Morning Thoughts

We were taking a morning walk and I was telling C.W. about my childhood. He seemed to be interested so I told him about some folks I knew as a child. One in particular interested him.

In the rural community where I was reared, there lived be a mentally disabled man whom everyone, himself included, called “Happy Bill.” He was a slight, sprite African-American who, when poked in the ribs, would yell out exactly what he was thinking at that second. It might be “white donkeys,” kiss her now,” or “jitterbugs,” whatever was on his mind. The local thugs tortured him constantly and cruelly for fun and frivolity.

C.W. thought. “They tortured him just to hear him blurt?”

“They did. It was great fun, particularly if a crowd had gathered in my father’s little country grocery store. They poked. He blurted. Everyone laughed.”

“Odd,” he said.

“It was odd,” I said. “Just a way for rednecks to feel superior.”

“No,” he said. “That’s not what I meant by odd.”

“Oh, really.”

“No,” he said. “I was thinking about that man who is running for the president of your country.”

“What about him?”

“He blurts out what is on his mind without being poked.”

“And?”

“Not many people are laughing.”

This man is becoming a cult figure on my planet,
for reasons that you might expect - C.W. 

Morning Thoughts

C.W. came into where I was drinking coffee just now and demanded that I come and see what he had found while surfing the net. I followed, half-awake and fully annoyed. He looked like a young Boy Scout with rusty hair and freckles, though, so I couldn’t stay mad.

He sat in front of the computer and and turned toward me. “Who was Voltaire?” he asked.

“A Frenchman,” I said, still trying to clear my head. “He was a philosopher and writer during the Age of Enlightenment.”

C.W., or “Rusty” if you will, pointed at the screen. “Look at this,” he said.

I looked. On the screen was a painting of the famous man and a quote. It said, “Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.”

 

“So?” I was still trying to awaken fully.”

He shook his head as if to pity me. “Don’t you see?”

“See what?”

“This is what is wrong with your species.”

“What’s that?”

“They have become divided into groups, each one hating the others, and all their ideas, to the point of seeking mutual destruction.”

So what is one supposed to do?
Lead by example or something? - C.W.

I said, “What exactly is your point?”

“That’s not the way the advanced species of our galaxy think.”

“And,” I said, “How do they think?”

“They think,” he said, “that the goal of civilization is progress, not victory.”

I thought. Good point.

"And," he said, "you can quote me on that."

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315. Simplicity

It’s easy to tell when C.W. is in a serious mood. He dresses in a woolen robe and takes on the form of—well—a prophet, or something like that. That’s what I saw sitting by the garden this afternoon, a regular holy man, although he was sipping some of my best bourbon whiskey and smoking one of my cigars.

“Sit down, my son,” he said, motioning toward a cooler of ice and the bottle. “Have a drink?”

“You are awfully generous with my bourbon,” I said.

“Generosity and good will should extend to even the least of my brethren,” he said. He leaned back, took a puff, and blew a perfect smoke ring into the sky. “Know what I’ve been thinking about?” He said.

“I shudder to contemplate,” I said. “I really can’t imagine, so why don’t you tell me.”

“The quality or condition of being easy to understand or do,” he said, taking a sip.

“Say what?”

“The state of being uncomplicated, or uncompounded.”

“Simplicity?”

He looked at me and shook his head. “That’s exactly what I said. Why do you obfuscate so?”

That word caught me by surprise. “What about simplicity has started you navel-gazing?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“It’s just an expression,” I said. “Tell me about the simple life.”

He stuck the cigar in his mouth, leaned forward, filled a glass with ice for me, and poured us each a healthy shot. Leaning back, he contemplated the cloudless spring sky and said, “Your species seems devoutly to wish for a simple world,” he said, “except for the few, the devilish few, that spend their time making it increasingly complicated.”

“You have a point,” I said.

He turned to me and offered his glass in a toast, “Blessed are the simple-minded,” he said, “for they shall inherit the future.”

“Let us hope not,” I said.

“Oh, they will,” he said. “Just look at what your politicians are saying.”

“About what?”

“Oh,” he said, “take peace example. Someone says we can produce peace by rug-bombing a portion of the most sociologically complicated areas of the planet, and the masses erupt like they just heard that Elvis Presley is returning on the next transport.”

“That’s ‘carpet-bombing,’ and you have a point,” I said.

“The economy,” he said.

“What about it?”

“It is so complicated that no one in your planet’s history has ever managed fully to understand it.”

“True that,” I said, getting into the feel of this simplicity thing.

