INVOLVEMENT

 The Alien C.W. was très upset. I could hear him from the next room.

“Shtoo++pitdazoles+,” he said, loud enough to be heard outside. I walked in and found him shaped much like a middle-aged Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

“Say what?”

“Foul increment,” he practically screamed it at me.

“Bitte?”

“Listen to my GUT,” he said. I heard his Galactic Universal Translator begin to hum.

“Never mind,” I said. “I think I get the picture.”

“What is it with your species?” he said, aiming the question at me like he thought I might answer.

“¿Qué?” I like to screw with him when he gets like this.

“What does it mean,” he said, “when one of your leaders talks about waging a war with ‘no boots on the ground’ in some foreign country peopled by your own species.”

“It refers to using war to settle international differences with another country without actually having our military personnel involved in that country, so to speak.”

His GUT hummed and he listened. “And how is this accomplished?”

“Remotely,” I said. “We can send planes from ships and unmanned drones from Iowa, wiping them out like cleaning a windshield.”

“To settle differences?”

“Yes.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“Then we send troops.”

“And who comprises these troops? Do they hunt down individuals to conduct these ‘boots on the ground’ operations?”

“Uh, no. They rely on volunteers now.”

“Such as the children of the leaders?”

“Uh, no. Others.”

“Like you?” he said. “No, I remember now. You actually volunteered for war, didn’t you?”

“Kinda sorta.”

His Gut hummed. “Elucidate.”

“I reluctantly volunteered for what I thought would be an assignment that wouldn’t involve my boots being on the ground, i.e. naval forces.”

“So what happened?”

“They sent my boots and my ass to be on the ground.”

He thought for a moment. “Can you see why Falloonian Elders think your species might need recalling?”

164. Rules

School started back this past week, so naturally C.W. showed up in one of his classic forms. He calls himself Dickie Dunderwood the Diligent Student. He was all dolled up for class, with his Megadeth tee-shirt, dirty sneakers, and backpack. Seems he was contemplating his first essay.

“Your species doesn’t use the concept of “lootaquicksteria++” do you?” he said, using a phrase from his home planet of Falloonia.

“Uh,” I said. “I don’t know. What is it?”

“A simple concept really,” he said. “It provides a stricture forbidding, and a penalty for, an elder who participates in a vote involving the general populace, from which vote the elder may profit.”

I thought. “We do,” I said. “We call it ‘conflict of interest’ and frown down upon it when our leaders fall prey to the temptation.”

“Frown down upon it?”

“We deplore it. Why do you ask?”

“I am preparing a report on this latest crisis in the middle eastern portion of your planet.”

“And?”

“Several of your congressmen who are urging entry into war are guilty.”

“Guilty? Of what?”

“Of lootaquicksteria++, or, as you call it ‘conflict of interest.’ Ours is a much prettier word, don’t you think?”

“I think we would have a problem pronouncing those clicks,” I said. I was intrigued, though. “In what way are they guilty of whatever you call it?”

“They represent states or areas in which weaponry is manufactured for use in wars.”

“So?”

He looked at me as if I had just failed to guess the day of the week. “So, they stand to profit if a war commences.”

“Oh,” I said. “You don’t understand. They don’t profit personally.”

“No? Won’t it please their voters and contributors if their economy flourishes with the onset of war?”

“Well, yes. I suppose,” I said.

“There you have it.”

“No,” I said. “Wait. See it is not a conflict of interest if they simply seek political support by voting in favor of an action that would benefit their constituents.”

“Oh, really””

“Really.”

“If you will pardon the observation,” he said. “That sounds a lot like ‘replitocartawao.’ Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Repl… what?”

“Replitocartawao. It literally means the obfuscation of economic flow by transferring worth from one personal holding compartment to another.”

A light began to shine. “Taking money out of one pocket and putting in the other,” I said.

“Precisely.” He smiled at me as if I had just given the right answer in class.

Your writer Shakespeare once said:
"There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so."
I'm finally beginning to understand it. - C.W. 

“You have a lot to learn about our country,” I said.

“I imagine I do. Now … “ he began.

I groaned. “What now?”

“Let’s consider the opposite transgression.”

“The opposite?”

“Yes, It’s called ‘putricastoglia’ and it refers to the sin of an elder making a rule for segments of the populace from which the elder will not be affected or inconvenienced.”

“Well we would agree with you on making that a sin.”

“Really?”

“Really,” I said, but somewhat less confident than before.

“Then,” he said, pulling a large bundle of papers from his backpack. “Would you like to read some laws that your male-dominated elder groups  have enacted recently, laws that affect, condemn, or punish only the female of your species?” He waved them in my face.

“Don’t you have some homework to do?” I said.

160 Deities

I was questioning C.W. the other day on the concept of religion on his home planet of Falloonia. In the middle of the conversation, he abruptly left the room. I could hear sounds of scuffling in the next room, punctuated by an occasional “Oh, you’re looking good, baby.”

He reemerged in as strange a getup and shape as I had ever seen him. He had on a double-breasted suit that could almost blind a person by its sheen. His hair was a dark auburn and shone to match the suit. It was piled on his head as if a slight shake might make it tumble into a haystack of oily confusion. He waved a hand, exposing a wrist circled by a Rolex watch and fingers encrusted with diamonds. His shoes were patent leather and completed the “sparkle” effect.

