Making Up

Big Dope was mad all day yesterday about the blood pressure thing but I finally calmed him down when I shapeshifted into Fiona Hill and brought him a bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey. We chatted a while and decided to try and understand American politics. We failed.

We finally decided that there was one explanation. People think it’s fun to watch. Those that don’t think so think it’s fun to ridicule those who do. It’s like a Falloonian practice called, Aeneginticknuhwha. That translates roughly into, “Running in circles to avoid the biting of insects.

Anyway, the blood pressure thing seems to be getting better. This morning he wants me to visit him as Marie Yovanovic just before he tests. I think he’s silly, but what the heck.

346.Liberals

You won’t believe it, dear friends. I almost didn’t myself, but after all these years nothing surprises me. What was it? Nothing less than C.W. as a spitting image of Archie Bunker, complete with cigar. When he showed, I got him out of the house as soon as possible and took him to the park  where we walked in an isolated area, the most isolated area I could find, and talked. It turned out to be more interesting than I thought.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he was saying. “We could use a man like J. Edgar Hoover again.”

I stopped him. “Don’t you mean Herbert Hoover?”

“No, Big Dope. Weren’t you listening? J. Edgar.”

“And why, may I ask?”

“Elementary,” he said. “You never seen J. Edgar Hoover take part in a political campaign like this current clown, did you?”

I thought for a long time. “Not precisely,” I said.

“Bet your ass, not precisely,” he said. “That old boy didn’t care who was president. He was a man’s man.”

I let that one pass, and thought. While I was thinking, he continued. “He had files on them all. Didn’t matter to him who held office. He had a file, J. Edgar did.”

“By jove,” I said. “I think you have a point there.”

He changed directions like the lead car in a getaway attempt. “Now you take them coloreds.”

“Wait C.W.,” I said. “We don’t talk like that anymore.”

“Precisely my point,” he said. “If you can’t call them ‘coloreds,’ what can you call them?”

“Uh,” I said. “Americans?”

“That’s what they want,” he said. “For nobody to know the difference. Just like your dames.”

I looked around nervously. “Don’t worry,” he said. “She ain’t around.”

“Who?”

“Miss ‘fancy pants’ herself. Your wife.”

“What about my wife?”

“She don’t like the word ‘dames’ either, Mrs. Big Dope don’t. And don’t ask her if she ever got a job just because she was ‘cute and perky.’ Trust me on that one.”

“You didn’t?”

“Only once,” he said. “But trust me anyway. That dame has a temper.”

Just then a voice from behind us started yelling “Left, left, left you assholes.”

C.W., Archie … whoever, removed the cigar butt from his mouth and flipped it into the air just before the cyclist reached us. A man wearing an outfit resembling that of a space-rocket captain in a 1950s science fiction flick sailed by us. “Move your stupid asses o…,” he was saying when the cigar landed in his mouth. The bicycle wavered and sailed down an embankment into a clump of trees with a loud crash.

“Now,” my companion continued, heedless of the commotion, “you take them liberals.”

 

If your species had paid more
attention to this man in the 1970s.
You would understand your
voters better in 2016. - C.W.

“Like me and the Galilean?”

“Like you and that robe-wearing, love-spouting, wine-guzzling, do-gooder.”

“But,” I said, “he’s you, on one of your better days.”

“I may have been him before,” he said. “But never again. I seen the light.”

“What light?”

“The light that says good, hard-working white men like me ain’t got a chance no more.”

“Want to explain that?”

“They are giving all our jobs to the coloreds, the dames, the latinics, and the hispanos.”

“What?”

“Even puttin’t them in charge of white men. We ain’t got no chance. They’ll be wantin’ to use our bathrooms next thing you know. We’ll all disappear before long. Until then, we’ll just take orders from them.”

I was speechless. “Where did you hear all this?” I managed.

“On this news show I been watchin’. They report and I decide.” He lit another cigar. “I mean,” he continued, “how would you like for Mrs. Big Dope to control your every move, boss you around, control your life, make every decision? Just let you be a pawn in the game of life?”

“C.W.” I said, and I said it soft and slow, so he wouldn’t miss the point. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a complete idiot?’

“Sure,” he said. “I’ve heard that. Lots of times.”

“From whom?”

“Mrs. Big Dope,” he said. Then he started making gestures as if his hands were disabled by palsy. “Now,” he said, “you take them cripples.” But he was talking to himself. I had slipped away and was going down the hill to check on the bicyclist.

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300. Fear

Sometimes C.W. ends up explaining things to me in the strangest fashion, like this morning when I found him in the shape of a young police officer reading the daily news and smoking a cigarette.

“Don’t let my wife catch you doing that,” I said.

