436. Prophecy

It was abnormally quiet in the house. I had come in from working outdoors and my wife was away for the day. I thought I’d better check on C.W. Did I mention that it was abnormally quiet? That’s when it’s a good idea to check on C.W.

But, uncharacteristically, I found him in my favorite easy chair reading a book. At least I assumed it was he, the shape was that of a middle-aged man of scholarly demeanor. He had a long, hawkish, face beset by wrinkles and accentuated by a thin mustache. His eyes flashed beneath a crop of dark, unruly hair.

He looked vaguely familiar but I let it pass. “What’s up? I said.

“The Elders are pissed,” he said, closing the book.

“Oh?” It was then that I notice what book he was reading. It was Nineteen Eighty-Four.

“And why are they pissed this time?”

“Don’t you think they have a right to be?” He said gruffly.

“I don’t know.”

“Listen,” he said. I noticed scads of yellow stickers protruding from the book. He turned to them, one after another, and read.

“War is peace.”

“Freedom is slavery.”

“Ignorance is strength.”

He closed the book. “Sound familiar? Maybe a little like last night’s newscast?”

Before I could answer, he turned to another marker and read, “One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship.” He looked up at me and smiled, then said, “The choice for mankind lies between freedom and happiness and for the great bulk of mankind, happiness is better.”

“Is this going somewhere?”

“Be still and learn,” he said. He didn’t say it in a friendly way. I’d never seen him like this before. He quickly turned to another page and read. “And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed—if all records told the same tale—then the lie passed into history and became truth. ‘Who controls the past’ ran the Party slogan, ‘controls the future: who controls the present controls the past.'”

I just stood there, thinking of our Secretary of Education. “Are you,” he said, “proud of your country now? How do you like being a fulfillment of prophecy? Not the mythical kind where you read a prediction and then go make it happen, but when it happens on its own and you say, ‘So and So saw that coming?’”

As I pondered this, he continued, pointing at another section. He read, “Doublethink means the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one's mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them.” He stopped. “Say, for example, you have a twice-divorced adulterer being worshiped as a religious icon by a third of your population. He flashed a half-smile for the first time. If you think the Elders are pissed, you ought to talk to the Galilean. See?”

Trying to make sense of it all, I tried to answer. I could only say, “Yes.”

Do I have to draw you a picture? - C.W.

He snapped. “Is any of this really beginning to make sense? Does any of it sound familiar at all?”

“Yes,” I said. “I first read the book in high school and then several more times since.”

“Idiot,” he snapped. “I’m talking about 2018, not some journey into your past.”

This was the strangest C.W. I had encountered ever. “What is with you?” I said.

“Don’t you watch the news?” he said. “The Elders certainly do.”

“And why are they so upset?”

“You have no idea?”

“Maybe a slight idea. Could it be …?”

“Shut up,” he said. “Listen.” He turned to another marker and looked at me, his dark eyes piercing the farthest corner of my mind. “Listen,” he said, “and learn. Then you may know why the Elders are pissed.

This time he read gravely, “We know that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m beginning to see you point. America today is starting to sound exactly—and I’ll admit it’s scary as hell—like the state described in Orwell’s book.” I paused, “But what has the Elders so upset?”

“Orwell!” he screamed. “Orwell … what has the Elders so pissed about Orwell, his prophecies, and modern America?”

“Yes,” I said, “yes … what?”

“Only,” he said, “that they sent me here in 1947 to warn you.”

434: Hypocrisy

It’s always nice when C.W. does his Edward R. Murrow routine. My wife, though, makes us sit outdoors on account of his smoking so much. We sat near sundown last evening under a shade tree in an Arkansas July without a breeze stirring.

I had pulled and extension chord over and placed a box fan a few feet in front of us. “Bless you, my child,” he said, lighting another cigarette. He smiled, took a draw, and put his lighter back into a pocket. “I thought the London Blitz was uncomfortable, but now I don’t know.”

“What’s on your mind?” I said. “You don’t do Murrow unless it is serious.”

“The Elders are at it again.”

“The Falloonian Elders?”

“Are there any others?”

I didn’t reply, no use when he’s on roll. Instead, I asked, “What are they wanting to know?”

