A HOME

 The Alien C.W. and I were walking about the farm talking, he in his best impression of Albert Einstein and I as, well, I'm stuck with myself. We were taking bets on whether we could solve the pressing crisis in the availability of affordable housing.

He had been silent for a spell, but then turned and began to speak. “Someone once said that ‘the poor will be with us always.’ Is this not true?”

“What? That someone said it or that we are stuck with the poor and huddled masses that Lady Liberty welcomes with such graciousness?”

“This is no time for levity,” he said. “Did someone say that?”

“Yes,” I said, “the Galilean is credited with that bit of wisdom.”

“Was he correct?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he missed it this time. Or maybe he’s changed his mind during the last two thousand years.”

“You are familiar with this Abraham Maslow and his so-called ‘hierarchy of needs’ are you not?”

“A passing acquaintance,” I said. “We’re not joined at the hips, or anything like that.” I forgot about his beloved shape of Lefty and Lucky, the conjoined twins.

“You know… you are still being pissy.”

“I think you mean ‘pithy’ don’t you?”

His Galactic Universal Translator hummed. “I’ll stand by what I said.”

“You always trust your Gut, then?”

“Consider the need for basic shelter,” he said. “That was one of Herr Maslow’s most basic needs, am I right?”

“So far so good.”

“I’ve done some research,” he said.

Oh hell. I hate it when he does this to me. “And?”

“The places that currently have affordable housing available are those where many people do not want to live.”

“To a large extent. Some neighborhoods in pre-Katrina New Orleans broke the pattern, and ‘pre-gentrification Greenwich Village. A few still exist.”

“And the places that need affordable housing are the places where many want to live.”

“One might say so.”

“Ostensimately in order to have homes that appreciate in value along with basic retail and services?”

I think you mean ‘ostensibly’ but yes.”

He consulted his GUT. “Ostensibly, they want services, but don’t want the service workers nearby.”

“One might say so.”

“ And if we could  build affordable housing in those very places to which people are fleeing in such droves …,”

“That’s not a likely prospect.”

“Why?”

“Another day. Another walk.”

“If we could place said affordable housing there on the free market, experience indicates that it will not remain affordable for long.”

“That seems to be the case.”

“Then why does a new study indicate that if we just made it easier to build low-cost housing in high-growth cities, the problem would solve itself?”

“Because the study was done by east-coast grads of ‘Ivy-League Schools’ and not by people who need basic shelter or those who profit from housing.”

He stroked his chin and drew on his pipe. After exhaling a dense, choking cloud of smoke he said, “That doesn’t make any sense. Helping the poor from a comfortable room on a full stomach doesn’t actually scream empathy, now does it? Clichés will not solve the affordable housing crisis, only bold action that has, to this point been only voiced by prophets, philosophers, and penniless preachers. Am I correct?”

“Let me get back to you on that.” He was on a roll but I was wearying of our talk.

“I mean, wouldn’t that be like appointing a group of women to create laws addressing this sexual addiction among the males of your species? Is this how you seek the truth?”

I turned to look at him. “Hey,” I said. “Let’s go check on the football scores.”

318. Sundown Reflections

“Oh man. Would you look at those curves,” I rushed in to see and found C.W. using my laptop without permission. That’s very much against the rules, since the incident with a certain website. “Holy cow, get a load of this.” He looked at me and said, “You naughty boy.” He gave me a wink, a ridiculous gesture in his present form of the teenage wonder kid.

I came around him and looked. “Get out of there,” I said. He had found some files of old photos I had taken when I fancied myself as a photographer skilled in black and white studies of the human form. Really. Just an artistic endeavor.

Honestly.

“Does she know you have these? He pushed my hand away and continued scrolling. “Man oh man,” he said.

I wrestled the laptop away and exited the folder he had been examining. “Just what,” I said, “do you think you are doing?”

“How old were you when you took those?” He offered his best impression of a conspiratorial look.

“None of your business. Now what are you doing on my laptop?”

“Writing a report.”

“To whom?”

“The Falloonian Elders.”

“About what?”

“The so-called ‘The time in the evening when the sun disappears or daylight fades-cities in America.' He paused. “How did you talk her into it?”

I ignored him as I was trying to decipher his last statement. “Do you mean “Sundown Cities?”

