433. Research

“Ear.”

The minute I heard the word “ear” I smelled something that took me back nearly 50 years. Before it registered, I heard it again.

“Ear.”

And again, “Ear.”

I rushed into the living room and, sure enough, there was C.W. in his actual Falloonian shape, all three heads, multiple hands, and all. Five dogs sat in a semi-circle in front of him, alternately giggling and watching the action. I should have expected some mischievousness. My wife was staying elsewhere with a visiting cousin and she doesn’t care much for seeing our alien friend in his true shape. That’s the reason he waits until she’s away to appear “au naturel.”

“Ear,” Left Head said. A long skinny arm moved raised a hand that took something resembling a short cigar from Left Head and handed it to Middle Head. He took it in his mouth, took a long draw, and held it.

“Ear,” he said, still holding his breath. The hand moved the cigar to Right Head. That’s when I remembered what the smell was.

What the …?”

“Come on in, Mr. Big Dope,” Left Head said as the hand started toward him. It stopped in mid-flight and headed toward me. “Ear,” Left Head said, extending the joint, if you want to call something that large a joint, toward my mouth.

“No thanks,” I said, pushing the hand away, It was green and scaly, cold to the touch. “But,” I said, “you might tell me what is going on.”

Right Head started to speak, stopped, and turned to Middle Head. “You tell him,” he said. “I just forgot.”

“We’re doing research,” Middle Head said.

“Research on what?”

The question seemed to catch him off-guard. He thought for a moment, then said, “Research. What research?”

“Upon what are you doing research”

He thought again. “Who said we are doing research?”

“You did.”

“We are doing a test,” Left Head said, coming to the rescue. He took a long drag, held it, and had the hand move to Middle Head. After holding his breath for nearly a minute, he exhaled and said. “Wow, male of the species.”

“Testing what?” I persevered.

“That plant we’ve been reading about,” Right Head said. “What do you call it?” He thought and smiled. “Merry Fauna,” he said.

“Yep,” Middle Head said.

“Yep,” Left Head said. “We’re thinking about stealing it.”

“No,” Middle Head said, finishing his draw and passing the joint. “Not stealing, sealing it.”

“No,” Right Head said, after a brief coughing spell. “Not sealing it, … selling it.”

“Right,” Left Head said. “We’re perfectly positionated to sell it.”

“Oh?”

Our Marketing Plan:
The worse it sounds,
the more the kids
will want it. - C.W.

“Yes,” he said. “It has no effect on us whensoever.”

“None wheresoever,” Middle Head said.

“None whysoever,” Right Head said. His face brightened. “Did Mrs. Big Dope leave any of that cabbage soup here for us?”

I didn’t answer. Left Head started laughing. He cackled aloud for some time and finally caught his breath. “I just thought of a name for our product.” He turned toward the others.

“What?” Middle Head said.

“Three Faces of Ease Medicinal Cigarillos.” He said, breaking into laughter again. Middle Head caught on and howled with joy. Right Head joined it. The dogs began their “laugh-bark.” The room turned to bedlam.

I readied to leave. “You won’t think this is funny if my wife catches you.”

The laughter increased in volume. The last thing I heard over the howls and barking was Middle Head, “Hey, save some for Mrs. Big Dope.” The sounds grew louder. He screamed over the merriment, “No, I mean Mrs. Bogart.”

The whole house was shaking when I walked out the front door and into the yard. I was a little light-headed, from secondary smoke I suppose. I began to wonder if maybe I was living on the satellite of some electron in some obscure galaxy and was just imagining all of this. It would certainly make more sense.

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.

401. Riches

Last night C.W. came to me with the most interesting question. He was in the shape of Timmie Joe, the 14-year old nerd. He was well-attired. Somewhere, he had found one of those old pocket protectors that engineering students in college used to wear, the kind that advertised a blueprint shop. I guess they will be collector items now. It meant he was on serious business.

“Why,” he said, “do people who have everything always want more?”

It took me by surprise and I didn’t have a ready answer. “What do you mean?” I said.

“I’ve been asked to determine if there is such a thing as a “satisfaction point,” he said. “Is there a point at which members of your species determine that they have enough and perhaps others might be entitled to some of the remains?”

“That’s a good question,” I said, “and I don’t have a ready answer. Besides, I’m fairly satisfied with my state.”

