74. Peace

Hello Earthlings! I come in peace.

I’ve been wanting to use that line for some time and finally Big Dope has allowed me the freedom of my own column. Not exactly allowed, perhaps, since he knows nothing about it but when he wakes up and sees it published, I’m sure he will approve.

He will, won’t he?

We’ll see. In the meantime, permit me to offer my observations on this most interesting time of the year for you folks in my assigned territory.

This season, which began as an observance of the assumed birth date of your religious figure, Jesus of Nazareth, can create opposing motivations. Primarily though, it opens a window into the “better angels of your nature.”

For example, it highlights your wonderful talent for inclusion. Taking a rather obscure Jewish holiday, Hanukkah, and making it, too, a time of generosity, gathered another large segment of your population into this─if I may be permitted what Big Dope calls a “metaphor”─great tent of good will that seems to cover your country this time each year.

By now, practically any belief cohort in your country has a reason to join in the spirit of the holidays.

But allow me to return to the admirable aspects. The generosity, oh, the generosity. I read about folks anonymously dropping large bills into the Salvation Army kettles. I see toys being gathered for distribution as presents to children who otherwise might have only hoped for a small bag of candy or nuts, or maybe a needed piece of clothing. I see people who scarcely know one another, and who would not even nod in passing at other times, sincerely wishing each other good will.

You are a remarkable species. I continue to marvel at the words of the central figure in all this celebration.

“Give all your money to the poor.”

“Blessed are the peacemakers.”

“Judge not lest you be judged as well.”

“Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

“If you have done this to the least of these my brothers, so also have you done it to me.”

“Don’t become divorced.”

Trust me, no more noble
 thoughts exist in the universe. - C.W.

Oops. Well, he did seem to evidence a habit of drifting from preaching into meddling, as they say. The point is, these seem to be great words to live by all year ‘round, and I have dutifully reported them to the Folloonian Elders as forming one of your species’ moral building blocks. They were impressed.

So what might we all learn from this season that is, as far as I know, unique in the galaxy? As I follow Big Dope around in his professional work, I hear him tell communities to “Build on your assets.” Good advice.

So, I leave you with the hopes that you will expand upon this most wonderful season of good-spirit and make your planet an enviable example of the use of intelligence for the betterment of all creatures.

73. Words

C.W. said he was coming by to talk about our language, specifically the confusion about word meaning and word order. His antics have long since ceased to confuse me so I was scarcely surprised when he showed up at my door dressed as a monk. He smiled and raised his hand in a gesture of forgiveness as I opened the door.

“Sed do absolutionem, fili mi,” he said.

“Get the hell out of the hall before someone sees you,” I said.

He looked confused.

“What is this ‘hell’ that I can remove from your corridor?” he said.

“Give me a break,” I said as I ushered him in.

“How does one ‘give’ an act of forcing a division?”

I grimaced. He sat and arranged his monk’s robe carefully before speaking.

“I have been learning Latin,” he said.

“Marvelous.”

“Your modern English derives largely from that forgotten language, I understand.”

“Quite so.”

“So why all the confusion about word order?”

“Confusion?”

“Yes. In Latin, if one combines the words ‘house’ and ‘cat’ the order would make no difference.”

I thought for a moment, then said, “You have a point there.”

“And the combining of two innocent words for off-pigment purposes is beyond my understanding.”

“How so?”

“For example, you take a valid term used to describe a prolonged period of high winds.”

“You mean ‘a blow’”?

“Yes, my son.”

I ignored him.

“And then you attach to it the term used to describe what one does for a living …”

“That’s quite enough,” I said. “My wife is sleeping in the back room.”

“Speaking of your wife,” he said. “I have heard her on occasion use a term that I find particularly baffling.”

“And that is?”

“She refers periodically to a “Sinerase Date.”

“Yes.”

“And that means?”

“That refers to the date that a politician with a checkered personal life uses to pinpoint the exact moment when he or she embraced a religious dogma.”

“I don’t understand.”

I explained. “That is the date before which one cannot question the politician’s past since, at that time, he or she ‘found religion’ and was absolved of all previous bad behavior.”

“Sort of a ‘Get out of Hell Free’ card?”

I smiled. “Sort of.”

“Does your so-called ‘news media’ fall for it?”

“Ask George W. Bush.”

He sighed. “I see.”

“Has this been any help?”

Blessings on you all. - C.W.

“My son,” he said. “Each day that I spend with your species causes its behavior to seem more to me like a puzzle hidden inside an egg Fabergé wrapped in a mystery.”

“You mean a Fabergé egg?”

“There you go with your word order again,” he said. He drew his monk’s hood over his head. “Ubi ubi est meus sub-ubi?”

Then, I swear, he crossed himself.

72. Confrontations

C.W. is on a roll answering fan mail, so far be it from me to stop him. Let us continue.