“That’s what I said. You need to get your ears checked.”

“Are the sunspots affecting your Galactic Universal Translator again? You need to get it checked.”

“My GUT is fine and I trust it above all as your last president used to say. It’s your conscience that you should be worried about. Ooo la la. He made that swarmy face again, sort of a cross between Joel Osteen and Eddie Haskell.”

It was my turn to practice ignoring. “Why are you interested in Sundown Cities?”

“I’m not. The elders are.”

“And why are the elders interested?”

“They saw a documentary about them.”

“A documentary?”

“Yes. They like to watch documentaries from Earth during the Tri-Moon Phase while there is much laughter and jollity going on. Hey,” he said, “maybe I could do one on young husbands who talk their wives into doing something silly and don’t destroy the evidence like they promised. I could call it ‘The Unused.’ Get it?”

“So what do you want to know about Sundown Cities?”

“Did they really post signs on the city limits saying “People of color, probably descendants of dark-skinned guest works imported from the African mainland, don’t let the sun go down on you in this town.”

“I don’t think that’s the exact terminology used, but yes, that was the basic message.”

“And if a person ignored the warning, what happened?”

“You don’t want to know.” I hit “delete,” and gave him a mock smile.

“You missed one,” he said.

“Oh.” I searched and then looked at him. “And where is it?”

“Somewhere in cyberspace speeding toward its final destination.”

“You better not have.”

“So,” he said. “Back to Sundown Cities and their signs. Do they still exist?”

“The cities do but not the signs, unless one is hanging on the wall of some aged mayor’s hunting lodge.”

“But the cities, they still exist?”

“Quite so.”

“How do they get the message across?”

Now I finally understand coded
 messages like "Good Schools." -C.W

“They have more subtle ways in modern times.”

“And I suppose the cities themselves are slowly disappearing?”

I looked up from my computer in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“I would assume they are not highly sought-out places in these more enlightened times.”

“Are you kidding me?” I pushed the computer away.

“No. Why? You don’t mean such cities still thrive?”

“Thrive?” I said. “They are some of the fastest growing places in our state.”

He started to say something but a piercing shriek shattered the air. “Jimmieeeee,” it said. “Don’t let sundown catch you in this house again.” I heard the scuffling of a chair at my wife’s computer station. I turned to ask C.W. what this was about.

He was gone.


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The Sublime

Dear Friends and Followers:

Since my stay on your planet began, I’ve grown to believe that music is one of the grandest accomplishments of your species. That’s why I noticed with interest that Tuesday was the 100^th anniversary of the birth of singer Billie Holiday. She is one of my favorites. What amazes me is that this great woman, what you call a a person or thing regarded as a representative symbol of something in the field of music, (Editor’s note: He means “icon”) was not allowed to use public restrooms when she traveled with bands across your great country. Unbelievable.

I read where she wasn’t particularly noted for her vocal range, or even the pure quality of her tonal output. But my oh my, if you may permit an alien in your midst to observe, how she used what she had.

With so many favorites to choose from, it’s hard to pick one, but I am, as you say, “partial,” to “I’ll Be Seeing You.”

It sure seems odd to me that the person who could perform this wasn’t even allowed to sit with the white band members in venues while on break. But then, the bigotry expressed by some members of your species continues to confuse me. See: “Indiana” and “Arkansas.”

Anyway, until next time, “I’ll be seeing you, in everything that’s light and gay” … oops, better not use that word.

Your friend,

C.W.

 

Now what kind of country would forbid this
great lady a bathroom break? - C.W.

 

 

 

 

 

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244. Rights

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

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

All I could manage was “What the …?”

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

I still couldn’t speak.

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

“My friend?”

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

“A what?”

“You heard me.”

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

“That’s what I said.”

“And my friend helped you?”

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

“As in …?”

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

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

“What are you talking about?”

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

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

“Aliens’ rights?”

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

“But you aren’t a citizen.”

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

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

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

“Have you been watching Big Bang Theory again?”

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

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

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

“Of what?”

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

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

“And that is?”

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

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

“Sign me up,” I said.


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- C.W.
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Available at Amazon and others.