“But let a politician say that he will fix it by putting all the bankers in jail and you’d think he just promised them free pizzas.”

I thought this for a moment. Before I could respond, he said. “National security.”

“And …?”

He turned to with a puzzled look. “Build a wall? Are you serious? And then the same schemer will shout ‘state’s rights’ and the lemmings head straight for the cliff.”

“Building walls and state’s rights? Now how to those fit together?”

“Our planet observed your species the first time it built a great wall for security. Know what happened?”

“I suspect you’re going to tell me.”

“Each province–state if you will—faced the prospect of building its section. Can you see what might go wrong?”

“Uh …”

“You are exactly right. No one thought to assume the complicated task of centralized coordination and the various sections failed to connect, much to the delight of the mongrel hordes that poured through. I remember watching it on our telescopic feed as a teenager and laughing my butts off—all three of them.”

I tried to encompass that image in my mind, but he sipped and spoke again.

“Marriage,” he said.

“What about it?”

It's a safe bet that he would have
never been elected to office. - C.W.

“Who was the dude that said it would be simple if wives just obeyed their husbands.”

“A non-participant,” I said. “One much like you.”

“With a ‘thorn in his side,’ and a favored traveling companion,” he said.

“And your point is?”

“A simple marriage and an obedient wife,” he said, “and how did that work out for you and Mrs. Big Dope?”

“Is this conversation going somewhere?” I reached for the cigar box and found it empty. He had taken the last one.

“You can go now,” he said. “I’ve got to make a report to the Falloonian Elders.”

“About what?”

“They’ve asked for a list of all things I find admirable about your species.”

“Oh,” I said, “and what have you listed thus far?”

He thought for a long time, and said, “The courtesy-flush.” 

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And buy Big Dope's book It's really quite good.

Revelations

Hello Folks:

I’m keeping a list of things I pass along to Big Dope that learn each week that he can use in teaching his Intro to Public Administration next fall.

1. The Supreme Court of the United States is an investigative body.

2. Women in politics are not allowed to speak the way men do.

3. A woman whose husband deserted her and the children, or a soldier/sailor/airman trying to feed his family are insidious, dope-crazed psychopaths and must be drug tested before we comfort them with public assistance, i.e. treat the least of those among us as we would one’s lord.

4. A U.S. president can order a foreign nation to build a structure of her/his choosing.

5. A U.S. president can issue orders to dismantle Wall Street.

6. The Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution is sacrosanct and not subject to analysis while the First Amendment is fair game to individual (300 Million) interpretations.

7. A white man who tries to shoot up the U.S. Capitol is not a terrorist but simply an unfortunate person whose religion caused him to become  mentally deranged and has ordered him to kill innocent people.

Uh, no, I think maybe you just need to read, and then think more—this once or twice a year business doesn’t seem to be working that well.

Your Friend,

C.W.

Pillows

Morning notes from your friend C.W.:

America:
A country plagued by mathematical incongruities, where, on a bed designed to accommodate two persons (with the possible exception of the State of California), otherwise normal people will stack ten or more pillows.

I am constantly asked to explain such phenomena to observers in other galaxies and, so far, have been unable.

 

 

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Labor Day Special

This morning C.W. walked in, having assumed one of his more somber shapes, that of "Perry C. the Ph.D," a thoughtful man in a tweet jacket and smart bow tie. He wanted to question me about a man I had introduced him to, a person to whom I had been close my entire life.

“I’m still curious,” he said. “Are you telling me the truth—that he is retired on a comfortable company retirement?”

“Yes.”

“He was a Union man?”

“A Union Steward.”

“So his retirement grew from Union membership?”

“Yes.”

“And he enjoys the benefits of what you call ‘Medicare’ in his retirement?”

“Yes.”

“And you tell me that he is a closeted gay man?”

“Yes.”

“How closeted?”

“Not entirely.”

 

"And he professes to be very religious?"

 

"Yes."

 

"So he would consider homosexuality a 'thorn in his side' and a sin?"

 

"Yes."

“You’re saying he didn’t ‘cure’ himself through his religion?”

“Yes. I’m telling you that, and believe me when I tell you.”

“Then tell me something else,” he said.

“What?”

“You say that he votes conservative now, not progressive?”

“Yes.”

“And he refers to the President of your United States as that ‘Ni …”

“Yes,” I said, interrupting him.

“Tell me,” he said. “Does it have anything to do with the 52-inch television that he sits in front of all day?”

“Yes.”

“The one that is turned to that Fox, so-called, ‘News’ channel each time we visit?”

