289.Fairs

We took C.W. to the state fair yesterday. Maybe we shouldn't have. He showed up to go as a gangly 12- year old boy with a "Cowboys for Jesus" tee-shirt, faded jeans, and those old wide-top cowboy boots that they used to wear in the 1940s western movies. His jeans were carefully turned up an inch and a half at the bottoms. He looked a fright, but refused to change.

"It's a cowboy-themed affair, isn't it?"

We both simply sighed and put him in the car with my mother-in-law. She wasn't sure where he came from, but she was certain that she didn't care for him. "Stay on your side," she warned.

"She keeps looking at me," he said as we entered the freeway headed for the state capitol.

"I'll take you both back home," I said. They were quiet until he started whistling "Home on the Range."

"Make him stop," she said.

"C.W," I said, "can you please be quiet until we get there?"

"I thought I was supposed to enjoy myself. Are we there yet?"

"Not yet," I said. "Just be quiet."

He muttered something I couldn't quite understand but I think it was Falloonian. Anyway, we made it to the fairgrounds without incident until we reached the entrance whereupon he began insisting that he was a visitor from another planet and should be allowed in free. Just as the ticket seller reached to call a security guard, I slapped our money on the counter, grabbed our tickets, and ushered him through.

That's when the real fun started.

He spent twenty dollars shooting targets with a cork and the attendant finally gave him a stuffed Koala Bear, more out of pity than reward, I think. My wife insisted later that it was simply to get rid of him. I think she was right. At any rate, he insisted that my mother-in-law carry it for him so he could, as he explained, it. "Keep my hands free for other displays of skill."

Then we came to the "Tsunami."

It was a ride consisting of a row of seats attached to a long arm with a weight on the other end. The attendant would begin swinging it back and forth until momentum took it in a complete rotation.

"Oh," he said, "come ride it with me."

I said, "Are you crazy?"

He looked at my wife and she gave him that "battered Falloonian" look that she has perfected so well over the years.

"If you want to ride it, you'll have to go it alone," I said.

"That's no fun," he said.

"I'll go with you," my mother-in-law said.

"No," I said.

"Come on," she said, thrusting the Koala Bear into my arms, and they were gone. My wife just stood shaking her head.

What can I say? I became a little nauseated just watching them rock back and forth until the weight took them in their circle. When it stopped, the lady sprang from her seat and fairly pranced down the steps, scarcely assisted by the operator.

"Can we do it again?" she said.

Then we looked back to see a couple of men helping C.W. from his seat. He exited like a sailor leaving a Subic Bay beer joint, literally bouncing off each side of the exit. For some genetic reason, Falloonians tend to glitter when they turn green. As a crowd began to gather, we hustled him away. The Dairy Barn was the closest thing that didn't cost money, so we ushered him in and looked at the cows until he regained his composure.

Boy, did he.

The rather huge bags on the cows transfixed him. "What on earth are those," he demanded.

A rather pretty young girl of 18 or so was tending the Holstein that drew his attention. She first looked at him as though he was crazy. Then she looked at me. I shrugged. She looked back at C.W. "That is her udder," she said, "the teats where the milk comes from."

Despite what Big Dope says, I think I'll look
great as a cowboy. - C.W.

He stared at them, then at her, then back at he cow, then back at her. "Why are they so much bigger than yo..."?

"Got to go now," I said. "Thanks for the explanation."

As we sped away, my mother-in-law said, "Is he really that stupid or is he just showing off?"

My wife said, "I told you not to bring him."

C.W. said, and everyone within fifty feet heard him, "Gee this is fun. Can we do it again next year? Hey, there is the Angus Bull building. Maybe they have oversized things too."

For those who may think it couldn't get much worse after that, trust me. It could. Let's just say that a fun day at the fair is no fun day with a Falloonian.


 Please click some ads. I spent all my money having a great time at the fair. 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

179. Presidents

“Looks like some folks are pissed off at the President.”

