252. Running

We seem to have developed a monsoon season in the Arkansas Delta, so it gives C.W. and me some time for quiet conversation. He doesn’t like to get wet—says it causes his Galactic Universal Translator to become, as he put it, “Characterized by lack of consistency, accuracy, regularity, or uniformity.”

There was nothing erratic about his GUT today, though. He had taken on one of his favorite forms, that of Todd, the TV pundit. From time to time, as we discussed the weather, the latest book I’d read, or the current report he was late in sending to the Fallooninan Elders, he would make notes on a reporter’s notepad and smile.

“So,” I said, “I think in the end, Fitzgerald was presenting the modern version of a heroic quest within the wasteland.” I waited while he filtered this.

“I think I have answer to our problems,” he said, ignoring my last. Outside, the rain continued to fall.

“What problems?” I said, peeved at his not paying attention.

“My new computer, for one.”

“What about a new computer?”

“I need one,” he said. “You know that.”

“So what does that have to do with Gatsby?”

“And that new car you’ve been wanting to buy for Mrs. Big Dope.”

“C.W.,” I said. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“You know that trip you want to take to Southeast Asia with your Navy buddy?”

“We were discussing literature.”

“Look,” he said. “I must depend on you sometimes for transportation. I really need that new motorcycle we’ve been talking about.”

“But you don’t have a driver’s license.”

“And your poor wife is driving a ten-year old car.”

“She likes that car,” I said.

“That’s not what she tells me,”

“So what are you getting at?”

“Kudaclarupitti?

That is Falloonian for “What the hell do you mean?”

“Why are you mentioning all these problems?”

“Because,” he said, broadening his face into his best television smile, “I have the solution.”

“And your solution is?”

“Simple,” he said. “Run for President.”

“You can’t run for President,” I said, with despair in my voice, “you are an alien.”

“Not me, silly,” he said, “you.”

“Are you insane?”

“Not a bit,” he said. “You wouldn’t make that good a candidate, but you would do. I’ve already started lining up donors. You’ll be the ‘I hate mimes’ candidate.”

“Mimes?”

“All the other hate targets have been spoken for already.”

“C.W.,” I said. “This is idiotic on so many fronts. First, I have this very checkered past. You know that.”

“No big deal,” he said. “I’ve already picked you a ‘Salvation Date.’ It’s March 20, 2003. That’s the day you ‘got saved.’ Nobody can question anything you did before then. Don’t you remember? We’ve discussed this. It worked like a charm for that guy from Texas.”

My mind was racing. “Isn’t the day America began bombing Iraq?”

“Seemed as good a date as any,” he said. “and it would strike a patriotic chord. Now here is the deal. I’ve set up a campaign fund account, and your staff will consist of Mrs. Big Dope, your mother-in-law, and me, all with annual salaries of half a million of your dollars or so.” He smiled again. “Of course the campaign will need things like computers, vehicles, and headquarters. I’ve picked out a nice beachfront home in Key West, Florida for that.”

“But someone like me could never be elected President.”

“Of course not,” he said. “Who would elect you President?”

“So why are you bringing this all up?”

“Because we could make enough money for the short duration of your campaign to solve a lot of problems.”

“What problems?”

“The ones I mentioned earlier.”

“Those were financial problems.”

“So?”

“They were,” I said, “personal problems.”

It seems to me that all it takes for political
disaster in your country is for enough people
to quit listening and remain silent. - C.W.

“So?”

“Look C.W.” I said, “a person in our country runs for President because she or he wants to address the country’s problems, not personal ones.”

“Since when?”

“Since, uh, … say, I said. “I’ve been reading this book called One Hundred Years of Solitude.”

“Wait,” he said. “That gives me an idea. You could also be the ‘I hate education’ candidate. That would get you donations from some real rich people.”

“What real rich people?”

“Corporations.”

 

Please click some ads. That's the only way I'll get my new computer.