“Doing what?”

“You know. Smoking in the house. She’s warned you before.”

“I’m not afraid of her. Are you?”

“Hell yes,” I said. “I recommend it very highly.”

“What? Fear or Mrs. Big Dope?”

“Both,” I said. “Or don’t Falloonians experience fear?”

“Anxiety,” he said. “We sometimes experience anxiety.”

“Oh really? Like when?”

“Like,” he said and stopped to think. “Like when we worry that the illogic that pervades your species might clean, polish, or manipulate by the application of pressure and friction off on us.”

“That our illogic might rub off on you?” Then I decided not to rise to the bait, as he took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled. “You’re going to die,” I said.

“Did you know,” he said, “that the Victorians in England used the word ‘die’ as a euphemism for a sexual orgasm?”

I was pleased at his vocabulary and the fact that he was doing outside research. I nodded and asked, “And did you pick up that bit of trivia there?” I nodded toward the newspaper.

“Oh no,” he said. “I read that in one of Mrs. Big Dope’s books.”

“My wife doesn’t read books like that,” I said.

“How do you know what she reads? You’re always asleep and snoring away by the time she begins to read. You might be surprised.”

I quickly moved to change the subject. “So is there anything interesting in the news today?”

“Illogic and contradictions, unless you understand what you people call evolution.”

I waited.

“Most of the articles are stirring up fear,” he said. “Fear of the food we eat on the left, and fear of the people we meet on the right. Fear of everything else in the middle.”

I nodded. “So where is the illogical?”

“Here,” he said, motioning at the front page. “Seems that even in your largest city, the crime rate is dropping.” He motioned again. “There’s not a country in the world that wants to invade yours.” He opened the paper and nodded. “You are living well past any expectations, given the poor care you take of your bodies.” He lowered the paper. “Yours is one of the safest places on the planet.”

I sat thinking of all this. “Then why,” I said, “all the fear?”

“Evolution,” he said.

“We fear evolution?”

“Some of the least of those among you fear the concept,” he said, “but no, I mean your so-called evolutionary process creates the fear and anxiety.”

“Elucidate,” I said. He paused, and I could almost hear the whirring of his Galactic Universal Translator. “Your GUT giving you problems again?”

“My GUT is fine and I trust it,” he said. “Now, where was I? Oh, I remember.” He paused again. “You asked me to make something that is hard to understand clear or easy to comprehend.”

“Quite so,” I said, enjoying his discomfort. “Evolution and fear.”

“Imagine,” he said, “you are Australopithecus afarensis, one of your ancient cousins, roaming the savannah with your pals.”

I closed my eyes. “Okay,” I said.

“All of you are as tense as a mouse in a cat food factory,” he said, “watching for things that love to eat you, and those things are legion.”

The biggest problem with fear is; it sells so well. - C.W.

“Okay.”

“Except one of you is not tense, afraid, or nervous,” he said. “You are so laid back you could listen to a Jennifer Hudson song without flinching.”

“That’s pretty laid back,” I said

 

“My point exactly,” he said. “Now which of you do you think is going to be eaten first?”

I opened my eyes. “You mean the value of anxiety has lingered with us?”

“Stuck in your DNA like stink on …”

A voice exploded from the next room, “What the hell is that I smell?” I turned toward it. When I turned back, C.W. was gone and, by my hand, the cigarette burned in an ash tray, its smoke rising to curl in the form of a noose.

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275. Role Models

What in the h…? I couldn’t believe it dear reader and neither will you. I woke up long before the rest of the family and wandered into the living room with a cup of coffee and, oh dear, words are inadequate.

There sat Hattie McDaniel behind my computer. Or, there sat Hattie in her role as Mammy in Gone With The Wind. Or something.

It was C.W., but why?

“It’s Labor Day Weekend, Hon,” she … it… he said.

“So?”

“I’m givin’ you the day off.”

“The day off?”

“I done wrote your weekend piece for you.”

“You,” I said, stammering, “wrote my weekend piece?”

“I did.”

“And you want me to post it?”

“Just come look at it.”

I did. It’s not what I would have done. Too controversial. But, I had to appreciate the thought. Here it is just as he, she, did it.

 Dear Friends and all:

Your actions, as reported in your popular media, indicate that you tend to choose role models to enhance your personal beliefs. This is unusual for me, since Falloonians choose to base our beliefs on logic and analysis. Anyway, I have analyzed your choices of role models, as indicated by recent postings in what you call social media, particularly VisageDocument. (Editor’s note: He means Facebook.)

Now it seems that, at one end of the spectrum, many of y'all have chosen this face as a role model.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the other end, many of y'all have chosen this face as a role model.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After much thought and analysis, I have come to a conclusion.

