Relaxation

Sometimes I’m so mean I scare myself. This morning I came near the room where Bit Dope was trying to take his blood pressure. He records it for a class he’s taking and it is hilarious to watch. He’s the only person I know who can run his readings up into the danger zone just by trying to get the cuff situated on the BP machine. He was trying to get it on while, as you Earthling say, “Cussing up a storm." He was playing some musical piece to help him relax. Then I heard him going “Om, om, om,” and things got real quiet.

I waited until I thought he was ready. Then I shapeshifted into “Moscow Mitch” and walked around the corner.

Does anyone have a place I can stay for a few days? I’ll shift into your favorite movie star while I’m there.

382. Pain

Last night I dreamed of … well no, actually last night I didn’t dream at all. I passed a kidney stone instead.

Yep.

Can you believe it? C.W. was there and he wasn’t much help. He’s like that sometimes.

As I sat bent over in the least uncomfortable house in the place, he sat across from me in the familiar shape of Arnold Awesome the 18-year old, full of wonder, pest.

“Does in hurt much?”

Actually, it hurt so badly that I didn’t want to talk.

“I said, does it hurt much?”

“Goddam your eyes.”

“Kidney stones. Are those things valuable like other stones?”

“Don’t you have something to do?” I began the dry heaves that accompany this awful experience.

“Be careful,” he said. “Mrs. Big Dope gets mad whenever I mess up the floor.”

“If I knew what it takes to kill one of you, I would. I really would, this very moment.”

“Let me borrow your cell phone and I’ll video you. We’ll enjoy watching that when you get to feeling better.”

I unleashed a barrage of invectives that include bits from four different languages. Former sailors are pretty good at that sort of thing, you know. He tried to keep up.

“You’re confusing my Galactic Universal Translator. I’ve asked you time and time again to show respect for my GUT.”

“Your GUT?”

“Precisely. Now where does it hurt the most? I’ll need to document it to the Falloonian Elders.”

“Would a shotgun blast at point-blank range to the trick?”

“Is it a sharp pain like when I poked you with a fork?”

I closed my eyes and envisioned a lightning strike.

“Maybe a dull pain? Remember the morning after we went to the election victory party?”

“Don’t Falloonians have any illnesses? Any terminal ones? Ones that we could replicate here on Earth?”

“Hmm. I don’t think so. We do, at least some of us do, have problems with prwjegtulspuregn.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t want to know. Trust me. You only have one head. Hey, want me to read to you and get your mind off the pain?”

“I want most of all for you to erupt in flames and be swallowed up by the earth.” I was to the point of imagining Old Testament levels of vengeance.”

“Are you pretty sure it’s a kidney stone?”

“No. I’ve changed my mind. Now I think it’s a bowling ball.”

“Maybe it’s something you ate.”

“Maybe. Why not? Are you a Doctor, in addition to everything else?”

“Maybe it’s cancer.”

“What the hell is with you?”

“I’m just trying to cheer you up.”

“Then go out and jump in front of the next log truck that comes along.”

“This kidney stone, can I have it when you are finished with it?”

“What for?”

“I want to keep it in my slyschetphrmirt bag.”

That’s his collection of interesting artifacts from Earth that he keeps. He has plans of returning to Falloonia and opening a museum of sorts when he finishes his tour here.

“No. “You can’t have it.”

“Why not?”

“I think I’ll donate it to the Smithsonian Museum in Washington. They like to keep world records there.”

“Mrs. Big Dope says you’re a big crybaby. What’s that?”

“A person who tortures someone, murders them, burns their body, and feels badly about it afterwards. And I’ll be no crybaby where you are concerned.”

“Hey,” he said as his face brightened. “Is this sort of like the male version of a woman’s giving birth to a baby?”

 

Pain just helps you
appreciate no pain, - C.W.

“Do you know who killed my wife’s tomato plants by applying the wrong treatment?”

His smile disappeared faster than the truth at a Trump rally. “Yes,” he said. “I know.”

“Does she?”

“Oh no,” he said. “You wouldn’t.”

“Ten seconds,” I said. “Ten seconds and don’t come back.”

As he hurried to the door, and a fresh wave of pain took over, I heard him muttering.

“It’s the last time I offer to play the role of healer in this family.”

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

379. Cures

“Ancient wisdom.”

