427: Books

“You want to have some fun?”

“Not particularly. Actually, I having fun, just sitting here reading this book. Why don’t you try it?”

“That’s boring. I don’t read books.”

C.W. was in the shape of a 30-something, a male with short cropped hair and preppy clothes. He’s been trying it out for several days. Each day, he’s gotten a little more unbearable.

I said, “If you don’t read books and things, you may end up being uninformed.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should. You wouldn’t want to end up like Kanye West, would you?”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s a man who doesn’t read books.”

“Is he successful?”

“To hear him tell it, he is.”

“There you go.”

“Don’t you,” I said, “want to know the importance of history and current events?”

“Why?”

“So you can sound intelligent and informed.”

“I can do that already.”

“How?”

“I just make stuff up and then make it fit. That’s the greatest way ever found to sound like you know things. There is no better way. And I am the greatest person at it that there ever was, in the history of the world maybe.”

“What if someone asked you about a famous author?”

“What do you mean?”

“Say Virginia Woolf.”

“Who’s Virginia Woolf.”

“A writer. Do you know anything about her?”

“I know she was a horrible writer until she met me. She was missing the benefits of having a strong man in her life. After a few months with me as her lover, the greatest lover she had ever known, she got famous with her writing. People love her, all because of me. I’m the greatest gift that a woman could experience, you know. Just ask Virginia Woolf.”

“I can’t. She’s dead.”

“Of course. She couldn’t stand life without me. Ask me about someone else, or something else.”

“What do you think of the Truman Doctrine.”

“I helped him with that one. We patterned it after the work of President Putin in Russia. I’m the greatest friend Vladimir has, and we helped, uh, what was his name?”

“Harry Truman.”

“Yeah, Harriet Tubman, I was his best friend too. Anyway, I helped form his doctrine of helping Russia expand its influence in America and we have, to date, created a million new jobs by working together. Working peacefully, I might add, as peaceful a Jew and an Arab.”

My head was beginning to spin. “What might you have to say about Charles Darwin and his writing on natural selection?”

“His what?”

“Natural selection?”w

“Oh,” he said, regaining his confidence. “I helped him with that.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He came to me and asked me to help them select a new pastor for his church. He’s a deacon there, you know, a real man of God. He and I got along real well together. I helped him a lot in selecting a new man.”

“How?”

 

.

Why read when I can make facts up? - C.W.

“Told him what traits to look for in a preacher.”

“Grace, love, and brotherhood?”

“Oh heavens no. That’s old-timey stuff. People don’t want that. We need preachers, men preachers by they way, who can stir folks to anger at those who don’t think the way we do. Like that Franklin Graham man says, ‘Hate is the trait that makes us great.’ That man’s church has added five thousand new members since they took my advice. I’m the greatest thing that ever happened to them. What do you think about that?”

“I think I’m going to go sit somewhere in the shade, somewhere nice and quiet.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “I’m going over to a meeting at party headquarters.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, they’re having a little ceremony for the Science-Education Committee members.”

“Something important? Are they planning to cut funding again?”

“Not now. Maybe later.”

“What are they celebrating now?”

“I’m not exactly sure, but it’s the greatest honor a politician can get. It’ll produce tens of thousands of new jobs.”

“And what, exactly is this great honor for this committee?”

“One of its members is getting something called a GED.”

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy. Also, click on an ad. It earns him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

424: Science

Oh my, I hadn’t seen anyone smoke a pipe in years. Didn’t know they still made them. But there was C.W. puffing away on one, sitting at a patio table. His shape was a lot like the late playwright Arthur Millar. He had books and papers scattered in front of him.

He motioned for me to join him and I did.

He waved a hand across the pile of material before him like he was giving it his blessing. “I think,” he said, “that I’ve about figured it out.”

“How to look anachronistic?”

He ignored me. “Why your species is so unwilling to move into the future,” he said.

“Elucidate.” I could tell he was in one of his serious moments, and I enjoy those.

“Do you ever think about the monumental and complex problems facing your planet?” he said.

“All the time.”

“Ever thing of what it will take to solve those problems?”

“Probably things that we haven’t thought of yet.”

“Precisely,” he said.

That made me feel good. He rarely acknowledges that I know anything.

“Continue, please,” I said.

