227. Privilege

            “I’ve been thinking,” C.W. said.

            Oh hell. “About what?” We were taking advantage of a break in the cold weather to walk along the riverside park in Little Rock. The air was crisp, the leaves on the maple trees a flaming red, and the paths clear of his enemies, the bicyclists. He often takes on a shape much like that of Johnny Depp in times like this, a joke that causes many stares and an occasional stalking. He, of course, was smoking, blowing the smoke my way to irritate me.

            “I’ve been thinking I might stay here,” he said. “I mean after my assignment is finished.”

            Oh hell. “And what makes you think you might do that?”  I said.

            “I’ve grown accustomed to your face,” he said. I turned quickly to see if he was kidding. He was.

            “And aside from that?”

            “Your species needs help,” he said. “Maybe I could be a pundit, or columnist, or run for office.”

            Oh hell. “Why do you think we need help?”

            “Oh please,” he said. “You have people elected to your national congress who think the universe is 6,000 years old.” He took a puff and blew the smoke toward the distant skyscrapers. “And they are allowed to breed children, drive cars, and operate TV remotes. Scary.”

            “You’ve got a point,” I said.

            “And you’ve got some really ignorant ones at the state level,” he said.

            He was making me despondent. “So,” I said, “will they let you stay, the Falloonian Elders?”

            “I have to make application,” he said. “And I have to choose a permanent shape and personality. And, I have to have sponsors who will vouch for me. You and Mrs. Big Dope will, won’t you?”

            Oh hell. “Have you thought about your permanent shape?” I said.

            “Some,” he said. “I, of course would be male, earning power and all that.”

            “Anything else?”

            “Caucasian. That opens a lot of doors,” he said, “and removes any limitations.”

            “And?”

            “A degree from Harvard would help.”

            “You’ll have to ask them about that,” I said.

            “I have,” he said. “I just have to send the check.”

            “Good for you,” I said. “Is that all you need? Any physical specifications?”

            “Tall.”

            “Tall?”

            “Yes, I think it would help if I were tall.”

            “Hmm,” I said, “probably. Anything else?”

            “A big pe …”

            “Look,” I said. “A speedboat was pulling a water skier in a wetsuit down the river. “That’s something you don’t see often, this time of year. But what were you saying?”

            He thought. “A trust fund,” he said, “I will need a trust fund.”

            “Don’t look to me for that,” I said.

            “Oh the Elders would arrange that. They seemed anxious to grant me permanency here.”

            “I can imagine,” I said. “So that about does it then?”

            “If I plan to run for office, I need a stint in the military.”

            Oh hell. “And?”

            “That presents a bit of a problem,” he said.

            “How so?”

            “We don’t have violence in Falloonia. I’m not sure how I would respond.”

            “Well you won’t know until you try.” I was thinking of four years of freedom.

            “Maybe I could just become an avid hunter instead,” he said. “That seems to work as a proxy.”

Everyone is crazy about

a self-made man. - C.W.

            “That involves violence,” I said.

            “Yes, but it is unilateral violence. That is the best kind.”

            “Say,” I said. “You’ve thought this thing out pretty carefully.”

            “I’m prepared to pull myself up by my own bootstraps, as George W. Bush used to say. Only two decisions to go,” he said.

            “Only two?”

            “Yes, finding a wife and choosing a church home,” he said, “appearances, you know.”

            “That shouldn’t be hard,” I said.

            “I don’t know, he said. “Those Baptist women are awfully pretty, but you know how much I like to dance.”

            Oh hell.

 

 

Click an ad and help with my trust fund.

Also check out www.wattensawpress.com

193. Contests

As the faithful reader knows, C.W. takes on more than a few obnoxious forms. One of his most irritating, though, is Paulie the Pundit, or as he likes to call himself, “TV’s Golden Man.”

It’s understandable then, that I wasn’t overjoyed to see him.

I was trying to master computer-aided drafting when he ambled in looking like he had just returned from a week at the family home in Kennebunkport.

“Wassup?” he said.

I cursed silently when a computer command that had worked four straight times refused to acknowledge my existence on the fifth.

 “I’ve been talking to folks,” he said.

“Son of a bitch,” I said—to the computer, not to him.

“I said I’ve been talking to people.”

“That’s nice.”

He said, “Know what they tell me?”

“That you shouldn’t bother people while they’re concentrating?”

“You know the last two postings—mine and yours?”

“That’s nice,” I said, half listening.

“I won.”

“Won what?”

“My last posting was better than yours.”

That stopped me. I hit “save” and looked up. “I didn’t know it was a contest.”

“Everything is a contest,” he said. “Don’t you watch television?”