“Yes.”

He sat and thought for a long time. “Then tell me,” he said, “are there many like him?”

“The country is full of them.”

“I may need to go home soon,” he said.

 

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www.allhatnocattle.com

 

Pillows

Dear Friends and Followers:

I'm filing some last minute reports. Can anyone tell me why some of your species puts 10 or more pillows on a bed made for two?

- C.W.

186. Myths

I found C.W. in my favorite chair surrounded by piles of paper. He was in his “college professor” form, complete with corduroy pants, sweater, and bow tie. He was frantically scribbling notes.

“What’s up, Galactic Wonder?” I said.

“Shut up. I’m busy.”

“My,” I said. “Aren’t we being a good example of interstellar love today?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I have a matter or situation regarded as unwelcome or harmful and needing to be dealt with and overcome.”

“Hmmm.” I said. “Sounds like you have a problem.”

“Why do you repeat what I say so often?” He wrote furiously and then looked up.

I said, “So what’s your problem?”

“I’m in trouble with the Elders.”

“The Falloonian Elders?”

“Who else?”

“So,” I said. “Did they find out about your experiments with the ‘wacky weed’ and your secret stash of Twinkies?” (Sweets make him as silly as martinis make me).

“No,” he said. “They have accused me of confusing facts with allegories.”

“They found out that I really can’t walk on water?”

He sighed. “It all started with this,” he said. He rummaged in the stack of papers and retrieved a newspaper clipping. He held it before me and I read that 60 percent of Americans believe the Biblical account of Noah’s Ark and the universal flood is literally true.

“And?”

“They say I must learn that, with your species, statistics like this are meant as allegories.”

“Allegories?”

“Yes, their purpose is to present universal lessons, in this case the tendency of your species to prove points with mythical statistics.”

“And the point here is?”

“They think it has something to do with your love of the printed word and its almost magical effect on your sense of homeostasis.”

“So the statistics are not meant to illustrate actual occurrences?”

“Give me an interrupt,” he said.

“Uh, you mean ‘give me a ‘break,’” I said.

“There you go again.”

“So you don’t really think anyone believes that two of every species of life on the planet, with the necessary food and water for more than a month’s captivity, fit on a wooden vessel 400 feet long?”

“Don’t you have something to do?” he said.

“Oh,” I said, “my job today is to have fun and I’m doing it.”

He groaned. “Well, at least help me.” He thrust a pile of papers into my hands. “Find me something that I can use in my report to show them that they may be correct in assuming you, that is your species, uses statistical references in a purely allegorical sense.”

It seems to me that you view statistics as a
 bunch of monkeys in a tree. Get them down and
treat them right, they'll do anything you want. - C.W.

“Doesn’t that go against your position?”

“One never wants to urinate the Falloonian Elders off.”

“Quite right,” I said as I began rummage. It only took a second. “Here’s something. You know of course that there are more than 350,000 separate species of beetles on earth.”

He grabbed if from my hand and read. His entire face brightened. “Thanks,” he said. And then he began to copy the following.

There is a story, possibly apocryphal, of the distinguished British biologist, J.B.S. Haldane, who found himself in the company of a group of theologians. On being asked what one could conclude as to the nature of the Creator from a study of his creation, Haldane is said to have answered, “An inordinate fondness for beetles.”

185. Choices

This time it was I who was in a quandary. I think C.W. sensed this for he showed up in the form and dress of a workman, someone who knew about home repairs. That was the sort of help I desired.

It was like this. I needed to have some repairs done on our downtown condominium. They involved a good bit of money so I didn’t want to make a mistake in the hiring of a tradesman. So, I consulted C.W. He seemed willing to help as always, and that is not always a good sign.

“Thing is, “I said, “I have narrowed it to two choices. Actually, there are only two contractors that do this sort of work in the building.”

“And?” He assumed a rather pedantic tone.

“Well, there is Donnie. He comes highly recommended. He is very knowledgeable about construction techniques. He has experience, and is extremely thoughtful and courteous. He truly seems to have the best interest of the client in mind.”

“And?”

“There is Ralph. His work is spotty and inconsistent. Management has a problem with his neglecting to clean up after his work.”

“And?”

“He is rude to his clients at times, particularly to female clients. There are also some rumors that he has broken things and not taken responsibility.”

“And?”

“There is a general feeling that he doesn’t seem to care much about his work.”

“And?”

“That’s all. Those are my choices.”

“Choices?” he said. “It seems pretty obvious to me. Donnie is your man.”

“There is one problem,” I said.