Bigotry

Dear Friends and Followers:

Big Dope is still sleeping so I take these moments to share a few thoughts that I plan to include in my next report to the Falloonian Elders. They don’t think I have been paying enough attention to your politics, so I have been slipping away and watching the legislature in Big Dope’s home state. I find the process bewildering or perplexing to the point of making me unable to think with clarity or act with intelligence or understanding. (Editor’s note: He means “confusing.”

The most interesting escapades I observed involve what I am calling in my report as “Bigotry Support Laws.” These seemed to be proposed for the purpose of legitimizing bigotry against outsiders whom the sponsor of the legislation doesn’t trust. There also seems to be a fear of changing conditions in your sociological evolution to which the sponsor is unable to adjust. Myself, I find these changes and trends one of the few positive indicators within the behavior order of your species. But then I am not a legislator.

The sponsors of such bills often seem to be in what Big Dope humorously refers to as “panic mode” as if the changes, such as the acceptance of a loving relationship between members of the same sex, would threaten the sponsor’s own safety.

Now, none of this is new. My study of the history of your species tells me that bigotry has been a dominant feature of your behavior patterns for ages.

Therein lies the irony of this current behavior.

Oddly, the supporters of Bigotry Support laws (I’ll just call them BS laws for short) feel that the chances for passage improve to the extent that they are presented as supporting what you call “religious freedom.”

How idiotic, if you don’t mind my saying so.

These BS laws are, to one familiar with the nature of our galaxy, a direct result of over four billion years of what you call "evolution." Consider the distrust of strangers. It is obviously a remnant of the ancient impulse of your developing species to band together in tribes for mutual protection.

The fear? The individual organism on the ancient savannah who wasn’t stressed and kept alert by constant fear of predators would be the first one eaten. Fear is a prime motivator for your behavior, and when it doesn’t exist, you can develop BS legislation to support it as an artificial motivator..

And the panic exhibit by BS legislators is nothing more than the old “flight or fight” syndrome writ large.

So, the passage of BS legislation certainly doesn’t derive from your literary figure who said, “Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.” Oh no, BS legislation could not be further in intent than that.

It more closely matches, I believe and shall report accordingly, the words of the English poet Alfred Lord Tennyson who spoke of “Nature, red in tooth and claw.”

 

I would hope that you will eventually realize
that bigotry can take you to dark places
to where you should not return. - C.W.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

See also: www.wattensawpress.com

 

 

 

233. Facts

“We could be champs,” he said. “Champs, or at least contenders.”

Now I’m not saying that the Alien C.W. looked like Marlon Brando, mind you but … well, actually he did. He looked just like Marlon Brando. What can I say? I mean the young sexy one too, not the old fat crazy one.

“Champs,” he said again, nodding his head.

“I’ll bite,” I said.

“Facts,” he said. He took on that familiar pained expression that we know so well. “Facts will …,” his face took on that ‘about to cry’ look, “facts will make us champs.”

“Reporting them?”

His face changed from pain to disgust in less time than it takes to imagine it. “Are you crazy? Nobody gets famous or rich by reporting facts anymore.” He stopped, raised his head in thought, looked at me, and said, “Our prediction, that is to say the prediction of the Falloonian Council of Elders, is that the day will come when your congress outlaws the unauthorized use of facts entirely.”

I considered this, decided he was probably right, and waded in. “So how,” I said, “will facts make us champs?”

“By making them fit,” he said. “We’ll call our company ‘Fit the Facts’ and make a fortune.”

“How so?”

“Look what happened last week,” he said.

“What was that?”

“You had a political party take control of your national senate and that party had just spent six years trying to wreck your economy in order to make the black guy look bad.”

“It didn’t work, though. The economy rebounded over that time, at least for many of us.”

“We’ll cover that another day,” he said. “Right now let’s look at the facts. The economy gained strength and this party was elected to power. Those are facts. Right?”

“Right, but …”

“Shut up and listen. Those are facts, nothing more. Now for the fitting—.”

“The fitting?”

“The fitting. Under our approach, facts are of no use until one fits them to a pre-arranged set of claims, beliefs, myths, viewpoints, or religious dogma.”

“What about the truth?”

“Haven’t you been paying attention? What the hell does the truth have to do with anything?” He actually pointed a finger at me before continuing. “The profitable truth, and the one we report, is that the economy saw this election coming for six years and was just getting ready for it. The party performed patriotic actions through sabotage by keeping that economy from, shall we say, overheating before this election got here. It was an, let me remember the name I dreamed up for it.” He knitted his brows and thought. “Oh yes, it was an ‘anticipatory recovery’ and the colored guy had nothing to do with it. It was all our party’s work.”