Dear C.W.: My wife recently purchased a half-ton of “rice-grain seconds” from a food processing plant. She planned to feed it to her pets but they won’t touch it. Now we are stuck with it and can’t navigate the house for the stuff. She left bags at the doors of friends and neighbors until the sheriff’s office issued a warning. We have eaten rice in every form imaginable, including “rice dip” and “rice gazpacho.” Rice-art adorns every wall of the house. I suffer nightmares about drowning in a sea of rice. Should I confront her about this?

- Suffocating in Lonoke County


Dear Suffocating:

It is my conclusion, after two years of gathering data and undertaking tests, that American wives represent a sub-set of your species best left undisturbed. I think your expression is “Allow a somnolent canine to remain reposed,” or something like that.

The reasons are legion. First and foremost, as a unique practice, (and one that is a source of great amusement to Falloonians), your world has chosen to make the process of procreation a primary source of recreation and enjoyment whereas in all other galaxies it exists only for, … well, ... for procreation.

That having been said, not only have you made the act your primary focus in life, you grant control of its access solely (except in criminal cases) to the female units of your species. Therefore, alienating them immediately eliminates your chief form of amusement and pleasure. You may easily witness how prolonged deprivation can result in psychotic and anti-social behavior such as entering the fields of television-evangelism, law, or politics. (This, of course, solves the deprivation problem but may create others.)

I would recommend forbearance for this reason alone; however, there are more. For some reason (one that I have under observation) the process of natural selection has, over the last three billion years or so, created a severe unbalance in intellectual capability. The female units of your species are, sadly, quite a bit smarter than the males. In fact, a mental contest resembles a game of Falloonian Snockgrasting in which the Pengrastilists receive extra Crestallens. The result is truly sickening.

As a secondary result, this has granted the female units at least a majority of control over the monetary system.

As if that were not enough, I advise you to consider a phenomenon we have, in cataloging your species’ habits, termed “Enragement Extensionism.” This describes the practice of your female units to store anger for extremely long periods with no outward display. For reasons explained earlier, your males lack the mental capacity to retain agitation indefinitely while your females find the act both simple and useful.

As an example, I am currently documenting the case of an elderly couple, married 70 years, who live together in a nursing home. Recently, the male developed an extended case of bowel incontinence.

After considerable effort, the staff determined that his wife had been slipping a violent laxative into his afternoon tea.

When confronted and asked why, she said, “He knows damned good and well why.”

In many cases, the odd male-female mental inequity
is not confined to the human species. - C.W.

Further research pinpoints the time of the source-incident, still undermined as to its exact nature, to within days of the end of World War Two.

My advice to you? You’d better learn to love rice!

66. Incarceration

Yesterday, I found a strange note on my computer that said, “I want to help you in the workshop.” I don’t know how he does that but C.W. scares me at times. I didn’t bother figuring out how to answer since he would show up anyway. I just went out early and hid some of my best tools.

He showed up as I was beginning to route the edges of some wood panels. I stopped the machinery and looked at him. He appeared as a boy of around 12 years of age with a pair of monstrous eyeglasses wearing short britches and a rugby shirt. He ambled in as if he owned the place carrying a three-ring notebook crammed with papers.

“Hello, he said, bending over to inspect the work.

“Be careful, I said.

“What’s this?” he said, reaching for the router bit.

“Don’t touch that,” I said.

He stared at me. “I have to write a paper for school,” he said as if in explanation.

I never know whether it is better to ignore him or play along. “What on?”

“The penal system in America.”

I slumped. “The what?”

“You heard me,” he said, picking up an expensive caliper tool.

“Put that down,” I said.

“Your species shows a good deal of cleverness in designing tools,” he said.

“I thought you said you wanted to help.”

“Initial things initially,” he said. “First tell me what the official policy is in your country concerning the punishment of criminals.”

“The policy?”

“Yes. You must have some overriding policy to guide you or else it would what we call in Falloonia ‘Gephledystra,’ or attempting to transport oneself without a destination in mind.”

I removed his hand from a power-saw blade. “Our policy is to apprehend and incarcerate criminals,” I said.

“With no further intent?” He flipped the switch on my table saw and smiled when the blade started to spin.

I rushed over and stopped it. “Intent?” I said as I led him away from the equipment.

“Sure,” he said. “Are you hoping to dissuade them from making further bad decisions?”

“Yes,” I said. “We lock them up so they can reflect on their shortcomings.”

“Unless you decide, I understand, to take their lives.”

“Why are you asking me all this?”

“Just trying to make sense of it.” He picked up a marking knife and began to carve his initials on one of my panels.

“Stop that,” I said, grabbing the knife from his hand just as he started on the “W,”

“So what do you hope to achieve by all this incarceration of criminals?” he asked.

“Achieve?” I said. “We hope to achieve their separation from the social fabric of society.”

“Ah,” he said. “So how is it working?”

That stopped me. “Not too well, I’m afraid.”

He was writing in his notebook now. “So incarceration doesn’t cure their anti-social behavior?”

“I’m afraid not,” I said. He jotted some notes. I couldn’t resist adding, “Indications are it makes them worse.”