“Say what?”

“Yes,” he said. “Ancient medical wisdom. I’ve been asked to do research and make recommendations.”

There sat Reggie the Young Conservative in all his yuppie glory amidst a pile of notes and objects. He was typing on my laptop.

“What the hell, C.W.? What’s up?”

“Helping out,” he said.

“With what? For whom?”

“Tweaking the Anti-Care Act. For the Party.”

“Do you mean the so-called Affordable Care Act?”

“Oops,” he said. “That’s an inside joke. We’re not supposed to call it that in public. Anyway, some senators say it’s not harsh enough and want some cheaper approaches. I’m tasked to look at ancient ones. I’m on Egypt now.” He reached into the pile and retrieved a note. “Here’s one. Comparison Centers. They will save a bundle.”

“What on earth?”

“Herodotus tells us that an Egyptian with a particular illness would sit by the town gate with a sign listing the symptoms. Along would come someone who had suffered those same symptoms and survived. He’d share the cure and move on, cheap medical care if there ever was such a thing.”

“Comparison Centers?”

“Yep. We’ll place them in places with heavy foot traffic. We’ll even include chairs. We’re not heartless, you know.”

“Uh … . any other cost saving ideas?”

“You betcha. Here’s an idea I call ‘shame shacks’ that will save even more.”

“Shame shacks?”

“Yes. We believe, like the ancient Egyptians, that most illness are cause by a lack of religion. So we’ll furnish quiet places for the afflicted to go and repent while they pray.”

“You have to be kidding.”

He stiffened. “If you know anything about us, you know we don’t kid. A sense of humor is a sign of weakness. Quick,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Who is Secretary of Education?”

“I see.”

“Then don’t ever accuse us of kidding about America’s future.”

“Any other ideas?” I tacked the conversation toward calmer waters.

“Happy Halls.”

“And? Ancient Egypt again?”

“They were certain that beer would ‘gladden the heart’ in general, but when one was ill, medicines mixed with beer—and combined with spells—were thought particularly effective. Beer and wine were also prescribed for children and nursing mothers. A prescription from the Ebers Papyrus for childhood incontinence calls for the mother to drink a cup of beer mixed with grass seeds and cyperus grass for four days while breastfeeding the child.”

“So, Happy Halls would furnish free beer to the ill?”

He frowned. “Did you just use the word ‘free’ or was I dreaming? I never said beer would be free. Free is only for humans that happen to be corporations. Still, beer is cheaper and more plentiful than some medications, and many of the poor are already using it for other purposes.”

“I see.”

“Excuse me,” he said. “He rose and walked to a bookshelf and picked a volume of history. I took the opportunity to examine his papers.

 

Self-diagnosis and repentance:
sure cures for most ills. - C.W.

One caught my eye. “An onion?”

“Put that down,” he said. “We’re pretty sure we’re going to abandon that one or modify it substantially.’

I started to return it, but noticed something that made me gasp. “The onion is placed where? In a woman’s what … ?”

“Shut up,” he said. “Do you want Mrs. Big Dope to hear us?”

“And it determines what?”

“Hush.” He said.

“You don’t have any females on your committee, do you?”

“Too demanding. Not harsh enough. Too many moving parts. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, opening the volume of history. “I’ve got to get to the Chinese. If my chapter on birth control isn’t finished this week, they might throw me overboard like unwanted garbage.” He stopped, jerked his head toward the ceiling as if the overhead light had just flashed, and turned back to the book. He began to thumb the pages, muttering to himself and completely ignoring me.

“As long as they are born,” he said. “As long as they are born … as long as they are born.” He placed the book beside him and turned to the laptop. His voice trailed off and he typed with a fury I had never seen before.


See also:

Delta Dreaming
All Hat No Cattle
Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

352. Goverment

Ahhh. I’ve had a whole week off from C.W. He’s trying his hand at consulting. Somehow, he got a gig working on the re-organization of our state government. I guess he finished since he showed back up this morning. As I figured, he was still in the form of Reggie the Young Conservative.

“I’m bushed,” he said. “I thought getting rid of old-timey government would be easy.”

“Oh?”

“Government is hard,” he said.

“That’s what I’ve always heard.”

“Who said it would be easy?”

I looked at him. “Uh,” I said. “Your pals?”

