294. For The Least Of Those

C.W. was in a philosophical mood. I could tell because he was wearing this cap and gown he claims he received when awarded an honorary doctorate from some school I never heard of, the Ozark Mountain Graduate University. I suspect its credentials, since the gown has an ad for STP motor treatment on the front along with the school motto, Non Postulo Scio Usquam, which, best I can tell, means “You didn’t need to know it anyway.”

He was in the form of a middle-aged man with a flowing mustache carrying a pipe he would have been smoking save for the memories of my wife and the last time he did.

“I’ve been thinking how great your society is,” he said.

“That’s a switch,” I said, looking up from my computer. “You have been somewhat critical lately.”

“Ah,” he said, “but I’ve been conducting a study of how you maintain a statutory procedure or social effort designed to promote the basic physical and material well-being of people in need—your programs of ensuring health, safety, and prosperity for all.”

I thought long and hard. “Are you talking about welfare?”

“Yes,” he said, “the glory of your society: assistance to the needy and disadvantaged.”

“I hate to tell you this …”

“What?”

“Some people don’t think so.”

“How could they not?”

“Some call it ‘taking’ and think one should be ashamed of seeking assistance.”

He stood up straight in his chair. “Horse flat growths forming the plumage of birds.”

“No horsefeathers. For real.”

“You’re telling me that some don’t believe in assistance to the least of those among you?”

“I’m telling you that some find it so distasteful that they want to force anyone seeking it to suffer the degradation of a drug test before receiving help. Peeing in a cup and all that.”

He thrust his unlighted pipe into his mouth and scanned a sheet. “Surely they don’t mean to include the 39 percent of children who receive assistance.”

“I think,” I said, “their motto is, ‘If you’re old enough to pee, we’ve got to see,’ and that’s it.”

“That’s a lot of urine,” he said. Then he laughed.

“What’s funny about that?”

“Oh nothing,” he said, pointing at the school motto on his gown. “I was just how some of our instructors use words like ‘youren’ and ‘oursen.’ It’s real folksy.”

I was glad to see his mind distracted and, perhaps, moving away from this topic.

“Oh my goodness,” he said as he grabbed his pipe.

“What’s wrong?”

“Children,” he said. “What about the elderly?”

“Along with the children.”

“The disabled.”

“We pay. You pee.”

“Is this what the man on TV meant by the word ‘takers’ that he almost seemed to spit out?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“So anyone receiving public benefits and not paying taxes to support them is a taker?”

“It would seem so,” I said.

“Holy urine sample,” he said.

“What?”

“Churchgoers,” he said.

“What about them?”

He consulted a paper. “Oh my goodness,” he said.

“What. What?”

“Churches receive all public benefits, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“And don’t pay taxes for them?”

“Mostly.”

“Holy welfare,” he said, examining another sheet. “That’s 71 billion dollars a year for 60 million people.”

“If you say so.”

“Just consider the logistics,” he said.

“Of what?”

“Collecting all those samples.”

I had never thought about it and told him so.

“I guess those who offer communion could…” He stopped. “No. That wouldn’t work.”

I'm speechless in the contemplation. - C.W.

“No,” I said. “Why don’t we talk about something else?”

“Oh,” he said. “Those ‘Pay for Glory’ churches could have the samples turned in and collected with their donations.”

“I think Joel Osteen and Joyce Meyer could afford to do that,” I said. “That takes care of part of the problem.”

“Not all, though,” he said. “I see some tough situations.”

“Like what?”

“Those churches up around where my university is located.” He pointed to his gown again.

“What about them?”

“They all handle rattlesnakes during their services.”

“And?”

“I don’t think they would have a lot of urine left afterwards.”

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

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229. Doctrines

“Hey, you want to listen to some music?”

“Can’t,” C.W. said, looking up from the kitchen table. “Got some orders to fill.” Uh oh. I sensed another of his get-rich schemes, especially as he had assumed the shape of the little guy on TV that does the OxiClean commercials. He had a huge Bible to one side of my laptop and several stacks of papers on the other. He immediately returned to what he had been doing.

“Mind if I ask what you are up to this time?”

It obviously annoyed him, but he looked up to answer the question. “I’m helping those with troubled spiritual or immaterial parts of a human being or animal, regarded as immortal.”

Did I tell you that he has been having trouble with his Galactic Universal Translator?

“You need a GUT check,” I said, “and how, exactly are you helping those with troubled souls?”