“When it all started.”

“When what started?”

“The path that has led to the present hypocrisy-challenged mess your country is in.”

“Hypocrisy-challenged?”

“As in so many can’t recognize it, or refuse to.” He took a drag and exhaled. He leaned an elbow on his crossed leg and held the cigarette like an exhibit. “I think,” he said, “that it started during the so-called ‘New Deal.’ But some of my colleagues want to take it all the way back to the Civil War.” He waived the cigarette as if directing music. “The some of us place it as late as the Johnson-Goldwater election back in 1964. Then there are the radical thinkers that place it as starting the day after Nixon fled the scene. What do you think?”

“I think I have no idea what the hell you are talking about.”

He looked at me as if I had just doubted the known facts of natural selection. “You don’t?”

“Something about politics?”

He nodded and exhaled smoke. “Bingo. I’m talking about the moment when one political party became so angry and revenge-bent that it would be willing to bring the whole country down, given time, cunning, and patience.”

I nodded. The fog was lifting. He continued. “I’m torn between the New Deal and Johnson/Goldwater.”

“When the unquenchable hatred started?”

“Yes. There are two things that irritate conservatives the most.”

“They are?”

“The first is helping those who are poor in spirit, who mourn, the meek, the merciful, and who seek peace. You know, the usual crowd of losers that their favorite writer—that Ayn what’s her name— taught them to despise.”

“And the second?”

“Losing, losing in any shape form or fashion.”

“So you think those have led to an inability to recognize hypocrisy?”

“Are you kidding me?” He flipped the cigarette away and reached for another. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”

“Well, yeah. There does seem to be some double standard about confirming a Supreme Court nominee.”

“Or who is a follower of the Galilean and who’s not?”

“Yeah, there is this Franklin Graham character.”

“Just nominated, as I understand it,” he said, “to the Hypocrite’s Hall of Fame.”

“And you think it started with FDR and blossomed under Johnson?”

“Do-gooders on parade,” he said. “But they just maybe started it. There’s no disagreement, even among the parties, as to who caused it to flourish.”

“No doubt?”

“No doubt at all.”

“You mean there is a bizarre example of bi-partisan agreement as to what caused this abyss of hypocrisy and hatred?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“It was Obama’s fault.”

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.

378: Sin

“Explain it to me one more time. And this time, don’t just shake your head.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Look. You’re my host on this part of the earth and you’re supposed to explain things to me so I can send explanations back to the Falloonian Elders.”

“We’re sort of in unchartered waters right now.”

“Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

C.W. had appeared in a strange shape and was in a strange mood. The best description would be a cross between TV evangelist and a movie actor of the John Wayne genre. He wore a green, tailored suit that reflected sunlight to the point that it almost hurt one’s eyes. It was topped off by and wide Stetson hat. A pair of rattlesnake cowboy boots finished the effect. Strange.

“I want them damned cigars,” he said.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Our president has put trade restrictions back on with the country that makes them. We can’t go there.”

“That makes no sense whatsoever. What has this country done to upset your leader now?”

“Nothing now, it was nearly 60 years ago.”

“What?”

“The country fell to Communist forces in January of 1959.”

“And?”

“We haven’t done business with them since.”

Nothing in 60 years? That dude, your president, sure knows how to hold a grudge. Forgiveness ain’t part of his act, is it?”

“Some people claim the opposite. He did forgive the Russians. Not Cuba, though. They are still Communists.”

“So, you don’t do business with Communist countries? What the hell do you call China?”

Uh …, “

“Vietnam?”

“It’s not only that they are Communists, or so he says.”

“Oh? Then what?”

“Human rights violations. Yeah. That’s it. Human rights violations. They mistreat people.”

“What do they do, chop off their heads if they don’t worship the right way? Do they get religion and governance all mixed up?”

“Uh … ,”

“Withhold rights from whole groups of people? Women? Gays?”

“Uh … ,”

“Send us terrorists?”

“None of those. They used to meddle in the affairs of other countries in the region, but I don’t think they’ve done that in a while. I don’t think they do much of anything, except dance. They do dance a lot.”

“So, meddling in the affairs of other countries is a hanging offense?” He stopped. He had been in John Wayne mode, but a change came over him. “Dance? Did you say dance?”