“Ever wonder,” he said, continuing in a questioning mode, “why one of the world’s richest families, emanating by the way,” he said, “from your own state, has joined hands with major religious institutions and a dominant political party in a plan to abrogate your current system of educating your children? Ever say, to yourself, what do they have to gain by denouncing reason, science, and the ability to address problems in a cognitive way?”

“You are right. It doesn’t make sense.”

He smiled, nodded, and picked up a large book from the table. “Ever read this?” he asked. It was a worn copy of The Golden Bough, by Sir James George Frazer, a Scottish social anthropologist, influential in the early stages of the modern studies of mythology and comparative religion. He is often considered one of the founding fathers of modern anthropology.

I nodded and smiled myself. “Yes, but it was a long time ago in a different lifetime.” A flood of memories washed over me. “I credit Frazer with freeing me from the shackles of mythology forged on me as a child.” I was sort of screwing with him by resorting to flowery language.

He ignored me. “Then you know how he recorded humankind’s cognitive process, beginning first with magic as a method of controlling the environment.”

“I seem to remember.”

“Then,” he continued, as it gradually dawned on your species that dances and incantations weren’t really able to change things, and that people didn’t suffer because you made a doll-like image of them suffer.”

“Go on.”

“So,” he said, “the thinkers of that time decided that external forces must guide their world. They chose religion, assuming there are personal agents, superior to man, controlling nature.  It has been said that this is a far more complex notion than that of magic, and requires a much higher degree of intelligence.”

“This is getting a bit deep,” I said.

“We’re almost there,” he said. “Hang with me.”

What else could I do?

“We are now at the point in the evolution of your people at which they thought that reliance on a divine source might be the best technology to be used in controlling the environment.”

“And some still do,” I said.

“Oddly enough,” he said. “This troubles the Falloonian Elders to no end.”

“I can see. What happened next?”

“In simple terms?”

“In simple terms, please.”

“In simple terms, religious contemplation led to complex thinking, and complex thinking led to science.”

“Science?”

“Science,” he said. “And as science emerged, your species hardened in its belief that the world had to be controlled, and, to a thoughtless few, that control had to be carried out on their terms, and for their ends.”

“And?”

 

Oddly, someone once suggested that
alchemy led to the scientific method. - C.W.

“Well hell,” he said, “can’t you see?”

“See what?”

“How science got their way.”

“I think maybe I do.”

“Let me help move you along,” he said. “I haven’t got all day.” He puffed on his pipe until he started the smoke flowing in bullous clouds. It was aromatic and not unpleasant. “Humankind can conceive all sorts of weird ideas and proposals. The problem, then, is that science can test those ideas and proposals.”

“And?”

“And how do you exert control over people with ideas that science can prove wrong?” He puffed again. “Let me give you an example. Let’s say you want to make people satisfied with their state of poverty. So, you tell them you’re going to cut their source of revenue and that will increase their income.”

“That sounds a bit familiar.”

“Doesn’t it though? Now, the problem is, as you well know, a second-year college student majoring in mathematics—some call that science—can prove that proposition false in a few moments. How do you maintain your control? You can’t kill all the college students.”

“No,” I said, “but how do you exert control over people with ideas that science can prove wrong?”

“Simple,” he said. He blew a huge cloud of smoke my way and I inhaled a bit of it. “You kill science.”

“But how?”

“First,” he said, “you kill all the teachers.”

I rose and walked away, staggering just a bit.

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy. Also, click on an ad. It earns him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

422. On Writing

Sometimes you just have to get a little bemused over one of C.W.’s shapes. This morning was one of those times. Ye gods!

I think he was trying for Kurt Vonnegut Jr., but ended closer to Rasputin. Anyway, he was at the laptop typing furiously. He punched a key and said, “Good morning my son.” The printer whirred and a sheet slide forward. He took the sheet, glanced at it and placed it upside down on a pile.

Not having the heart to ask, I just watched. Without looking at me, he said “Sit down. I just need to finish this chapter." He continued to type.

"And what are we working on?" I asked.

“You are working on interrupting a genius at work. I’m working on writing a novel.”

“And what kind of novel are we writing?”

“Murder mystery.”

“May I take a look?” I motioned toward the stack of printed sheets.

“Knock yourself out. Just don’t get them out of order.”

I picked up the pile and took it to the couch. I set my coffee on a table and read from the beginning. It wasn’t long before I stopped. “Chump Williamson?” I said.

“What about him? “

“That’s the name you chose for your hero?”

“What’s wrong with ‘Chump’? We’ll brand him as an international star-detective. Simple name. Easy to remember.”