He didn’t answer, just handed me the top three sheets from a stack of papers, all clipped to an envelope. I looked them over.

The first sheet was a letter, I suppose from one of his “clients.” It read: Dear Sirs: I have started a small church that I hope will become a large one with a world-wide following. I am having trouble making my members give me money. The men say that their wives insist on buying food and clothes for their children instead. Please design me a doctrine to address this.” It was signed “Unobeyed.”

I flipped to the second sheet. The first thing that caught my eye was the letterhead. It read, “Doctrine Designers, Incorporated,” and listed my name as president. “What the …” I began.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s just a nominal office. I needed an ordained minister’s license and they wouldn’t accept an application from a Falloonian, so I got you one. Online. It was at or for a low price.”

“I don’t care how cheap it was. I didn’t say you could make me a preacher.”

“Not a preacher,” he said, “a follower of our ‘Fisher of Men and Women Doctrine.’ Don’t you read your Bible?”

It was useless. I continued reading. “Dear Unobeyed: You best introduce the Doctrine of ‘Peter’s Anger.’ Cite the Book of Acts, Chapter Five verses One through Eleven. When your flocks see what Peter did to Ananias and Sapphira, they will know how much you love them and will surely fall in line.” My signature followed, as “Minister of Doctrine.”

I fumed, but looked at the third sheet as he continued to type. It was a bill for a thousand dollars. “Uh,” I said. “How are we going to divide up the money?”

“I thought fifty-fifty,” he said.

Doctrines are like clothes. You just feel
better when they fit you  well. - C.W.

“Hmm. I continued reading. The next was from “Troubled.” It read, “Dear Minister of Doctrine: I enjoy travelling with my companion and visiting the major cities in the country. We make money by giving speeches that we call ‘Dealing With the Thorn.’ Since we have begun counseling attendees not to have heterosexual sex, we have been attacked and beaten several times. Could you please help us with a doctrine that will make them quit”

“C.W.,” I said. “This has got to stop now. Right now.”

“Can’t yet,” he said, “You’re about to solve a problem a client is having with his disrespectful children.” He picked up another sheet. “And here’s one from a man who doesn’t like to be kidded about being bald.” He fished another letter out. “Here’s a good one. It’s from a poor boat builder who starts thinking his daughters are cute when he gets to drinking.”

“Now, “I said. “It stops now.”

“Careful you don’t violate our ‘Apostate Doctrine’ and get in real trouble,” he said. “We do serve other religions, you know.”

 

Please click on an ad. Big Dope has left me unemployed again. - C.W.

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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.
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203. Religion

Sometimes I don’t know if C.W. is knowingly joshing me, or if his Retentive Analytic Transcriber—his RAT—has taken a flight of fancy. Today, I think he was somewhere between jokester and political analyst. He was shaped close enough to Glenn Beck as to be institutionalized and we were having, what I thought was, a serious conversation.

“So,” he said, “I think your species has what you earthlings call a “deep romantic or sexual attachment/intentional intense dislike” relationship with science.”

“We seem to have a “love/hate” relationship with many things,” I said.

“With science it is strange,” he said. “You love to take your antibiotics, even for viruses.” He stopped and shook his head sadly. “But the facts of natural selection cause you to feel uncomfortable. That is unique in the Galaxy. Don’t your schools teach the relationship between medicine and evolution, as you call it?”

“I’m not sure how much longer we will teach science in our schools,” I said. This made me feel nauseated so I moved the subject a few points to windward. “What about our obsession with religion?”

That’s when he went into his act. Here it is verbatim, with apologies to Judge Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr.

“If, when you say religion you mean the evil institution, the hateful scourge, the bloody fiend that contaminates the innocent mind, dethrones reason, destroys cities, creates misery and hegemony, yea, flies airplanes into buildings, and traumatizes young children with the image of a loving spirit figure who has a fiery pit awaiting them; if you mean the evil concept that topples men and women from the pinnacle of logical, carefree living into the bottomless pit of ignorance, and hatred, and distrust and violence, and despair, that persecutes those whom nature blesses with a unique sexuality, skin color, or gender, then certainly I think your species has a problem—a big problem.

