Ask the Alien

Dear Ask the Alien:
My children have started, lately, to introduce me to their friends as, "my mother's current husband." When I order them to stop, they just laugh. My daughter is 12 and my son is 14, and they somehow think this is "hip" behavior I suspect they have also been hiding my tools, and the other day they dropped my car keys behind a couch and it took me half a day to find them. My son wants me to sign for him to get a tattoo of his girlfriend's name across his chest and my daughter keeps asking about the possibility of birth-control pills, and asking why a high-school diploma is so important. My wife isn't helping. She is gone most of the day, sometimes well into the evening, and the other night, during sex, she called me "Harrison.," (not my name). On top of it all, our faithful dog, Arson, has started to growl at me when I come home.

My question is this: should I upgrade to Windows Ten?

Sincerely,
Perplexed

Dear Perplexed:
Since you failed to provide the type of work you are involved in, it's hard to form a recommendation. I would simply say that, in the shortage of usable data, I would recommend that, whatever operating system you use, you get one that allows you to play solitary games.

Yours,
The Alien C.W.

276. Why oh Why?

C.W. is worrying the hell out of me. That’s not unusual, but this time he has assumed his shape of the teenager he calls Ronald Chadsworth, the National Merit Scholar. He appears as a youngster of color with piercing eyes, curly hair, countless questions, and a voice that would remove wallpaper. He always tests my patience.

The first question he asked illustrates my point. “Mr. Big Dope,” he began—when he is polite, I shudder, “why do the media report on what people ‘tweet?’ Isn’t that a bit like reporting on what one sees written on a bathroom wall in a truck stop?”
 

“Who knows,” I said. “Doesn’t it seem easier than actually going out and digging up news?”
 

“Why wouldn’t they want to go out and dig up news? It couldn’t be that difficult.”
 

“Have you ever tried it?”
 

He thought. “No, but all you would have to do us exchange text messages with the right person. Isn’t that right?”
 

“What if the right person didn’t text back?”
 

That stumped him, so he altered course. “Speaking of the right person,” he said, “when you were my age, did they print the ramblings of a sl … uh … a … a … what you called a ‘loose woman’ as news?”

“Only if she were arrested standing over a dead body with a smoking gun in her hand.”

“So bad girls with very little education weren’t considered experts?”

“Well maybe,” I said, “in certain fields, but they certainly didn’t discuss those things in the media.” I stopped. “Why so you ask?”
 

He didn’t respond, just opened a binder he was holding to a picture of Bristol Palin.

“Why don’t you go read Shakespeare?” I said.

“Can I ask you another question?”

“May I ask you another question,” I said, “and the answer is no.”

“What’s with the lady in England that wears all the funny hats?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why is that newsworthy? Wouldn’t it be more interesting to find a turtle that could do the ‘two-step’ and report on that?”

“Find one and we’ll see,” I said.

“Or a group of cats that have formed a Mariachi band?” He stopped. “Oh wait,” he said. “I did see that in the news.”

“In the news?”

“On Visage Page.”

As I understand it, the marriage
contract says she must look silly
at all times. Weird. - C.W.

“What’s on Facebook is not news,” I said.

“Back to the lady with the hats,” he said, “why do they report on what she does?”

“She’s the wife of a prince.”

“So he buys her the hats?”


“With his allowance, yes.”

“Oh,” he said, “and what does one do to be born a prince?”

“Be the son of a prince.”

“Is that the only way?”

“Or,” I said, “he could be the son of queen.”

He employed one of his sudden shifts in attention. “What does it mean to ‘pull yourself up by your own boot straps?’ I see it in the news all the time? Wouldn’t that defy the Law of Gravity? And,” he said, “your species is quite concerned with observing the law, I understand.”

“It’s a metaphorical saying,” I said, ignoring his sarcasm, “indicating the social desirability of taking responsibility for your own success in life.”

“Like the lady with the hats?”

I thought. “Yeah,” I said, “like the lady with the hats.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Now …”

I interrupted him. “Have you mastered matrix algebra yet?”

“Oh,” he said, “that was easy compared to understanding your species.”

He had me there. “Well what about so-called ‘String Theory.’ Couldn’t you go work on that?”

“I knew all there is to know about that before I came to your planet,” he said. “Now tell me about birth control.”

Oh hell. “Some people don’t like it,” I said.
 

“So what do they do?”

“They try to get rid of it.”

“So there will be more babies born?”

“Yes.”

“Some to women who can’t care for them?”

“Yes.”

“Who cares for them?”

“We don’t worry about that, as long as it isn’t the taxpayers.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know. Saves money I suppose.”

“Oh,” said, nodding his head. “I understand. Now,” he said.

“Aren’t you supposed to be exploring the writings of Kant?”

He ignored me. “Tell me,” he said, “about the high cost your country pays for incarcerating prisoners.”
 

 Please click some ads. Mrs. Big Dope needs a new hat.Oh, and see www.wattensawpress.com

And ... www.allhatnocattle.com

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

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

217: Baseball

I took C.W. to his first baseball game this week. Big mistake.

First thing he said after the top half of the first inning: “Man, this is boring.”

Shrinking down in my seat, I tried to ignore him. He was in his form of the innocent twelve-year old, in his “ten-fidgets-a-minute” mode.

“Not as boring as what you call ‘sock-her’ though,” he said.

“It’s ‘soccer,’” I said, “and people all over the world don’t find it boring.”

“People all over your world think war is heroic,” he said. “That’s why we find you so fascinating.”

 

He finished his hot dog. “May I have another?”

“They cost a lot,” I said. “Just sit back and enjoy the game.”

“Why do they get so many chances to hit that spherical object? The game would go faster if they just had one shot at it.”