“C.W.,” I said, “I think I’ve already heard their senate leader expressing that idea.”

“Hell yes,” he said. “Who do you think sold it to him?”



Just the sort of non-profitable approach to
facts that we want shed ourselves of, right? - C.W.

 

 



Fortunately, we have bright young folks who
understand the utility of facts.

 

 

Fact is ... we need money. Click an ad. - C.W.
Also see: www.wattensawpress.com
http://www.deltadreaming.blogspot.com

232. Scripts

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

“C.W.,” I said, “What the …”

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

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

“Mind telling me what’s up?”

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

“New Year’s?”

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I groaned.

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

I nodded. “Want to explain?”

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

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

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

“A ‘sundown’ town?”

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

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

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

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

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

“White?”

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

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

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

“How so?”

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

“Uh,” I said, thinking this over.

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

“Okay,” I said. “Go on.”

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

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

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

“Why is that?”

“Why do you think?”

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

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

“I have no idea.”

“His daughter starts dating a star basketball player.”

“And?”

He frowned. “Think about it.”

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

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

“Oh, dear.”

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

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

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

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

“And it is?”

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

“Will you call it The Death Tax?”

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

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221: Be Very Afraid

“We have to wake Mrs. Big Dope up.” C.W. came running in a little while ago with this bizarre proposal.

“Say what?”

“She’s got to start sewing.” He had a portfolio of drawings under his arm and looked exactly like an excited Norman Rockwell, complete with pipe. “We’re going to have abundant possessions.”

“You mean we’re going to be rich?”

“That’s what I just said.”

“Oh no,” I said. “Not again.”

He clenched his pipe between his teeth. “Can’t miss this time. Want in?”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll bite. What’s going to make us abundantly blessed this time?”

“Halloween costumes,” he said, pointing to his drawings. “I have all the designs right here.”

“Halloween costumes?” I took a deep breath.

“Just in time for the elections.”

“What have the elections got to do with Halloween?” I said. This was taking an ominous turn.

“Synergy,” he said, “that’s the interaction or cooperation of two or more organizations, substances, or other agents to produce a combined effect greater than the sum of their separate effects …”

“I know what synergy is,” I said, “but how does it link Halloween and the elections?”

He looked at me as if I had just asked why the sky gets dark at night. “Fear,” he said. “Haven’t you heard? Fear is the dominant campaign theme of our party.”

“Your party,” I said.

“Whatever,” he said. “We’ve got white people shaking in their boots with fear and my idea will cinch it.”

“C.W.,” I said. “Sometimes you disappoint me.”

“Lookit,” he said, pulling a sheet from his packet. It was a drawing of a costume made to look like President Barack Obama in a mullah outfit holding a sword and bloody head in one hand and a candy bag in the other that said “Give me your riches, or else.”

“Christ,” I said, “Put that thing away.”

He let it fall to the floor and retrieved another. It was a drawing of a costume that would fit over a young child and resulted in a seven-foot likeness of Michael Brown with a sign that said, “Give me your daughter, or die.”

“Clever, eh?” he said.

“Disgusting,” I said.

This time he looked a little disappointed, but he discarded it and pulled out another. It was a girl’s outfit this time—a red dress, high-heeled red shoes, and a Nancy Pelosi mask. She was holding a big beaker labelled “Ebola juice. Will trade for candy.”

“Out,” I said. “Out. And don’t return until you’ve come to your senses.”

“But wait,” he said, “you haven’t seen ‘Hillary Viper’ or ‘Pit Bull Biden’ or ‘Creepy Crawley Carter’ or “Rob A Manwewill’ or ..”

“Out,” I said.

"From ghoulies and ghosties and long leggety

beasties and things that go bump in the night,

 Good Lord, deliver us!" - Scottish Prayer

Said to be one of the oldest examples of your

written English language. - C.W.

I guess I yelled it this time for a voice came from the next room, “You two better quieten down in there,” it said, “I’m working on a project.”

“She’ll be on my side,” C.W. said. Then he yelled out in his sweetest voice. “Whatcha working on, Mizz BD?”

“An idea for a Halloween costume,” she said.

