141. Madness

C.W. was very effusive and that is unusual for him. Also—it seemed at first—complimentary. But, I soon found out it was a misunderstanding.

“I am so pleased to hear your species admit to “March Madness,” he said. He was watching television on a Saturday morning and seemed unusually content in the shape young woman in the “hippie” attire of the 1960s. “Actually I think your collective madness extends throughout the year, but any admission is cool, man.”

“Collective madness?”

“Your species whacks itself out a lot man, and it’s not groovy.”

“Whacks itself out?”

“Yeah, you man … like wars and things. Bummer.”

“So you think that is what March Madness refers to?”

“Uh, yeah. Like when you all flip out at once. Far out.”

“Uh, C.W.,” I said. “Or whatever your name is …”

“Celestial Foreverness.”

“C.F., that is not exactly what ‘March Madness’ refers to.”

She snapped her head around to look at me. When her jewelry had stopped clanging, she said, “What else could it mean? Don’t be puttin’ me on, man.”

“It’s a basketball tournament.”

“A what?”

“A basketball tournament.”

“Aw man, you mean where they toss that little ball around?”

“And into the hoop.”

“Oh wow.”

“Now, are you going to the supermarket with me? If so, you’re not going like that.”

“Just a minute,” she said. “I want to watch one of those games.” She flipped through the channel until the screen light up with players bounding across the court, following a young man dribbling a ball. She leaned forward and forgot I was standing in the room.

“I’m about ready to go,” I said.

“Don’t bug me man,” she said. “This game only has five minutes left. Be cool.”

I shrugged and finished getting dressed. Fifteen minutes later, I came back into the room. She hadn’t moved. “Ready?”

“Only four minutes left,” she said. “Go do something.”

I collected the trash, took it out, and used up another fifteen minutes. “C.W.?” I yelled from the next room.

“Three minutes left,” she yelled back. “Chill out.”

There is no arguing with him when he is like that, so I sat at the table and completed the grocery list I had started. Fifteen minutes later, I checked in again.

“Two minutes and it’s over,” she said. “Hold your horses.”

I gave up. She didn’t even notice when I left. Outside, I could hear her yelling, “Miss! Miss!”

Sometime later, I returned from shopping and carried the first load of groceries into the house. To my surprise, she still sat in front of the television completely absorbed in the action.

“Another game?”

Man, the only thing wrong with
wars and basketball games is
that they both last too long. - C.W.

“No man, same one. Eight seconds left. Don’t bug me.” At that moment, a player tossed the ball onto the court. Another player caught it and immediately received a judo chop to his wrist. A whistle blew, action stopped, and the screen shifted to a commercial. C.W., or rather C.F., relaxed and looked up as if seeing me for the first time. “I see why your species digs this,” he said.

“And why is that?”

“Keeps your minds off doing anything really destructive.”

 

126. Consequences

C.W. is finishing his first college course. Says he wants major in history as he doesn’t have to depend upon a degree to get a job. His first class was one in American foreign policy since World War Two. It has him bumfuzzled. I found him working on his final term paper early this morning in a raccoon coat and one of those silly hats straight out of an Andy Hardy movie.

 

“Hey Big Dope,” he said. “Just the person I needed to see.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I have to decide upon the most unfortunate foreign policy decision of the U.S. government since 1945.”

“And?”

“There are so many to choose from.”

“Well pick one then,” I said.

“I leaned heavily at first,” said he, “On Dwight Eisenhower’s decision to overthrow, as a favor to the British Petroleum Company, the democratically elected government of Iran, and its head of government Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddegh in August of 1953.”

“Why that one?”

“Simple,” he said. “Chain reactions.”

“Chain reactions?”

“Yes. It created a permanent, and hitherto non-existent, hatred of the U.S. by the Iranian people and led to the hostage taking in 1979 which led to the election of Ronald Reagan and, well, you know the rest.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Of course the involvement of your country in Vietnam has to be high on the radio detection and ranging screen.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“That one involved you personally, eh?”

“Yes, so I must recuse on it,” I said, grateful for the opportunity.

“Old Dwight D. started that one too, didn’t he?

“No comment.”

“He was sort of a ‘poster-child’ for the Law of Unintended Consequences, wasn’t he?”

“No comment. But … you might google Watergate, or Bay of Pigs.”

“Of course your beloved sage Walter Cronkite said that the invasion of Iraq in 2003 was the worst policy decision in modern history, and illegal from the start.”

“Yay, Walter!”

“But all those pale in comparison with my final selection.”

“Your selection for the worst policy decision in modern history?”

“Yes sir.” He tends to get formal at times like this.

“And that would be?”

“Reality TV.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Reality TV? What does that have to do with foreign policy?”

“You are portraying to the world that your country is composed of a bunch of snaggle-toothed, overweight, swamp-dwelling, violence-worshiping, child-exploiting, snuff-drooling, tattoo-seeking, death-wishing, foul-mouthed, junk-hoarding, obsessive-compulsive, stuff-loving, gun-toting, sex-starved morons.”

Won't you please,

Won't you please,

Please won't you be my neighbor?

It's a wonderful day in the

cosmic universe. - C.W.

“But that represents only a small percentage of Americans,” I said.

“Only a small percentage of Americans lived an idyllic life like that of the Cleaver family during the 1950s,” he said. “But see how that image has prevailed, even among some African-Americans like Thomas Sowell.”