Babies, y’all need to work on y’alls' role models. Real bad.

If you wonder why I say that, just think about it for a minute. Would you like for me to report back to the Falloonian Elders that these are the kinds of people your species looks to for guidance in their personal lives?

I didn’t think so either. Why don’t y’all let me make some suggestions?

Here is one. She is Captain Kristen Marie Griest, of your United States Army.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is another. She is First Lieutenant Shaye Lynne Haver of that same army.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now these two women just graduated from the United States Army Ranger School and they would make fine roles models. At least it seems so to me.

 

At any rate, don’t y’all be messing around with either one of them. And have a good day.

“Well,” he said, after I had looked it over, “reckon it would offend anybody?”

“Only just about everybody,” I said. “But what the heck?”

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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

221: Be Very Afraid

“We have to wake Mrs. Big Dope up.” C.W. came running in a little while ago with this bizarre proposal.

“Say what?”

“She’s got to start sewing.” He had a portfolio of drawings under his arm and looked exactly like an excited Norman Rockwell, complete with pipe. “We’re going to have abundant possessions.”

“You mean we’re going to be rich?”

“That’s what I just said.”

“Oh no,” I said. “Not again.”

He clenched his pipe between his teeth. “Can’t miss this time. Want in?”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll bite. What’s going to make us abundantly blessed this time?”

“Halloween costumes,” he said, pointing to his drawings. “I have all the designs right here.”

“Halloween costumes?” I took a deep breath.

“Just in time for the elections.”

“What have the elections got to do with Halloween?” I said. This was taking an ominous turn.

“Synergy,” he said, “that’s the interaction or cooperation of two or more organizations, substances, or other agents to produce a combined effect greater than the sum of their separate effects …”

“I know what synergy is,” I said, “but how does it link Halloween and the elections?”

He looked at me as if I had just asked why the sky gets dark at night. “Fear,” he said. “Haven’t you heard? Fear is the dominant campaign theme of our party.”

“Your party,” I said.

“Whatever,” he said. “We’ve got white people shaking in their boots with fear and my idea will cinch it.”

“C.W.,” I said. “Sometimes you disappoint me.”

“Lookit,” he said, pulling a sheet from his packet. It was a drawing of a costume made to look like President Barack Obama in a mullah outfit holding a sword and bloody head in one hand and a candy bag in the other that said “Give me your riches, or else.”

“Christ,” I said, “Put that thing away.”

He let it fall to the floor and retrieved another. It was a drawing of a costume that would fit over a young child and resulted in a seven-foot likeness of Michael Brown with a sign that said, “Give me your daughter, or die.”

“Clever, eh?” he said.

“Disgusting,” I said.

This time he looked a little disappointed, but he discarded it and pulled out another. It was a girl’s outfit this time—a red dress, high-heeled red shoes, and a Nancy Pelosi mask. She was holding a big beaker labelled “Ebola juice. Will trade for candy.”

“Out,” I said. “Out. And don’t return until you’ve come to your senses.”

“But wait,” he said, “you haven’t seen ‘Hillary Viper’ or ‘Pit Bull Biden’ or ‘Creepy Crawley Carter’ or “Rob A Manwewill’ or ..”

“Out,” I said.

"From ghoulies and ghosties and long leggety

beasties and things that go bump in the night,

 Good Lord, deliver us!" - Scottish Prayer

Said to be one of the oldest examples of your

written English language. - C.W.

I guess I yelled it this time for a voice came from the next room, “You two better quieten down in there,” it said, “I’m working on a project.”

“She’ll be on my side,” C.W. said. Then he yelled out in his sweetest voice. “Whatcha working on, Mizz BD?”

“An idea for a Halloween costume,” she said.

“See,” he said, smirking at me, “she’ll be my partner in this.” The he yelled back. “I’ll bet it’s a good one,” he said. “What do you call it?”

“Bawling Boehner Bones,” she yelled back.

 

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- C.W.

211. Ignorance

He was glassy-eyed and groggy, not the usual demeanor for C.W. His moves were a little robotic and his head would jerk from side to side when I spoke to him. What was up?

“You okay?”

“No,” he said, “I’m worried.”

“About what?”

“The unemployment rate.”

“The unemployment rate?”

“Yes, it has risen.”

“Uh,” I said, I think it has gone down.”

“No,” he said, “you think you know everything but you don’t know anything. The unemployment rate was 4.2 percent and now it is 6.3 percent. This African-American is destroying your country.”

“President Obama?”

“That’s him. He’s raised the unemployment rate more than two percent.”

“C.W.,” I said, “when was the unemployment rate 4.2 percent?”

“Before Obama took office.”

“I think you will find that it was 4.2 percent some eight years before he took office.”