“See,” he said, smirking at me, “she’ll be my partner in this.” The he yelled back. “I’ll bet it’s a good one,” he said. “What do you call it?”

“Bawling Boehner Bones,” she yelled back.

 

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- C.W.

211. Ignorance

He was glassy-eyed and groggy, not the usual demeanor for C.W. His moves were a little robotic and his head would jerk from side to side when I spoke to him. What was up?

“You okay?”

“No,” he said, “I’m worried.”

“About what?”

“The unemployment rate.”

“The unemployment rate?”

“Yes, it has risen.”

“Uh,” I said, I think it has gone down.”

“No,” he said, “you think you know everything but you don’t know anything. The unemployment rate was 4.2 percent and now it is 6.3 percent. This African-American is destroying your country.”

“President Obama?”

“That’s him. He’s raised the unemployment rate more than two percent.”

“C.W.,” I said, “when was the unemployment rate 4.2 percent?”

“Before Obama took office.”

“I think you will find that it was 4.2 percent some eight years before he took office.”

“That’s before he took office, ain’t it?”

I groaned.

He said, “And there was a budget surplus before Obama took office. What do you say about that?”

“I would say … when?”

“Doesn’t matter, but it was before he took office. Now there is a deficit of 680 billion. I tell you, he is destroying your country.”

“Wait a moment,” I said. I punched on the computer. “There,” I said, “that budget surplus you mentioned was for fiscal year 2000, that’s 14 years ago.”

“Exactly,” he said, “and since this, …  this, man of color has been in office, it is a deficit.”

“Uh,” I said, “would it surprise you to learn that he inherited a deficit of 800 million?”

“Liberal lies,” he said. “Just more liberal lies from the ‘lame-stream media’ that you liberals love so much.” His head began to wag from side to side.

I said, “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

“I’m just longing for a return to traditional values,” he said.

“What sort of traditional values?”

“You know,” he said. “Values based on the King James Version of the Bible. Values that formed a solid society.”

“One with slaves?”

“Traditional values,”

“One where women were paid half of what men were paid for the same job and had to answer ads seeking a ‘cute and perky’ secretary?”

“Traditional values.”

“Where a person gave all their money to the poor?”

“Tradi …” he stopped. “Say, what are you doing, trying to change the subject?”

“Why don’t we?”

Just wait until this bombshell
hits the liberal media. - C.W.

“Okay,” he said. “Did you know that Chelsea Clinton may have fathered a child with Mike Tyson, the prize fighter?

“C.W.,” I said. “Have you been watching Fox News all day again?”

He said, “Benghazi.”

“Have you?”

“Benghazi.”

“C.W., look at me.”

“Benghazi.”

 

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- C.W.

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. Commitments

“What the hell is all the fuss about?” I looked up to see C.W. in one of his favorite shapes, Donny Wayne Jr., the Redneck Philosopher. Backwoods people intrigue him.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“The news is all about people getting married. What’s with that?”

I thought for a moment. “Oh,” I said, “a judge ruled yesterday that it is illegal to deny couples the right to marry in our state.”

“The hell you say.”

“It’s true. It’s true.”

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

“Well, uh, … that is … uh. Why do you ask?”

“I know that people get married in your state all the time. Look at you and Mrs. Big Dope.”

“Yes,” I said. “Look at us: a picture perfect couple.”

“Except when you try to haul her treasures off.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about that anymore,” I said. “Besides, the ruling now allows people of the same sex to get married.”

This puzzled him. “All three?”

“Uh, we only have two here.”

“What do you do about …”

“That’s quite enough,” I said, interrupting him. “My mother-in-law is in the next room watching the news.”

“I know,” he said. “She kept asking me what is so gay about being married?”

I let out my breath. “It means that gay people can get married now.”

“They couldn’t before?”

“Not here.”

“With all those churches out there, they couldn’t find one that would marry them?”

“Of course they could find a church that would marry them. That wasn’t the problem.”

“What was?”

“The state wouldn’t allow it.”

“What’s the state got to do with it?”

“They must recognize the commitment in order to allow certain legal arrangements.”

“You gotta be shi…”

“C.W.” I said, interrupting him again and nodding toward the next room.”

He grimaced. “The state gets involved in allowing churches to marry people?”