“Yes.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. This dancing crap. Can’t put up with that.”

“I’m glad you see that.”

“Sex. I bet they do that too, don’t they?”

“Oh, I’m sure they do.”

“It figures. Sin is as sin does. Bet they do it in all different ways as well.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You can be honest with me. Mrs. Big Dope is out shopping.”

“I still don’t know.”

“I’ll bet the first folks that came over to them from Europe taught them how to do it the right way.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“Then sin arose and showed its head.” He stopped and winked. “No joke intended, son. Once they started actually enjoying it, sex that is, it was a short distance to the wicked pathway of sin and despair.”

 

Beware of lurking perils. First thing you  know,
this woman will have you dancing. - C.W.

“Do you think so?”

“Oh yes. First thing you know they were doing it standing up. And you know what that led to, don’t you?”

“Dancing?”

“Damned right. The sin of all sins. I take it all back. It’s good to have a fine moral president. I couldn’t bear the thought that I was actually supporting a country that exported the terrors of dance along with their cigars.”

“I’m glad I was able to explain it to you.”

“Damned fine of you. Now, one more favor.”

“Sure.”

“Let’s find another source of cigars.”

“Sure.”

“See what you can find me from Columbia.”

See also:

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

351. Truth

“Did you know that Ronald Reagan put on a short skirt with multiple petticoats, a red silk blouse, and a tiara on Saturdays, then spent the evening practicing the polka with Oliver North?”

“That’s nice,” I said. “I’m glad to see that you are studying history ….” I looked up from my book. “He what …?”

Staring back at me was Walter Cronkite, or at least the Alien C.W. in a form greatly resembling the legendary newsman.

“They say he had gotten pretty good at it.”

“They say what …?”

“That’s nothing,” he said. “Ever hear of Antonin ‘Antsy’ Scalia?”

“Of course,” I said, “Everyone has.”

He looked at me in such a dark manner that the hair rose on the back of my neck. “Really? Everyone?”

“Sure,” I said, “the Supreme Court justice who died this year. Everyone knows who’s on the Supreme Court.”

“You’ve never been to West Virginia then, have you?”

“What?”

“Or Kansas?”

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

“How about Mississippi, South Carolina, or the state we’re in right now? Everyone … really?”

“What about Judge Scalia.?” I said, returning to what I assumed was the thread of the conversation.

“He wore a Glock 19 under his robe while court was in session.”

I sighed.

“He was convinced that Barbara Bush intended to try and assassinate him.”

I said nothing.

“She threatened to on several occasions. Seems she hates Catholics, and doesn’t mind saying so in private. It started with that Hurricane Katrina thing. Her husband let it slip once at a cocktail party.”

“Will you please explain yourself?”

“That’s not all.”

“Now!” I said.

“One time it went off, the Glock did, before the court opened and shot off one of the big toes of Clarence Thomas.”

“This is crazy.”

“Dick Cheney had it hushed up and the press never knew. He said they weren’t going to make the same mistake twice.”

I shook my head.

“Some of the other justices, Ruth Bader Ginsburg in particular, still call him ‘Toeless Tom’ behind his back.”

“I’m tired of this.”

“Don’t you want to hear about the illegitimate love-child of Mitch McConnell and Sarah Palin.”

I began to retch and took several deep breaths.

“They say it has a vestigial tail.”

“That I might believe,” I said. “But the rest …?”

“Oh,” he said, “and here is some hot news about to go to press.”

“What press?”

He ignored me. “It’s about Ann Coulter.”

That got my attention. “What about Ann Coulter?”

“He may be the next director of the FBI.”

“He?”

“Yeah, but he’ll have to come clean first. This time it was Pence the Porno Man who said they weren’t going to make the same mistake twice.”

“Wait,” I said. “I asked you: what press?”

“Why my new press,” he said. “It’s called the ‘So Here Is That Which Is In Accordance With Fact Or Reality Press.’ How do you like it? Catchy huh?”

“Uh, ….” I was speechless. I ran through the name in my mind. “Ah,” I said. “Do you mean the ‘So Here Is Truth Press’ by any chance?”