Oh, and see www.wattensawpress.com

And ... www.allhatnocattle.com

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

 

 

223. Ad Man

C.W. has never quite given up on his dream of becoming an ad man. This latest burst of enthusiasm developed from his viewing so many political ads that ran in our state. He was in his “Ad Man” form the other morning as I was busy with computer-aided drafting and half paying attention.

“They seem to be stuck in a loop, so to speak,” he said as an ad ended in which a candidate for state attorney general promised to destroy the President if elected.

“Yep,” I said as I clipped the unneeded ends of some lines. “There,” I said. We won’t need those any longer.”

“My point exactly,” he said.

“Good.” I said, selecting several objects and moving them to a new location. “We can save them and use them over here.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” he said.

“It’s always good to reuse old things,” I said, “even old ideas.” I imported a drawing block I had used in a previous project and inserted into my new drawing. “There. Perfect.”

“I thought you would agree,” he said.

“With what?”

“My plan to expand the political ad paradigm to other products.”

“Say what?”

“You said it yourself. It’s wise to reuse good ideas.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just look,” he said, and he produced a portfolio he had brought with him. Gold-embossed lettering on the cover said, “Red States Advertising Group.” He opened it and drew out an ad mockup for me to see. It was a large drawing of a tube of toothpaste. The copy read, “Barack Obama uses Colgate toothpaste. So, choose Crest: White teeth for white folks.”

“Are you out of your fu …?”

A female voice from the next room said, “I can hear you in there.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Don’t like that? How’s this?” He laid the first down and picked up another. It was a photo of a brand new pickup truck with a young Caucasian couple standing alongside and beaming. The copy read, “While Barack rides around in his Lincoln, you’ll enjoy your Chevy pickup, the ride of choice for real Americans.”

I was speechless.

He continued with another. “Here’s one of my more popular ones.” It was a photo of First Lady Michelle Obama with an Aunt Jemima headdress. It read, “Michelle says ‘Eat Healthy.’ Let’s show her. Enjoy a Big Mac, fries, and milkshake with your family. Show that uppity female of the dog or some other carnivorous mammals.

“Uh, you don’t have the exact word and you couldn’t use it if you did.”

“Why not?”

“It isn’t fitting and it bodes ill of you. You can't call America's First Lady that.”

“That’s what they call her down at campaign headquarters.”

My aim is to cleanse the advertising
industry of old ideas. - C.W.

“Maybe so, but not in this house.”

“Drats,” he said. “You probably won’t like this one either. He held up a shot of the President’s daughters, all dressed up in gorgeous evening wear, under the heading, “These Obama kids may say ‘Black is Beautiful’ We say, ‘White is perfect.’ Ivory flakes, pure and proud.”

“I’m not sure they still make Ivory Flakes.”

“That’s okay. Purex has already put in a bid.” He tossed it aside and flashed an ad for a company called “Nobama Temps: Your source for cheap temporary labor. Low salary, no benefits, no promises, and tax deductible. The next best thing to owning a slave.”

That’s all I could stand. I started to leave the room, but he yelled out behind me. “One more, look at this sure-fire winner.”

I couldn’t help myself. Turning as I reached the door, I saw a poster featuring a huge .45 caliber, semi-automatic pistol beside an open box of cartridges, several of them scattered alongside the box.

The copy read simply, “Obama, Obama, Obama. The worst. Remington guns and ammo. The best.”

 

Click an ad and help a needy Alien.

Also check out www.wattensawpress.com

- C.W.

207. Campaigns

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

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

“My wife?”

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

“And what career is that today?”

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

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

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

“Me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“And?”

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

“Say what?”

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

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

“Not churches though,” he said.

“Not churches?”

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

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

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

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

“Not me,” he said, almost in a wail.

“Or the other ad agencies and television stations.”

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

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

“Hell,” he said. “Can you imagine?”

“Not really.”

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

“Faith?”

“That the other candidate is worse.”

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

“Not on the basis of doing good?”

“Never. How idiotic.”

“And my wife thought this up?”

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

“You know,” I said, “I think I will.”

“What?” he said, looking relieved.

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

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

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