“As a last resort.”

“Your species demands winners and losers for some reason.” He sat beside me. “And I need a new show to glorify some folks and humiliate others.” He pointed to my computer. “I bet I could work that program better than you. Wanna try me?”

“No,” I said. “No contests today. I’m going to do some yard work here at the farm.”

“Yard work,” he said with excitement. “Great occasion for a contest. I’ll get another team and we can race them getting a job done. We’ll feature the winners on TV.”

“A contest featuring yard work? Might as well have one renovating a kitchen.”

He sighed. “Haven’t you seen the “Do It Yourself” channel lately?”

“No,” I said, “I’ve been writing a book.”

“Great idea,” he said. “They have this neat contest to see who can write a book the fastest. Maybe you could be a ‘winner’ at something before you check out.”

I returned my attention to the computer.

“Or,” he said. “You could debate someone on television. You might not be such a loser at that.”

“A debate?” I said.

“Yeah,” just like the political candidates.”

“And who decides who is the winner and who is the loser?”

He looked offended. “Why we pundits, of course.” Then he said, “You’re no fun. Where is Mrs. Big Dope?”

“I think she is fixing supper,” I said.

“Cooking,” he said, clapping his hands together. “What a great idea for a contest.” Then he thought. “Maybe not. I’m not sure I would like to be around her if someone labeled her ‘a loser’ on national TV.”

“I think you are learning a few things while you are on our planet,” I said.

Don't you love the look on a loser's face? - C.W.

“What else does she like to do?”

“She likes to sew.”

“Sewing,” he said with glee. “What a great way to find winners and losers. Maybe she could be a judge.”

“I think I’ll go read a book.”

“I bet I can read faster than you,” he said.

I gave him the international gesture meaning “mind your own business.”

“Loser,” he said as he wandered out of the room.

 

Check us out at www.wattensawpress.com

108. Competition

One of the favorite guises that C.W. likes to show up in resembles the drugged-out stoner from the Cheech and Chong films. He swears it is just for fun, but I’m beginning to suspect that he has developed a penchant for Tuk Fin. At any rate, he can certainly be entertaining, as he was last evening.

I was working on a project in an adjoining room and we had the farmhouse to ourselves as my wife was taking her mom shopping. Suddenly this piercing scream shattered the silence.

“Big Dope,” he yelled. “Commear … this one dude just finished a race a whole tenth of a second before the other!”

Yes, he was watching the Olympic games. “That’s nice,” I said. “Are the fans excited?”

“Oh, man,” he said. “They’re crappin’ en masse.”

He was quiet for awhile. I thought I heard him changing channels but then he started yelling “Go, girls, go,” and “Way to go girls.”

I tried to ignore him until he yelled for me, “Hey man, come check out the beach volleyball.”

Hmmm. Maybe I would.

I walked in and watched for a few seconds.

“Is that a great team or what?” he said.

“C.W.,” I said. “I hate to tell you.”

“Tell me what, man?”

A young beauty ran across the screen, lost the top of bikini, turned and giggled at the camera, and ran off.

“That is the Playboy Channel.”

“Far out, man.”

I eased back to my project after a few minutes and left him to himself. He was quiet for a spell, then started yelling again.

“Hey Big Dope, come see the farm and ranch channel.”

“The what?”

“The farm and ranch channel, man. I think it’s a show called ‘The Jolly Rancher.’”

Intrigued, I went back.

“Lookit the dancing horse,” he said.

“That’s not the farm and ranch channel,” I said.

“It’s not?”

“No, that’s the Olympics.”

“No way, man. Dancing horses?”

“Dancing horses.”

“Who started the Olympics, man?”

“The Greeks.”

He watched the horse dancing to the music, ridden by a woman who could have easily produced diamonds from a length of pencil lead by "the Ferris Bueller method."

“So maybe man,” he said. “Those century-old rumors about Alexander the Great are true after all.”

I ignored him and went back to work. But he wasn’t through. After I had forgotten him, he inserted himself back into my attention with shouts of “U.S.A, U.S.A., U.S.A,” the top of his voice. Believing that something important might be happening, I peeked around the corner. He was still chanting and pumping his hand.

“Hey man, these Olympics of yours are great … U.S.A, U.S .A.”

“Uh, C.W,” I said as a young lady reached her apogee and her skirt flew up over her head, exposing her underwear. “This isn’t the Olympics.”

Far out, man. - C.W.

“Oh, yeah man, it’s the trampoline competition.”

“No, C.W,” I said. “It’s a rerun of ‘The Man Show.’”

“Your species really knows how to entertain, man."