 

Watch closely when they show films
of the justices playing tag football
during recesses.You won't see him
volunteer to attempt a field goal. - C.W.

“Isn’t that what I said? You don’t like it?”

“Oh,” I said, “I think it’s perfect, but are any of those things true?”

“What do you mean true?”

“I mean true, like factual.”

“What planet are you living on? If one person believes one of them, then it is true for them. And,” he said, “they will pay handsomely for it. Truth is what you are willing to believe and pay for.”

“Oh,” I said. “It’s another one of your money-making schemes?”

“What else would creative news be good for?”

“You are crazy,” I said.

“Maybe so,” he said, “but, speaking of he FBI,  I bet I could interest you in some juicy tidbits about the affair between Michelle Bachman and J. Edgar Hoover.” He nodded. “They say she even calls him ‘Jedgar’ for short.”

“But he’s been dead for years.”

He raised one eyebrow and nodded, looking very conspiratorial. “So how many do you want to order?”

 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 .

         

330. Confusion

We were having a nice stroll, the Galilean and I. That’s becoming one of C.W.’s favorite shapes. He’s now shortened both the length of his robe and his hair, but he is still eminently recognizable. At my request, he lightened his skin tones. It’s not advisable out in “fly over country” to be seen in public as a dark-skinned middle-easterner. Other than that, he was in his normal character.

We were walking in a landscaped area at our country place, a quiet spot we call “The Grove.” They made molasses there back in the day and there is a legend that a civil war unit once camped there before burning the farm for some malfeasance or other. It is a peaceful spot now and he likes it.

He was smoking one of my cigars and about to finish a Dos Equis beer. He took a long swig and began looking around. “Don’t throw that bottle down out here,” I said. “Remember what happened last time.”

“She thought you did it,” he said. “And besides, it didn’t hurt her lawnmower.”

“No, but it ruined a tire.”

“Collateral damage,” he said. “Can’t be helped.”

I said nothing.

“There’s going to be a lot of that if your species continues on its current path.”

“Why is that?”

He looked around. “I need another beer,” he said. “You want one?”

“Sure,” I said, and sat on a piece of antique farm equipment until he returned with two bottles.

“She’s rebuking me again, Mrs. Big Dope is,” he said.

I ignored him and he sat beside me. He said, “She doesn’t like cigar smoke in her kitchen.”

“I could have told you that had you asked.”

“On the topic of rebuking,” he said, “wasn’t I pretty clear about divorces, when I visited earth the first time?”

“You were against them as I remember.” It's best to play along when he is like this.

“Explain this fascination your voters seem to have to have with someone who’s had two,” he said.

 “I can’t.”

“Loving money,” he said. “I told Paulie to be real specific about the dangers of that. Why wasn’t he?”

“I think he was.”

“He warned about coveting riches?”

“Best I can recall.”

“Did he include the part about piercing themselves through with many sorrows if they erred.”

“In all the versions that I have read.”

“Good,” he said. “Paulie tended to get distracted when Timothy was around. ‘Pierced with many sorrows.’ I made that up myself.” He paused, took a sip of beer, puffed his cigar and blew smoke rings into the grove.  “Many sorrows,” he repeated, savoring the phrase. “There,” he said. “Is your collateral damage. It seems that too many of you are set to vote for a man to run your country whose only qualification is that he loves money.”

“They also say they like him because he speaks this mind.”

When he spoke his mind ...
the conservatives crucified him. - C.W.

He rolled his eyes and sighted. “Oh please,” he said. “That last visit, I spent half my time driving demons out of people who spoke their minds.”

I thought on this. He continued. “You know I cared a great deal for the poor and meek,” he said, “and the peacemakers.” He tilted his beer up and took a swig. “And those who mourn, the merciful, and some others. I think I specified eight in all. I have trouble remembering. It was hot as hell they day I spelled those out.” He drank more beer. “Eight, I believe.”

“I think you have it right,” I said.

“This guy, the one with the orange face and yellow hair … he and his bunch hate all eight, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “But they don’t stop there.”

“Well,” he said. “At least the followers I have left here among your species will denounce him soundly.”

That got my attention. “Uh,” I said. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“I have some bad news for you.”

