429. Peace

Came in this morning to find C.W. in one of his favorite shapes, Reggie the Young Conservative. He was fairly bubbling with enthusiasm, humming a pleasant melody and typing away on my laptop in rhythm with his tune.

“Hey Big Dope,” he said. “Are you in the presence of an important person or what?” He punctuated his question with a one-finger punch to the keyboard.

“Important?”

“Very important,” he said. “I’ve been given what may be the most important job in the history of the world.”

I took my coffee to the couch and sat. “And what might that be?” I said.

“I have been tasked to write up quotes for the president in the leadup to his Nobel Peace Prize nomination.”

“Oh really? How did that come about?”

“Partly because of my internal data retrieval system. I can access all the major speeches and quotes from history and use them as guides. My job is to make our glorious leader sound, well, like a leader.”

“Oh. I see.” But I didn’t really.

“How’s this for starters?” He picked up a sheet and read. “My good friends, for the first time in our history, an American president has returned from abroad bringing peace with honor. I believe it is peace for our time... Go home and get a nice quiet sleep.”

“Uh,” I began, but he interrupted.

Reading again, he said, “I believe it is peace with honor.”

I tried again, “Do you …”

He overrode again, “We should seek by all means in our power to avoid war, by analyzing possible causes, by trying to remove them, by discussion in a spirit of collaboration and good will.”

“Would you wait …” I tried again, but he was on a roll.

“Here’s one for his critics,” he said. Lifting the paper, he read, “I tell you that I'm not dictatorial, I'm not intolerant, I'm not overpowering! You're all wrong, wrong, wrong, I tell you! I'm the most relaxed and understanding of people! None of you, I insist, must ever say I'm dictatorial again!” He lowered the paper and smiled, then said. “That’s some real presidential sounding stuff, is it not?”

“May I …”

“Here’s one of my best,” he said. “Ever since I assumed my present office my main purpose has been to work for the pacification of the world, for the removal of those suspicions and those animosities which have so long poisoned the air. The question of North Korea is the latest and perhaps the most dangerous. Now that we have got past it, I feel that it may be possible to make further progress along the road to sanity.”

I groaned. He said, “That’s a good one, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps you should know,” I began.

 

Peace for all time? - C.W.

He interrupted me again, reading, “I am resolved that my method of consultation shall be the method adopted to deal with any other questions that may concern us, and I am determined to continue my efforts to remove possible sources of difference, and thus to contribute to assure the peace of the world.”

In one fluid motion, he grabbed another sheet and read, “Whatever the lengths to which others may go, my American government will never resort to the deliberate attack on women and children and other civilians for purposes of mere terrorism.”

He looked at me as if he were a minister finishing a benediction. “Peace in our time,” he said. “That’s pure gold, don’t you think.”

“I think,” I said, “that you have just stated minor variations on quotes by Neville Chamberlain, Prime Minister of England in the 1930s,” during the leadup to World War Two.”

“Es macht nichts,” he said. “Who reads history anymore? Our folks sure don’t. Waste of time. Waste of time," he repeated. Now, do you have anything else to say?”

“No,” I said. “I think you are right on top of things.”

“Uber alles,” he said. “Uber alles.” He stopped and thought, having had, it seemed, a brainstorm. He grabbed a pad and started making notes. I sipped my coffee and smiled.

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.

428: Conflicts

In an unusual move, C.W. came waddling into the living room this morning unshaped, that is to say he was in his actual form. That’s always a surprise. He spread himself across the couch as best he could and relaxed. I waited.

“We have a question,” Right Head said.

“Yes, a tough question,” Middle Head said.

“Do you have any ice cream?” Left Head said.

“Is that the question?”

“No,” Middle Head said. He looked at Left Head and back at me. “We have a serious question.”

“I’m your man then,” I said. “Shoot.”

Right Head and Left Head both looked at Middle Head. He looked at Right Head. “You tell him. It’s your problem.”

Right head nodded. “It’s like this,” he said. “This one,” he nodded at Middle Head, “is disrespecting us.”

“He’s being a real asshole,” Left Head said.

“Going out of his way to alienate us,” Right Head said.

“Being a real jerk-off,” Left Head said.

“I’m just tired of being the pocket book of ideas that these two idiots draw from,” Middle Head said. “I have the greatest mind in the galaxy and they add nothing to the deals I make.”

“See what I mean?” Right Head said.

“What a douche bag,” Left Head said.

“I don’t need them,” Middle Head said. “I do the greatest things in our galaxy without them. They just hang around and profit from the things I do. I’m more attractive than either of them, too. Don’t you think?”

I swallowed hard and tried not to think about such things. “I’m not exactly an expert on concepts of Falloonian beauty,” I said.

“You’re as pitiful as they are,” Middle Head said, nodding at each in return. I have thousands of heads wanting to share a body with me. They know I’m the greatest head around. They would line up to be with me.”