“But, if when you say religion you mean the oil of community life, the philosophic elixir that binds people and nations, the sublime thoughts that are explored when people get together, that puts music in the hearts and laughter on the lips of those gathered, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean universal charity, if you mean the stimulating contemplation that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step in his twilight years; if you mean the way of life which enables one to magnify joy and happiness, and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies, and heartaches, and sorrows; if you mean that religion that comforts the poor in spirit, exalts the meek, honors the peacemaker and seeks universal righteousness through good will, mercy, and purity in heart, the goodness of which provides tender care for our sick children, our blind, our deaf, our pitiful, aged, infirm; and least of those among us, I think your spirituality train would be on the right track.”

Please tell me more about this kindly old man
who runs the fiery pits of Hell. - C.W.

I nodded.

“But,” he continued before I could speak, “it does seem to me that the train has veered off course of late, and a debilitating indifference has allowed it to happen.”

Out of the mouths of aliens.

“Now,” he said, “let us go and see what Kate Middleton is wearing today.”

Be sure and click an ad or two so Big Dope can pay the rent. - 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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197. Prayer Lists

C.W. has always been intrigued by our obsession with religion. This time it went too far, as you will see.

The first to call was the oldest Thorton girl, the nosey one.

“It’s Carlota,” she said though it wasn’t necessary. She has this snorting sound that she makes when she breathes. I would have recognized it anywhere. I told her my wife wasn’t home.

“It’s you I wanted,” she said. “I called to talk to you.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Did you hear me?” she said.

“Sure I heard you. What’s up?”

“You tell me,” she said, just like that. “You tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Why I need to pray for you.”

“I don’t you to pray for me.”

“Then why, tell me, is your name on a prayer list? I need to know what kind of troubles you got.”

“I don’t have any troubles.”

“Are you two having problems?” She snorted again.

“What?”

“Trouble. Are you two having, you know, marital problems?”

“Goddamn it, who told you that?”

“If you are going to blaspheme the Savior, I shall refuse to pray for you.”

“Well don’t then.” I hung up.

“C.W.! I instinctively knew he was behind this. Before I could think, the phone rang again. It was Ida Covington.

“Is it cancer?”

“Is what cancer?” Then I remembered.

“My cousin had it and he didn’t live but six months. And he had two churches praying for him.”

“Your cousin?”

“Uncle Fred’s oldest son, Chester—the one that was in prison for killing his wife. But it was the most wonderful thing. He surrendered his soul to Jesus right before he died and he’s in Heaven right now. Not a doubt in my mind but what he is praying for you.”

“Ida,” I explained, “Get off this damn telephone.” She did but it rang again.

“Hello.”

“If you need money, our bank ..., a voice said. After that a neighborhood kid called to ask if he could have my woodworking tools when I was gone.

I went outside to find C.W. He was sitting peacefully watching the geese play around the pond at our farm.

“Do you know anything about a prayer list?”

He turned. “A what?”

“A prayer list. Don’t lie to me?”

“Oh,” he said. “Now I remember. Yours was the only name I knew.” This is his idea of an explanation.

“Knew for what?”

He fidgeted. “Remember when I wanted to visit some churches for research and you wouldn’t go with me?”

“I remember it well.”

“There is this small church not far from here and they insisted that I give them a name for their prayer list.”

I exhaled a long breath and looked at the sky. “And you gave them ..”

“Your name. I figured that, even if it didn’t help, it couldn’t hurt.” He stopped and thought. “They seemed to place a lot of importance on that sort of thing.”

“I suppose so,” I said, and sat beside him.

“Anyway,” he said. “I was afraid if I didn’t give them a name, they would start praying for me.”

“Perhaps they would.” My thoughts drifted.

“Does it work?”

I snapped back to the present. “Does what work?”

Big Dope has a long list and my name is on every line. - C.W.

“Prayer.”

“I’m thinking of trying it,” I said. “We will find out.”

“How will we find out?”

“You will be called home.”

Inside, the phone was ringing.


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Thought of the day.

Friends and Fans: Your Humble Alien's Thought of the Day:

While a little confused by the affection for organized religion manifested by your species, I do

If he keeps this talk up, I predict he is going to start
annoying some of the folks on political right. - C.W.

maintain a warm spot in my heart (actually I have two but that’s no matter) for your so-called "mainstream churches" that minister directly to the needs of their immediate communities, respect the complete equality of sexes, and offer a quiet refuge in which to contemplate grace and goodness. (And I am very fond of grace and goodness, having two hearts and all). So, while I can’t weigh in on all the teachings of the Christian Mother Church, I am intrigued by this new Pope who, in addition to looking a lot like Gomer Pyle, seems to be embracing the words of the historical Jesus, as I have studied them during my time among you. As he preaches compassion for the poor and needy, I can just imagine those like Joyce Meyers, Kenneth Copeland, and Benny Hinn wringing their hands until their Rolexes fly across the room. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritūs Sancti, etc. etc. - C.W.