“Oh?”

I felt a gnawing sensation in my stomach. “Well,” I said, “pretty much so.”

“Oh?”

“What are you getting at?”

“How many guitars do you own?”

I told him and pointed out that I had sold one recently.

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“And why did you sell it?”

I wanted to look around for help but I knew there were only two of us in the room.

"Uh," I said.

"To care for those who mourn?"

"Uh …"

"To care for the poor in spirit?"

"Uh …"

“Come on,” he said. “Admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“You sold it because you want to buy another, more expensive, one.”

I responded with a weak, “It’s my hobby.”

“So, if it’s a hobby, it’s not hoarding riches?”

“And besides, I don’t own them all, just a few.”

“Would your corporations be willing to stop there with your congressmen and congresswomen?”

I had to think about that. “I don’t imagine they would.” I lowered my head. “At least they haven’t so far.”

“What is with you, your species I mean?”

“What has brought this all on?”

“The Falloonian Elders are intrigued by the resistance to paying taxes on your ddyspikrslouckee.”

“Our what?”

“What they call it roughly translates into a tax on sexual ejaculations of the more fortunate kind granting unearned riches.”

“The what?”

“I call it the ‘lucky sperm tax’ for short. Think about it.”

I did. Realization began to settle on me like the morning sun on a windless morning. “Are you talking about the Estate Tax?”

“Yes. The one that rich kids who inherit their parents’ money hate so much. The riches they acquire because of a lucky sperm. They seem to care not if the less fortunate ones starve.”

“I see.”

“They have much, do little, and demand more. How can you give more to those who have plenty? My friend the Galilean has asked me that same question? Isn’t hoarding riches the pastime of a ship of sinners? He says so anyway.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I seem to know a certain, uh, a certain, let’s see, a certain alien let’s say with quite a collection of Heather Graham photographs.”

He fidgeted. “Maybe it’s because she looks like Mrs. Big Dope.”

Maybe it’s because you have plenty of them but it’s not enough. Why don’t you delete some of them?”

“Hey,” he said with great deal of merriment, “what say we go to the guitar store tomorrow?”

I do have a point, eh? Can anyone
guess who is who? - C.W.

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 makes him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

357. Riches

“Do-buy on optical manufacturers.” C.W. laid his pen aside and stared into space.

“That’s nice,” I said.

“Do-buy on humidity-controlled storage buildings.”

“Super,” I answered.

Actually, I wasn’t really listening. I was reading a book titled A Time For Trumpets, about the Battle of the Bulge, and it was requiring my full concentration to keep the military units straight in my head.

“Do-buy on GlaxoSmithKline.”

That got my attention. I looked from my book to see C.W. in the form of a hollow-eyed young man with greased hair slicked back from his forehead wearing stylish clothes set off by a bright red set of suspenders. “A what for what?”

“A do-buy, you know, as in ‘buy stock’ and grow rich.”

“Who is that you just named?”

“A pharmaceutical company.”

“So you are recommending that people purchase stock in pharmaceutical companies?”

“Oh hell no,” he said. “We’re recommending those for short-selling.”

“We?”

“My investment firm and my silent partners.”

There are some great opportunities ahead,
if you don't mind the smell of sulfur. - C.W.

“What investment firm?”

“UdaQu Financials.”

“And your partners?”

“Can’t tell you. Top secret. Let’s just say they have an uncanny feel for what companies to buy and what companies to sell short.”

“So pharmaceuticals are out?”

“Mostly,” he said, “who the hell’s gonna be able to afford drugs?”

I thought. Good point. “What about the one you named?”

“Oh,” he said. “They’re different. They make Paroxetine.”

“They make what?”

“Paxil,” he said. “Gonna need a lot of that.”

“Oh.”

He went back to his work. “Dip-and-Flip on Pfizer, Merck, and Johnson and Johnson.”

“Say what?”

“Birth control pills and devices.”

“What about them?”

“Buy like crazy when the economy tanks,” he said. “Babies aren’t too popular then. As soon as the Supreme Court is rounded out, sell and run like hell, hence, ‘dip and flip,’ Get it?”

I groaned. “You mentioned specialized storage buildings.”

“Wives,” he said.

“To store wives in?

