Freedom

We’re having fun. The Mrs. has gone for the weekend and we are without “any adult supervision” as Big Dope puts it. First thing I did was slip into the shape of what he called “an old running buddy.” I’m not sure what that means exactly. My GUT calls it means an old pal, but I don’t think either of them could do much running these days.

First thing we did was drink milk straight out of the jug. He seemed to enjoy it more than I did. He’s been walking around in his underwear and playing You Tube videos of banjo players real loud. He’s not happy that Mrs. Big Dope cancelled the Playboy Channel before she left. He didn’t even know it was there, he said. Claimed it must have come with some package deal.

I would question him about that, but he’s trying to slide across the living room floor like some actor did in a movie once. He’s not doing well with it. I think he’s too tall, maybe too old as well. At least the police haven’t shown like they did when he tried to play the “Star Spangled Banner” on his electric guitar. Now that was embarrassing. I don’t care who you are. I’m just glad they didn’t see his latest efforts with Photoshop. His wife would hang him from a tree like a bottle if she saw that.

Earlier, he was telling me about a cute dog they had one time named “Matthew.” It was so cute the girls would stop him on the street and want to pet it—the puppy that is. I think we’ll take the present “rescue” puppy out later. He’s trying to find two shirts that match so we can, as he puts it, “cause a minor scandal in the neighborhood.” Problem is that this puppy is not cute and she is as crazy as a Wudahfricizatt. That’s a creature the Falloonians imported from Verdaficistatt in a moment of lunacy some two billion years ago, to our lasting regret, in a moment of spite and it’s been trying to destroy the planet ever since.

You Americans understand that sort of thing.

Anyway, here he comes with our outfits. Have a nice Saturday and “Remember Pearl Harbor.” He says the attack on Pearl Harbor preserves the hope that your species might survive your own Wudahfricizatts.

Behaving

This morning I was shaped like the young Sean Connery, waiting to surprise Mrs. Big Dope when she came into the kitchen. I think she likes surprises like that.

Anyway, she caught Big Dope involved in some major transgression in the living room and was doing what she calls "reading him the Riot Act." Not sure what that means but it seems to work most times.

Not this morning. He was ready with what he calls his "Biblical Defense." I heard hims say, "My ways ain't your ways."

Well guess what? They are now. Excuse me for a moment …

"Bond, James Bond."

Tricks

Big Dope is trying to get me to go and wake up his wife. I know better. "Go ahead," he says. "She told me to get her up early." I just look at him, the middle of my three sets of eyes twitching. "Go ahead," he repeats. "She wants it."

In my years on earth, I've heard that said of the female of your species many times, never to any positive conclusions.

Morning Thoughts: Marriage

 C.W. and I were talking …

Left Head—the data-gathering one—said, “We’ve all been talking.”

“You’ve been talking. We’ve been listening, goof-round-object used for play,” Right Head—the frivolous one—said.

“You mean ‘goof-ball’ the middle—or evaluative one—said.

“Anyway,” Left Head said, turning to them and flashing what I’m told is the equivalent of a frown in Falloonia, “anyway, we are amazed at how much you seem to dote on Mrs. Big Dope, especially when she’s not around.”

“Yeah,” Middle Head said, “Explain.”

“I, uh … uh,” I searched for the right word, since they are not above recording every word I say (yes, they can do that), and playing whole conversations back to her.

“Is she easy?” Left Head asked.

“What?”

“Not easy that way,” Right Head said, giggling. “Easy like in, ‘easy to get along with.’”

“Oh yes.”

“Example,” Left Head said.

“Let’s see,” I said. “Oh yes. I knew this man one time whose wife wouldn’t let him crumble his crackers into his bowl of chili. Chewed him out if he tried.”

“Say what?” This got Middle Head’s attention.

“I think it was a Junior League thing,” I said.

“So, she's flexible. What else?” Left Head asked.

“Well, she's kind. Once when she taught elementary school, she caught the kids making fun of a little girl’s ragged, hand-me-down shoes.”

“She punished them?” Middle Head said. “Beat them? Walloped them good?”

“No. She guessed the girl’s size and bought her a pair of new shoes with her own money.”

“I’ll bet they wouldn’t do that in one of these new chartless schools.” Middle Head said.

“It is ‘charter school’ and no, they wouldn’t,” Left Head said. “They would never allow a child in one of those if their parents couldn’t afford new shoes for them.”

“She’s damned funny, too,” Right Head said. “She taught English to the kids.” He looked at me. “That’s when she made up that expression she uses when you offer some complicated excuse for screwing up.”

I was nonplussed.

Right Head continued, “When she accuses you of trying to ‘diagram a f…’”

“Shut up,” I said. “Where did you hear that?”