“Hmmm,” I said, as I continued to read. Then I stopped. “Wait,” I said.

“What?”

“You can’t have your hero making fun of a woman who’s just had a miscarriage.”

“Why not? She was getting on his nerves.”

“And he mocks her in her moment of distress?”

“Yeah. But he’s a good detective. Didn’t he say so when he told her to quit bothering him? That builds his character as a person who doesn’t get distracted. My fans love that.”

I read some more. I stopped. “This must be a misprint,” I said.

“What?”

“He tells the judge that he saw the suspect running from the scene of the crime.”

“So?”

“You had him across town at the time.”

“So?”

“He lies?”

“Wouldn’t you, in order to get what you want?”

“What kind of hero are you creating?”

“One that will get the job done. Read on. He says so. That is just one of his many gifts.” He motioned toward the stack I was holding. “Read.”

I started back. Two pages later, I stopped. “C.W.,” I said.

“What?”

“The hero of a novel can’t rape a witness he was questioning.”

"Why not? She was asking for it.”

“No she wasn’t.”

“Didn’t she come to the door in a tight tee-shirt and short dress?”

“Well yes, but ….”

He interrupted. “She might as well have said, ‘Take me,’ and he did. What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t think your more religious readers will like it.”

“Bullshit. Haven’t you gotten to the part where Chump meets Franklin Graham?”

“Don’t tell me Chump teams up with the evangelicals.”

“Yeah. Like Chump says, ‘You grab them by their Bibles and they’ll do anything you want.’ So you just mind your own business and read.”

I took a deep breath. “Hey,” he said. “Is ‘nasty’ spelled with a ‘y’ or ‘ie’ do think?”

“Nasty?”

He glanced at the passage he was writing. “Yeah, as in, ‘After he and Marge finished doing the big nasty, he jumped up and started dressing. She wasn’t quite finished but he didn’t act like he cared one way or the other. He had to go beat a confession out of a witness. He was wasting time.’ That’s some pretty nifty writing don’t you think?”

I was aghast, as one might imagine. “Who is Marge?”

The broads ... they really
love my books. - C.W. 

“That’s the one woman Chump truly loves.”

“And you describe their lovemaking as ‘doing the big nasty?’ Isn’t that a little grossly put?”

“Nah. I originally had it as ‘making Mr. Two-Backs,’ but my fan base ain’t into Shakespeare.”

No, Dear Reader, you’re not imagining things. He was sounding more and more like a Mickey Spillane character.

“And your hero gets confessions by beating witnesses?”

“Yeah. It saves time, you know. He has this terrific conviction rate. They say his fans may even get tired of all the convictions.”

“You really think this may work, this ‘Chump Williamson’ thing?”

“Are you kidding me? Look at who the serial killer is whacking.”

“Public school teachers? Do you really think that will sell?”

“You shittin’ me? Walmart’s already pre-ordered a hundred thousand copies.”

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy. Also, click on an ad. It earns him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

419. Fear

If you could only see C.W. in his actual form, it would … it would … well it would put you off your feed, really ruin your appetite. I’ve seen him. Trust me.

Sometimes we go walking early. Real early. Before sunrise. We decided to give it a shot today. Left Head had heard that a lot of people were getting up way before sunrise and he wanted to see what they were doing.

“I think it has something to do,” Right Head said, “with all those male enhancement ads we’ve seen posted in front yards.”

We all looked at him. “What the hell are you talking about?” Middle Head said.

It dawned on me. “I don’t think that is the context indicated by the word ‘arisen’ on those signs,” I said. I explained it to them.

“Oh,” said Right Head.

“Let me ask you something,” Middle Head said.

“Not too complicated,” I said. “Nothing about politics. It’s too early. I can’t even begin to explain current evens this early in the morning.”

Middle Head went silent. “Go ahead and ask him,” Left Head said. “We’re supposed to report on it.”

“Yeah,” Right Head said. “Remember the last time we failed an assignment?”

I remembered. The Falloonian Elders had cut off their supply of a favorite magazine-type transmittal that they love so well. “You,” I said, “didn’t get your feeds of ‘Naughty Triple-Heads,’ for several months.”

“Ask him,” Left Head said to Middle Head. “I need to finish this week’s report.”

“Well,” Middle Head said,” swiveling toward me, “it has to do with this thing so many of your species has about threatening your young children so horribly.”

“We don’t do that,” I said.