“That’s before he took office, ain’t it?”

I groaned.

He said, “And there was a budget surplus before Obama took office. What do you say about that?”

“I would say … when?”

“Doesn’t matter, but it was before he took office. Now there is a deficit of 680 billion. I tell you, he is destroying your country.”

“Wait a moment,” I said. I punched on the computer. “There,” I said, “that budget surplus you mentioned was for fiscal year 2000, that’s 14 years ago.”

“Exactly,” he said, “and since this, …  this, man of color has been in office, it is a deficit.”

“Uh,” I said, “would it surprise you to learn that he inherited a deficit of 800 million?”

“Liberal lies,” he said. “Just more liberal lies from the ‘lame-stream media’ that you liberals love so much.” His head began to wag from side to side.

I said, “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

“I’m just longing for a return to traditional values,” he said.

“What sort of traditional values?”

“You know,” he said. “Values based on the King James Version of the Bible. Values that formed a solid society.”

“One with slaves?”

“Traditional values,”

“One where women were paid half of what men were paid for the same job and had to answer ads seeking a ‘cute and perky’ secretary?”

“Traditional values.”

“Where a person gave all their money to the poor?”

“Tradi …” he stopped. “Say, what are you doing, trying to change the subject?”

“Why don’t we?”

Just wait until this bombshell
hits the liberal media. - C.W.

“Okay,” he said. “Did you know that Chelsea Clinton may have fathered a child with Mike Tyson, the prize fighter?

“C.W.,” I said. “Have you been watching Fox News all day again?”

He said, “Benghazi.”

“Have you?”

“Benghazi.”

“C.W., look at me.”

“Benghazi.”

 

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- C.W.

160 Deities

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

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

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

“Uh,” I began before going speechless.

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

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

“Hmmm,” he said.

“Do you have such a concept?”

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

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

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

“Oh, really,”

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

“Interesting,” I said.

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

“Oh really?”

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

“Maybe later,” I said.

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

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

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

“Some say it does.”

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

“As an extreme, I suppose.”

“Uh,” he said, “then no.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh really?” I said.

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

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

121. Interpretations

“Jesus!"

 

C.W. came running into the shop where I was woodworking. For some reason, four days before our national election, he had taken on one of his favorite forms, the spokesperson for the Conservative Youth Movement. Today, he had swapped his normal lederhosen for khakis and deck shoes, without socks of course. An expensive-looking sweater sported the CYM logo. He seemed excited.

“Are you finally getting religion?” he asked as a smile lit his face like a moonbeam hitting a rose.

“No,” I said. “I hit my finger with a mallet.”

His smile disappeared. “Still a filthy no-good atheistic liberal, then,” he said. “Who doesn’t accept our Christian nation.” He spat on the floor. “Rotten socialist.”

“Judge not lest ye be also judged,” I said.

He spat again. “Now where did you pick up that liberal crap?”

I ignored him and wrapped cloth around my finger to stop the bleeding.

“You could be doing something useful instead of wasting your time like this.”

“Wasting my time?” I said. “I am building something for my wife. “

“For your wife,” he said, almost snarling. “You should be out making money.”

“House and wealth are a heritage from fathers, but a wife with good sense is from the Lord,” I said.

“Oh please,” he said. “Spare me the touchy-feely gobbledygook. Where did you hear that, from Bill Moyers?”

“I think it was from your Book of Proverbs.”

“I doubt it,” he said. “Anyway, you seem to be doing more damage to yourself than to the wood.”

“But even if you suffer for doing what God approves, you are blessed.” I said.

“You are beginning to piss me off with this liberal line. Are you trying to get my sheep?”

“It’s goat, and that line was from your Saint Peter.”

“You are purposefully trying to upset me.”

“Don't be afraid of those who want to harm you. Don't get upset.”

“Oh yes, who said that, Jimmy Carter?”

“No, that would be your Saint Peter again.”

“Look,” he said. “I’m tired of your fuzzy thinking.” He smiled at his mastery of our idiom. “Besides, I’m going to a Pro-Israel rally.”

“That’s nice.”

I don't care what St. Peter says.
I'll intepret the prophecy of scriptures
as I see fit. - C.W.

“They want us to invade Iran,” he said, smiling at the thought. “I’m going to volunteer to be on the Draft Board. We will all be expected to do our part.”

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” I said.

“You and those fromage-eating surrender monkeys.”

“Have fun at your rally,” I said. “Kill a liberal for me.”

“We’ll not kill you when we take over,” he said. “We will just enjoy your agonies during your rehabilitation.” He smiled.

“Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

“Spout that crap while you still can,” he said as he walked away. “Our Christian-nation day is coming.”