“She used it on me,” Right Head said.

“I think she sort of likes you, too, at least a little bit,” Middle Head said, re-directing the conversation thread.

“Oh?”

“Quite so. I asked her why. We couldn’t understand it at all.”

“What did she say?”

“She borrowed a line from a movie she saw once,” Right Head said.

“And that was?”

“He always ate everything I cooked for him, and he never hit me.”

“And oh,” Middle Head said, “I take it she allows this cracker-crumbling thing?”

“Not in bed. Not anymore.” 

I think the reputation from her past
 helps keep Big Dope in line. - C.W.

Ask the Alien

Dear Ask the Alien:
My children have started, lately, to introduce me to their friends as, "my mother's current husband." When I order them to stop, they just laugh. My daughter is 12 and my son is 14, and they somehow think this is "hip" behavior I suspect they have also been hiding my tools, and the other day they dropped my car keys behind a couch and it took me half a day to find them. My son wants me to sign for him to get a tattoo of his girlfriend's name across his chest and my daughter keeps asking about the possibility of birth-control pills, and asking why a high-school diploma is so important. My wife isn't helping. She is gone most of the day, sometimes well into the evening, and the other night, during sex, she called me "Harrison.," (not my name). On top of it all, our faithful dog, Arson, has started to growl at me when I come home.

My question is this: should I upgrade to Windows Ten?

Sincerely,
Perplexed

Dear Perplexed:
Since you failed to provide the type of work you are involved in, it's hard to form a recommendation. I would simply say that, in the shortage of usable data, I would recommend that, whatever operating system you use, you get one that allows you to play solitary games.

Yours,
The Alien C.W.

336. Pairings

“Do you think if you had it all to do over, that you would have gotten married?”

Uh, oh. C.W. was obviously playing one of his little tricks on me. I looked around to see who might be within earshot, and saw no one. “Sure,” I said, then I raised the volume a bit. “Absolutely.”

“To the same woman?” He had, by the way, assumed a new form he has grown fond of lately. He calls it “Leon the Neo-Liberal.” I can’t really describe it. Just imagine Johnny Depp playing Stephen King in a movie.

“Of course,” I said, nearly shouting. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” he said. He toyed with his wrist-phone, raised it to eye level, looked, and said, “Why do members of your species get married?”

We were sitting in the living room waiting for full light so we could take a walk. He came in as I was writing, and I had to quit to answer his questions. I thought long and hard before framing my answer to this one. “I don’t know,” I said. “Companionship?”

“Have you read what your Apostle Paul had to say about it, marriage that is?”

“He was against it, I think.”

“Pretty much so,” he said, “unless you were weak in spirit—lacked ‘moral fiber’ so to speak—and had found a woman you just had to …”

“I know the conditions,” I said. “It’s better to marry than to be tempted into immorality.”

“Quite so,” he said. “How long have you been married?”

“Forty-four years,” I said. “Why are you asking me all this?”

He ignored me. “Mrs. Big Dope says it seems like it’s been longer than that.”

I ignored his jibe. “You know what a joker she can be.”

“So why did you marry her? I mean how did you come to pick her? Did you do an internet search or something?”

“There was no internet then,” I said. “One scoured the bars, Sunday schools, and fast-foods hoping for the best.”

It's like they say, I suppose.
The grass isn't greener on the
other side. The grass is greener 
where you water it. - C.W.

“I heard that,” a sleepy voice boomed from the next room.

I turned to C.W. “Can we change the subject?”

“So why did she take you? I mean you obviously lacked moral fiber.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Was she desperate or something?”

I lowered my voice and moved closer to him. “Well,” I said, “she was past sixteen, the official age of spinsterhood in our state.” Then I raised my voice. “She could have had her choice of men,” I said, “but in her infinite wisdom and kindness, she saw something in me.”

It was his turn to think. “I wonder what it was,” he said.

“You wonder,” the voice from the next room said. “How do you think I feel?”

“I think I may be talking to the wrong person here,” he said. He rose and left the room. I heard him say, “Pardonnez-moi jeune fille. May I have a word?”

I just groaned and tried to go back to writing, but I had forgotten what I wanted to say.

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Revenge

Dear Ask The Alien:

My husband calls me a hoarder. What's worse, he is playing awfully mean tricks on me. Of course I have no hoarding issues. I have no issues at all, except for a slight penchant for revenge. But let me tell you what he did. I'm pretty sure that he threw away one of my "Good Housekeeping" magazines from the early 1980s. I noticed that the stack for that decade has lost height equal to about one volume. If I can crawl over my collection of plastic butter tubs—you know how useful they are for storing things—I plan to search out the stolen issue.