“Strange,” he said, walking over to examine an antique “Shaker” table I had been repairing. He seemed entranced by the simple form and balance of the piece. He smiled and then spoke. “How does a species capable of such beauty accommodate such muddled thought processes?”

32. Indifference

C.W. and I were sitting on our balcony watching the sun sink over western Little Rock. Its rays combined with the ozone layer to produce a marvelous sight—physics and nature in a whirlwind of jagged colors. He whacked the railing with his “thumping stick” and regarded the sights our planet can produce.

He was in the form of a service station worker, complete with an insignia of a long-forgotten oil company. I would guess his assumed age at about 18.

“Where have you been?” I said. I guessed that he had been “enphasing” as he calls it—going back in time to revisit life in the past.

“Working in a service station in your hometown back in 1960,” he said. “Just a temporary job parking cars during the holiday season.”

“Seeing anything interesting?”

“Not much. Just observing how much calmer things were back then.” He paused and whacked the balcony again. “Oh we did fire somebody yesterday … that is the two bosses fired this colored man.”

“Don’t call people that,” I said. “Why did they fire him?”

“He didn’t call one of them sir, or something. They said he was a smart aleck.”

“Is that all?”

“Well he was a couple of minutes late coming back from dinner.”

“You mean lunch?”

“We call it dinner. Anyway, they said they wasn’t going to pay some smart assed ni…”

“That’s enough!”

“They wasn’t going to pay somebody like him 50 cents an hour and have to put up with his disrespect.”

“So they just fired him?”

“Well, he had to walk home every day for dinner since there wasn’t a place downtown for him to eat. He evidently lived way over on the east side and sometimes he was a few minutes late getting back.” He whacked the balcony again.

“So they fired him,” I said. “For being two minutes late?”

“Yep. Kinda sad seeing him turn around and head back home. Guess his wife was pretty disappointed when she found out.”

“Did you try to help?” I asked.

“Wasn’t none of my business,” he said.

“Hmmm.”

He whacked once more and turned to me. “Did you ever help one of them back then?”

“No, I lacked the courage.” I paused and offered, though I know it was weak. “I never knowingly mistreated anybody of any color, though.”

“I see,” he said. “You know, your species has made an art form out of indifference.” He whacked the balcony.

“Careful,” I said. “You’ll chip the paint.”

The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference.
And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference. Elie Wiesel

“I just keep thinking about that man walking back to his family.” He stared at the city. “Well, got to go.”

“Where?”

“Got to select a shape for the peace march Saturday.”

“It’s been cancelled,” I said. “Not enough interest.”

“Crap,” he said, whacking my balcony rail again.

21. Cigars

Captain Kirk and I were sitting on the balcony of my condo smoking cigars and enjoying some Glenmorangie Scotch. Actually it was C.W. and I, he being in the shape of one of Captain Kirk’s later kin, a Boston attorney. And he only claimed it was Glenmorangie. He can be such a liar. Anyway, it was good and we were feeling expansive, watching the night lights of downtown Little Rock sparkle like flakes of diamond dust being blown across a flame.

“Tell me something, Jimbo,” he said.

“Don’t call me that,” I said and then: “What?”

“Why does your species hold such grudges?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean why did I have to get these Cubans from our South American representative and then sneak them in to your country?” he said, regarding his cigar at arms length.

“It’s complicated,” I said.

“That’s what you always say,” he said. “Now tell me, is your country at war with Cuba?”

“No, not really.”

“Was it ever?”

“Kinda, sorta,” I said.

“Judas Preacher!” he said. “Were you or not?”

“We invaded them once, and it’s Judas Priest.”

“I see,” he said. “Then what?”

“They tried to threaten us with nuclear weapons.”

“Tried to?”

“It didn’t work.”

“And since then?”

“We haven’t traded with them.”

He took a long, sensuous draw from his cigar. “And when was that?”

“It was 1961, I think.”

“Almost 50 years ago?”

“Yep—and is this going somewhere?”

He ignored the question. “And since then?”

“Nothing much, just some mutual mischief making and no trade.”

“Any effort at reconciliation?”

“A few attempts, some progress on occasion, and some near misses.”

“Close, but no cigars, eh?”

“Screw you,” I said, but I couldn’t keep from laughing.

He studied the hot end of his cigar. “So since 1961, the Cubans haven’t done any real harm, say like a group of its citizens flying planes into your buildings or something like that?”

“Not really.”

He indicated his cigar, “This is the only major product that they have embargoed?”

“Entertainment, too.”

“I see.” He looked at the skyline and smiled.

“I’ve been studying this character named Jesus that your people write about.”

“Yes?”

“He advocates forgiveness.”

“I think so.”

“Has your country ever considered following his teachings?”

“Oh please. His philosophy would be the most blatant sort of liberalism today, and liberals are despised by much of society.”

“Along with the poor?”

“Quite right.”

He took another draw from his cigar, exhaled, and then took a sip from his drink. He smacked his lips in delight and formed a smile so broad that it challenged the moon for attention.

“Yeah well,” he said. “Screw ‘em.”