“How long have you three been together?” I asked.

“How the hell should I know?” Middle Head said.

“Approximately four million Scheruntshoolters,” Right Head said. “Maybe six hundred Earth years.”

“That’s a long time to be associated with Shit-For-Brains,” Left Head said.

“How could you manage without one another?” I said.

“I don’t need anyone,” Middle Head said. “Haven’t you been listening? I’m the greatest and I tell it like it is. People love that in a head. I tell them, ‘Just kiss my head and you’ll see glory.’ That’s the greatest motto ever thought up.”

“Uh,” I said. “I think I would be a little careful with that if I were you.”

“You’re just as pitiful as they are. Everything you tell me is fake.”

“If you don’t trust me, and you don’t trust the other two heads who have been your friends for so long,” I said, “whom do you trust?”

“That’s the problem,” Right Head said.

“Yeah,” Left Head said, “Just listen to who Scumbag has buddied-up with. Have you ever heard of Wunewphelplaeze?”

“Where’s that? What does the word mean?”

Three GUTS whirled. Right Head spoke first. “Anus Mundi,” he said, then, “No, wait. I hit Latin by mistake.” He started to speak but Left Head cut him off.

“It’s where,” he said, “and I hate to say this, but it’s where the planets in our galaxies used to send their malformed and maladjusted units to keep them from breeding with the normal units.”

“Only one problem,” Right Head said.

“What’s that?”

Does this look like the face
of a man of menace? - C.W.

Left Head broke in. “They started breeding with one another and now they have their own civilization, even have their own leader, the worst unit in the galaxy, one called Ahhlchileya,” a real piece of excrement.”

“A piece of excrement who now has a new best friend,” Left head said. He and Right Head looked inward in unison.

“Fake facts,” Middle Head said. “Cheap lies. He’s had no charges brought against him.”

“Dormantatized units can’t bring charges,” Right Head said.

“He buys Doodo-Head expensive things,” Left Head said. “Where do you think he got that new Les Paul guitar that he plays when he makes us shape up like Slash?”

“Enough, enough,” I said. “I see disaster on the horizon.” I looked at Middle Head. “Can’t we reach a compromise?”

“Compromises are for those who can’t cut the pungent yellow condiment consisting of the pulverized seeds of a selected plant.”

I looked at the other two. “Can you report him to the Falloonian Elders?”

“Hell no,” Left Head said.

“He’s been buying them expensive gifts with funds Ahhlchielya gives him,” Left Head said.  “The Elders have gone bad and will support him no matter what.” The three began to argue incoherently.

I arose and left them there. I walked to the door, opened it, and walked outside for a breath of fresh air. Off to the west, some menacing black clouds were forming. I walked out to our farm pond, sat on the bank and studied the pond. By its waters, I wept when I remembered the good times.

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.

Morning Thoughts: Peace

C.W. and I were talking ….

He wanted to play a game, but I wasn’t in the mood. Then he explained it. See what you think. He calls it “What’s the metaphor for?” I know, I know, but let him have his fun. Here is an example, as he put it to me.

A young farmer had a farm, at least that’s what we’re told. And on this farm he has a barn, to keep things from the cold. And in this barn are hornet nests. All, we’re told are bold. But, they are quite small and cause little harm unless one harasses the individuals in the nest. The previous farmer had lived in peace with them for years. So, we have a small farm here, a big barn there, a farmer home, and hornets everywhere. See, I've told you so.

Now it gets interesting. A half-mile away, the “Mother of all hornet nests hangs from an oak three. This nest provides the inhabitants of other nearby nests.

Once a day, sometimes more often, the farmer walks down the road the half-mile and pokes the great hornet nest. As the hornets fly out in search of the danger, he quickly moves back to the farm, whereupon he goes to the barn and pokes a couple of the smaller nests. This, he thinks, makes them fearful, maintaining peace and harmony.

Well, it turns out that this particular species of hornets has a genetic code that passes memories from generation to generation. They also have communication skills.

No matter, the farmer says, “They’re just dumb hornets and I’ll handle them.” Off he goes to poke the mother-nest again.

So, what’s the metaphor for?

Hint:

Daily Thoughts

What C.W. and I discussed this morning.

A life worth studying: Lewis Mumford. The meme echoes my feelings on this fourth day before the elections. Only problem is … almost everything Mumford warned of came pass and his advice remains pertinent but unheeded by many. Recall:  “A day spent without the sight or sound of beauty, the contemplation of mystery, or the search of truth is a poverty-stricken day; and a succession of such days is fatal to human life.” 

My favorite of his quotes: "Adding highway lanes to deal with traffic congestion is like loosening your belt to cure obesity."

If only someone could remind the Arkansas Highway Construction Department of this.