“And?”

“I know for a fact that Donnie believes in capital punishment.”

“And?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I think it is a barbaric custom and we should outlaw it as most civilized countries have.”

“And?”

“I can’t see my way clear to hiring a man who believes in capital punishment.”

He took a moment to think. Then he looked at me with that stare he uses when our species has truly confused him. He said, “May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly,” I said.

“Just what the hell does his belief in criminal justice have to do with working on your condo?”

“I just can’t select someone who doesn’t believe the way I do.”

“Even when they are otherwise qualified far above the other choice?”

“You just don’t understand how much this single issue means to me,” I said. “I guess it sounds bizarre to you.”

“No,” he said. “In fact it seems to be the way a great number of your species selects a political candidate.”

That set me back on my heels and I couldn’t answer.

“Did it ever occur to you,” he said, “that in working together you might understand better why he feels the way he does?”

Choosing wisely seems to be a job that
confuses a great many of your species. - C.W.

I still had no answer.

He continued. “Or,” he said, “have you considered the possibility that exposure to your fine example might cause him to modify his position? And in the meantime, you would be benefiting from quality work.”

“But,” I said, “he believes in capital punishment.”

Problems

Dear Friends and Followers:
One of the things that troubles me about your species is your approach to problem solving. For an example, let’s look at a recent problem that a part of your country is having with its drinking water. It seems that an unregulated (at least since 1991) chemical plant has leaked toxic chemicals into the river that supplies drinking water to a large area in your state of West Virginia. Here is the problem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, it is my understanding that the voters of that state usually narrow their focus to a single issue when choosing politicians to care for their people. To illustrate this, here is the proposed solution to the problem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unfortunately, as I understand it, the river has not yet complied with the demands of the Purification Committee.

The Alien C.W.

Confused as Always

Dear Followers and Friends

Please come to my rescue. I do believe I heard one of your TV pundits claiming that disaster is ahead in Colorado. It seems that with the legalization of marijuana, there is this danger that children might find some lying around and harm themselves with it. So we must control it? Uh. Help me with this one please.

Once you start controlling dangerous
substances, where do you stop? - C.W.

Your Friend

The Alien C.W.

Thought du jour

Dear Friends and Followers:
Someone help me. It has become apparent to me that your species has a tendency to wage war on nouns, for example, poverty, drugs, terror, and, most recently, Christmas. Oddly, it always loses these wars. If that definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results, must I report to the Falloonian Elders that your entire species is insane? Your help would be appreciated as I wage my own war on illogic.
Your Pal,
The Alien C.W.

181. Illusions

“Okay, put your card back in the deck.”

I did. He made a big show of shuffling several times, then cutting the deck twice before spreading it on the table in front of us. He waved a hand over the cards in a mysterious fashion and then suddenly plucked one from the deck. He held it up to me.

“Is this your card?”

“Uh, no,” I said.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I’ll be a Kodamflabbugast,” he said, employing a word for the Falloonian units with slow intellects.

“C.W.,” I said. “Why the sudden interest in magic?” I had to admit, he was dressed for the part, tuxedo, top hat, and all.

“Money to be made in illusions,” he said. “Trouble is—I need an assistant.” He slumped and looked toward the kitchen. “Think Mrs. Big Dope might change her mind?”

I said, “I doubt it.”

“Even if I drop the part about the sexy outfit?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

He thought for a moment and apparently abandoned the idea. I thought it was a good decision.

“So what makes you think there is money to be made in magic?”

He leaned back in his chair and took off his top hat. A pigeon flew from within it and flew to the back of chair. “Your species seems to thrive on illusions,” he said. “I simply thought I would take advantage of it.” He unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket. A small rabbit peeked from inside. “Everyone else does it.” The rabbit nodded in agreement.

“Does what?”

“Takes advantage of your trait of being easily fooled or cheated.”

“Are you trying to say our gullibility?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

I said, “Forget it. Tell me why you think my species is gullible.”

He thought. “For one thing,” he said, “you think reality TV is real.”

I had to agree somewhat. “I don’t,” I said. “But there are some who do.”

“They are the ones who spend money,” he said.

“Maybe so,” I said. “Any other examples?”

“Professional wrestling?”

“That appeal is limited,” I said. “Most folks view it as entertainment. Only a few take it seriously.”

“But they are allowed to mingle, drive, and vote.”

He had me there. My confidence was waning. “Anything else?”

“You used to think you had to sacrifice folks to make the crops grow.”

“Ah,” I said, sensing an opportunity. “But we don’t believe that anymore.”