“Crap,” he said. He stuck his cigar in the corner of his mouth. “You might as well tell me.” He stopped and held an empty bottle before me. He spoke around the cigar. “But it’s your time to get the beer. You go fetch us a couple of cold ones and I’ll sit here in the garden alone.”

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 .

Morning Thoughts: July 16, 2016

Hello Friends. Big Dope and I are swapping thoughts this week. Today is his turn, so give him a read.
- Your Pal,
C.W.

Guess I shouldn’t comment on D. Trump’s many bankruptcies. I’m from a family that endured one. When a tornado ripped through our community south of Pine Bluff, AR in 1947, killing more than 30 people, my father opened his little country grocery store, which had been mercifully spared, and said, “If you need it, come and get it, whether you can pay for it or not."

People came and he fed them until the groceries ran out.

He went broke and had to start over.

The local newspaper, in a nice article, said there should have been a monument erected to him.

The little town of Lonsdale, Arkansas saw the newspaper article, took a collection, and sent my father $45.00, all the money he ever received for his act of humanity.

Gee, that reminds me of The Galilean. Does anything about D. Trump suggest The Galilean? For some unfathomable reason, the evangelicals think so. They have announced plans to support him and his third wife for President and First Lady of the United States of America.

What has happened to us?

312. Professions

“Let’s see. Cost of equipment per client. Rental fees. Personnel costs. Training. What else?”

Oh no. I could tell by the dialogue that C.W. was onto another of his get rich schemes. Don’t ask me why. I don’t even think they use money on Falloonia. I turned and tried to slip away, but he heard me. Unfortunately,

“Hey Big Dope. Come here. You will want in on this. Don’t you have a good friend who is a cinematographer?”

I contemplated running away, but I get a kick out of his schemes sometimes, so I walked into the next room to fine a perfectly formed shape of what Cecil B. DeMille must have looked like in his prime. He was pouring over sheets of paper and scribbling with a furious intensity that reminded me of a schoolboy running out of time on a test.

“What the …?”

He looked up and flashed a smile. “How much do those little gadgets cost that you can hook up to a cell phone and make credit card charges?”

I ignored him. “What are you doing?”

“Working on a plan to make us rich.” He drew a line under a column of figures with a flourish and smiled again. “To an extreme and often disgustingly extent rich.”

“So how are we going to become filthy rich this time?”

“Prostitution.”

That stunned me. “Prostitution?”

“Actually prostitution plus.”

“Prostitution is illegal almost everywhere in this country,” I said. “You are going to get us all arrested.”

“Oh no,” he said, “and besides, they can’t imprison me. I’ll just change to an insect and fly out.”

“Some folks around here already think of you as an insect, so don’t press your luck in a house with so many fly swatters.” Then I thought. “But what about me? I couldn’t fly out of jail so what would happen to me?”

“I’ll change into a priest and bring you reading material,” he said. “But anyway, nobody is going to get arrested.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Prostitution Plus,” he said. “That’s what we’ll call it.”

“And how does that make a difference? Prostitution by any other name is still illegal.”

“Ah yes,” he said. “But art films depicting intimate behavior among consenting adults is not.”

“You mean porn films?”

“We prefer the term ‘results of vintage adult situations,’ as more sophisticated,” he said. “Now, here’s the deal. How does a prostitute normally approach a john?” He laughed. “That’s what we call them in the business: ‘Johns.’ Is that cute or what? I would prefer ‘chumps,’ and Mrs. Big Dope agrees.”

“You mentioned his to her?”

“Yes. I had to ask someone how working women or men approached their chumps, …  uh, … Johns, … uh prospects.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said to ask you.”

“Let’s just stop this right now,” I said. “We’re still talking about accosting someone with a proposal for participating in an illegal act.”

“Isn't it odd among your species," he said, that politicians can sell their souls for money but people can't rent their bodies for pleasure? Anyway, so a person says to a stranger, 'Hey mister. Want to make an art film?' That’s an illegal proposal?”

That stopped me. “Well,” I said, “what about the sex?”

“Incidental,” he said. “Just part of the plot line.”

“But the, uh, John will pay?”

“Of course, but only for the studio, equipment rental, actor’s fee, and the cost of the complimentary copy of the DVD.”