166. Logic

I love it when C.W. does his Marie Magdalene "Marlene" Dietrich thing. (Yeah that was her real name). That is I love it except when he (she) tries to light up. That’s a no-no and we both know it.

Anyway, she comes in and takes an elegant position on the couch while I’m trying to pay some bills, so the distraction is welcome. She was attired in her famous pant-suit outfit and her dark eyes sparkled. I felt chills.

“I’m bushed,” she said.

“Oh? From what?”

“From tinkink,” C.W. has her precious accent down perfectly.

“Thinking what?”

“Vy your speeshies has such problems vis logic.” She reached for a cigarette but I waved it off. She made a pouting face. “Vee invented logic you know. Vee Germans. Your people.”

“I thought it was the Greeks.”

“Oh, zem,” she said. “That vas not logic. It vas simply complex tinkink.”

“Oh,” I said. “So what has you so tangled up in logic today?”

“Vell,” she said. “It concerns your concept of Zee Almighty.”

“The Almighty?”

“God, Jesus, vatever. I’m named after his girlfriend you know.”

I let that one pass. “So what has you concerned?”

“Haf you seen dis commercial, on your TV, about a lover-matching site on zee internet called ‘Christian Mingle?’”

“Once or twice. I don’t pay much attention since I made my match 41 years ago.”

“Vell,” she said. “You remember how it claims to allow you to ‘meet God’s match’ for you?”

“I seem to recall.”

“Do zey tink that Zee Almighty is zat hepless?”

“Helpless?”

“Yah. Hepless?”

“In vat, uh what way?” I said.

“Zat he, she, vichever you choose, couldn’t send zee proper match directly to a person?”

“I see,” I said. “Without the assistance of ‘pay to match’ company?”

“Yah. Egzacly.”

“Maybe The Almighty gets busy with some other things, like world hunger or our seemingly endless appetite for war.”

“And needs help makink sure vee marry zee right person?”

“I suppose.”

“But zee ad says that Zee Almighty sends zee person. Zat person must simply be routed through zee vebsite.”

“Well, it’s a cozy arrangement, I must say.”

“Does Zee Almighty get zee commission or zomezink?”

Now this would be a great visual
image of a superior being. - C.W.

I was growing weary. “Why don’t we leave the workings of The Almighty to The Almighty,” I said. “I have bills to pay.”

“One more zink,” she said.

“Okay,” I said. “What?”

“If Zee Almighty iz zo concerned about zame-zex attractions, vy not just make us all straight?” She leaned back and waited for my answer like a child waiting for her next birthday present.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I simply don’t know.”

With that, she stood, straightened her pants, shook her hair and wandered from the room singing “See what zee boys in zee backroom vill haf, and tell them I’m haffink zee same.”

163. Wealth

Drats. My city has the best riverfront park for a city its size in the country. I love to do my “fat walking” there of a morning. So, imagine my discomfiture when I was suddenly joined by a familiar figure, Rodney Englewood III, the proud member of the Young Conservatives of America, aka C.W. the Alien. Was this to be the ruination of a completely wonderful day?

“Big Dope,” he said. “Been looking for you.” He was breathing heavily and beginning to perspire.

“I’ve been right here. What makes you look so concerned?”

“From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.”

“That sounds vaguely familiar.” I motioned toward his blue blazer with the YCA logo. “Nice clothes.”

“Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return thither,” he said.

“Oh, please,” I said. “Can’t you be more original than that?”

“Be careful,” he said. “Do you have something against the Holy Word?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Just those who would use it for their own selfish purposes. And what brings you here?”

“A Young Conservatives conference. We’re meeting nearby.”

“And your theme?”

“Using churches to advance the conservative agenda,” he said.

“That explains your practicing the scriptures.”

“Nice park,” he said in an attempt to change the subject. “The city should be proud.”

I decided to play along and screw with him a bit. “Well, it was built by the government.” I let this sink in. “I thought you hated the government.”

He took on a stricken look. “We don’t hate the government,” he said.

“Oh really?”