All three heads snapped toward me. It scared me a bit. “We love our children,” I said. Then, on further thought I said, “Some individuals love them a little too much, and in the wrong way, but we punish those if we catch them.”

Left Head, shook back and forth, Middle head rolled three of his eyes, and Right Head chuckled in amazement.

“What?” I said.

Middle Head spoke. “Why are all these people getting up so early today?”

“You mean besides us?”

“Precisely.”

“For a religious service,” I said.

“And that service celebrates what?” Left Head said.

“I’ve told you before,” I said. “They celebrate the death and resurrection of a beloved religious figure.”

“Who did what?” Left Head bore down on me.

“Who died for their sins, arose from the dead, and ascended into glory to wait for the true believers.”

“True believers,” Left Head said. Middle Head leaned out toward me. Right Head smirked the way he does when he senses mental carnage about to erupt.

“Yes,” I said, “the true believers will join their leader in a place called ‘paradise.’ They will be with that leader forever, you know: the Galilean. Don’t tell me you don’t know who the Galilean is.”

“We’re not talking about the Galilean,” Middle Head said. “We’re talking about those who claim that they speak directly to him.”

“Yes,” Right Head said, “the Chetedidcherltans,” using a Falloonian term I can’t translate in a family-oriented blog.

“Think about it,” Left Head said. “What do those folks promise to young children who don’t necessarily accept the concept of a person dying, then arising three days later, and wafting away in a cloud? Those kids that might analyze things a bit differently? Those who believe thinking is a free gift and should be enjoyed? What’s in store for them?”

“Hint, hint,” Right Head said, “torment, pain, suffering, flames, fire … am I getting warm?”

Left Head continued. “Why would a civilized and benevolent society implant such primal fear into young minds … images of their little bodies burning in a place called ‘hell’ for thinking about things on their own?”

“Yeah. Why?” Right head said.

 

The true believers have chosen some
strange figures to lead their religion. - C.W.

“Now just stop it,” I said. “We love our young folks. We would never, as a society, wish danger, disparagement, or punishment on them for what they believe or don’t believe.”

The three heads looked at one another in turn. Finally, two of them nodded at Middle Head, and he spoke.

“I don’t think you’ve been paying attention to things lately.”

 I stopped and listened. I swear that, far off in the distance, along Wattensaw Bayou near a place they used to call "the baptizin' hole," I could hear the soft strains of Softly and Tenderly.

404. Reversals

“Are you serious?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Where on Earth do you come up with such …,” I stopped. It came to me that C.W. isn’t from Earth, so my point wasn’t going to make sense. Still, he could aggravate me at times, and this was one of those. He just smirked.

“Now,” he said, “can I get back to work?” There was no use arguing. He had taken on the shape of Reggie the Young Conservative, and there was no reasoning with him.

I tried a different tack. “So you,” I said, “are charged with developing strategies for increasing the rate of unwanted pregnancies in America.”

“Quite so.”

“May I ask why?”

“Are you really that dense?” He shook his head in exasperation. “Simple,” he said. “It’s a gateway sin.”

“What is a gateway sin?”

He shook his head slowly. “You know what a gateway drug is, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s something you folks made up to justify the billions you’ve wasted on reducing marijuana usage.”

He shook his head. “We’re not trying to reduce marijuana usage,” he said. “We’re just making sure that its usage stays illegal. Crime enforcers are among our most loyal supporters.”

“So how does that relate to a plan to increase unwanted pregnancies?”

“Unwanted pregnancies,” he said, “are like marijuana. They lead to another choice that keeps our political base charged up like an Irish Setter on steroids.”

“Let’s make sure I understand. You want to excite your constituency by increasing the number of people who have to make difficult choices?”

“Not people. Women. Don’t forget that we recognize a difference.”

I see. So what have you tried so far?”

“Well,” he said. “We’ve outlawed sex education. It’s deplorable how many young people now understand the strong correlation between sexual intercourse and procreation. Deplorable.”

“Are you still teaching young girls that, if you say ‘Mother may I?’ three times beforehand, they are safe from all harm?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Are you making fun of us?”

“Perish the thought.”

“We stopped using that one years ago. Now we just teach them to hold their breath and pray at critical junctures.”

“Contraceptives have proven to be effective.”

“Correctamundo,” he said. “That’s why we’re in the process of outlawing them.”

“I guess that’s also why you don’t want men held responsible for unwanted pregnancies?”