That stumped me. “But,” I said, “We love the arts, books, knowledge, music, and all things inspiring.”

“Try telling that to the people on Planet Rylinskria,” he said.

93. Questions

Once again, we allow the Alien to answer letters from his fans.

Dear C.W.: My wife has a “fart app” on her Kindle. She sets it off at critical points during my favorite TV shows as an expression of her opinion. Should I confront her about this? - Distracted

Dear Distracted: My experience with American women so far leads me to believe that a member of the male species should not confront them about anything. On the other hand, my experience with American men leads me to believe they posses an evolutionarily-formed tendency toward self-destruction (especially politicians). My advice? Watch only TV shows that she approves in writing.

Dear C.W.: My husband snores something awful. Always has. Lately, he has been snoring the tunes to popular music, his favorite being “Achy Breaky Heart.” I suspect he is doing it on purpose. What should I do? - Suspicious

Dear Suspicious: By all means, get your cell phone and video him. This will go viral on YouTube in a matter of seconds and will surely result in a reality TV contract and big bucks.

Dear C.W.: My husband has destroyed two I-Pads playing “Angry Birds.” This is getting expensive. What can I do? Distressed

Dear Distressed: I suggest that you enroll him in one of those Internet Universities. Then he will be eligible for student loans and I-Pad replacement should no longer be a problem.

Dear Um .. Like C.W. or Whatever: My dad, is, like, so totally yesterday. He is like, “You should study,” and I am so, like “Why?” and he is so like, you know, “Cause I said so,” and I am, like “Who died and put you in charge?” and he is, like “Don’t get saucy with me, Bernaise,” and I am like, "Whatever are you talking about?” What should I, you know, do? – Like, Bewildered

Dear Bewildered: Your Dad is wrong. Studying won’t help you. Go to Branson, Missouri and get a job waiting tables.

Dear C.W.: My mom is 80 and on fixed income. She responds to the Joel Olsteen show by sending him money. She owns a 900 square-foot home in need of a roof. He owns the Superdome and several mansions. Shouldn’t he be sending her money instead? – Confused

Dear Confused.: You apparently understand neither the “Prosperity Gospel” nor the “Flow of Money Principle.”

Deer C.W.: I wuz eddicated at home and am now in a local Bible collige. They want me to reed books and studee histry but I just won’t to be an accountint. My daddy says ask you what I can do. Do you have any advise for he and I? – Stubbern


Disappointed that your question wasn't printed?
Remember, in special cases we can arrange
a personal counseling session. - C.W.


Dear Stubbern: By all means. If you hurry, you can catch Bewildered and ride to Branson with her.

Well fans, Big Dope says we have exhausted our allocation of space. Until next time, as we say in Falloonia, “Fapriticasua” or “Get yourself some stronger glasses and keep on trucking.” (A rough translation).

The Alien C.W.

85. Choices

We went for a walk the other day, C.W. and I. It was a balmy pre-Spring day and we felt the need for fresh air. It had rained for weeks, and we looked forward to a dry spell. We agreed to meet in the park across the street from the condominium and I, as usual, arrived first.

I waited thirty minutes, gave up, and started walking toward the river when a thin, dark, shabbily dressed boy of about ten years of age crossed the street and joined me.

“Mr.,” he said. “Can I axe you a question?”

“C.W.,” I said. “Is that you?”

“I don’t know no C.W.,” he said. “I just want to know.”

”Know what?” I played along.

“Would Harbard or Yale be the best place for me?”

“What?”

“Harbard or Yale. When I go to college, I got to make the right choice.”

“You’re talking about the Ivy League schools, Harvard or Yale, I assume?”

“Yeah. Ain’t they the best?”

“Some say so, but tell me why do you think you could go to one of them?”

“Cause they the best, and the man on television say I have to make good choices if I’m gonna pull myself up like he done.”

“What man on television?”

“That man runnin’ for president.”

A fog was beginning to lift. “So you want to improve yourself?”

“That’s right. That’s why I come to Little Rock.”

“Where are you from?”

“Down in the farm country, outside a place called Turkey Scratch,” he paused. “You know that white man named Levon Helm?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“That’s where he from.”

“What about your schooling?”

“We ain’t got no school there. They buses us about an hour to school and back ever day.”

“And you want to go to Harvard or Yale?”

“Got to,” he announced with finality. “That’s what that man on television done.”

“And if you don’t?”

He thought for a minute. “I might end up like you.”

I ignored that. “What do your parents say?”

“My daddy, he run off when I was born,” he said. He stopped and picked up a discarded beer can from the gutter. “My mama used to work, but the chicken plant closed. She don’t talk much now.”

“And you think you can go to college wherever you choose?”

“That’s what that man say.” He dropped the beer can into a trash receptacle on the street.

“Just by choosing to?”

“He called it ‘jerking myself off by the bootstraps’”.

I pretended to look at a tiny bud on a tree while I composed myself. “I think he said pull yourself up by your bootstraps.’”

“Whatever you say. Can you help me? It’s important.”

“What could I do?”


Young folks, remember choices are
important. Take parents for example.
I chose a father who was a governor.
It worked out great for me.

 “Help me get in Harbard or Yale, cause if you don’t …,” he paused.

“If I don’t, what?”

“I’ll have to play pro basketball.”