With these words, C.W. plopped himself onto the couch and began eating an apple. He tilted his Stetson hat to the back of his head and crossed one leg over the other. His boots were of dark leather and as polished as his oversized belt buckle.

I said, “What the hell are you supposed to be, a cowboy?”

He smiled and chewed his apple. “Just a citizen of the world, Pilgrim.”

“Oh please,” I said.

“I been studyin’,” he said. “Studyin’ about the presidency.”

“I fear for us all,” I said. “Are you the second coming of George W. Bush?”

“Who was he?” He laughed, then added. “Just kidding.”

“So what have you learned? I’m terribly interested.”

“Sarcasm won’t get you nowhere,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. “Go on.”

“Well,” he said. “Seems a large group of folks gets really irritated with the president of these here United Sates from time to time.” He pronounced it “yooo-nited.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Like when that feller Lincoln freed those who were the legal property of another and forced to obey them.”

“Lincoln didn’t free the wives,” I said, unable to resist screwing around with him. "You need to adjust your Galactic Universal Translator.”

“I trust my GUT,” he said.

“You Texans seem to have a problem with that.”

He ignored me. “Anyway, it was the coloreds that he freed.”

“We don’t call folks that anymore.”

“And it really pissed some people off.”

“It did indeed.” I decided to let him continue.

“Then there was the furor that the second Roosevelt caused when he enacted them programs to help the poor and elderly, you know, some of the least of those among you.”

“Continue.”

“Oh,” he said, “and look what happened when Harry Truman integrated the armed services.”

“Not pretty.”

“Nope. Seems like his policy of ‘if he fights alongside you he can sleep alongside you’ didn’t set too well with some.”

“You do have a point.”

“And lord,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you what happened when Eisenhower and Kennedy took on the educational system in our southern provinces.”

“Uh. No.”

“They’s folks still pissed about that and you see what it has caused: the motion of an object emitting all spectra of light it receives in or through a medium, especially through the earth's atmosphere or through space.”

“White flight,” I said.

“Ain’t that what I just said?”

Never misunderestimate the fact that, where
politics are concerned, a good smile and a
good hat get a person a lot further than doing
good deeds. Hell, a person won't need no
 "nucular option" then. Heh. Heh. - C.W.

“Please continue.” He was beginning to make a point.

“The passage of the civil rights acts of the 1960s by our native son—who by the way we don’t claim no more—Lyndon Baines Johnson cost his party the south. Maybe forever.”

“But look at the good the laws did.”

“My point,’ he said. “It seems to me that if a president wants to get his ass in a crack, the fastest way to do that is to try to help folks. Look at this current occupant.”

What could I say? “So your advice?”

He thought. “I reckon it’s this. If you want to be beloved by some people, cut out all that ‘do-gooder crap.’ Do no good. That’ll get an airport named after you faster than anything.”

“But what about the people who need help?”

“There you go again,” he said.

97. Obituaries

C.W. looked so proud as he handed me the card. It read, “Awesome Obits Inc.” and included a slogan: “Don’t let your Dear Departed stink in print” followed by contact information.

“What do you think?” he asked.

I just looked at him, fixed up in a beige sport coat, pink silk shirt, blue and red bowtie, chinos, and what I suppose were Gucchis. He looked like a stockbroker on steroids.

“Is this some kind of joke?” I asked.

“Joke, hell,” he frowned and grabbed the card from my hand. “This could be my true calling.”

“Which is?”

“Writing obituaries for distraught families, you know,” he smiled. “The kind your species prints in the newspapers.”

“Would you like a martini?” I asked. “I think I need one.”

“No time,” he said. “Got to deliver product.”

“Product?”

“Sure,” he said. “The orders are coming in faster than I can write them.” He produced some folded sheets of paper from his coat pocket. “Want to hear some?”

I began to consider the question, but he interrupted.