“Oh don’t be silly.” He stopped, thought, started to say something, apparently thought better of it, and continued. “They, the wives are raising hell about all the guns and ammunition bought and hoarded during the last eight years. Seems they’re demanding that it be moved out of the house.”

“So, you and your friends are investing in storage buildings?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

“Can’t tell you specifically. Let’s just say that someone dear to my partners has a … close… associate who, in turn has other friends that can furnish us with a list of people renting storerooms for this special purpose. Such a list will be a sellable and valuable commodity.”

“Hackers?”

“We don’t call them that. We call them ‘means facilitators.’ They operate under the corporate name of ‘MFs R Us,’ and they guarantee success in a wide range of ventures.”

I let that one drop. “I think I heard you mention optical manufacturers.”

“Eyeglasses,” he said.

“Pardon?”

He held up a large glossy photo of our new first lady, nude and in the embrace of another nude lady. “Simple,” he said. He looked at it and shook his head slowly. “I think the word your species uses is ‘hot,’ am I right?”

“And?”

“Oh man,” he said, “can you imagine how many 14-year-old boys are going to need eyeglasses in the coming months?”

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308. Consequences

“Boy are we going to make some dough.”

Oh no, there was a fat chef going through my wife’s pantry, his chef’s hat waving in the morning light. Of course it wasn’t a chef, but my resident alien C.W. pretending to be one.

“You’re going to be paste if she catches you in her groceries.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll cut Mrs. Big Dope in on the deal and she’ll have all the money she wants to keep more animals here.”

This made me shudder. “And how, exactly, are we … you … going to make all this money?”

“Soup,” he said.

“Soup?”

“Soup.”

My head began to spin. “How will you make money with soup?”

“Selling it,” he said, then stopped. “Well, not exactly selling it outright, but for what your species calls an intense feeling of deep affection offering.”

“A what?”

“You know, the thing TV preachers use to get rich.”

“You’re not talking about a ‘love offering’ are you?”

“Isn’t that exactly what I just said?”

“Let’s move on,” I said. “So how will you make money with soup? You know nothing about making soup.”

“That’s the beauty of it.”

“How so?

“You don’t have to. See, the big obstacle is overcoming the laws mandating that you have to know what you are doing to make food if you claim you’re doing it for your religion.”

“Oh my god.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Your species has a law that you don’t have to follow a law that offends your religion.”

“Well, not exactly …,” I began.

“In a recent case in your state, they stopped the health folks from acting. That opens the door for us to serve what I’m calling RFRA Soup, after the so-called ‘Religious Freedom Restoration Act.’ Here’s the recipe.” He handed me a page filled with typing. It read:

            RFRA SOUP

Fill a normal bathtub will water from the hot faucet.

Add four cans of Campbell’s Potato Soup
Dice and add one onion
Salt to taste
Package and serve for a three-dollar love offering per serving
After the family has bathed, fill the tub and repeat.

I gasped. “Surely you aren’t serious.”

“Please don’t offend my religion.”

“You don’t have a religion.”

“I do, the same as the others. Making money. Have you ever seen a poor preacher on TV?”

I ignored him. “Three dollars?”

“Yes, we’ll say it’s one for the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy …”

“Stop it,” I said. “You’ve gone completely mad.”

We don't need no stinkin' laws.
Now that's a money-making concept. - C.W.

“I didn’t write the law,” he said. “I simply intend to flourish by it. By the way, all profits are tax-free.”

“But,” I said, “the law wasn’t intended to make people rich.”

“What was it intended for, pray tell? And notice my use of the word ‘pray.’ I’m getting into the spirit of things.”

“The law was intended to, uh, well … satisfy the belief by some that there is a higher law than those made by humans.”

“But,” he said, and I sensed a shift in his demeanor from chef to theologian, “it came pass that man’s law itself fell victim to a higher mandate, a much higher law, and one recognized as all-powerful by all gods of the eternal universe.”

“And that law was?”

He smiled and took back his recipe. “The Law of Unintended Consequences. It’s going to make us rich.”