C.W. says "Happy Guy Fawkes Day."

Christmas 2015

From the Alien C.W. to his friends:

240. War and Peace

Talk about being in a bad mood. C.W. hates Daylight Savings Time. I think they programmed his functions in Falloonia without taking our twice-a-year changes into account. It really sets him off course for a few days.

Come to think about it … it does the same for everyone. Oh well.

Anyway, here he comes, in critical mode. For this no form will suit him but Lucky and Lefty, the conjoined twins. Here they came and I began mentally to batten down the hatches. I could hear them arguing fifty yards away. We suffered a late winter storm and I was enjoying the first time it had been warm enough to sit outside and watch the snow melt.

“Asshole,” I heard.

“Douchebag,”

“I told you we needed overcoats.”

“Pussy.”

It continued this way until they stood in front of me. I nodded and braced for the worst. “What’s up boys?”

“I think snow is beautiful,” Lucky said.

“It hurts my feet,” Lefty said.

I tried to bring peace. “Don’t you fellows agree on anything?”

“I try to,” Lucky said.

“Why should we?” Lefty said. “Do you think just because we were born attached that I have to listen to this prick?”

“You could try,” Lucky said.

“Bite me,” Lefty said.

I said nothing.

“I’m going to slug this moron if you don’t make him shut up,” Lucky said. “I’ve had about all I can take.”

“You try, you numbskull,” Lefty said. “Remember what happened last time.”

I couldn’t stay neutral any longer. “Fellas, fellas,” I said. “What has happened to put you in such a state?”

“Might as well tell him,” Lucky said.

“Go ahead,” Lefty said. “You do it.”

“Screw you,” Lucky said. He actually phrased it a bit more directly but you get the picture.

“Cut it out,” I said. “Go ahead, Lucky.”

“Some Xenaprichians landed not far from here yesterday for a reconnaissance mission.”

“Really?” I said. “They landed on our farm?”

“They do it all the time” Lefty said. “They stay around awhile, making extra money doing things they call energetic meetings intended to revive religious faith.”

I was confused.

“He means ‘revivals,’ and they are good at it.,” Lucky said. “I enjoy hearing them preach on love and the joy that grace brings. It is very soothing to one’s spiritual well-being.” He turned to Lucky, “I told you to get that goddam translator fixed.”

“Jump up my ass,” Lefty said.

“Stop it guys,” I said. “So why are you so upset?”

“We hate Xenaprichians,” Lefty said.

“I don’t,” Lucky said. “I want to visit with them more to discuss the way our planets can live in harmony.”

“I want to blow their goddam spacecraft up with their sorry asses in it,” Lefty said.

“Asshole.”

“Crap for brains.”

“Now look,” I said. “It doesn’t seem wise to do harm to them. They may then want to damage to you in return. The rest of us may suffer in the process.”

“My feelings exactly,” Lucky said.

“Chickenshit peace-weenies,” Lefty said.

“Now let’s calm down and discuss this rationally,” I said. “We don’t want to start an interplanetary war on our farm.

“There you go again,” Lefty said. “You’ll never learn.”

“Why don’t we give freedom from disturbance; quiet and tranquility a chance?” Lucky said, turning to Lefty.

It seems to me that your species should try to find
a philosophy that teaches peace instead of war. - C.W.

'“Put your ‘peace’ where the sun don’t shine,” Lefty said. “Anyway, I’ve already talked to Mrs. Big Dope and she has agreed for us to wipe them out. That’s where we were headed now—to talk to her about the details.”

“Wait just a minute,” I said. “My wife won’t make such a decision without consulting me.”

“Poor deluded child,” Lucky said.

“Dumbass,” Lefty said.

They both laughed, spun three circles to the left then three circles to the right, settled on a course, and headed toward the house.

Hey ... click an ad. Big Dope is taking us to a revival, he says.
See also:
www.wattensawpress.com
www.deltadreaming.blogspot.com

230. Love

Omigosh, C.W. is using the holiday break to study philosophy. Yeegads. When I walked into the living room this morning there was the form of Albert the Analyst, one of his favorites, sitting on the couch in this tweed jacket—the one with the suede patches on the elbows—surrounded by books. He looked at me through horn-rimmed glasses, partly covered with unkempt hair and said, “Peace.” He immediately followed it with, “Humbug.”

“Tis the season,” I said.

“That’s what I’m trying to make sense of,” he said. “It happens every year this time.”

“What happens?”

“This time of peace on earth and good will toward men turns so ugly.”

“No it doesn’t”

“Oh,” he said, “but it does. Just look around you. That TV show, the fake news show …”

“The so-called Fox ‘News’ show?”

“That’s the one,” he said. “When’s the last time you saw them promoting an intense feeling of deep romantic affection?”

“Uh,” I said, “I don’t think love is the cornerstone of their business plan.”