“But now you believe you have to sacrifice some folks to make the economy grow.”

“But we have our share of educated units,” I said, using his terminology. “They see through things.”

Any species that truly believes making
rich people richer will make poor people
rich someday needs to re-examine
its cognitive capabilities. - C.W.

“Like your supreme public officials appointed to decide cases in a court of law? The ones who believe a corporation is a human being?”

Ouch.

“And I’m not even going to get into the areas of talking snakes and boats full of lions and tigers.” The rabbit shuddered.

“Look,” I said. “Let’s change the subject.” I decided to confess. “That really was my card you picked. I was just fooling with you because I was tired of the magic show.”

“You deceived me for your own ends?”

I sighed and slumped in my chair. “Yes,” I said. “Yes I did. Yes.”

“Well I’ll be a Kodamflabbugast,” he said.

 

The rabbit shook his head in disapproval, then ducked back inside the coat.

176. Rain

C.W. was in a rare pensive mood. It was raining and rain makes him homesick I think. He says it rains more or less constantly on his home planet of Falloonia, a fact which supports my belief that his actual “shape” is closer to what we would call an aquatic creature than a human-based form. Today though, he chose the shape of the young student he likes so well. He is the one who can swing between being delightfully inquisitive and a totally pain in the keester, sometimes in the same sentence.

Now, he was turned on the couch with his chin resting on its back. He was staring into the dark morning listening to the rain. Without moving, he said, “How long is it going to rain?”

I looked up from my book, thought, and said, “How the hell should I know?”

“Will it rain for 40 days and 40 nights, do you suppose?”

“I doubt it. Why?”

“Just wondering,” he said. “It did once you know. All over the world. At the same time.”

I said, “According to numerous myths.”

“No, according to your Bible.”

“Have you been studying religion again?”

“It drowned everyone except one family,” he said, ignoring me.

“And one pair of each species,” I said. “Including a pair each of more than 50,000 species of beetles and with tigers and wildebeests bunked side by side for several months.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Kinda neat, huh?”

“Very neat,” I said. I returned to my book.

“But,” he said and I knew it was coming. “All of the precipitation that falls originates as water vapor that has evaporated from the surface of the Earth.”

“Sounds right,” I said, silently hoping for the miracle of peace and quiet since it was an awfully good book I was reading.

No such luck. “So where did all the water come from?”

I said, “In myths, one can make up the pre-existence of water.”

“Did all the little children that didn’t belong to the chosen family drown? That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Myths don’t have to pass any test of moral fairness and they often don’t.”

“Why do you call it a myth?”

I closed my book and said, “Because the story of a world-wide flood appears in many cultures, even Chinese, going back as far as 4,000 years B.C.E.”

“Before the common era,” he said as if explaining something to himself.

“Yes.” I opened my book again.

“Benjy Shanon’s daddy is a preacher and he says his flood really happened and you are going to hell if you don’t agree.”

“I thought Benjy Shanon’s daddy worked on a county road crew.”

“He does, but he preaches too.” He resumed listening to the rain. “Matter can neither be created nor destroyed,” he said.

I said, “That’s interesting. Did you learn that in school?”

He paid no attention to my question, but said, “So where did all the water go after everybody drowned?

Didn't one of your military officers make the comment
during the Vietnam War that "The only way to save that
village was to destroy it? Must be a cultural thing. - C.W.

“It went up Benjy Shanon’s dad’s …” I stopped myself. “I told you it was a myth, a myth designed to establish hierarchies, a myth used to explain things before we had science, a myth designed to keep social groups in line.” I stopped and made myself relax. “So why don’t you read a book or just contemplate nature?”

“May I pray for you?”

“Pray do,” I said. “Just do it silently.”

Outside it continued to rain.

170. Connections

As many times as we have talked about it, C.W. still uses my computer while I’m sleeping. I wouldn’t mind if he used it for research, but inevitably I receive these strange deliveries after one of his sessions.

By the way, does anyone know what a person might do with a used milking machine? I mean a person who doesn’t own a single cow?

But back to the matter at hand, I heard him giggling this morning and went in to see what might be up. There sat a sixteen-year old boy with oversized spectacles laughing and punching keys.

“Loookit, Big Dope,” he said. “your species just cracks me up. They are, like, weird and I’m like, about to roll on the floor.”

I needed coffee.

“No, seriously,” he said. “Are you, like, incapable of linking spots so that contact is established?”

“Connecting the dots?”

“Do you know that you, like, have an annoying habit of repeating things I say?”