“What do men have to do with it? That’s what we say. The last thing we want is a bunch of men running around offering to help raise a child.”

“This whole thing seems a bit turned around,” I said. “I mean, the whole idea of increasing loyalty in despising an act by promoting the act seems so …,” I struggled for words. “So Roveian.”.

“Please don’t denigrate the God of Our Movement,” he said, “but now you’re getting the picture.”

“Does it work?”

 

A hero to so many. - C.W.

“Haven’t you ever heard of poverty and our fight for it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Can’t you see anything? What happens when you increase the number of poor people?”

“Lot’s,” I said. “You increase the level of so many things: childhood disease, malnutrition, substandard housing, lack of educational opportunities ….”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “It’s crime.”

“Crime?”

“Yep. The greater the gap in wealth, the more crime, and the more crime, the more people run out and buy more …,”

“I see. I see.” I said. “I see, but it’s making me crazy.”

“And speaking of crazy,” he said. “Have you ever heard of Franklin Graham, Joel Osteen, Kenneth Copeland, Joyce Meyer, Benny Hinn, …?”

“Stop. Stop.” I said. “Yes, I’ve heard of them and others like them. Don’t go on. You’re making me nauseated now.”

“Exactly,” he said. “They are all our operatives.”

“Your what?”

“Their job is to turn young folks off religion.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t you see how much our support strengthens when they publish those reports on declining church attendance? What more dastardly trend could you hope for, to blame on your opponents?”

“I’ve got to sit down a moment,” I said. “This goes against everything I’ve ever been taught.”

“Precisely,” he said. “That’s why we have some powerful people,” he stopped, “… some very powerful people, working on education.”

Morning Thoughts … blessedness

C.W. and I were talking …

He had been re-reading the Bible, both the old and new Testaments. “I’m confused,” he said, laying it aside. “How did the kangaroos get to Australia after the flood? And why did they not stop anywhere else for a little procreative fun?” He stopped, and two of this three faces smiled. "I've heard that both partners jump up and down when they 'do it' and I'll bet that is worth watching."

“I think the story of the Ark might be what I call an ‘Insight Myth,’ and not science or history,” I said, “more didactic than literal.”

“So what is the lesson?”

“Oh,” I said. “The story might teach us that those who make a total mess of their lives might, in fact, share  a common experience with the gods themselves, and may correct things if they are willing to pay the price.”

“A sort of behavioral ‘do-over’ in fact?”

“Precisely.”

He thought. “Isn’t there a moral instruction that wouldn’t involve millions of dead babies floating around?”

I decided to shift the emphasis and delivered a short exegesis.

The so-called Beatitudes, in the Christian New Testament have always attracted my attention. Largely ignored today, they provide a great embarrassment to the apocalyptic evangelists. In fact, they pretend the Sermon on the Mount was a liberal plot, added during the "New Deal" era. Imagine a right-wing politician offering the following maxims, as expressed in the Christian Book of Matthew.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit,

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are they who mourn,

for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the meek,

for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,

for they shall be satisfied.

Blessed are the merciful,

for they shall obtain mercy.

Blessed are the pure of heart,

for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers,

for they shall be called children of God.

Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness,

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

 I’ve been researching the origin of the word “blessed.” If considered at all, many so-called “Christians” today would take the commonly used definition of blessed as “happy” and say all those covered by the eight Beatitudes should be delighted with their fate and worry about other things. "Don't worry," they say, "about anything except what we tell you to worry about. Be happy."

I don’t think it is that simple. I tend to side with the theologian who defined “makarios” (the Greek word actually used for "blessed' in the New Testament) as “the opposite of cursed.”

C.W. seemed interested, so I left him with a Jewish Story worth considering in our times:

The old Rabbi said, "In olden days there were men who saw the face of God."

"Why don't they any more?" a young student asked.

"Because, nowadays no one stoops so low," he replied.

Now if that wouldn’t make Franklin Graham’s sphincter muscle dance the polka, I don’t know what would.

Where is the part where he tells
people who to vote for? He seems
much more interest in telling folks
how to lead their own lives. C.W.

Morning Thoughts: Ships

C.W. and I were talking …

He kept asking me what the hell had gone wrong. I said I didn't know, so he went outside to play with the dogs. He likes dogs. He says the Fallooninians hold them in higher esteem than they do homo sapiens. After he left, I started thinking and made some notes.