“Tradition,” I said.

“Can I have a beer?”

“No. You’re underage and they cost nearly ten dollars apiece.”

“I’m 218 years-old as your species keeps time.”

“Watch the game.”

“Why does that man throwing the spherical object keep shaking his head?”

“He’s getting signals.”
 

“Signals?”

“Yes, signals.”

“From where?”

“From the catcher. He uses his fingers to signal.”

“Why doesn’t he use a radio transmitter?”

“Tradition.” I said.

“Is this a game of tradition?”

I felt mischievous. “No,” I said, “it’s a game of balls and strikes.”

I can’t best him at being obnoxious.

“Oh,” he said. “So that couple over there is playing baseball when he kisses her on the strikes, and …”

“C.W.” I yelled as the family in front of us turned around and glared.

“Tradition, probably,” he said.

Oh my. Eight more innings to go.

Just then, a left handed batter fouled one straight toward a spot about four rows in front of us. A young boy with a baseball glove stood to catch it but C.W. rose, extended an arm forward, and snatched the ball just before it entered the kid’s glove. Half the crowd around us stared in amazement. The other half booed. Before anyone could take action, C.W. leaped over the seats, ran down the aisle, and started yelling “Mister, mister,” at the third base coach. When the fellow looked over, C.W. tossed the ball to him and said, “Here’s your spherical object back.”

Best I can tell. the fellow in front is there to retrieve
the spherical objects. It's a strange game. - C.W.

Amazed, the man caught the ball and pitched it toward the dugout.

I looked down and straightened my shirt. The crowd stared in anger and amazement. As he walked back toward me, C.W. announced to everyone watching, “I’ll bet there are some people who would want to steal those.”

From the corner of my eye, I could see it all being replayed on the jumbotron.

 

 

 

 

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215. Fear

As the faithful reader knows, I sometimes kid C.W. about his entrepreneurial dreams. Okay, I’ll admit it, I always kid C.W. about his entrepreneurial dreams. Otherwise, what’s the fun of having an alien around?

But when he becomes serious, I listen and we talk. After all, we are supposed to be learning from one another.

It’s when he takes on this sort of Walter Cronkite look that I know I may learn from him. That’s how he showed up recently wanting to take a morning walk before the heat arrived. We walked for a while before he spoke, another sign of impending seriousness.

“I spent some time tri-sensoring yesterday,” he said. This is a trick he does where he listens to the voice material, reads, and watches TV simultaneously. The only difference between him and the typical teenager is that he absorbs all three in full and equal doses. It’s a Falloonian thing.

“Oh,” I said. “and what were your sources?”

“That book you gave me,” he said, “the one that just had a number for a title.”

“1984,” I said.

“That’s it.”

“And what else?”

“I listened to one of your ‘Great Courses’ CDs. It was a scientist exploring the Earthling’s view of natural selection and descent with modification.”

“Darwin’s views,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “He was pretty close, you know.”

“That is what I’ve have heard. What else?”

This so-called “news” channel named after a carnivorous mammal of the dog family with a pointed muzzle and bushy tail, proverbial for its cunning.”

“Fox News?”

“I’ll admit,” he said, “I flipped between it and some of your media-driven religious outlets.”

“TV evangelists,” I said.

“Does anyone else think them a bit strange?”

“Yes,” I said, “but go ahead. What did you decide?”

“I decided,” he said, “that if I were to consider a business, I might call it ‘Dial a Fear’ or something like that.”

“Dial a Fear? Why?”

“Your species seems to crave fear,” he said, “and thrive on it, thirst for it, and reward its purveyors handsomely.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Further,” he said, “It seems to control the mechanisms of your society.”

“Elucidate.”

“Gladly,” he said. “Remember how the Thought Police broke Winston Smith in Orwell’s book?”

“Rats,” I said. “They did it with rats.”

“Rats were just the tool,” he said. “They did it with fear. Not love. Not promise of reward. Not societal approval. Not religion. Not family or clan loyalty. They did it with fear.”

I didn’t say anything.

Of course your religious foundations are built on a strong edifice of fear.”

“How so?”

“Don’t you think the prospect of your body burning in agony for all eternity makes a strong and lasting impression on a five-year old? Or the fear of never seeing your family again while they are happily singing hymns together while watching you burn?”

I didn’t say anything.

“And your news is not news, in any true sense of the word, but fear packaged in the wrappings of current events. The ‘others’ are coming seems to be the prevalent theme. Even you, yourself, will admit that the modern development patterns in your cities result from fear of ‘the others.’”

Start them out with a healthy dose of fear
and control them for life, I always say. - C.W.

I didn’t say anything.

He said, “I think it is genetically, that is to say evolutionary, based.”

“How so?”

“Your ancestors in the wild who didn’t live in fear didn’t live long,” he said, as if talking to a third-grader.”

“Oh,” I said. “Now I’m going to have to think about all this a bit,” I said.

“Fine,” he said. “Meanwhile let’s go watch some political ads.”

I didn’t say anything.

We are closing in on that new computer, so click on some ads.
Also, check out www.wattensawpress.com
- C.W.

209. Refuge

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

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

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

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

I waited with trepidation.

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

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

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

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

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

It startled me. “What the hell?”

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

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

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

“Damned if we will,” Lucky said.

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

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

I said, “Texas, maybe?”

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

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

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

I said, “What good targets?”

“Them kids.”

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

I was aghast. “You can’t do that.”

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

“Can’t you do something?” Lucky said.

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

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

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

Lucky said, “Please, Big Dope.”

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

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

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

“Sure,” I said.

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

“Yes.”

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

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

I said, “How?”

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

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

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

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

“That was different,” Lefty said.

“And how, exactly?”

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

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