As I made coffee, I slowly counted to ten. “And what dots have we not connected this time?”

“I’m, like looking at your ‘Visage Page’ and …”

“My Fa…, oh never mind. So what do you see?”

“Like weird stuff. Lookit. Here’s a woman and she’s, like, angry about people on welfare, and I’m like, ‘Are you kidding me?’ and she’s, like, ‘No, I’m serious They should be left to starve.’ and I’m like, look at where you live, and she’s like, ‘what difference does that make?’ and I’m like, you live in one of those ‘color of snow aviation cities.’”

“Stop for a moment,” I said. He did and I poured myself a cup of coffee. “A color of … do you mean a ‘white-flight’ city?”

“Like, there you go again.”

“When is the last time you had your translator adjusted?”

He ignored me. “Lookit,” he said. “She, like, drives 30 miles into the provider city each day to work.”

“So?”

“Who does she, like, think pays for the highway lanes she uses?”

“I dunno. The Koch Brothers?”

“You make the spontaneous sounds and movements of the face and body that are the instinctive expressions of lively amusement and sometimes also of contempt or derision at me, but I am serious,” he said.

“I’m not laughing at you.”

“You, like, are too.”

“Okay,” I said. “Who builds the highways that allow her to escape reality?”

“Your state uses the sales tax partly to build commuter highway lanes,” he said. “So some of the cost is, like, paid by the least of those among you when they buy winter clothes for their kids.”

“You do have a point,” I said.

“In exact terms, without vagueness,” he said.

Sometimes I think you lack the ability to
analyze a situation and address it logically. - C.W.

“Yes, precisely. By the way, would you have them check your Galactic Universal Translator?”

“My GUT?

“In exact terms,” I said.

“Why?” he said. “I’m not sick.” He typed on the keyboard. “Now here’s a man, and he is a senator, who says that we don’t, like, need national health care since we can simply drop those lacking sufficient money to live at a standard considered comfortable or normal in a society, like, off at the nearest emergency room for their health care needs.”

“You can drop me off with them.”

“Like, what?” he said.

167. Explanations

“Look here Big Dope, you’ve got to help,” C.W. was saying. “I’ve got some explaining to do.” He reached and grabbed a strand of grass and began to chew on it. We were walking around our farm checking the fences and getting some exercise on the first nice day of early fall. He had assumed the form a hick farmer, complete with a depression-era straw hat and overalls.

I was hoping nobody was watching us. “What do you have to explain now?” I asked.

“A bunch of stuff,” he said, pointing the stalk of grass at me. “The Elder Council on Falloonia is considering recalling me.”

“Recalling you? What have you done?”

“It ain’t me,” he said. He reached down and pick up a dried segment of cow manure and held it up for inspection. He eyed it carefully and seemed about to take a bite of it.

“Put that down,” I said.

He sailed it across the pasture like a flying saucer. “It’s your species,” he said. “Your behavior has them stupefied as with alcoholic drink.”

“Befuddled?”

“That’s what I said. It confuses me when you repeat my words.”

I sighed. “So what have we done now?”

“Where do I start?” he said. He stripped a small branch from a gum tree and began to swish it through the air. “What about this tendency some of you have to vote for individuals to run the government who hate the government?”

“Not all of us do.”

“Enough to arouse galactic curiosity.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“There is this thing called ‘The Prosperity Gospel’ that has some elders scratching all three of their heads.”

“Three heads? You have three heads in your natural form?”

He stopped and turned. “Forget I said that. I was just speaking  in the nature of or involving a figure of speech, especially a metaphor.”

“You may have been speaking figuratively but you distinctly said that Falloonians have three heads.” I giggled.

“I’ll be in trouble if this gets out,” he said.

I couldn’t stop laughing. “What do you call yours? Winkin, Blinkin, and Nod?”

“This isn’t funny,” he said.

More laughter. “Moe, Larry, and Curly?”

“Stop it,” he said, swinging his gum tree branch at me.”

“I know,” I said. “The Fadduh, the Son, and the Gallactic Ghost.”  I was practically rolling. I stopped laughing when he spun around and stalked away. I ran after him. “I sorry,” I said. “Go ahead and tell me about your troubles with our religious doctrine.” He slowed down and let me join him.

There are three things about your species that worry me:
- Your inability to think in linear fashion,
-Your complete lack of logic in making decisions, and
- Your disregard for the rational method. - C.W/

“We wonder,” he said. “How your thoughts get around the inconsistencies of preaching wealth from the teachings of a prophet who despised riches.”