“No, just the parts we don’t like.”

“Oh, I see. And those are?”

“Anything that doesn’t make us, or our parents, richer.”

“But of course.”

We started walking again. “What do you suppose we shall do?” he said. “When we have all the money and all the things money can buy?”

“I dunno. Start taking it away from one another?”

“No,” he said. “We won’t allow that to happen. We’ll have the military to prevent it.”

“One of the parts of the government you do like?”

“Of course.” He continued walking. Then he turned and said, “But won’t the poor be a problem? Who will take care of them?”

“I thought Jesus said we were supposed to.”

“Oh bother,” he said with indignation. “Don’t start with your ‘Social Gospel’ crap. It’s taken us years to wash the stench of that out of the churches.”

“I see,” I said.

“Besides,” he said. Didn’t the ‘great man’ himself admit that the poor would be with us always?”

“I think he did.” I looked over toward him. “So you and your pals are just helping to fulfill prophecy?”



If children would just be more careful about whom they
choose for parents, any one of them might be eligible someday
for the Young Conservatives of America. - C.W.

“Absolutely,” he said. “We must all do our part.”

“So you have the joint goals of producing the poor and keeping them poor?”

He contemplated this. “I never thought of it quite that way,” he said. “But it is a scriptural imperative.”

“Sort of like a ‘moral imperative’ but with your own slant on it?”

“Quite so,” he said.

“That would explain your current war on contraception.”

He narrowed his face in thought. “I suppose you are right.” Then he brightened. “Doing the Lord’s work is fairly simple once you get the hang of it.”

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.”

150. Rage

It was to be a quiet walk in the neighborhood. I had gotten three blocks from home and crossed a major street near I-30 when I was joined by a tall, neatly dressed African-American man whom I recognized immediately as one who often strolls our city’s River Market area. He eased in beside me and we walked to the next corner before he stopped and spoke.

“This is where it happened, isn’t it?”

I stopped, thought, and remembered. “Yes, along here somewhere.”

“Did you see it happen?”

“No, but I might have. I walk this way almost daily.”

“And I as well.”

“You didn’t witness it?”

“No.” He looked wistfully at the scene. “It would have been an interesting experience to report to the Elders. Your species has a unique approach to settling disagreements.”

“C.W.?”

“Who did you think it was?”

“I never knew … I mean … has this been you all along?”

“I sometimes wander the earth without you.” Before I could speak, he continued. “But tell me about this ‘rage of the road’ that is so unique to your kind.”

“This was apparently a classic case. Two motorists got into a feud on the interstate and both pulled off at this exit and stopped. One got out of his vehicle and started toward the other. The man in the second car produced a gun and shot the man three times, killing him.”

“In front of the man’s family?”

“Yes.”

“What could cause such an angry response?”

“I have no idea.”

“Perhaps one saw a car on the highway with one of those ‘these colors don’t run” bumper stickers?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps they each had seen one of those TV shows where the hero solves problems by beating up someone.”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe they watched that so-called news channel whose pundits tell their listeners that the government is coming to get them.”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps those guns of which you are so fond have an unsettling psychological effect on a person.”

“Dammit I just don’t know.”

“Have you ever carried a gun?”

“Once. For a time I carried one with me constantly, even when I ate. I stored it next to my bed at night. It was my constant companion.”

“Did it make you crazy?”

“I dunno.”

“What happened to it?”

“The United States Government took it away from me one day.”

“Well, there you go,” he said. “That’s too bad.”

“Oh no. Quite the contrary. It was one of the happiest days of my life.”

“You are weird.”

I thought this was a little bizarre coming from a shape-shifting alien and told him so.

“So we have one man dead in front of his family and another facing first-degree murder charges because of a minor fracas that either could have avoided.”

“That’s about it.”

“This worship of the gun and automobile, where do they teach it?” He pointed toward the spire of a church a couple of blocks away. “There?”

“No. They are supposed to teach just the opposite.”

“Supposed to?”

“Some of them have gotten a little off-track.”

All in all, I think music produces
a better effect on your species
than does driving a vehicle. - C.W.

“Surely your schoolteachers warn that your DNA contains dormant remnants lying ready to activate and produce violent responses during times of stress.”

I pointed at the church. “You and I have talked about this before. They don’t quite approve of teaching science to young kids.”

He stood silent for a moment. Then he lowered his head until his chin rested on his chest. “I hope …,” he said, then stopped to gather his thoughts.