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Ask the Alien: Careers

Dear Alien:
Our son had, until this week, planned on becoming a porn star, partly because of inclination and partly because of natural attributes. We weren’t ecstatic over his decision but, on the other hand, it elicited a certain amount of family pride and we were so worried that he might otherwise become a hedge fund manager. Our problem is this: after watching television all week—with the news dominated by the Pope’s visit—he now wants to become a priest. Should we be concerned?
Partly Pious

Dear Partly Pious:

I can't see a problem as long as his robes are loose enough.
The Alien C.W.

How can you not love and adore a man who
looks this much like Jim Nabors? - C.W.

See also: www.wattensawpress.com

252. Running

We seem to have developed a monsoon season in the Arkansas Delta, so it gives C.W. and me some time for quiet conversation. He doesn’t like to get wet—says it causes his Galactic Universal Translator to become, as he put it, “Characterized by lack of consistency, accuracy, regularity, or uniformity.”

There was nothing erratic about his GUT today, though. He had taken on one of his favorite forms, that of Todd, the TV pundit. From time to time, as we discussed the weather, the latest book I’d read, or the current report he was late in sending to the Fallooninan Elders, he would make notes on a reporter’s notepad and smile.

“So,” I said, “I think in the end, Fitzgerald was presenting the modern version of a heroic quest within the wasteland.” I waited while he filtered this.

“I think I have answer to our problems,” he said, ignoring my last. Outside, the rain continued to fall.

“What problems?” I said, peeved at his not paying attention.

“My new computer, for one.”

“What about a new computer?”

“I need one,” he said. “You know that.”

“So what does that have to do with Gatsby?”

“And that new car you’ve been wanting to buy for Mrs. Big Dope.”

“C.W.,” I said. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“You know that trip you want to take to Southeast Asia with your Navy buddy?”

“We were discussing literature.”

“Look,” he said. “I must depend on you sometimes for transportation. I really need that new motorcycle we’ve been talking about.”

“But you don’t have a driver’s license.”

“And your poor wife is driving a ten-year old car.”

“She likes that car,” I said.

“That’s not what she tells me,”

“So what are you getting at?”

“Kudaclarupitti?

That is Falloonian for “What the hell do you mean?”

“Why are you mentioning all these problems?”

“Because,” he said, broadening his face into his best television smile, “I have the solution.”

“And your solution is?”

“Simple,” he said. “Run for President.”

“You can’t run for President,” I said, with despair in my voice, “you are an alien.”

“Not me, silly,” he said, “you.”

“Are you insane?”

“Not a bit,” he said. “You wouldn’t make that good a candidate, but you would do. I’ve already started lining up donors. You’ll be the ‘I hate mimes’ candidate.”

“Mimes?”

“All the other hate targets have been spoken for already.”

“C.W.,” I said. “This is idiotic on so many fronts. First, I have this very checkered past. You know that.”

“No big deal,” he said. “I’ve already picked you a ‘Salvation Date.’ It’s March 20, 2003. That’s the day you ‘got saved.’ Nobody can question anything you did before then. Don’t you remember? We’ve discussed this. It worked like a charm for that guy from Texas.”

My mind was racing. “Isn’t the day America began bombing Iraq?”

“Seemed as good a date as any,” he said. “and it would strike a patriotic chord. Now here is the deal. I’ve set up a campaign fund account, and your staff will consist of Mrs. Big Dope, your mother-in-law, and me, all with annual salaries of half a million of your dollars or so.” He smiled again. “Of course the campaign will need things like computers, vehicles, and headquarters. I’ve picked out a nice beachfront home in Key West, Florida for that.”

“But someone like me could never be elected President.”

“Of course not,” he said. “Who would elect you President?”

“So why are you bringing this all up?”

“Because we could make enough money for the short duration of your campaign to solve a lot of problems.”

“What problems?”

“The ones I mentioned earlier.”

“Those were financial problems.”

“So?”

“They were,” I said, “personal problems.”

It seems to me that all it takes for political
disaster in your country is for enough people
to quit listening and remain silent. - C.W.

“So?”

“Look C.W.” I said, “a person in our country runs for President because she or he wants to address the country’s problems, not personal ones.”

“Since when?”

“Since, uh, … say, I said. “I’ve been reading this book called One Hundred Years of Solitude.”

“Wait,” he said. “That gives me an idea. You could also be the ‘I hate education’ candidate. That would get you donations from some real rich people.”

“What real rich people?”

“Corporations.”

 

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