317. Winning

There have been times over the years when C.W. would disappear for weeks at a time. I never mentioned it to him since I enjoyed the respite and the peace at home that his departures would bring. Once last fall, though, I had begun to miss the little creep and I decided to ask him about his extended leaves. He had reappeared as a man in his early forties, looking distraught, even a bit put out, if you can imagine.

“What’s up?” I asked as he paced the room, looking around in a nervous fashion.

He looked at the ceiling and back at me. “Is that a real question or slang?”

 “Slang,” I said.

“Oh.” He thought for a moment and said. “I could make a joke about what’s up these days and what’s not.”

“Never mind,” I said. “We can do without your humor, or your joke.”

“I will save it and tell Mrs, Big Dope later,” he said.

I sat erect and pointed my finger. “Don’t you dare,” I said. “She’s going to be upset enough that you’ve come back.”

“She likes me well enough,” he said. “She would be fine if you would just give her what she needs.”

“C.W.,” I said. “Shut up.”

He ignored me and continued absentmindedly, “… a few days off … a vacation … maybe a nice cruise … some flowers.”

I relaxed. “Someday,” I said, “we are going to have a talk about your syntax.”

“My what?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Why don’t you just share with me where you’ve been.”

“Coaching high school football. The Elders got wind of your species’ obsession with it and had me give it a try—coaching it, that is.”

“But you quit. Why?”

“Lost all my star players.”

“That’s awful. How?”

“Sophomores.”

“Your star players were sophomores?”

“No. The star players were all senior boys.”

“Well, then, who were the sophomores?”

“Girls.”

“Girls?” A sliver of understanding began to pierce through the dark clouds of my mind. But then he broke in.”

“Have you ever heard of something called a ‘registered sex offender list,’ with addresses and all, that has to be made public?”

I started in disbelief. “Do you mean …?”

“Some of the most prestigious homes in that city are now on it.”

“How? What happened?”

“Seems there was this club,” he said, “among the sophomore girls.”

“A club?”

“Called the ‘Boffin’ Stud Seducers’ and all the best looking girls in the class belonged to it.”

“You are kidding me.”

“Nope. The ‘Boffin SS’ as they called themselves, required only one thing for permanent membership.”

“Sex?”

“Well of course that, but they also required undeniable proof of the act.”

“Undeniable pr …”

“An arrest record.”

“Oh wow,” I said. “Don’t tell me …”

“Complete with videos. And you know about social media, right?”

“Oh man.” My mind wrestled to digest the implications. “So you don’t coach anymore.”

“To say the least.”

“The least?”

“Take a good look at this shape,” he said. “You won’t be seeing it again.”

“But how were you implicated?”

“Simple,” he said. “Lack of supervision.”

“But how? How can you be responsible for a group of girls that start some terribly immoral and vindictive club?”

“Oh,” he said. “It’s worse than that.”

Silly me ... I always thought this was a gesture
indicating victory on the playing field. C.W. 

“How could it be?”

“Well,” he said. “It seems the senior football stars had a club of their own.”

“Oh … my … god.” I struggled to speak. “And how long had this been going on?”

“Best guess …,” he said. “Fifteen years or so.”

“And nobody did anything?”

“Boys will be boys.”

I sat back and let it all sink in. I couldn’t think of anything to say. All I could come up with was,  “And how was your win-loss record with all this?”

“Oh,” he said,” I would say it was the girls 11 and the boys zero.”

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Also check out www.wattensawpress.com and

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

Sports

Dear Ask The Alien:

Our state loves its football team like Donald Trump loves a headline. The problem is that the team is currently losing every game it plays. My husband is near suicidal. One night he woke up in the middle of the night screaming, “No, no, they’ll spend the money on something stupid like science labs.” Our home life is becoming unbearable. Last evening, I walked in and stood between him and the TV, completely nude with my hands on my hips and my feet wide apart. He just looked, shook his head sadly, and said, "We can't handle the spread offense." Believe it our not, he was talking about football. Please help me.