In my adult life, I’ve viewed my country, in the sense of a collective entity, as a nation with flaws, and capable of making poor decisions, but one also capable of making sublime ones: the elimination of slavery, the civil rights acts, the Marshall Plan, the de-fanging of Joe McCarthy, the efforts to remove glass ceilings for minorities and women, the efforts to afford human rights and respect to our LGBT brothers and sisters, and the care of “the least of those among us."

I’m old enough to remember the first time I saw an African-American brother allowed to sit in a movie theater or restaurant in the American South, and the first time I worked with female chief executive. I remember the first time one of my gay brothers-in-life felt safe in proclaiming to the world the sexuality that nature provided him.  (I wonder if anyone else is confused by the tendency of right-wing evangelicals to assign their own actions, particularly their shortcomings, to “God’s will” but insist on referring to the sexual physiology of others to “choosing sin).

Anyway, we’ve not fully achieved what should be moral imperatives in our country’s governance, but I do believe we try. Although the path gets blocked at times, we seem to bumble through. Our country has often benefited from wise and enlightened leaders. 

Now, I see a country increasingly run by a minority of mean-spirited, cruel, anti-knowledge creatures elected not on capabilities but on artificially created hatred of their perceived enemies . As the old salts used to say when the top-heavy ship on which I served rolled in a storm, “It will right itself.” Here is a story I wrote using my old Navy ship, the USS Hunley, AS-31 as a metaphor. The old girl always enjoyed a steady hand.

I hope my country shall, for I do love it so.

She was top-heavy and could roll in a storm.
She always righted herself. I hope we do.

  

344. Confusion

C.W. is caught in a loop. He’s settled on one shape for a while. He’s sticking with “The Galilean.” Seems it suits his fancy and irritates the Fallloonian Elders at the same time.

I did get him to modify the robe. He shortened it into a loose fitting white 1960s era pullover with linen trousers and sandals. He gets a few stares but so far we haven’t been arrested. So, I took him for a walk one day last week so we could talk. He looked fairly normal until he pulled a Chicago Cubs hat from a drawer and screwed it down over this long hair.

“What?” he said when I looked at him and shook my head. “Look pal,” he said. “I, for one, can sure tell you that miracles can do happen. Don’t start in with me. Remember what I did those stupid pigs?”

I shrugged and we took off from our condo on the east side and walked toward the tall buildings. Two blocks later, we met a young woman walking a small, but well-groomed young poodle. C.W. stopped, tipped his Cubs hat and said, “Afternoon ma’am. Taking Tiger out for his afternoon walk?”

She pulled the lease tight, and crossed the street at a right angle to us. Halfway across, she stopped, looked back, then hurried on.

“I like to greet my people,” he said. “They do love me so.”

I said nothing and we walked on. Our conversation had drifted to drone warfare. “I told them,” he said, “that the peace makers were blessed as far as I was concerned. What the hell part of that do they not understand?” He stopped, turned to me and asked for a quarter. I handed him one. He walked to the curb and inserted it into and expired meter. “Like the candidate says,” he said as he returned. “Do it to them like you’d want them to do it to you.”

“Uh ...,” I said, but he interrupted.

“I’m thirsty, let’s stop in for a cold one.”

We were in front of a local pub and diner with a loyal clientele and a nice view of the busy streets outside. We went in a took a seat. A nice young person of indeterminate gender immediately came to take our order. “Do you have Gitztusmilinga beer?” C.W. asked.

“Never heard it,” the server said.

“Oh my child,” C.W. said, “You are so deprived. It’s a favorite where I come from.”

“I can’t help that,” the server said. “We have Bud, Bud Light, Mil …”

“Just bring me a glass of water,” he said. “I’ll make my own drink.” Seeing no response, he added, “That’s supposed to be a joke.”

“Miller Light, Dos Equis, Mich …”

“Just bring us a couple of Stellas,” I said. The sever looked relieved and scurried off.

When the beers arrived, he took a long drink, lowered the mug to the table, and said, “I’m pissed off about this divorce thing,” he said.

“I’m not sure,” I said, “that you’re supposed to be using that sort of language.” I stopped. “What divorce thing?”

Hell, next thing you know, they'll be talking about
how much I love rich people. - C.W.

“Didn’t I tell them it was a sin?”

“Very plainly,” I said. “I agree, but …”

“Stick your ‘but’ where the sun doesn’t shine,” he said. “I told them it was a sin and now they say it’s being taken out of the discourse that surround a word or passage and can throw light on its meaning.”