“Well,” he said, sipping a latte he had brought with him. “I did my part.”

“Which was?”

“My assignment was to reduce the number of state agencies.”

“And?”

“I got it down to six.”

“Which were?”

“One,” he said, holding up a finger, “The Department of Tax Cuts.”

“The what?”

“It’s a ‘sunset department.’ Self-liquidating. It’ll be gone in three years, max.”

“Say what?”

“Two,” he said. “the Department of Energy Consumption.”

“Which does what?”

He smiled. “Well let’s just say you won't see any more of those solar panels or windmills dotting our landscape.”

“Are you nuts?”

“Three: The Department of Payroll and Expenditures.”

“Oh no.”

“Yes,” he said. “Have to. The governor’s wife has expensive tastes and his pals need jobs.”

“What kind of jobs?”

“Four: The Department of Peace and Quiet. I saved us loads of money there.”

“How?”

“For one, no more state police. The cities have to take care of their portion of the highways. Same with jails. We’ll tell them who we don’t want associating with the good folks and the city of origin will take care of rounding up, and herding in, and keeping them from public view.”

“I guess next is a department for education.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Walmart will take care of that.”

“How?”

“They’ll add classrooms onto their stores. Sort of a ‘drop them off to learn while you shop’ arrangement. Each employee will take a shift teaching.”

“Teaching them what?”

“All they need to know.”

“Which is?”

“How to greet, stock, sweep, watch over the auto checkouts, run computers, and compute profits.”

 

The legislators in charge of
reorganization rejoice upon
completion of their work. - C.W.

“What about history and math and language skills?”

This time he looked at me funny. “Are you crazy?”

“No, but I’m beginning to think I’m living in an asylum.”

“That brings me to number Five, the Department of Emergency Care.”

“The what?”

“Emergency care. Our Health and Welfare Committee decided that was all the care we really needed and the various emergency rooms around the state will provide that. All our department will have to do is print and distribute directions to the emergency rooms along with parking instructions.”

“Any more departments?’

“Six: The Department of Truck and Commuter Mobility. Want to hear about it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s about it,” he said, with a noticeable display of pride. “The Guv says it will be the smoothest operating government this side of Somalia.”

“With only six departments?”

“And a few agencies. The largest will be run by a group of evangelical ministers: The Agency for Funny Acting Groups.”

“And they will?”

“Funny you should ask, I happen to have their mission statement here.” He took a folded page from his coat pocket, opened it, and scanned the contents. “Here is the main part,” he said. Then he read, “our mission will have been completed when our state is cleansed of deviants, those who would take from the wholesome and give to the unworthy, teach unilateral forgiveness to our youth, wander jobless throughout our state, cohabitate with individuals of the same sex, and refuse treatment of, or cure for, such ailments as a thorn in their side.” He folded the paper. “Neat huh? We’re thinking of having that carved in granite and placed on the state capitol grounds.”

Click on some ads. It costs them money and makes me some.

Also check out www.allhatnocattle.com

And buy Big Dope's book at Amazon

or  www.wattensawpress.com .

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.”

Click on some ads. It costs them money and makes me some.

Also check out www.wattensawpress.com and

www.allhatnocattle.com

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

213. Eats

“A what?”

“A restaurant.”

“C.W., you don’t know anything about running a restaurant.” This idea was silly even by C.W.’s standards. He stood before me as the Gailard Sartain character from the TV show “Hee Haw.” You remember, the dirty, fat, greasy spoon cook. Well, want to guess what his latest adventure would be? Let him tell you.

“A dining experience for the independent-minded.”

“Independent-minded?”

“Yep.”

“Independent … as in?”

“As in, ain’t no liberal doctor gonna tell me what’s good for me.”

I said, “Oh, I see. And the name will be?”

“C.W.’s Lard Palace.”

That’s when the enormity of his dreaming hit me. “Oh, my. You have gone over the edge for sure.”

“That’s right. I got the idea from a place out in Las Vegas.”

“The Las Vegas that is ‘the rational behavior capitol of the universe?'”

“That’s the one. A place there features a sandwich that has a mere, 10,000 calories. My ‘Lard-fried Cheesecake Sundae’ will top that easily.”

And how will you get word out for this, … this, …this, ‘assisted suicide palace’ may I ask?”