He has also threatened to throw away the portable television that I took to college with me in 1969 because, he says, it hasn’t worked in nearly 30 years. You and I both know that’s no reason to discard a treasured friend. I watched “The Moon Landing” on that television, and I’m going to have it repaired as soon as I find a way through my collection of "L. L. Bean" catalogs. I think I can stand on some of my “World Book Encyclopedia” annual updates and reach it.

My dilemma: I plan to get back at him. Do you think I should use the BB gun I got when I was ten or the slingshot I made in Vacation Bible School when I was eight? Call me a hoarder will he? The very idea.

Signed,
Offended

Dear Offended:
For some reason I feel sure that you have a collection of “Encounter Bats,” I recommend one of the originals which, I believe, came out around 1989. May I further suggest that, in the unlikely event that I know this person, you make sure of the object of your revenge before launching the attack?

Signed, 
The Alien C.W.

Benefits

Dear Ask The Alien:
My boyfriend says that if I don’t do certain things he wants, I don’t love him. I can’t mention what these things are as this is a family-oriented site, but believe me, it would take some gumption. Excuse me, I’m from the South and if your Galactic Universal Translator won’t tell you what “gumption” means, let me know. Anyway, the fact is: I don’t really love him, but he is rich and popular and has the neatest pickup truck at our high school and takes me fine places and buys me nice things and I wouldn’t want to give all that up. Currently, I'm the envy of my class. So, should I pretend to love him and live the good life, ... in other words, do as he says, be his faithful friend, and keep the benefits?
Signed,
Living In Luxury

Dear Living in Luxury:

Thanks to my pal Big Dope, I know have a better understanding of what “friends with benefits,” means. Oh my. The key word here is “pretend.” And my advice is, don’t do what you suggest. Concentrate on your studies and not on practicing being married. Oh, and by the way, my GUT tells me many things, and I trust it. Please, you trust me. Gumption is good when used properly.
Signed,
The Alien C.W.

Stupidity

Dear Friends:
My research while on your planet leads me to the conclusion that only a man who has no wife would make this statement. As a close friend who lives on a nearby planet would say, "The stupid is strong in this one."

I've offered Big Dope $200 Million when I win the Powerball
if he will say this to his wife. He just laughed at me. - C.W.

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Ask the Alien: Insanity

Dear Ask The Alien:
My Husband drives me crazy. Any suggestions?
Signed:
Losing It.

Dear Losing It:
You haven't told me how long this has been going on. My research shows that this phenomenon can begin as early as the honeymoon when a husband first reveals the list of, shall we say, intimacy techniques, that he has dreamed of since his high school days. Or it may develop slowly in behavior such as the continued practice of sticking his fork into his cheek when an attractive young female walks by. I have even heard that it can develop in the so-called "golden years" with a developing habit of responding to any and all comments or questions with a dumbfounded "Huh?"
Of course if the problem is more serious such as the habit of hiding fruit in his nightstand in the fear that you may begin starving him, I suggest immediate action. Otherwise, I would simply talk to other women about the problem. In all likelihood, you will find you aren't so bad off after all.
Your Friend,
The Alien C.W.

288. Pickup Lines

This morning, I caught C.W. reading The Song of Songs, aka the Song of Solomon again. He was even in his common shape of an ungainly 15-year old boy in faded jeans, a long shock of blond hair, a Metallica T-shirt, and faint hints of acne. He was reading earnestly and eating a pomegranate—with a little too much gusto if you ask me.

“You’re going to end up needing glasses,” I said.

“My beloved is to me a pouch of myrrh which lies all night between my breasts,” he said. Then he added, “Wow.” Pomegranate juice dribbled down his chin.

“May I ask what you are doing?”

“Studying scriptures, man,” he said. “Ain’t that what you told me to do?”

I thought for a moment, then recalled. “I was rather thinking of the New Testament,” I said.

“The old is father to the new,” he said. “Besides, this is much more fun than a bunch of do-gooder parables.”

I sighed. “Is there a way I can have you sent back to Falloonia?”

He crunched a bite of pomegranate and, reading from the text, said, “Did you ever tell a girl that her body was like a rolling landscape?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Or that her breasts were like spiced mountains?”

“Certainly not.”

“Someone told me,” he said, “that you once compared a pair of them to a couple of watermelons hanging from the back of a wagon in a tow sack.”

“Who told you that?”

“Never mind,” he said. “Here’s some good ones: ‘Her neck is like the Tower of David, set with warriors’ shields. Her eyes are pools in Heshbon, her nose like the tower of Lebanon, her head crowns her like Mount Carmel.’ Ever try any of those?”

