259. Failure in Communication

“I hope I never have to explain your species to an alien.”

“What?” This took me by surprise. C.W. and I were watching Fourth of July celebrations on television, he in the shape of an American-Asian teenager and me in the shape of a senior citizen on tranquilizers.

“Your species,” he said. “The abode of god and the angels forbid that I should ever have to explain it to an alien.”

“You are an alien,” I said, “and heaven forbid anyone should have to explain anything to you.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “How would you like explaining things to someone who wasn’t from here?”

“Uh, C.W.,” I said, “I’ve been trying to explain things to you for five years or so. Don’t you remember?”

“Well,” he said, “you have failed miserably.”

I bristled. “I’ve done a fine job,” I said. “Where have I failed you?”

He thought, then turned to me. “You haven’t explained hot dog-eating contests.”

That took the wind out of my sails so to speak. My stomach rebelled and I had to stifle a series of retches. “No,” I said, “I don’t suppose I have.”

He nodded as if he were teaching a class in astro-physics. “Care to try?”

“No,” I said. “You have to understand that there are, as the Good Book says, ‘things that passeth understanding.”

“Speaking of that book,” he said, “please reconcile ‘Suffer little children to come unto me,’ and ‘Take this kid up on the mountain and kill him for me,’ if you will.”

“Are you purposefully trying to make my hair fall out?”

“Hate radio,” he said.

“Stop it,” I said.

“The preoccupation with Kate Middleton’s womb.”

“I said stop.”

“Golf.”

“Quit, please quit.”

“Tattoos.”

“I’m leaving.”

“No wait,” he said. “I need you to help me.”

“You’re making my circuits smoke,” I said in a reference to a phenomenon unique to confused Falloonians.

“Care to explain NASCAR?” he said.

“Oh please,” I said, “don’t start again.”

“Okay,” he said. “I was going to mention dog shows, but I won’t.”

“Good.”

“Or skiing.”

I didn’t respond.

“Or video games.”

I ignored him.

“Or bowling.”

I'm hoping to use this image as the cover
on my final report on your planet. - C.W.

I studied a spot of poison ivy inflammation on my hand.

“Or banjoes.”

I jumped up straight. “Now wait,” I said. Actually I screamed it this time. “Wait just a damned minute. Let me tell you a thing or two, you, …you, … you ungrateful interloper.”

“Yes?”

“Just because something lacks vast appeal doesn’t mean that, for selected members of our species, it doesn’t provide peace, tranquility, a moment of distraction from a troubled world, an appreciation of nature, or a contributing factor to human development. What do Falloonians do to relax?”

“Oh,” he said, “the best analogy I can think of is that it is a game involving the ability to solve matrix algebra problems in one’s head.”

“Sounds like a load of fun,” I said, still smarting.

At that point, he began to whistle the tune from the movie “Deliverance.”

 

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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.

 

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