Loser’s Wife

Dear Loser’s Wife:

On Falloonia, when a sports fan becomes over-agitated, we have members of the team come over and read to him passages from our classic literature. I’m afraid that won’t work in this case for a couple of reasons. So I suggest a substitute to watching football games. Finding one of comparable worth was difficult, but no problem is too great for “Ask The Alien.” So I am forwarding you, under a separate post, the location of a TV channel that consists of a camera trained on a large tropical aquarium 24 hours a day. In one week, your husband should be back to abnormal. If this doesn't work, contact me for a personal counseling session.
Your Friend,
The Alien C.W



Oh, that your species could get this
excited over matrix algebra. - C.W.

See also: www.wattensawpress.com

261. Professions

C.W. is playing a new game: “The Rapture Effect On Selected Professions.” He calls it a scientific study, and maintains the shape, including lab coat, of a researcher. I think he is having a bit of galactic fun at our expense, but it goes something like this.

“Combining, evangelical religious myth with professional occupations,” he says, “we consider what might happen in the sudden disappearance of all members of a certain profession.”

“Want to explain?” I said.

“For example,” he said. “If every college football coach in your country disappeared overnight, was 'raptured away' so to speak, what would be the impact?”

Before I could speak, he broke in. “More money spent teaching physics?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Perhaps a new intellectual renaissance?”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“At any rate,” he said, “nothing that would register on the cultural seismograph. Right?

“Probably not,” I said.

“And the annual salary involved?”

 “Most in the millions.”

“Wow,” he said, in an unscientific response.

“Any more?”

“TV Evangelists?”

“Oh please, please,” I said.

“Any downside to their rapturing away?”

“Only,” I said, “if one sells mansions or private jets.”

“Upside?”

“Lots of Social Security checks would go further.”

“The so-called ‘analysts’ on that fake news show named after a furry animal.”

“Nothing but upside to their disappearance.”

“That’s what the data show,” he said, consulting his clipboard. “And they are paid a lot?”

“Yes,” I said.

He interrupted. “It seems they also make a bundle off fake books that they pretend to write.”

“Really?”

“Speaking of writers,” He said, “how about authors of weight-loss books?”

“Send them into space,” I said. “No one will notice.”

“Oh wait,” he said, “here’s a good one.”

“Oh?” I was all ears.

“Pet psychics.”

I groaned.

“What,” he said, “do they do, exactly?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Personal injury attorneys?”

I thought. “That one probably depends,” I said.

“On what?”

“On which side of the personal injury one is on.”

“We’ll get back to it,” he said. “Safari guides?”

“Now,” I said, there is a certain party who would want them raptured to deepest, darkest corner of space.

“Would that be Mrs. Big Dope?”

“Herself,” I said.

“Let’s see,” he said. “She might want to send the owners of what you call ‘puppy mills’ along for the ride, wouldn’t she?”

“You might ask her,” I said, “but don’t stand too close when you do.”

“No,” he said, rubbing his forehead, “I learned that lesson when I asked her if she wanted to watch a movie about a fight between two or more fighter planes at close quarters.”

“No,” I said. “You asked her if she wanted to watch a dog fight with you.”

“Anyway,” he said, “what about so-called hedge fund managers?” He looked at his notes. “Here is one that made a billion dollars in one year. What would happen if he disappeared?”

“I can’t imagine that anything would happen,” I said. “I doubt that anyone would even file a missing-persons report. Those folks tend to move around a lot.”

“That’s what my research shows.”

“Say,” I said, “speaking of your research, haven’t you found any indispensable professions?”

“Oh,” he said, “I think I’ve found the most indispensable one.”

“And that is?”

“But first,” he said,” I must say that it totally baffles me.”

“How so?”

“It pays a drastically lower salary than any I have mentioned so far.”

“Oh really?”

“Isn’t that odd for a species to pay its most valuable worker the lowest salary?”

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“What do you mean?”



“Never mind,” I said. “It was just a joke. But what is this most necessary profession?”



Your species has a strange way of valuing professions. - C.W.

“Let’s see,” he said, thumbing through his notes. “Oh, here it is: a waste water collection and treatment specialist, or sanitary engineer.”

“A sewer worker?”