“I’m going to report you to the Falloonian Elders.”

“Hey,” he said, reading, “did you ever tell Mrs. Big Dope that her hair looked like ‘goats leaping down the slopes of Gilead’”?

“I hardly think so.”

“You did, as I recall,” he said, “tell her one morning that her hair looked like a band of mice had held a square dance in it.”

I said nothing.

He laughed. “You never did that again, did you?”

“Uh, no.”

“Here’s a sure-fire winner,” he said. “’Your teeth are like a flock of newly shorn ewes which have come up from their washing, all of which bear twins, and not one among them has lost her young.’ I’ll bet that one would work out well for you.”

“C.W.,” I said, “I don’t think the Song of Solomon was intended as a dating guide, sex manual, or source of pickup lines. In fact, some Biblical scholars don’t believe someone should read it until they are over 30 years old, lest they kindle ‘the flames of lust.’”

“Thirty years old? Yuck. A lot of good it will do them then.”

“Someday,” I said, “I think we need to have a long talk.”

Some Biblical pickup lines seem to
work better than others. Trust me. - C.W.

“Your long talks,” he said, “confuse me more than your Bible.”

“Are we finished?”

He ignored me. “So what is your take on it? This Song of Solomon.”

“I haven’t a clue. Some say it was written by King Solomon to his wife, or lover.”

He consulted some notes. “Which one? Says here he had 700 wives and 300 concuines.”

I groaned.

He continued. “So this crazy dame over in Kentucky will issue 700 marriage certificates to the same man as long as none of them are for another man?”

I closed my eyes, then opened them as thoughts began to flood my head. “Let me take a look,” I said. “What was that about a pouch of myrrh between the breasts?”

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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
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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.”

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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
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214. Longevity

Geez, what a nosey little twerp C.W. can be at times, particularly when he assumes the form of what he believes is Sigmund Freud. I was having a cigar and my evening rum and tonic outside, waiting for my wife to join me when the Alien wandered up and took her seat.

“You’d better not be there when she comes,” I said. “This is her ‘Alien-free Zone’ and you know what that means.”

“I can disappear in a thing that occurs suddenly and within a brief period of time, when I need to.”

“Disappearing in a ‘flash’ would be a good idea,” I said.

He crossed his legs and said, “So the two you have made it another year.”

“We have indeed.”

“How many is this?”

“We are celebrating 42 years,” I said.

He pulled a notepad from his shirt pocket and then a pen. “Why did you never get a divorce?”

“What do you mean?”

“Lots of couples among your species get divorced. Why didn’t you?”

“We didn’t want to.”

“How did you meet? I know it wasn’t on ‘Christian Mingle’ or at a meeting of the Mensa Society.”

I let this one pass. “We met in a parking lot.”

“Let me guess. A collision involving motor vehicles that results in minor damage. She was at fault and you were kind and forgiving.”

“No, it wasn’t a ‘fender bender,’ I was putting a headlight in my car and she walked by.”

He scribbled. “That doesn’t sound very romantic.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Did you run in slow motion toward each other?”

“No. She walked on by.”

“And you followed?” He scribbled again.”

“No. I just inquired about her later.”

“You engaged in an instance of following, or harassing another in an aggressive, often threatening manner?”

“I didn’t ‘stalk’ her and you need to get your Galactic Universal Translator adjusted again.”

“I trust my GUT,” he said. He raised his pad, ”How was your sex life?”

“C.W.,” I said, “people don’t discuss such things in public.”

“They do on your television. And you know that coffee shop I go to sometimes to gather data?”

“Well decent people don’t,” I said, “and she is due any moment and may be carrying a baseball bat, if you get my drift.”

“What does the concept of your being carried slowly by a current of air or water have to do with anything?”

I could tell times were going to be tough until his GUT was back in working order, so I tacked.

“How do marriages work in Falloonia?”

“We have numerous bonding arrangements. Which one do you mean?”

“The one that produces offspring,” I said. “How does it work?”

“Entirely different,” he said. “Entirely different.”

“How so?”

“The fecundity directive, we call it the ‘Propagation Implementation Methodology Protocol’ is established and supervised by the Falloonian Elders.”

I giggled, “PIMP? Is that what you really call it?”

“I don’t see the humor,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. His feelings can be tender at times. “So these elders are a cross-section of the population?”

He looked at me in confusion. “No,” he said, “they are mainly Dormontapeckastaatsins”

“What?”

“What would roughly translate as elderly men in your species.”

Was she hot, or what? - C.W.

“Oh,” I said. “So how does your PIMP program work.” I couldn’t help giggling again.