“The state is involved in legalizing commitments.”

“But,” he said, “commitments are based on what earthlings call love, you know, mutual affection and compatibility, the willingness to be together.”

“Yes,” I said. “That sums it up.”

“So why does the state get involved in all that?”

“Some folks just believe it should.”

I saw a puff of smoke emerge from his ear and caught the smell of burning rubber.

“Are we overloading your circuits?”

“I’m okay,” he said. I relaxed. “Let me ask you this, in your world, corporations—that I understand exist only in contemplation of the law—are considered homo sapiens.”

I thought about this. “Yep.”

“So can they get married?”

It was a tough question but, “Yes. They merge and form lasting legal commitments all the time.”

He walked over and poured himself a cup of coffee, returned to the table, and sat. He sipped carefully, and then said, “So do you think this ruling will last? Lots of folks seemed real happy about it." He stopped and sipped again. Then he said "But, I’ve noticed that your so-called ‘evangelicals’ don’t care too much for people being happy. It sort of unnerves them, if you know what I mean.”

Imagine, a pair of corporations in holy matrimony. - C.W.

“I do,” I said. “And I am sure they will challenge the court’s ruling and try to get it overturned.”

“If they should,” he said, “I have a solution for all those happy folks—a way  to keep them happy.”

“How is that?”

“They should just re-form themselves as corporations.”

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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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Monday News

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

What’s happening on Monday?
 

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

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

 

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

 

195. Ratings

It turns out that C.W. didn’t fare well with his plan to get rich staging contests. Actually, he was quite despondent about it.

“There is already a contest for about everything,” he said. “The field of staging contests is thoroughly soaked.”

“I thought you might find it saturated,” I said.

“Besides,” he said. “The Falloonian Elders refused to approve it.”

“They have to approve your business ventures?”

“Quite so.”

“What happened?”

“They said I was deranged, demented, and not my right mind.”

“They thought you were crazy?”

“That’s what I just said.”

I ignored him. “What was the basis this time?”

“They accused me of making things up.”

“Why?”

“They ruled that no species in the Universe would ever stage a contest to see who could eat the most hot dogs. They said I must have been imagining it.”

That made me think. I actually felt sorry for him. His current form created the “spitting image” of that TV personality Jerry Springer. He shook his head in sadness, but then snapped to attention and smiled.

“I have a new idea,” he said. “A real winner this time.”

“And that is?”

“Lists.”

“Lists?”

“Creating lists. Americans are wild about lists.” He thought for a moment. “I think it has something to do with your national obsession with being first at something.”

I nodded.

He added, “Except greed, of course.”

Ignoring this, I pressed him. “So what kind of lists will you prepare?”

“Oh,” he said. He reached into a pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper. “Here is one your species is particularly obsessed with.” He read, “The best city in America.”

I groaned.

“No, really,” he said, preparing to read.

“Wait,” I said. “This topic has been beaten to death. Each list names a different city.”

“Exactly,” he said. ”That is because of the rating criteria.” He smiled wistfully. “Control them and you control the world of list-making.”

I was curious so I let him continue.

“Whatever Chamber of Commerce wants its city first, I can do it.” He studied his sheet. “Here is one. Want to hear the rating criteria?”

“Very much so.”

“Okay,” he said. “The city must have at least an African-American population equal to the national percentage or it lacks inclusiveness or, worse, could be classified as a moment when the trailing edge of the Sun's disk disappears below the horizon city.”

“A ‘sundown city’ in other words.”

“Why are you always repeating me?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Go ahead. This is interesting.”

“Okay,’ he said, “the city must be at least 500 miles from the ocean.”

“Why is that?”

“So it won’t be underwater in a hundred years or so.”

“Okay. Keep going.”

“Must be located near a fresh water supply so it will be one of the last remaining places to live when your planet runs dry.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“Must have been around at least 200 years to prove durability.”

“Maybe,” I said.

This time he ignored me. “So, there are other criteria, catchy nickname, neat skyline, and so forth. But do you want to hear the winner, the best city in America?”
 

“By all means.”

He waved the list in my face. “Why Detroit, Michigan, ‘Motor City’ of course.”

As I pondered this, he pulled out another sheet. “Want to hear the one I did for Flint Michigan?”




A city without a skyline is a city without a soul. Don't you agree? - C.W.

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