“You mean taken out of context.”

“That’s what I said. Don’t change the subject.” He took a long drink and signaled to the server to be preparing another. “I told them divorces really got on my nerves and these … these … these … what was it I called them last time we discussed it? Holy-rotators?”

“Evangelicals,” I said.

“Exactly,” he said. “The ones who claim to talk directly to me. The server sat another beer in front of him, took the empty away, and hurried back to the bar. “Now ain’t that a joke?”

I was having a good time playing along. “So you don’t talk to them?”

“Hell no,” he said, slamming his mug on table so hard that a bit of beer spilled out. He wiped it with a finger and licked the finger. “I wouldn’t talk to them if they knew where Scarlett Johansson lived.” He took a drink. “There’s someone else who talks to them. I’ll tell you about him someday.” He paused took a breath and lowered his voice. “Anyway,” he said, “I understand that these … these … these … what did you call them?”

“Evangelicals.”

“Yeah, evangilistas. I understand they intend to vote for a man who has had two divorces. That’s crap if you ask me.”

I shrugged.

“Ain’t that a bit,” he said, “like a Cubs fan rooting for some team in, oh, I don't know ... Ohio?”

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335. Explaining

 It’s a rainy day with no chance to go outdoors. The family is off doing things, and I’m left alone with C.W. The politics are oozing from the bizarre to the ridiculous and we don’t care to watch the Olympics on TV. I’ve settled in with a stack of magazines, wanting to catch up and enjoy the respite, and, you guessed it, it’s “Splainin’ Day.”

First clue? C.W. entered in his best Ricky Ricardo form and in a highly agitated state. “Hey Big Dope,” he yelled, “you got some splainin’ to do.”

Groan.

He sat across from me. “I’m confused,” he said. “You gotta tell me ‘bout some tings.”

“Like what?” I laid the magazine on a table.

“Let’s start with these races,” he said, holding up the sports section of the paper. “What difference does it make if one person gets to a point a fraction of a second before the rest?”

“I suppose it’s a test of excellence,” I said.

“Ain’t they all within what you call one standard deviation?”

“I suppose so.”

“Que?”

“What else can I explain?”

“You ain’t ‘splained that yet,” he said, “but here’s another. I been talkin’ to the Galilean.”

“You are the Galilean,” I said. “At least when you want to be. Try explaining that.”

He looked at me with a quizzical expression. “Don’t you never talk to yourself?”

“Only when I question why I put up with you.”

“So I axed the Galilean …”

“You didn’t ‘axe’ the Galilean. You asked him. There’s a big difference. Let’s adjust your Galactic Universal Translator.”

“You leave my GUT out of this,” he said. “it is just fine ... don’t need no meddlin’ with.”

“Next question,” I said.

“The Galilean says divorces, they suck.”

“He phrased it that way?”

“I tink so.”

“So he is against divorces?”

“Oh yeah. He says they …”

“I know. They suck.”

“You been talkin’ to him too?”

“So what about divorces?”

“You ever heard of this Franklin Graham man?”

“The evangelist?”

“The one say he talk to God.”

“Yes. I’ve heard of him.”

“He say God tell him Americans got to vote for a man done had two divorces and, like Mrs. Big Dope say, ‘the crack of dawn ain’t safe around him.’ What’s up with this?”

“Mr. Graham is a sick man.”

“He got cancer or sometin’?”

“No, he’s deranged,” I said. “Next question.”

“Why you got such a small house?”

“What?”

“Why you make me live in such a small house. The Falloonian over in Virginia lives in a 10,000 square foot home. Plenty of room.”

Vote for a man endorsed
by the KKK? Que? - C.W.

“Maybe he lives with a large family.”

“Just a man and his wife.”

“Maybe they are rich.”

“They both work two jobs. Know what?”

“No. What?”

“She got a desk in her bathroom in case she want to write a letter or sometin’”

“Americans like big houses, I said.

“Mrs. Big Dope say they be compensatin,’” he said.

“Next question.”

He thought. “Why your Doctors give their patients antibiotics for viruses? They don’t even do that on Rumpamundovia?”

“I think because their patients demand it,” I said. I started to say more but I heard noises from the next room. Someone was listening. Then a high-pitched, mocking, female voice yelled out.

“Honey, I’m home,” it said.