“It requires a level of sophisticated thought you wouldn’t understand. It is totally different than you are used to.”

“Try me,” I said.

“The Elders grant the Studanstrokashaftic++—the equivalent of your male of the species—absolute control of the arrangement.”

“I see.”

“But,” he said, “Since there is such a sexual intelligence disparity in our life forms, the other partner must manage the arrangement through disguised manipulation, trickery, and superior logistic mastery, otherwise the propagation capacity of the, what you call male, is diminished and the future population of our planet will be threatened.”

“And,” a woman’s voice from behind us said, “your concept of marriage differs from ours in exactly what way?”

 

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Spring

Dear Friends and Followers:

It seems that spring may have arrived in my assigned location, so Big Dope and I will be outdoors doing what he calls "manly-man" things today. Later I am going to work on a new career. I think he may report on it tomorrow. I expect great accomplishment of an aim or purpose. (Editor's note: He means "success").

In the meantime, check out a sappy entry on his blog about how he met his wife. You earthlings always lightly touch or prod me in a way that causes itching and often laughter. (Editor's note: He means "tickle me").

144. Statistics

Walked into the living room yesterday morning and found C.W. busy making notes in a spiral notebook and muttering to himself, having assumed the shape of what could best be described as an “old goat.” He was an exact replica of a Chief Bosun’s mate I served under in the Navy— a man named Zelmer whose hatred for the world was exceeded only by his verbal acuity in expressing the same.

“Marital bliss my ass,” he growled as I sat across from him with my coffee.

“Morning,” I said.

“Goddam your eyes,” he said.

“Glad to hear you are doing well. What’s up?”

It was only then that he looked at me. “How long have you and Mrs. Big Dope been married?”

I can’t risk busting his ‘cookies’ when he gets like this. “In dog-years or real years?”

This caught him up short for a moment, then he snarled. “Fender-head.”

“Nearly 41 years,” I said. “What’s it to you?”

“Filing a report,” he said. “Those idiots back on Falloonia have been reading all these dispatches about ‘joyous mood’ marriages and they want some facts.”

“Uh, do you by any chance mean gay marriages?”

“Ain’t that what I just said?”

 I let it pass. His pre-programmed translation-device insert does that sometimes. “So what do you have so far?”

“Just some notes on marital attraction factors.”

“Such as?”

“Money marries money.”

“Hmm.”

“Opposites attract.”

“And that is based on?”

“You and Mrs. Big Dope.”

“Us?”

“Yes,” he said and, for the first time, I noticed a Styrofoam cup on the table in front of him. He reached over, pulled it to his mouth and spat into it. I instantly noticed the smell of tobacco.

“Gross,” I said.

“Your marriage?” he said, quickly readying himself to take notes.

“No, that disgusting thing.” I motioned toward the cup. “And my wife and I demonstrate your principle of marital opposites how?”

“How tall are you?”

“I was six feet tall but the burden of dealing with you has reduced me to five-foot eleven and three-quarters,” I said.

He wrote in his notebook and muttered something to himself about my mother. “And how tall is your wife?”

“She says she is five-foot two,” I said. “And she says it with an edge in her voice that invites no further inquiry.”

“So there you go. Opposites attract.”

“C.W.,” I said, not knowing quite where to begin. “Didn’t they teach you about the pitfalls of inductive reasoning back on Falloonia?”

“Inductive, shminductive,” he said, mocking me. “How about this one? Marriage is only allowed for those who can’t do without sex.”

“That is a statistic?”

With a failure rate exceeding fifty percent,
it doesnt' seem to bother some folks that the
impact of marriage is confined solely to
couples of the opposite sex. - C.W.

“No, that is a Biblical injunction. Not a statistic. Your species tends to confuse them from time to time.” He smiled. “You want a statistical analysis?” he said. He flipped through his notes and read. “The institution of marriage is an interesting statistical anomaly. Although enjoying less than a 50 percent success rate, it has generated a vast body of legal imperatives and an almost mythical degree of preoccupation among the conservative-minded of the species who wish, apparently, that the impact of its spurious reliability be confined to pairs of the opposite sex.”

He stopped and looked at me. “Is that deductive enough for you?”

At this point I was fed up. “Deductive shmeductive,” I said. “Have you heard the one about the alien who spent three years among Earthlings but didn’t understand a thing about them?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Did you hear about the one Earthling that was so dumb the other Earthlings began to notice it?”

 

105. Matches

“Intergalactic travel. Should I put that under ‘hobbies’ or ‘job description’ I wonder?”

I considered it. “It might sound less intimidating as a hobby.”

“No, wait, I already listed ‘making crop circles’ as a preferred passing of durations.”