“Of course,” he said, “without them your species would be in a world of sh…”

“That’s enough,” I said. “I get the picture. I definitely get the picture.”

“The picture—that reminds me,” he said, “working in sewers is a much more valued profession than fashion modeling, isn’t it?”

 Please click some ads. The profession of alien doesn't pay well at all.

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

187. Obsessions

Since conversations between two entities from different galaxies are unusual, one can easily imagine the meanderings that can occur when C.W. and I discuss current events. An interesting example arose this morning before I had even enjoyed breakfast.

I was “surfing the net” and finding little discussion that didn’t focus on two of America’s large cities. It is, of course, the Sunday that so many of our citizens, as well as a few around the world, become fixated. So I wasn’t surprised when C.W. showed up as a young man of, maybe, 25 with a football jersey sporting a large “S” on the front. He plopped down in a chair and waited until he had my attention.

“Need some help,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Yep. Today’s a big day.”

“It is,” I said, “And just how may I help you?”

“I’m late with a report to the Falloonian Elders and they are getting formacidy.”

“Uh, formacidy?”

“Yeah. You know, like nervous.”

“Could you mean “antsy?”

“Exactly. Isn’t that what I said?”

I seemed then to recall, from my aged databank, reading about the species Formicidae and decided to let it rest. “So what’s the report about?”

“The tendency of your species to become obsessed beyond any measure of rationality.”

“Obsessed?”

“To the extent that you evade the very basics of logical behavior.”

I suddenly understood.

“Oh,” I said. “it is perfectly natural—a part of life. It renews some of us.”

“But it creates an unnatural degree of passion, all concentrated on one object.”

“The object,” I said, assuming my most pedantic tone, “is simply a necessary element that allows a physical phenomenon to proceed. And yes, it generates passion, or else we wouldn’t be able to cope with the basic illogic of the whole affair.”

He thought about this. “So this one object,” he said, “so occupies your species that all other important issues are discarded into the junk heap of history.” He smiled, “The junk heap of history. I like that. Maybe I could become a writer.”

“Let’s get back to the topic,” I said. “First of all, this,” I struggled for words, “this ‘object’ as you call it, only obsesses a portion of our species.”

“So it is okay if, while the ownership of this object is being contested, a portion of your species becomes obsessed and ignores everything else?”

“Look,” I said. “This obsession only lasts for a short while.”

“But it will be repeated, time and again, and it will become symbolic.”

“Well, yes,” I said. “But so much joy is associated with the concentration on this object and besides …”

“Besides, what?” he said.

“It allows the game to be played.”

If you only respected the peacemakers as much
as you respect the football players, the rest of
the Galaxy wouldn't worry so much. - C.W.

“You call this weird obsession a game?”

“Why certainly,” I said. “And the game provides satisfaction to a segment of society that has few other interests.”

“A game?”

“Yes,” I said. “And that’s why they call it the Super Bowl and the football is the single most important element of the whole thing.”

“Football? You’re talking about a stupid football?”

“But of course,” I said. “Aren’t you?”

“No,” he said and he slumped in his chair. “I’m talking about a vagina.”

117. Citizenship

“Ich bin ein Amerikaner.”

“What?”

“Ik ben een Amerikaanse”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Soy un Americano.”

“Will you stop it?”

“Je suis un Américain.”

“C.W., will you shut up for a second?”

“Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?”

“I want you to shut the … to tell me what you are doing?”

“I am preparing,” the figure of a young farm worker, dressed in work clothes and a straw hat said.

“Preparing for what?”

“Citizenship.”

“Citizenship?” I said.

“The Falloonian Elders think it would be nice if I could demonstrate an ability to pass.”

“Pass what?”

“Pass as a citizen of your country.”

“Why the languages?”

“Quotas.”

“What do you mean quotas?”

“Don’t you have quotas for citizenship based on country of origin?”

I thought. “Good point. Best you forget the Spanish. Stick with the northern Europeans.”

“I agree,” he said. “Want to help me with the test?”

“What test?”