I let that one pass since my mind was whirling.

“So?” he said. “You considering it?”

“No,” I said. “I’m having a ‘John Agar Moment’ and I have to think.”

If she is a senator offering to sell her vote,
then it's a perfectly legal act. How odd. - C.W.

“You mean that actor that played in the science fiction movies years ago with all the monsters and such?”

“Yes.”

“So what moment do you refer to?”

“The moment at which his girlfriend comes up with a way to destroy the monster.”

C.W. thought. “And what does he say?”

“It just might work.”


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.

297. Love and Grace

Oh my, y’all, C.W. has a new shape, and it may be the strangest one yet. He calls it simply “The Galilean.”

Yes. That Galilean —white robes, sandals and all.

It’s not just one shape. It’s two: the Galilean and a pal. (He can do that if he wants). Anyway, they’ve been going everywhere together, the one in his robe and the other in a three-piece suit with vest and tie-pin. They’ve already been thrown out of a Chick-fil-a and menaced at Hobby Lobby.

Did I mention that they don’t bother bathing all that often?

Of course the one wants me to interview the other and pay close attention to his testimony, that is to say that Three-Piece wants me to be pals with the Galilean. Actually, I haven’t minded so far, since he always brings a bottle of “Four Roses Single Barrel” to make the conversation flow more easily. Three Piece keeps the glasses full while the Galilean pontificates.

Yesterday he was grumbling.

“You won’t believe, Big Dope …”

“Wait,” I said, pointing to Three Piece. “Did he tell you to call me that?”

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock,” he said. “Does it matter by which name I call you out?”

Three Piece giggled. “Go on,” I said.

“I get a bum rap,” he said. “Some of your species make up and blame me for all kinds of cr…”

“Careful,” I said. “Remember that the sun rises on the evil and on the good.”

“I am the way,” he said. “Let not your heart be troubled.”

I directed us back to the point of the conversation. “So just how have you been maligned?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of a character named Franklin Graham?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Joel Osteen?”

“Oh, boy.”

“John Hagee? The guys and I call him Piggy.”

“He’s a work of art all right.”

He had a sad, far-away look in his eyes. “Well, how would you like to have them invoke your name?”

“Not really,” I said.

“The worst though,” he said, after taking a sip of his Four Roses and Three Cubes,  “was that son of a …”

“Careful,” I said. “My wife is in the next room.”

“That jerk,” he said, “Algernon Charles Swinburne.”

“Swineburne dissed you?”

“If it were not so, would I have told you?” He drained his glass and handed it to Three Piece with a flip that indicated a refill.”

“What did Swinburne do, exactly?” We waited for Three Piece.

“Ah,” he said, taking his drink in hand. “It’s nice to have a dear companion. Ask and it shall be given.” He winked at Three Piece. “I used to hang out with The Apostle,” he said, “but he wouldn’t get off this ‘thorn in my side’ kick and it got to where I wouldn’t go into a public restroom with him.”

“About Swinburne,” I said.

“He wrote this afwful poem,” he said, “in which he judged others. You know I don’t like that …”

“Others?”

“Well, me,” he said. “Claimed the old gods were bright, colorful, and full of life.”

“And you?”

He gazed off into space and thought, so he would get the passage correct. “Me? Try this on for size, ‘Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath.’ I complained to him about it once.”



Swinburne can just kiss my grits. - The Galilean

“And what did he say?”

“'Everyone who humbles himself will be exalted.’ I sort of like that quote. I’ve used it myself.” He drained his glass. “But I never though anyone would use it on me.”

I contemplated this for a moment, while Three Piece scurried about. “So you think the line is unfair?”

“Thanks,” he said to Three Piece. Then he turned to me. “Don’t you ever read the scriptures?”

I fought the urge to borrow the famous line from General George S. Patton. Instead, I said, “Well yeah.”

“One of the few who do,” he said. “Anyway, then you know we were a bunch of wild and crazy guys, back in the day.”

“Oh really?”

“Hell yes,” he said. “Me and my bros just wandered about not bothering a soul, sipping wine, breaking bread, …” he giggled, “sometimes wind as well, and telling people to love one another as we loved them.” His eyes took on that far-away look again. He sipped. “I don’t really recommend that you do that, though.”
 