While he pondered the most appropriate pastime, I fixed us a couple of Mexican Martinis. I love the way they affect him and he tends to forget until it is too late.

C.W. was spending Saturday evening filling out a questionnaire for an on-line dating service. It’s one of his favorite, well … ‘pass durations’ if you will. So far, his respondents were all English Majors except for the owner of a Christian bookstore in Seattle who was passing himself off as the widow of a Nobel Prize – winning physicist. (Readers will have to wait until the statute of limitations has run out on that one.}

Anyway, he was trying to broaden his constituency, so to speak. You should have seen him. He resembled a model in a men’s magazine, without that constipated look they tend to assume.

I handed him his drink and he sipped. “Marvelous,” he said.

“Just wait,” I thought. “Enjoy it,” I said.

“Cute puppies, Céline Dion music, and long walks in the spring rain,” he said as he wrote.

“That is so awful.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you put the truth down?” I said.

“Such as?”

“Analyzing String Theory literature, making homemade pasta, and buzzing around town on your Vespa.”

“I did that once.”

“And?”

“Don’t you remember driving her back to the bus terminal?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, shuddering. “But seriously, how can you expect a meaningful relationship to develop from such an orchestrated scenario?”

“As opposed to what?” he said.

“Chance encounters,” I said. “So spontaneous and romantic. Don’t you pay attention to any of the movies we watch? Consider the happy little accidents of life.”

He thought for a moment. “Such as yours?”

It was my turn to think. “Exactly,” I said.

“So you happened to meet your wife on the parking lot of your apartment complex.”

“That’s correct,” I said.

“Nearly 40 years ago?”

“Seems like the blink of an eye,” I said.

“Purely by accident?” he said.

“Purely.” I saw him cock an eye. “What are you getting at?” I said.

“She just happened to walk by?” he said.

“Just happened to,” I said. “I was working on my car.”

“And it was parked by the door of her apartment?”

I thought back. “No, I had parked it in a far corner, out of the way.”

“And she just walked by dressed in jeans and a sweater.”

“No, she was dressed for a date,” I said. “Really dolled up.”

“And just happened to walk by.”

“Just happened to,” I said, with less confidence.

I can't understand why I don't get
better matches on E-Harmony with this great photo - C.W.

“Did she stroll by, or did she do that ‘Lauren Bacall’ thing.”

Realization struck me like summer lightening, and my mouth dropped. “Why that little …”

“Hold on, pal,” he said, finishing his drink. “That’s your life-partner you’re talking about and she’s in the next room.” Then he banged his glass on the table.

“Put some music on, Big Dope. I’m ready to do the Merengue.”

96. Mothers

Sometimes I don’t know what to think about C.W. He knocks on the door this morning and when I look out, there stands the perfect image of my long departed mother. My first impulse was to go back to bed when she yelled, “Open this damned door right now, Jimmie Gayle. And don’t make me have to tell you again.”

What could I do? As I let her in, I said, “C.W., I don’t think this is very funny.”

“It’s Mother’s Day,” she said. “Or have you forgotten?”

“How could I forget with all the jewelry store ads on TV?”

“Are you going to ask me to sit down?”

“Sure,” I said. “Have a seat.”

I have to admit, he had done a good job of shift-shaping. It was my mother in her forties. The one who loved to fish and who would help me save up fifty cents to buy the latest Elvis Presley record. The one who tried to teach me to do the Charleston, laughed a lot, and knew one song each on the piano, the guitar, and the mouth harp.

She straightened her skirt and placed her hands on her lap. “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“I wouldn’t have one of them cell phones if you was to give it to me.”

“Oh?”

“Some idiot plumb near ran over me on the way here and when she finally passed, she was yappin’ away.”

“It is a problem,” I said.

“Aint’ they go nothin’ better to do?”

”Apparently not.”

“Speakin’ of nothin’ better to do,” she said. “Are you working on mine and your daddy’s history?”

”A little each day.”

“You can get distracted,” she said. "I worry."

“I’m working on it.”

“You put the part in there about that old Bessie Shannon,” didn’t you?”

“Which part would that be?”

“The part where she told Miss Averitt that me and your daddy was so dumb it took two of us to drink a Cocola.”

She looked at something far away. ”She turned into a damned religious fanatic later on. I might have guessed.”

C.W. was good, I’ll have to admit. He had my mother pegged. She always maintained a healthy distrust of religious fanatics and anyone who didn’t like FDR.

“There’s something else I want in there,” she said.

“What would that be?”

“Remember when you got all down in the dumps over some girl you met in college and come cryin’ to me about it?”

