

“So it is said.”

“Seems to me he was kind and thoughtful, and loved everyone except rich people, divorcees, bankers, and other preachers.”

“Pretty much so.”

“So, a great many of your citizens idealize him?”

So it is said.”

“But then they base their political beliefs on some of most mean-spirited people on your planet.” She paused. “I mean, are you familiar with this sheriff out in Arizona?”

“Somewhat.”

“Or this …,” she paused and referred to a note. “Grover Norquist?” She grabbed another note before I could answer. “Ever heard of Franklin Graham or Clarence …?”

“The list goes on,” I interrupted.

“Want to read something beautiful?” she said.

“Sure,” I said. I was glad to change the direction of the conversation and fully expected the Sermon on the Mount.”

“Here,” she said. She handed me a worn and crumpled page of photocopied material. I looked at it and saw our country’s Bill of Rights.

“I think you have something here,” I said.

“But why …?” she asked, “Has your species always maintained a subset of your fellow humans to which its protections didn’t apply?” She smiled as if she knew a secret.

“We have made mistakes,” I said. My voice dropped as I said it and I knew I sounded lame.

These kids sang me the most
beautiful rendition of
"Jesus Loves Me." - C.W.

“Have made?” she said, reaching for another sheet of photocopy.”

Even before she touched it, I could see the words “Amendment One” printed across the top.

“I have to go,” I said.

“Your mind seems to be playing ping-pong,” she said. “Enjoy the game.”

94. Traditions

C.W. followed us on a vacation to Cincinnati and almost caused a riot. I was furious. First, he promised not to come but came anyway. Second, he showed at the most inopportune time. Third, he went out of his way to bust my … well, let’s just say, to irritate me.

It was Derby Day in central Kentucky and while everyone was occupied, we chose to make the Kentucky Bourbon Trail with our friends, Rose and Wayne Pfirrman. Wayne and I served in the Vietnam "conflict" together and the two families swap visits each year.

It was our time and we had just finished a tour of the Woodford Reserve distillery. All was going well.

We slipped into the beautiful community of Versailles for lunch. All was still going well. We stopped at a restaurant called “The Grey Goose” and were enjoying Mint Juleps and the fellowship, not bothering a soul. Although the other patrons weren’t attending the big race, the ladies there donned the fancy hats that are traditional on Derby Day.

Then I heard a commotion, loud voices and swearing from the outdoor patio. My blood turned the temperature of a glacier.

In walked a classic redneck with an Arkansas Razorback Hog Hat perched on his head. I looked the other way but when he yelled “Hey Big Dope” across the room, I knew things were going to hell.

“Big, Dope,” he yelled again. “Have you seen all these weird hats women are wearing?”

Every head in the room snapped around. I bowed mine.

He walked over and when I looked up, I saw it was worse. In addition to the hog hat, he wore a sweater with the words “Free Bobby Petrino” emblazoned on the front.

My friend Wayne was enthralled. “Hey Rose,” he said. “Lookit. Here’s a real hog hat.”

She stabbed a morsel of food, stared hard into her plate, and didn’t say a word. My wife left for the Ladies Room.

“Ain’t it something?” C.W. said. “I figured if everyone else was going to wear a hat, I would too.”

When he pivoted to show it off, it got still worse. On the back of the sweater were the words, “KU sucks.”

“May I join you?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Sure,” Wayne said. “Where can I get me one of those hats?”

Before he could sit, though, a crowd began to gather around us. Fortunately, the manager intervened and told C.W. he had to leave.

“Why?”

“We have traditions here,” the man said. “We take them seriously and don’t appreciate it when people mock them.”

“Well, if that don’t take the crust off the okry,” C.W. said. “You let traditions spoil a feller’s fun?”

“Leave sir,” the manager said.

“Wanna buy this hat?” C.W. said, looking at Wayne.

“No he doesn’t,” I said. “I will see you back in Arkansas.”

He appeared genuinely hurt at this point. He turned and stared down the crowd. Then he headed for the door. 

My pals and I just wanted to watch the
Kentucky Derby. What's the big fuss about? - C.W.


Rose looked up. “What was his problem?” she asked.

Before I could answer, C.W. turned.

“Funny,” he said. “They didn’t like my outfit at Churchill Downs either.”