“And why not?’

“You see where it got us, don’t you?”

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.

278. Optimism

Found C.W. I guess I should more appropriately say I found C.W. looking like a cross between Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp scrolling through my computer. I started to speak, “What the …”

“Shhh,” he said. “I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Trying to find her.” He changed screens. “She’s free, you know.”

“Who?”

“Why Big Bang’s Penny,” he said. “Haven’t you heard?”

“You mean Kaley Cuoco, the actress?”

“No, Big Bang’s Penny.”

“Okay,” I said. “So what about her?”

“She and her husband are divorcing.”

“Oh, and we are happy for what reason?”

He beamed. “I need to let her know that I’m available.”

“C.W.,” I said, “she is an actress who plays a part on television, not a real person.”

“But she is available.”

“The actress will soon be single. That doesn’t mean that she will be available.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Is she lighthearted and carefree, tending toward the happy and good-spirited?”

“She is not 'gay' as far as I know.”

“Well,” he said. “Then I shall send her this letter.” He held a sheet out toward me.

“And what will you say?”

“That I’m willing.”

“You’re willing?”

“Heck yes.”

I groaned. “C.W., you’re an illegal immigrant, a shapeshifter, and a Falloonian. What do you mean you’re willing?”

“I mean a man from outer space could put a smile on her face.” His eyes widened. “Oh …,” he said and turned to type on the computer.

“I’m not even sure that you are a man, if they have such things as male and female on Falloonia.”

He looked up, thought, and tacked. “Why do couples among your culture get divorced?”

“I guess they realize they made a mistake in choosing a mate.”

“Why do they get married again?”

“Optimism, I suppose. They think maybe they’ll get it right the second time.”

“Then why do some get divorced a second time?”

“They choose poorly again?”

“Then remarry?”

I shrugged. “Is this conversation going somewhere?”

“You and Mrs. Big Dope never divorced, did you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“We love and cherish one another, I suppose.”

“That’s not what she says.”

“Oh?”

“I think I remember the phrase, ‘not worth the trouble’ in her explanation.”

“When did she say that?”

He ignored me. ”But back to divorce and remarriage, four times seems a lot for someone, even with your belief in optimism within your species.”
 

“Yes. Four times is a lot.”

“And according to your dominant religion, once is considered a sin?”

“Very much so.”

“Like loving money?”

“Yes.”

“And proclaiming your faith in the public square instead of in your closet?”

“Ditto.”

“And being judgemental?”

I'm optimistic that some women can find the right
mate after one unsuccessful marriage. - C.W.

“Are you going to take up “The Cloth” or something?”

“I already tried that. By the time I got to ‘Blessed are the meek’ half my congregation had walked out. ‘Blessed are the peace-makers’ got the rest of them.” He took a deep breath. “But tell me something.”

“I’ll try.”

He handed me the beginning of a letter he had been writing. “Do you think this will work? I’m betting it will.”

I read. It said, “Earthlings got you down? Look to the Cosmos. Once you go stellar, you’ll not want another feller.”

I was stunned. “You are giving me a headache,” I said. I’m sure you’ll give her one.”

“No,” he said, “I’ll give her the hope that comes from faith in a higher life-form, a real sexy one.”

 Please click some ads. They help pay my postage. 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

253. Longings

Oh no. It was happening. On a sleepy early spring day, C.W. was homesick. He gets that way every couple of months when he starts thinking about his native planet of Falloonia. He assumes the shape and demeanor of a pretty young girl of thirteen or so with sad eyes and a look of longing to be somewhere far away. He, she, lounges aimlessly on the couch and won’t eat, read, or even watch TV, all odd behavior for a teenaged girl.

That’s not the worst part.

 He yodels.

Yes, yodels. He says it is the closest thing on earth we have to what Falloonians call music. Any dogs that may be hanging around flee the moment he assumes this mood. My wife locks herself away. We’ve actually had neighbors call to see if someone is having a seizure.

Sometimes, not always, I can tease him out of his mood by discussing current affairs. So, on this day, I gave it a try. In between yodeling episodes, I interjected a question.