“Vaguely”

“Well I want it told right. What I said was this. When I married your daddy, I wasn’t a bit in love with him. I married him for one reason─I knew he worked and if I married him I wouldn’t ever go hungry again.” She paused. “And I never did.”

“Is that it?”

“No,” she said. “Here is the important part. We got married and had it hard. Lord, we had it hard. We sharecropped and done whatever we could at first. Then we bought the grocery store and worked in it together night and day until I woke up one morning and realized that I worshipped the ground he walked on.”

The relationship your species has
with your mothers is one of
its more admirable traits. - C.W.

I pretended something was in my eye.

“I hope you feel that way about your wife,” she said.

“Oh, I do,” I said. “But she can be a pill sometimes, just like you.” I smiled.

“I got to go,’ she said. “Me and your daddy are going to see your Uncle Raymond and Aunt Lucille.”

With that, she was gone. I was left thinking of what an Ernest Hemingway character once said.

“Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

95. Dissonance

Yesterday, I returned from a meeting to find C.W. in the middle of the living room floor with a complete circle of books and notes scattered around him. He had taken on the appearance of a young woman, apparently in the midst of studying some subject. I noticed a couple of Bibles among the reference material.


She looked up at me and smiled. “Mr. uh, Big Dope, I presume.”

“What’s up?”

“My teacher said that I could use your library to prepare my term paper.”

“What’s going on, C.W.?” I said.

“Research.”

“On what?”

“Cognitive dissonance. Are you familiar with the term?”

“Somewhat.”

“Well, I am confused, sir,” she said, maintaining the persona. Perhaps you can help me.”

Past experience has taught me it is useless to resist when C.W. is on his game. “Perhaps,” I said.

“Well,” she said, reaching for a sheet of paper filled with notes. “It says here that ‘cognitive dissonance’ describes the feeling of discomfort that results from holding two conflicting beliefs.”

“Yes, and?”

“I don’t’ find that your species evidences any discomfort at all accommodating two conflicting beliefs.”

I sat. This might be a long evening and my wife was expecting me to meet her somewhere. “And what makes you think that?”

She reached for one of the Bibles. “This Jesus,” she said. “Don’t your people worship him as an ideal?”

“So it is said.”

“Seems to me he was kind and thoughtful, and loved everyone except rich people, divorcees, bankers, and other preachers.”

“Pretty much so.”

“So, a great many of your citizens idealize him?”

So it is said.”

“But then they base their political beliefs on some of most mean-spirited people on your planet.” She paused. “I mean, are you familiar with this sheriff out in Arizona?”

“Somewhat.”

“Or this …,” she paused and referred to a note. “Grover Norquist?” She grabbed another note before I could answer. “Ever heard of Franklin Graham or Clarence …?”

“The list goes on,” I interrupted.

“Want to read something beautiful?” she said.

“Sure,” I said. I was glad to change the direction of the conversation and fully expected the Sermon on the Mount.”

“Here,” she said. She handed me a worn and crumpled page of photocopied material. I looked at it and saw our country’s Bill of Rights.

“I think you have something here,” I said.

“But why …?” she asked, “Has your species always maintained a subset of your fellow humans to which its protections didn’t apply?” She smiled as if she knew a secret.

“We have made mistakes,” I said. My voice dropped as I said it and I knew I sounded lame.

These kids sang me the most
beautiful rendition of
"Jesus Loves Me." - C.W.

“Have made?” she said, reaching for another sheet of photocopy.”

Even before she touched it, I could see the words “Amendment One” printed across the top.

“I have to go,” I said.

“Your mind seems to be playing ping-pong,” she said. “Enjoy the game.”

93. Questions

Once again, we allow the Alien to answer letters from his fans.

Dear C.W.: My wife has a “fart app” on her Kindle. She sets it off at critical points during my favorite TV shows as an expression of her opinion. Should I confront her about this? - Distracted

Dear Distracted: My experience with American women so far leads me to believe that a member of the male species should not confront them about anything. On the other hand, my experience with American men leads me to believe they posses an evolutionarily-formed tendency toward self-destruction (especially politicians). My advice? Watch only TV shows that she approves in writing.

Dear C.W.: My husband snores something awful. Always has. Lately, he has been snoring the tunes to popular music, his favorite being “Achy Breaky Heart.” I suspect he is doing it on purpose. What should I do? - Suspicious

Dear Suspicious: By all means, get your cell phone and video him. This will go viral on YouTube in a matter of seconds and will surely result in a reality TV contract and big bucks.

Dear C.W.: My husband has destroyed two I-Pads playing “Angry Birds.” This is getting expensive. What can I do? Distressed

Dear Distressed: I suggest that you enroll him in one of those Internet Universities. Then he will be eligible for student loans and I-Pad replacement should no longer be a problem.