“Hope what?”

“I hope that my next assignment is to a simpler planet.”

148. Rights and Powers

C.W. set my wife off again the other night by coming to the supper table dressed in a sport coat and tie. He calls it his “Mr. Cleaver look.”

“Please tell him to leave and come back when we’re finished,” she said. He smiled and grabbed an ear of corn with one hand. The other held a pocket version of the U.S. Constitution which he studied with interest.

“Tell him yourself, why don’t you?”

She slammed a glass of water onto the table in front of me by way of explanation. Part of it splashed onto my shirt. “He’s your alien,” she said. “Besides, I’m still not over the fact that he’s been using my sewing machine.”

I stopped a plate that she had slid toward me before it landed my lap. “Is this true?” I asked him.

Ignoring me, he waved the Constitution. “This part that says ‘… the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.’ Does that mean what it says?”

My wife glared at me. “Can we not bring up the matter of bearing arms right now?” I said. “But yes, I’m afraid it does.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Weird.” Then he began making machine gun-like noises as he nibbled down the length of his ear of corn.

“That does it,” my wife said. “You two have fun. I’ll be in the living room.” With that, she gathered her plate, utensils, and water glass, then left us at the table alone.

“You sure made her mad,” he said. He shook the document again. “This doesn’t seem to have been written with her in mind.”

“No,” I said. “No it wasn’t.”

“Weird,” he said. “So, these rights are absolute for us menfolk?”

“Actually for all of us now.”

“Hmm,” he said. “What about this ‘…making no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof ..’ part.”

“What about it?”

“That’s pretty much of a joke, right?”

“Don’t call our Constitution a joke,” I said.

He reached into a coat pocket and retrieved a dollar bill. Slamming it onto the table, he pointed at the slogan, “In God We Trust.” When I didn’t respond, he put it back into his pocket. “And what about this Article Six thing?” he said.

“What Article Six thing?”

“The ‘thing’ where it says, ‘…no religious test shall ever be required as a qualification to any office or public trust under the United States.’”

“So?”

“So, have you ever watched one of your celebrated political debates?”

“On occasion.”

“And the first question usually asked is?”

“Sometimes they ask about the candidates’ religion,” I said. “But debates have no official standing.”

“Boy,” he said. “Mrs. Big Dope is right about you.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” he said. “Now let’s look at this section that sets up the Judicial Branch.”

“Article Three,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “Article Three ... the shortest of those dealing with the various branches of government.” He turned the pages until he found the article. He studied it carefully with a periodic “Hmm.”

Actually, your Constitution is not a  bad piece
of work for a  bunch of aged white men. - C.W.

I ate in silence until he placed the document gently on the table.

“I can’t find the part where the court elects the President.”

“It has only done that once,” I said. “And I think most everyone regrets it. We have much more respect for the separation of powers as a result of that caper.”

“I see,” he said. “Speaking of ‘separation of powers,’ could you please have your wife bring us some more water?”

142. Taxes

C.W. heard me groaning in the next room and walked into the room in the appearance, of all things, a priest. “May I be of help to you my son?” he said.

My mind was far away, not as far as Falloonia, but far away.

“I’m okay,” I said. “Just working on my taxes.”

“Ah taxes,” he said. He sat in a chair near where I was working and folded his hands. “Rendering unto Caesar?”

“You might say.”

“I think taxes are a great way to offer praise,” he said. “So does my church.”

Now I have to admit that he had caught me in a bad mood. “That’s because your church doesn’t have to pay them,” I said.

He crossed himself. “You are forgiven.”

Ignoring him, I went back to my computer.

“So,” he said. “As I understand it, your species uses its system of taxes to help the poor in spirit and, as we say, ‘the least of those among us?’ That’s a blessed approach.”

“Used to be,” I said. “Some of us think it is old-fashioned.”

“Oh? Please explain.”

“Some modern thinkers believe that the poor will be with us always, so we should direct our public resources to helping those who are more, not less, fortunate.”

He thought for a moment. “If you don’t mind my lapsing into the vernacular,” he said. “That doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense.”

“Welcome to the modern tax code,” I said. “Aaaargh!” I continued as a figure flashed on my computer screen.

“Peace, my son,” he said. “Think happy thoughts.”

I glared at him. “Don’t tempt me,” I said.