“Been keeping up with the news?”

“It’s all, like, boring,” he said. Then he let loose with a shrill vibrato that bounced around the room like musical marbles.

“But what,” I said during a brief break, “about the man in the news who admitted to molesting his sisters and some other young girls when he was a teenager?”

The yodeling stopped.

“He what?”

“He sexually molested young girls.”

“Like me?”

“Well,” I said, “like what you appear to be at this moment.”

He shook his head and a long, blond pigtail swung into his face. “What does that mean, ‘he molested them’ anyway? It, like, sounds creepy.” He drew a breath to begin yodeling again.

Quickly, I said. “It means that he touched them in places that were inappropriate for him to, uh, touch them.”

“On their heads?”

Oh, I forgot to tell you that, in the Falloonian culture, it is considered a grave insult to touch one of the heads of another creature.

“Oh no,” I said. “They weren’t Falloonian girls.”

“Where then. On their gudascnifamoor++?

“You know our species doesn’t have those. We detect smells through our noses.”

“Oh,” he said, “I, like, forgot.”

“No,” I said, “he touched them where their mammary glands will be when they mature, and where they will produce babies.”

There was a long silence, then, “Euuueew.”

“Quite so,” I said.

He looked down and crossed his legs, smoothing his dress and scooting back on the couch. He eyed me with a look of suspicion I had never witnessed from him. “I thought,” he said, “that was considered, like, a crime in your culture.”

“Oh, it is,” I said. “It is.”

“So the perpetrator is in jail now?”

“Uh, no,” I said.

He began to yodel again.

Sometimes I just don't understand
the human species. - C.W.

“But,” I said, interrupting him in mid screech, “he did lose his job.”

The yodeling stopped. “What job?”

“He had this high-paying job with a group that exists to teach us proper moral behavior.”

He started yodeling again, this time with more enthusiasm.

“And,” I said, “apparently he was given a stern talking to.”

“Was he, like, painted bright orange and driven from the tribe with ‘ribbons of remorse’ draped around him?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “We don’t follow that tradition on this planet. His tribe blamed the whole thing on the girls.”

This time I knew there was no stopping the yodeling, so I joined the dogs outside.

Please click some ads. That's the only way I'll get my new computer.

Oh, and see www.wattensawpress.com

And ... www.allhatnocattle.com

Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.

 

Riches From Religion

Dear Friends and Followers:

Here is the deal. I like to write. I’m not very good at it, and here is the reason: a person reviewed something I wrote.

It devastated me.

Now, understand, I have a long-held and sincere belief (well, at least since I have been on your planet) that a person has a God-given right to make up rules of grammar as they’re personal religious beliefs dictate. Ask Big Dope, as he knows this all real good.

Between you and I, this reviewer was gay, African-American, Muslim, a Vietnam veteran, liberal, and didn’t own a firearm. Hell yes, you’d also hate him to, as well.

Send money, lots of money. The more the better. - C.W.

This reviewer scorched my writing over it’s grammar. You can’t imagine how bad that offended my religious beliefs. Where, in the Scriptures, do it say that subjects and objects is connected and must agree ever time? Noplace, I say to you confident.

 

So I said that I wouldn’t  no longer allow gay, African-American, Muslim, Vietnam veteran, liberals who didn’t own guns to read my material. Now they’s boycotting me and saying nasty things about Big Dope and I on the internet.

What can you do? Send me money. Let’s show them how we protect religious liberties in this country and what us real Americans think of they and they're tactics. Lets break all records of support for people like you and I. Send the money to Big Dope or to Crowdfunding Relief for Alien Publishers.

Please send amounts over $10,000 by cashier’s check.

I await your support.

 

Your favorite author,

C.W.

 

Contributions of $100 or more will receive a complimentary copy of Big Dope's book. Otherwise you'll have to go on-line or to www.wattensawpress.com and order it.

 

 

Prophesies

Dear Friends and Followers

 I got the biggest blow or forceful thrust with the foot out of this cartoon from my friend Lisa at

http://www.allhatnocattle.net today. (Editor’s note: he means “kick.” His Galactic Universal Translator has tricked him again.).

See also: www.wattensawpress.com