“Fox ‘News’ and Rush Limbaugh of course. They’ve offered a free introductory ad already if I’ll …”

“If you’ll what.”

“I’d rather not say right now … corporate secrets and all that.”

“C.W., what are you up to?”

“You won’t tell?”

“I’m embarrassed enough just listening. No, I won’t tell.”

“They think that they can trick First Lady Michelle Obama into making a discouraging comment about the fare.”

“And?”

“They’ll run her comments nonstop.”

“And?”

“We won’t be able to handle the crowds.” He looked at me with some element of pity. “Say,” he said, “you don’t know anything about marketing to the simple-minded, do you?”

“I don’t suppose I do.”

“Just think about the appeal of ‘Michelle’s Mountain.’”

“Michelle’s Mountain?”

“Yep, Michelle’s Mountain.”

“And that will be?”

“A gallon of fries cooked in lard, covered with fried cheese strips, and served in a bucket with a picture of old Michelle Obama done up as ‘Aunt Jemima’ saying ‘Now don’t you dare eat these, honey,” on the side of it.”

“Oh my god.”

“Sean Hannity almost fell out laughing when I told him about it.”

“I can imagine he did.”

“But we will have healthier fare.”

“Such as?”

“One I call the ‘Surgeon General’s Salad,’ and is it tasty.”

“I can’t imagine what it would be.”

“Oh, it’s like a regular salad except all the ingredients are …”

“Let me guess,” I said. “They are fried in …”

Ain't your taste buds tingling already? - C.W.

“Lard,” he said. “Exactly. They’ve already requested that it be on the menu at the next NRA convention.”

“C.W.,” I said, “I think there is something I should tell you.”

“What? That I have found the secret to all the riches I need, plus that new computer I’m wanting?”

“No,” I said, “that I have read about the source of your inspiration and people are dying from eating there.”

He sighed as if I had just announced that the moon is made of molded bologna. “Don’t you see? That is what will make this place have universal appeal. You ‘rationalaholics’ will love it.”

“How in the world would a place that serves fat-saturated and cholesterol-enriched food to overweight and gluttonous people appeal to a rational person?”

He shrugged. “Well it would improve the gene pool.”

 

Click on an ad. I need that new computer more than ever.

And check out www.wattensawpress.com

- C.W.

191.Investments

Friends and Followers:

Big Dope is working on his “taxes” and is not in a talkative mood, so I take this time to file a report to the Falloonian Elders on a related topic, investments. I will prepare it in your language, (in which I have attained a high degree of a quality or state of having great facility). I welcome your help.

INVESTMENTS: THE EARTHING APPROACH TO FINANCIAL HEALTH

Unlike our planet, Earthlings developed no mandated provision for planetary-wide care of the elderly or unblessed. Each sub-unit of government seems free to devise its own system of care, or neglect thereof.

Some ignore it completely.

Some do provide care, but this is rare.

Some delegate the responsibility to an unseen spirit.

Some allow the issue to be settled by physical violence.

In my region, individuals receive a basic government allowance during what they laughingly refer to as “their golden years.” It is based on the amount of salary they received during their productive period. Thus, the child of a wealthy person who receives a high level of education and training will receive a larger allotment than someone who toiled at the lower end of the salary spectrum.

This is all quite complicated. Please don’t ask me to explain.

Some individuals receive an allotment from the employer for whom they worked. This

concept, however, is being phased out and is no longer considered valid. It was an approach supported by something they called “the labor movement” which is also being phased out.

Americans, you have noticed, delight in the process of phasing out programs that have proven effective.

This all leads to the concept of investing. Those in my region must make up the difference in what their social allotment pays and what they figure they will need in those “golden years.” They do this in several ways.

Some continue to work.

Some receive what they call “gap financing” from their children.

Some rely on what they call their “investments.” These may appear in the form of units of ownership in corporations, called stocks, or equities. This approach contains a high level of both risk and return. Some rely on a concept called “interest” that involves receiving a fee for loaning funds to a corporation or unit of government. This method is safe but is also being phased out.

Retirement in my region
can be quite pleasant,
if one is wealthy. - C.W.

For most, their investment consists entirely of the value of the container wherein they dwell. I know this seems odd, but it is true.

In order to inject further realism into this report, I was able to obtain a statement from my Earth Host about his personal approach to investing. He was not maintaining a paradigm of cooperation at the time, but my pleading produced this rather terse statement.