At this moment, the Dark One himself must have invaded me. “Which one wonders,” I said, “Huey, Dewey, or Louie?” I doubled over laughing.

This time he did stalk away. As he did, he yelled back at me. “Go ahead and laugh. Then you can explain why a man wearing a twenty-five thousand dollar watch preaches the gospel of a man who never even had a home to live in.”

“Wait, Athos,” I yelled after him. “Porthos and Aramis are coming.”

Some travels with the Alien are more fun than others.

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.”

144. Statistics

Walked into the living room yesterday morning and found C.W. busy making notes in a spiral notebook and muttering to himself, having assumed the shape of what could best be described as an “old goat.” He was an exact replica of a Chief Bosun’s mate I served under in the Navy— a man named Zelmer whose hatred for the world was exceeded only by his verbal acuity in expressing the same.

“Marital bliss my ass,” he growled as I sat across from him with my coffee.

“Morning,” I said.

“Goddam your eyes,” he said.

“Glad to hear you are doing well. What’s up?”

It was only then that he looked at me. “How long have you and Mrs. Big Dope been married?”

I can’t risk busting his ‘cookies’ when he gets like this. “In dog-years or real years?”

This caught him up short for a moment, then he snarled. “Fender-head.”

“Nearly 41 years,” I said. “What’s it to you?”

“Filing a report,” he said. “Those idiots back on Falloonia have been reading all these dispatches about ‘joyous mood’ marriages and they want some facts.”

“Uh, do you by any chance mean gay marriages?”

“Ain’t that what I just said?”

 I let it pass. His pre-programmed translation-device insert does that sometimes. “So what do you have so far?”

“Just some notes on marital attraction factors.”

“Such as?”

“Money marries money.”

“Hmm.”

“Opposites attract.”

“And that is based on?”

“You and Mrs. Big Dope.”

“Us?”

“Yes,” he said and, for the first time, I noticed a Styrofoam cup on the table in front of him. He reached over, pulled it to his mouth and spat into it. I instantly noticed the smell of tobacco.

“Gross,” I said.

“Your marriage?” he said, quickly readying himself to take notes.

“No, that disgusting thing.” I motioned toward the cup. “And my wife and I demonstrate your principle of marital opposites how?”

“How tall are you?”

“I was six feet tall but the burden of dealing with you has reduced me to five-foot eleven and three-quarters,” I said.

He wrote in his notebook and muttered something to himself about my mother. “And how tall is your wife?”

“She says she is five-foot two,” I said. “And she says it with an edge in her voice that invites no further inquiry.”

“So there you go. Opposites attract.”

“C.W.,” I said, not knowing quite where to begin. “Didn’t they teach you about the pitfalls of inductive reasoning back on Falloonia?”

“Inductive, shminductive,” he said, mocking me. “How about this one? Marriage is only allowed for those who can’t do without sex.”

“That is a statistic?”

With a failure rate exceeding fifty percent,
it doesnt' seem to bother some folks that the
impact of marriage is confined solely to
couples of the opposite sex. - C.W.

“No, that is a Biblical injunction. Not a statistic. Your species tends to confuse them from time to time.” He smiled. “You want a statistical analysis?” he said. He flipped through his notes and read. “The institution of marriage is an interesting statistical anomaly. Although enjoying less than a 50 percent success rate, it has generated a vast body of legal imperatives and an almost mythical degree of preoccupation among the conservative-minded of the species who wish, apparently, that the impact of its spurious reliability be confined to pairs of the opposite sex.”

He stopped and looked at me. “Is that deductive enough for you?”

At this point I was fed up. “Deductive shmeductive,” I said. “Have you heard the one about the alien who spent three years among Earthlings but didn’t understand a thing about them?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Did you hear about the one Earthling that was so dumb the other Earthlings began to notice it?”

 

138. Violence

When C.W. appears as a teenager, I cringe. They, teenagers, are generally going through either a state of rebelliousness or poor judgment, and these are his natural states. In other words, double jeopardy. So when I heard a young boy’s voice emit a cry of “Take that you dirty mother,” (actually a little more graphic) I braced for the worst.

“What in the world are you doing?” He was hunched over my laptop computer with a set of external controls, going at some game with a fury

“Die creep,” he yelled into the screen. Explosions sounded, followed by cries of agony. “Yeah, scream, you bas…”

“C.W.” I said. “My wife is in the house.”

“There, take that!” he said, ignoring me.

I walked over and closed the laptop. He looked at me with green eyes, spittle oozing from his lips. “Don’t ever try to do that again,” he said, glaring.