“Listen.” He unfolded a sheet and began to read.

“Politicians should pay attention. There is going to be a real filibuster at the Primitive Believers Baptist Church on Monday as the congregation gathers to win our departed brother, John, “Quickstep” Martin his angel’s wings.” He stopped and looked at me.

I looked back.

“Pretty fine, eh?” he said, handing me another.

Stunned, I glanced at it.

“With a hearty ‘Hi-Ho Silver’ and ‘This should work,’ Bobby Ray ‘Duster Man’ Coogan departed this life Tuesday to be enshrined forever in the National Repository of Aeronautical Statistics. Memorial services will be held at Johnson’s Cotton Gin on Highway 21. BYOB.”

Another followed.

“Those wishing to confirm the demise of Eloise ‘No Bid’ Congleton should plan to attend a brief service at Runyan’s Funeral Home on Friday at 2:00 p.m. Prospective attendees should arrive early as a sizeable crowd is expected for that purpose, a fact which undoubtedly would have caused Eloise to utter her favorite observation, ‘bunch of morons.’”

Then another.

“There will be a new ‘kicker’ in the Celestial Line Dance tonight as our dear sister Margauritte Simpson dons the last new pair of hip-huggers she will ever need. Known to her adult friends as “Whupper” and her high school classmates as ‘C-Cup,’ she will forever be remembered by the Bad Bob’s Cowboy Dance Hall regulars as the one who introduced the ‘bottom roll’ into boot-scootin.’ St. Peter, you’d better have your ‘Tony Llamas on and your jeans pressed tight’ tonight cause the Holy City is going to be busty.”

“Busty?” I said.

“Let me see that,” he said, grabbing the sheet and examining it. “That should read ‘busy.’ I’m still editing some of these.” He scribbled a note.


Big Dope didn’t even want me

to include a photo of Margauritte’s

favorite outfit. - C.W.

“Do you really think the paper will print this stuff?”

“Sure,” he said. “Look at this one.”

I moved it into the light.

“Seventy-two alter boys, all shiny in their starched white robes, were lined up at the Pearly Gates as Fa…” I stopped.

“C.W.,” I yelled.

“What?” he said.

“Out!”

61. God and Football

It was a pleasant morning so I elected to go for a walk. Among the pleasantries: brisk fall weather, a welcome absence of aches and pains, and a rewarding weekend, including the fact that my alma mater’s football team was victorious. It was a day of true epochal harmony.


Then C.W. joined me. He appeared as a young boy of 12 dressed in a gaudy cowboy suit, complete with a bright red hat laced in white with a drawstring under this neck. He walked in silence for a good ways before speaking.

“I heard about it on television,” he said.

“Heard about what?”

“That God gave your football team the victory yesterday.”

“He did what?”

“One of the players told us.”

“Told you that?”

“Yes. He personally thanked God for giving his team the victory.”

“Oh.”

“Well it created a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I am sort of busy right now.”

He ignored me. “First, is this a technique confined to your Judeo-Christian God?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I haven’t heard Allah being thanked for soccer victories.”

“Oh, please.”

“Second question.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Aren’t the kids still starving in Darfur?”

“Last I heard.”

“Is there the slightest possible chance that this might take precedence in the mind of a god over deciding the outcome of a football game?”

“Why are you dressed like a cowboy?”

“I dunno. Just seems to me they were better role models than football players.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

Hoppy says winning isn't important. Justice is.

He snapped around. “Now there you go.”

“What do you mean?”

“What possible interest could he have in our conversation?”

“You are irritating the hell out of me?”

“That brings me to my final question.”

I chose to ignore him and stopped to examine a group of plants. Then my curiosity began to uncurl like the blossoms of one of the young flowers. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore.

“So what is your question?” I was hoping for an end to it all.

He looked at me with all the earnestness of which a young child is capable. He blinked, and then spoke.

“Exactly what did the other team do to piss Him off?”