“During the Bush Recession, We began shifting our investments into equities. In the prosperous years of President Clinton, one could do well with safe, fixed-income securities. No more. We live simply, raise our own food, make most of our furniture, and enjoy a double-digit annual return on our investment portfolios. The reason? Corporations are making a killing, what with their government subsidies, stagnant wages, tax-free offshore accounts, and a media frenzy espousing a “conspicuous consumption,” credit-based mentality. So, we will get cozier, the wealthy will get rich, the rich will get richer, and the one percent will get to be the .01 percent. We’ll try to help some at the bottom and not worry about those in between who—because they only worry about guns, gays, and women—vote for those who will destroy their future. Some say, “It will all crash when the bricks start to fly.” That’s true, but we’ll be in Costa Rica by then, or beyond caring at any rate.”

I will make an attempt to translate this in an expanded report.

Chawawa++.0936
Earth Name: C.W.

Hey Everybody, it's your favorite Alien with a thought of the day.

I read where, in a nearby city, the major issue
this season  concerns the amount of money
spent on the public Christmas tree. - C.W.

Yesterday, I went with Big Dope down to the local office of the American Red Cross. The purpose of the trip was to have a blood sample drawn prior to his next apheresis donation, just to pre-check his platelet level. While they were getting him “into the system,” (whatever that means) I overheard a staff member ask, “Is he a cancer victim?”

The other said, “No, he’s a donor.”

Now folks, that sort of puts this gift-giving season of yours into perspective, doesn’t it

156. Answers

Hello friends. Big Dope is taking a vacation this week and it gives me time to answer some of your mail.

Dear C.W.: My name is Stevie and I am nine years old. When I told my friend Benji that I didn’t want to marry a girl, he said that I would die and burn in some place called Hell for ever and ever. The Bible told him so. I told him the Bible also said that you have to give your money to the poor, so his daddy would be burning with me because he didn’t. He said that part was taken out of someplace called Contax. Can you tell me where this place is?

Dear Stevie: I think you mean “context” which, in your case is not a place but a state of mind. People like your friend use it in a process we call “faxilataturia” on Falloonia. It means to ignore anything that is inconvenient. It is contra-related to the process of “redolataturia” which means to ignore anything that is stupid and which you should use when your friend Benji tells you something.

Dear C.W.: I am a descendant of Thomas Wood Forrest. My family owns one of the largest real-estate brokerage firms in the United States.  I don’t want my country to expect me to pay for socialized medicine from my trust fund. How may I best go about stopping this evil idea?

Signed – Howie

Dear Howie: It is confusing to a visitor from another planet as to why some in your species distrust socialized medicine while they—almost joyfully it seems to me—embrace the notion of socialized housing. From government-backed housing loans to mortgage-interest deductions, your country subsidizes home ownership in a manner unheard of throughout the Galaxy. In fact, it is rare in the Cosmos to find a species that allows profits to be made from the provision of basic needs. But, more to your point, someone told me recently that one of your species’ primary religious documents mandates that the rich give their money to the poor. Why don’t you try that and perhaps health care will take care of itself?

Dear C.W.: My wife snores something awful. Do Falloonians snore? If so, is there a cure?
Signed – Desperate

Dear Desperate: To answer your first question, Fallonians do not snore. They do, however, as they grow older, tend to use the “rest and recharge” period to secretly discharge the buildup of noxious gasses from their digestive systems. I am told that in some of the older unit pairs, this occasionally results in violence, an otherwise rare occurrence on our planet. More to your point, I recommend that you simply rejoice, as you lie awake, in the fact that you are not a Ligeniatorian. The females of that species, on a certain night during their gestation period, invade the bodies of their spouses in order to incubate their eggs. Then they must find a new spouse. So, from a universal perspective, consider yourself damned lucky.

Dear Fans: Please forward your
letters to Big Dope for the next few days.
I will be "out of pocket." - C.W.

Dear C.W.: My Husband is a complete dope. He wanders around all day pretending to talk to an alien. I can’t depend upon him for anything. In addition, he snores at night and his feet smell awful. I am thinking about taking a baseball bat to him and his little buddy. I know that my people would not blame me but do you think there would be galactic repercussions?
Signed: Bare-Handed Momma

Dear, Dear. I must run now. Out of space. I’ll get back to you.