Dear Um .. Like C.W. or Whatever: My dad, is, like, so totally yesterday. He is like, “You should study,” and I am so, like “Why?” and he is so like, you know, “Cause I said so,” and I am, like “Who died and put you in charge?” and he is, like “Don’t get saucy with me, Bernaise,” and I am like, "Whatever are you talking about?” What should I, you know, do? – Like, Bewildered

Dear Bewildered: Your Dad is wrong. Studying won’t help you. Go to Branson, Missouri and get a job waiting tables.

Dear C.W.: My mom is 80 and on fixed income. She responds to the Joel Olsteen show by sending him money. She owns a 900 square-foot home in need of a roof. He owns the Superdome and several mansions. Shouldn’t he be sending her money instead? – Confused

Dear Confused.: You apparently understand neither the “Prosperity Gospel” nor the “Flow of Money Principle.”

Deer C.W.: I wuz eddicated at home and am now in a local Bible collige. They want me to reed books and studee histry but I just won’t to be an accountint. My daddy says ask you what I can do. Do you have any advise for he and I? – Stubbern


Disappointed that your question wasn't printed?
Remember, in special cases we can arrange
a personal counseling session. - C.W.


Dear Stubbern: By all means. If you hurry, you can catch Bewildered and ride to Branson with her.

Well fans, Big Dope says we have exhausted our allocation of space. Until next time, as we say in Falloonia, “Fapriticasua” or “Get yourself some stronger glasses and keep on trucking.” (A rough translation).

The Alien C.W.

92. Weddings

Pardon the extra length, but I found this on my computer this morning. Thought it was interesting.

UNUSUAL HABITS OF AMERICAN HOMO SAPIENS

EPISODE ONE

AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY

BY C.W. PRODUCTIONS

Black screen
Fade in. Screen fills with full face of a woman with extravagant makeup poorly applied. Her age is on the upward side of thirtysomething. As the image fills the screen, she speaks.

Woman

My name is Tymber, with a "Y" and I am a bride to be. What I am about to say is true. It happened to me.It could happen to you. Be warned.

Dolly back. The camera gradually takes in the entire figure. The woman is seated on a studio chair in front of a plain background. She is wearing a white, sleeveless wedding dress. Tatoos cover portions of her arms and body. A veil is parted to reveal her face. Her makeup has begun to smear and she dabs a handkerchief to her eye before speaking.

Woman

I simply wish to be married and have a nice wedding, one that I plan. My fiance's family is rich, and is footing the bill, so we can afford the best, exactly what I demand. Is that so awful?

Looks into the camera and dabs her eyes again.

Woman

It started when we selected a pastor. I was concentrating on the florist and baker so I left the choice of a pastor up to my fiance. His family attends the largest church in town, where the wedding will be, so they made the decision.

Stops. Composes herself.

Woman

I was surprised when he, the pastor, demanded to interview us. Honestly, I thought he had a minor part to play and should just show up and play it. But, I went along. To my horror, he began asking us if we attended any church, for he knew we didn't attend his. Can you imagine?

Looks into the camera with a questioning look.

Woman

That's not the worst. He actually commented on the fact that we have lived together for five years and have two children, both of whom we wanted to take part in the service. He didn't seem to like that idea at all, as if it was any of his business.

Stops. Composes herself.

Woman

It deteriorated from there. He even questioned that I would wear this beautiful, five-thousand dollar, white wedding dress at my fourth wedding. Somehing about virginity. I didn't uderstand it all. I think the worst moment was when he tried to nix our wedding song, saying it might not be appropriate inside a church. Well, I told him how "the hog ate the cabbage" about that. I'm sorry, but my fiance and I met at a Jimmy Buffet concert and if our song is "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw," then so be it. Any questions?

Stares defiantly into the camera.

Woman

I don't guess I have to tell you how he felt about the vows we wrote. The line about "long, languorous orgasms" really set him free. Isn't that just like a preacher? It really went to hell after that. The bottom line was we had to get my fiance's family to straighten him out. Seems churches need money more than tradition these days. So, we're getting what we want, but it caused me, to like, totally freak out. And I am the center of attraction.

Stops and looks pleased, then notices something behind the camera. Looks questioningly and then nods. Composes herself again.

Woman

Oh yes. The reason I am doing this documentary is to set a role model for other girls. And I don't care what people think. My wedding will be awesome, and this preacher should be proud to be a part of it.

Pauses. Then looks with determination into the camera.

Woman

I mean it's not like we're gay.

Move to closeup and then fade to black.

Some of your customs are easier
to explain to the Falloonian Elders
than others. - C.W.