“Shall I get my spray bottle?” I keep one on hand to calm him when he gets like this. He can’t stand to have water sprayed on him.

“Big Dope,” he said, calming noticeably.

“Mind explaining?”

“Explaining what?”

“What on earth you are doing?”

“Relaxing.”

“With this?” I said, holding up a DVD holder entitled “Revenge of the Nazi Ninjas.”

“I have some work to do so I was just having some fun first.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to do the work first and then relax?”

He looked at me with a sullen face, his eyes sunk deep into their sockets. “I’m going to movies after I finish the work. Wanna come? It’s this new Bruce Willis thing. Man, I bet he blows up a thousand cars. Body count out the stratosphere.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then me and Tommie Castleberry are going to shoot some sparrows.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“What if I have? There’s plenty of medication for that. Just dope me up and leave me be. Ain't that what you adults do?”

I sighed. “Isn’t there something more productive you could do?”

“Yeah, smarty pants. And I’m gonna.”

“Smarty pants?”

“In case you don’t know, there’s this new show coming on the History Channel. We plan to watch it, me and Tommie and some more guys.”

“That sounds better,” I said. “Maybe.”

It is very important in curbing violence to require
young people to particpate in group ceremonies. - C.W.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s got lots of cool stuff … whole families getting zapped by lightening when the dad screws up, armies wiped out, dead babies floating around after a flood, men getting whipped then hung. Neato.”

“Neato?”

“Now if you will excuse me, I need to finish what I was working on.”

“Which is?”

“A special report to the Falloonian Elders about violence among your species.”

137. Laws

It may not have been the worst experience of my life. After all, I once lived through being sentenced to two weeks of Vacation Bible School in the middle of summer while the rest of my gang fought pirates and played baseball.

When C.W. insisted that I take him to our state capitol to watch our legislature, I knew better. But, he said, “It is your duty to further my education as the North American host to our planet.” And I suppose it is.

So, when he showed up as a bright-eyed 13 year-old, what could I do? I told him that much of the drama occurred in the committee hearings, so we arrived early and picked a committee at random in the Senate end of the building and took a seat in the rear.

“The opponents of a bill will try to stop it from getting out of committee while the proponents will try to get it voted out with a ‘do pass,’” I said.

“Neat,” he said.

“Uh, yeah.”

At that moment, the committee filed in. There were four members of an eight-member committee present. C.W. produced a membership handbook from his backpack and began to study it.

“I see a quorum present,” the committee chairperson said.

Immediately C.W.’s hand shot up. “They don’t have a quorum,” he said to me, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. He pointed at the list of members of that committee.

“Shhh,” I explained as quietly as I could. “They will proceed unless one of the members calls for a quorum-count.”

“That sucks,” he said, louder. Every eye in the room turned toward us. “They don’t have a quorum,” he explained to them. All eyes returned to the front as the meeting continued.

The first bill was introduced. The bill’s author explained that it would require a woman requesting certain medical procedures to have a probe inserted into her … at this point every eye in the room turned to us again. I turned a crimson red and tried to pretend I was studying some papers I had picked up at the door. C.W. leaned forward eagerly. The eyes continued to stare at us as if I had taken a child into an X-rated movie.

“This is neat,” C.W. said. “But I thought they were supposed to make laws here.”

I tried to make myself as small as possible.

Finally, the meeting continued. The bill’s author having finished, a well-dressed woman representing the ACLU began to speak against the bill, pointing out what seemed to her some constitutional problems. Suddenly, a committee member stood, interrupting her. “Mr. Chairman,” he yelled. “If this ‘person’ is here to waste our time again, I’m going outside for a smoke.” He spun around and left.

“That was uncivilized,” C.W. said. “Who elected him?” Again the heads snapped toward us. At this point the Chair called a brief recess. He whispered to a large man with a noticeable budge under the coat of his suit who then approached us.

“Sir” he said. “We don’t think this discussion is fit for under-aged children.”

“You mean I can’t watch them making laws?” C.W. yelled it this time and everyone stopped to watch.

As I see it, the purpose of legislation is to advance
individual agendas. Interesting. - C.W.

“Not this one son,” the man said. “Come back for the next one. It deals with who can euthanize animals.”

“Gross,” C.W. said as I hurried him from the room.

Outside, I turned to him in exasperation. “Didn’t they warn you in your training back in Falloonia not to watch Americans making laws?”

“No,” he said, his eyes turning into large innocent orbs. “They just made us promise not to watch you making babies.”