“Wadup child?” he said, making a sign of benediction.

“Uh,” I began before going speechless.

“Lay it on me, oh ‘Searcher for Truth,’ and let me sooth your soul.” He sat on a couch, revealing patterned socks that matched perfectly the color of his suit.

“We were discussing the concept of religion on your home planet,” I said.

“Hmmm,” he said.

“Do you have such a concept?”

“Well,” he said as he thought it over. “We wouldn't buy into serpents who speak in Hebrew to naked women.”

“No,’ I said. “I wouldn’t suppose so.”

“They tend to worship knowledge there,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.” He stopped and thought for a moment then continued. “I’m not sure we ever had a deity paradigm that espoused getting angry at the way its creation was behaving and drowning everyone. Or nearly everyone.”

“Oh, really,”

“No, we would have believed that design flaws were the fault of the designer.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“But we would like ‘The Song of Soloman,’” he added quickly.

“Oh really?”

“Oh man,” he said. “Want to hear some of my favorite passages?”

“Maybe later,” I said.

“Ah, breasts like two young roses,” he said dreamily.

It was time to redirect the conversation. “But do you, on your home planet, have a guiding philosophy, a religion that guides your moral behavior?”

“Religion guiding moral behavior?” He pondered the question.

“Some say it does.”

“Like,” he thought for a moment, “… like killing children who make fun of bald men?”

“As an extreme, I suppose.”

“Uh,” he said, “then no.”

“So you don’t see a connection between the two, religion and moral behavior.”

He studied the question. “Isn’t behavior determined by preservation of the individual, the group, and the species?”

If you don't mind the observation, this
represents a bit of a strange method of what
you call "Beta Testing." - C.W.

“That’s a rather bleak picture, according to some,” I said.

“We can’t erase a picture simply because it seems bleak,” he said. Suddenly he brightened and extended a finger towards me, exposing an onyx cufflink set off by a sparkling ruby. “We would like the parts of your theology that speak to blessing the meek.”

“Oh really?” I said.

“Yes,” and giving to the poor,” he said, becoming visibly excited. “And lauding the peacemakers. And about agreeing with thine adversaries quickly.”

Then he stopped and his face grew dark. “Except for those damned liberals.”

126. Consequences

C.W. is finishing his first college course. Says he wants major in history as he doesn’t have to depend upon a degree to get a job. His first class was one in American foreign policy since World War Two. It has him bumfuzzled. I found him working on his final term paper early this morning in a raccoon coat and one of those silly hats straight out of an Andy Hardy movie.

 

“Hey Big Dope,” he said. “Just the person I needed to see.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I have to decide upon the most unfortunate foreign policy decision of the U.S. government since 1945.”

“And?”

“There are so many to choose from.”

“Well pick one then,” I said.

“I leaned heavily at first,” said he, “On Dwight Eisenhower’s decision to overthrow, as a favor to the British Petroleum Company, the democratically elected government of Iran, and its head of government Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddegh in August of 1953.”

“Why that one?”

“Simple,” he said. “Chain reactions.”

“Chain reactions?”

“Yes. It created a permanent, and hitherto non-existent, hatred of the U.S. by the Iranian people and led to the hostage taking in 1979 which led to the election of Ronald Reagan and, well, you know the rest.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Of course the involvement of your country in Vietnam has to be high on the radio detection and ranging screen.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“That one involved you personally, eh?”

“Yes, so I must recuse on it,” I said, grateful for the opportunity.

“Old Dwight D. started that one too, didn’t he?

“No comment.”

“He was sort of a ‘poster-child’ for the Law of Unintended Consequences, wasn’t he?”

“No comment. But … you might google Watergate, or Bay of Pigs.”

“Of course your beloved sage Walter Cronkite said that the invasion of Iraq in 2003 was the worst policy decision in modern history, and illegal from the start.”

“Yay, Walter!”

“But all those pale in comparison with my final selection.”

“Your selection for the worst policy decision in modern history?”

“Yes sir.” He tends to get formal at times like this.

“And that would be?”

“Reality TV.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Reality TV? What does that have to do with foreign policy?”

“You are portraying to the world that your country is composed of a bunch of snaggle-toothed, overweight, swamp-dwelling, violence-worshiping, child-exploiting, snuff-drooling, tattoo-seeking, death-wishing, foul-mouthed, junk-hoarding, obsessive-compulsive, stuff-loving, gun-toting, sex-starved morons.”

Won't you please,

Won't you please,

Please won't you be my neighbor?

It's a wonderful day in the

cosmic universe. - C.W.

“But that represents only a small percentage of Americans,” I said.

“Only a small percentage of Americans lived an idyllic life like that of the Cleaver family during the 1950s,” he said. “But see how that image has prevailed, even among some African-Americans like Thomas Sowell.”

That stumped me. “But,” I said, “We love the arts, books, knowledge, music, and all things inspiring.”

“Try telling that to the people on Planet Rylinskria,” he said.