125. Hospitals

Good morning Earthling friends. Big Dope won’t be able to record one of our fascinating conversations this morning. His wife took a nasty spill and tore up her ankle pretty badly. I’ve spent the weekend so far at the hospital with him while they operated on her. He said they had to install metal circular eating dishes to support her bones. I didn’t quite understand but assumed it is an Earthling thing.

I did have an opportunity to observe at close hand your methods of treating your damaged and infirm. Quite strange. Wouldn’t it be considerably simpler for society just to treat them and pay for their care? A sick or injured person truly represents those among you who are least able to take care of themselves. It seems to me that a philosophy that encouraged caring for them would be greatly beneficial to you as a species. But your ways aren’t Falloonian ways, I suppose.

Mrs. Big Dope appreciates all your
concerns and looks forward to
being "waited upon." - C.W.

The hardest thing so far for me to attempt to explain to the Falloonian Elders is why your species insists on making the provision of basic human needs a profit-making endeavor. Terribly inefficient if you ask me, which nobody has.

As they say on my planet, “To a starving person, the entire universe is food.” It probably loses something in the translation. Suffice it to say, we must be off. The lady sharing the room with Mrs. Big Dope cannot leave the hospital until she “passes gas,” whatever that means. Let’s just devoutly wish that he episode has been consummated by the time we arrive.

Peace.

88. Awakenings

C.W. had warned me he was working on a project, so I was not surprised when I got to the condo and found him hard at work. What did surprise me was the extent of his efforts. He is a little on the lazy side at times.

“Hey, Big Dope,” he said, with his usual respect. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be just a moment.”

This was gracious of him as it was my apartment. I ignored it and sat down to watch him work.

His appearance was reminiscent of a Hollywood director of the golden era, complete with beret and knee britches. He sat at one end of a folding table and watched a DVD player. He had evidently been reviewing films. As he concentrated on the monitor, I scanned the titles. They were from a single genre, monster films of the 1950s. Scattered in piles were familiar titles, including, Godzilla, Them!, Attack of the 50 Foot Woman, The Incredible Shrinking Man, the Beast from 20,000 fathoms, Wasp Woman, It came from Beneath the Sea, and others.

I declined to grant him the pleasure of an inquiry.

After a few moments, he glanced up from reviewing one of my personal favorites, Tarantula.

Want to know what I’m doing?

I’m all aquiver,” I said, striving to act disinterested.

“Providing a service for your species.”

“A service?”

“Yes, as in doing something nice for humankind.” He paused and reflected. “After all, most of your people believe, as Sam Harris pointed out, that I made the journey to your planet just to molest ranchers and their cattle.”

“I see,” I said, although I didn’t.

“Take all these films,” he said. “What are the common threads?”

“Uh,” I said, suspecting a trick question. “Scary?”

“Well first,” he said. “They represent physical characteristics that defy any scientific fact.”

I had long suspected that. Click here for further clarification.

“I figured as much,” I said.

“Second, they all seem to emerge from a hidden fear of nuclear, or other scientific experiments gone bad.”

“Yes,” I said. “Remember that they appeared shortly after a world war in which 40 million people were killed.”

”So we have monsters appearing that had been hidden for eons and then released by some new catalyst.” He paused. “Am I getting too technical for you?”

“I’m with you so far,” I said. “But where is this going?”

“Ah,” he said. “Fast forward to present time in your country.”

“Present time?” I said.

“Yes. Your country in particular seems to be confronting social monsters that most believed long dead.”

”Social monsters?”

“Yes, just consider the attacks on the rights of women, denial of science, not wanting to care for the sick and elderly, anti-veteran sentiment, and the spewing forth of racial hatred generated by the election of a president of color in the most powerful nation on earth.”

I was stunned.

“Weren’t these monsters slain decades ago?”

“We thought so.”

”So what is the current catalyst? Can’t be atomic bombs this time.”

“I don’t know.”



Rick Santorum's greatest nightmare - C.W.

 ”Ah,” he said. “So here is my gift to your species.”

“Your gift?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have the answer.”

I bit. “And?”

“Bottled water.”

“Bottled water?”

“Yes, the decision to begin paying for a free substance had to be a mental catastrophe of near Biblical proportions.”

That’s all folks.