He took on a beatific smile and formed his fingers into the shape of a steeple. “One has to admit …,” he said. He thought for a few seconds and began again. “One has to admit that it is wise of your species to prevent the government from acting unwisely by simply not approving taxes for untoward behavior, say, for casting pearls before swine or starting unnecessary wars.”

I looked up to see if he was serious. “Are you crazy? You think that stops war?”

“How could a country wage war on credit?”

“Wait one,” I said. I punched a few keys and found a “favorite” on the computer. I started it running and turned the screen toward him. It was a scene from a documentary showing the bombs beginning to fall on Baghdad on day one of the “Shock and Awe War.” As explosions rocked a public square, a father ran across the screen holding a young son. A broad stain showed that the lad had soiled himself from fear. “Ask these folks,” I said.

“I see I have angered you,” he said.

“Up yours,” I said.

“I shall leave you to deal with your anger, my son.”

“Pray do.”

“You have inspired me.”

I looked up. “Inspired you?”

“Yes, I’m going to write your congressman and suggest some changes to the tax code.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, remembering the church’s admonition to comfort those who hunger, I shall suggest that the drug Viagra be tax deductible.”

“That will make some folks happy,” I said.

“Oh, but remembering our charge to be fruitful and multiply, I have another suggestion.”

Your wars would not be as popular
if they didn't show so well
on the nightly news. - C.W.

“Let me guess.”

“Pray do.”

“Contraceptives won’t be.”

“In nomine patre,” he said, extending a hand in benediction.

140. Issues

Although the event is well in the future, C.W. has decided to vote in the 2014 elections. His latest shape had him in a tri-cornered hat with teabags hanging from it. He had a wild look in his eyes and what appeared to be toy replica of a Beretta 92FS nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistol strapped to his waist. I hope it was a replica.

“What’s up?”

“Considering candidates.”

“Oh? Still on that kick?”

“Yep. Just picked my issue.”

“Your issue?”

“Yep. Picked the issue I’ll use to select candidates in two years.”

“The issue? Only one?”

“That’s all you need, ain’t it?”

I thought for a moment. “Well some folks would look at a body of policies and issues and pick a candidate who best covered a platform of ideas that would benefit all citizens.”

“Fiddle-dee-dee! Why clutter up my mind with all that?”

“So you would vote for a candidate for public office, to lead our people in these perilous times on the basis of one issue you have picked?”

“Oh, I didn’t pick it.”

“You didn’t pick it?”

“No, my preacher did.”

“C.W., first, you are an alien and you can’t vote. Second, how could you rely on someone else to choose your candidates even if you could vote?”

He placed his hand on his pistol. “There are weirder people than me who vote.”

“That may be,” I said. “But a preacher? Is he, or she, educated in policy analysis?”

“See, you don’t know everything, Mr. Big Dope. You should know that women can’t be preachers. And he needs no analysis. He talks directly to God.”

“You have an educated man who claims to talk directly to God?”

“Yes and no.”

At that point, I waited.

“Yes he talks to God. No, he doesn’t need education. He installed satellite TV discs before he surrendered to preach. He says that’s where he first started receiving messages from God.”

This was not going to lead anywhere, so I chose to skip over the details. “So what issue did this ‘preacher’ choose?”

“Why don’t you guess? It has to do with life and choice.” Before I could answer, he interrupted. “Raw milk, of course.”

Stunned, I could only repeat it. “Raw milk?”

“Don’t you know anything?” He gave me smirk. “They don’t let companies sell raw milk and we want to get that overturned. It is a matter of ‘raw versus made,’ as in pasteurization.”

This was getting weirder by the moment. “Let me see if I understand. God told your preacher that you should drink only raw milk?”

“I can tell,” he said. That you don’t read your Bible.”

“I know you can be condemned for eating shellfish,” I said. “But I missed the raw milk part.”

“Thou shall not commit adultery,” he said triumphantly. “And pasteurizing milk adulterates it.”

“C.W., Uh...”

“It’s really simple,” he said. “We believe we should be able to put anything we want to in our body.” He had a sudden insight. “And those of our children too.”

I would vote for Joe Stalin
risen from the grave if
he supported my one issue. - C.W.

“Even if it kills you, or them?”

“If it is our choice.”

“So you believe in individual choice, as it relates to your own body.”

 

“Absolu…,” he began, then stopped. A stricken look came over his face. He pulled a small pad from his pocket and referred to some notes. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” he said.