“The Elders sent me some practice questions based on my monthly reports and they wish me to study them.” He held up a large sheath of papers. He read one and then said, “For example, ‘The teacher at a major university will receive the highest salary for teaching:  1.physics, 2. heart surgery, 3.chemistry, or 4.football.’ That’s a no-brainer, right?”.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Here’s another. ‘Marijuana is considered an illegal possession in the United States because, 1.it makes a person do silly things, 2.enforcement creates jobs, 3.it keeps amateurs out of the production and distribution processes, or 4.all of the above.”

“Who did you say wrote these?”

“Our planetary research institute. I send them material such as newspapers and social network videos.”

I must have looked startled.

“How about this one? ‘Social concern for the nation’s needy children ends 1.upon graduation from high school, 2.after adolescence, 3.after pre-school status, or 4.after gestation?’”

“And your answer would be?”

“I’m stumped. It would seem to depend upon your political persuasion.”

“And they think these questions will be on the citizenship test?”

“Based on your popular media outlets, yes. Here’s another, ‘The founders of the United States did not wish to maintain a standing army. Today we consider this attitude 1.stupid, 2.out of date, 3.bad for the economy, or 4.chicken shit.”

“Chicken shit? Is that really a choice?”

“That’s what they sent me.”

“What kind of material are you sending them?”

“Oh, talk radio broadcasts, news segments, blogs. You know. Typical Americana.”

“Are you sending them Fox News Broadcasts?”

Just think fans. Before long I can say "Hello my
fellow Americans." - C.W.

“Want to hear another?”

“C.W.!”

He looked at the floor. “I may have sent them a couple.”

“Sean Hannity?”

“He’s very popular.”

“Rush Limbaugh?”

“How could I ignore him?”

“Don’t tell me that your superiors think they are typical of our country.”

“Jag är en Amerikansk,” he said, returning to his studies.

65. Observations

Hello all. This is C.W. the Falloonian Heartbeat himself. Big Dope stayed up late working on one of his guitars and sleeps yet. So I snuck in and fired up his computer. He is having what you call a “birthday” this week so I will surprise him by producing this week’s piece. After all, it can’t be difficult, if he does it, right?

This will be like firing upon aquatic creatures in a cylindrical container of hydrogen-hydroxide, as you say.

In Falloonia, we call it “labsinacra++seck” which roughly translates to “seducing a prostitute,” or … relying on absurdly simple stratagems. Like influencing one of your politicians with campaign money.

That was a joke. See, I’m funnier than he as well.

Let’s move on to the matter at the appendage of digits on the forelimb. I have collected a few random observations on the modern condition of your culture. To wit:

I read recently where one of your political aspirants announced, rather gravely I might add, “the government cannot produce a job.” Now, I ask you … is this not going to come as a hell of a shock to the CEO of the Halliburton Corporation? Just sayin’ you know. See, I’m working on your culture-speak.

Now I also read this week that your scientists are coming under increased criticism. Seems that they are grasping, greedy creatures who produce nothing of value and only undertake their work for personal gain. Sort of, if I might make this comparison, the stock-traders of academia. Further, they persist in deluding the poor public with their untruths and cruel deceptions, like asserting that the development of antibiotics has been a benefit to humankind.

May I assume that this is why you pay your football coaches more than 20 times more than you pay your science teachers?

Now, along that line, I present the most difficult assignment I will have to face upon making my final report to the Falloonian Elders─and feel free to help me here. Why is it, that people who can develop mechanized means to transport one another by spacecraft all the way to the Moon (okay, I’m acting a little felinely here) insist that any candidate for higher office first assert: “I believe that a woman once talked to a snake?” Wouldn’t a Parrot work better?

One less terrorist thanks to the heroic John Ashcroft

Enough of the heavy stuff, let me continue on the topic of anniversaries. In current news, along with Big Dope’s annual advancement in temporal longevity, I scanned your media for other milestones. Seems this month marks the anniversary of the enactment of the Patriot Act and the 40-hour workweek. From my subsequent interviews, it appears that one has brought the average American an immense increase in personal happiness, fulfillment, joy, and contentment.

The other, as I understand it, resulted in the imprisonment of a comedian named Tommy Chong for selling something called “bongs” on the Internet.

Must run. Peace and adieu.

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?”