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330. Confusion

We were having a nice stroll, the Galilean and I. That’s becoming one of C.W.’s favorite shapes. He’s now shortened both the length of his robe and his hair, but he is still eminently recognizable. At my request, he lightened his skin tones. It’s not advisable out in “fly over country” to be seen in public as a dark-skinned middle-easterner. Other than that, he was in his normal character.

We were walking in a landscaped area at our country place, a quiet spot we call “The Grove.” They made molasses there back in the day and there is a legend that a civil war unit once camped there before burning the farm for some malfeasance or other. It is a peaceful spot now and he likes it.

He was smoking one of my cigars and about to finish a Dos Equis beer. He took a long swig and began looking around. “Don’t throw that bottle down out here,” I said. “Remember what happened last time.”

“She thought you did it,” he said. “And besides, it didn’t hurt her lawnmower.”

“No, but it ruined a tire.”

“Collateral damage,” he said. “Can’t be helped.”

I said nothing.

“There’s going to be a lot of that if your species continues on its current path.”

“Why is that?”

He looked around. “I need another beer,” he said. “You want one?”

“Sure,” I said, and sat on a piece of antique farm equipment until he returned with two bottles.

“She’s rebuking me again, Mrs. Big Dope is,” he said.

I ignored him and he sat beside me. He said, “She doesn’t like cigar smoke in her kitchen.”

“I could have told you that had you asked.”

“On the topic of rebuking,” he said, “wasn’t I pretty clear about divorces, when I visited earth the first time?”

“You were against them as I remember.” It's best to play along when he is like this.

“Explain this fascination your voters seem to have to have with someone who’s had two,” he said.

 “I can’t.”

“Loving money,” he said. “I told Paulie to be real specific about the dangers of that. Why wasn’t he?”

“I think he was.”

“He warned about coveting riches?”

“Best I can recall.”

“Did he include the part about piercing themselves through with many sorrows if they erred.”

“In all the versions that I have read.”

“Good,” he said. “Paulie tended to get distracted when Timothy was around. ‘Pierced with many sorrows.’ I made that up myself.” He paused, took a sip of beer, puffed his cigar and blew smoke rings into the grove.  “Many sorrows,” he repeated, savoring the phrase. “There,” he said. “Is your collateral damage. It seems that too many of you are set to vote for a man to run your country whose only qualification is that he loves money.”

“They also say they like him because he speaks this mind.”

When he spoke his mind ...
the conservatives crucified him. - C.W.

He rolled his eyes and sighted. “Oh please,” he said. “That last visit, I spent half my time driving demons out of people who spoke their minds.”

I thought on this. He continued. “You know I cared a great deal for the poor and meek,” he said, “and the peacemakers.” He tilted his beer up and took a swig. “And those who mourn, the merciful, and some others. I think I specified eight in all. I have trouble remembering. It was hot as hell they day I spelled those out.” He drank more beer. “Eight, I believe.”

“I think you have it right,” I said.

“This guy, the one with the orange face and yellow hair … he and his bunch hate all eight, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “But they don’t stop there.”

“Well,” he said. “At least the followers I have left here among your species will denounce him soundly.”

That got my attention. “Uh,” I said. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“I have some bad news for you.”

“Crap,” he said. He stuck his cigar in the corner of his mouth. “You might as well tell me.” He stopped and held an empty bottle before me. He spoke around the cigar. “But it’s your time to get the beer. You go fetch us a couple of cold ones and I’ll sit here in the garden alone.”

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Morning Thoughts: July 16, 2016

Hello Friends. Big Dope and I are swapping thoughts this week. Today is his turn, so give him a read.
- Your Pal,
C.W.

Guess I shouldn’t comment on D. Trump’s many bankruptcies. I’m from a family that endured one. When a tornado ripped through our community south of Pine Bluff, AR in 1947, killing more than 30 people, my father opened his little country grocery store, which had been mercifully spared, and said, “If you need it, come and get it, whether you can pay for it or not."

People came and he fed them until the groceries ran out.

He went broke and had to start over.

The local newspaper, in a nice article, said there should have been a monument erected to him.

The little town of Lonsdale, Arkansas saw the newspaper article, took a collection, and sent my father $45.00, all the money he ever received for his act of humanity.

Gee, that reminds me of The Galilean. Does anything about D. Trump suggest The Galilean? For some unfathomable reason, the evangelicals think so. They have announced plans to support him and his third wife for President and First Lady of the United States of America.

What has happened to us?