“Evidently not,” he said. “And it shows in all the strong feelings of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility we see everywhere we go.”

“Anger is not everywhere,” I said. “Look at all those presents people exchange.”

“Exactly what I’m talking about.”

This took me by surprise. “How so?”

“Just a few moments before you came in,” he said, “one of you neighbors called and I spoke with them.”

“What did they want?”

“It was a woman asking where she might find this particular present for her brother.”

“See,” I said, “that’s exactly what I mean. It’s the season for promoting peace on earth and goodwill by exchanging presents. She wanted you to help her express her love.”

He sighed and looked at me as if I had just said storks bring babies. “She wanted to know,” he said, “where she could buy some of that toilet tissue they sell that has your President Barack Obama’s face printed on each square.”

“Oh dear,” I said.

“She thought it was just what he would want,” he said, “i.e. the perfect gift for the Season of Love.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, suddenly feeling the need to suffer for humankind.

“Oh,” he said, “that’s not all.”

“There’s more?”

“I didn’t ask her, but she told me anyway.”

What better way to celebrate the birth
of the Prince of Peace? - C.W.



“Told you what?”

“What her brother was getting her for Christmas.”

When I didn’t say anything , he continued, “One of those Glock handguns.”

“I see,” I said.

“So,” he went on, “she could shoot herself the first ni…”

“That’s enough,” I said. “I get the picture.”

He leaned back. “Speaking of Christmas presents, though, have you ordered my copy of ‘No Country for Old Men,’ yet?”

Be sure to click an ad ... we must pay for the presents.
Also see www.wattensawpress.com and www.deltadreaming.blogspot.com/
- C.W.

Friends:

Sad news today. The liberal blogger at www.bartcop.com died. He was one of C.W.'s favorites and he is deeply saddened, as am I. Barcop's greatest gift to me occurred during the great George W. Bush News Blackout following the American attack on Iraq. Major news outlets in the U.S. had been threatened, cajoled, or fooled (by telling reporters they could dress up in soldier costumes and ride in the back of military convoys if they wouldn’t report anything of substance) into a “U.S.A, U.S.A” chorus of non-news. One could, however, get a feel for what was happening by scouring outlets like The Guardian, Le Monde, Al Jazeera, and—yes—Bartcop. He could be caustic, opinionated, and over the top at times, but I will always be grateful for being assured, during that dark, dark, moment in American history, that there were still some people in my country who hadn’t gone bat-shit crazy.

Big Dope

C.W.

 

 

Teachings

Friends and followers: Big Dope is out walking but it was too cold for me, so I have been pondering the religious practices of your species, particularly those who profess to follow the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth.

There seems to be a growing paranoia and general dissatisfaction among some of you and this intrigues me. Some of it seems to reside in the fact that your current President is a person of color. This puzzles me as the source of your religion was also a person of color.

I think it might have something to do with too much time on your hands.

So.

I have pondered the teachings of your Christ and I offer the following. Study these—his words—contemplate them, digest them and determine how to form your life around them and this will occupy you for the rest of your mortal life. Perhaps it will also make you happier with things. Here they are:

 Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they will be filled.

The Falloonian Elders have selected this
passages as one of the best signs for the
future of your species but we rarely see
it mentioned in your rituals. - C.W.

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the sons of God.

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.

 

Just an idea.

- The Alien C.W.

165. Civility

It always brings me mixed emotions when C.W. appears in his favorite form. Yes, I mean Lucky and Lefty, the conjoined twins. Their funny way of walking amuses me and this recent time proved no exception. I was resting under a tree from the summer heat when I saw them coming. It took awhile to reach me as they, as usual, would stop every 20 steps or so and spin in circles for a few seconds changing directions each time.

When they finally reached me, Lucky was complaining about the heat. “Goddam planet is like Venus this time of year.”

“Now Lucky,” Lefty said, “Remember...”

“Why don’t you blow it out our …,” he said, then caught himself. “Of course you are right, brother of mine. I forgot.”

“It’s only natural,” Lefty said. “It must strain your little half of our brains to remember anything.” Then he too, seemed to catch himself as Lucky turned his head quickly in his direction. “Ooops.”

“I would certainly think so,” Lucky said. “We each must be more diligent.”

“Quite so,” said Lefty, smiling toward Lucky.

“Peace be with you,” Lucky said.

“And with you,” Lefty said.

I groaned. “What the hell?”

“Pray be nice to us, Big Dope,” Lucky said.

“Now brother,” Lefty said.

“Oh yes,” Lucky said, looking toward me. “Mr. Big Dope.”

“Fellers,” I said.

“Yes?” They answered in unison.

“Mind letting me in on your secret? Or joke? Or whatever?”

“Why, what can you mean, dear friend?” Lucky said.

“We are your friends, aren’t we?” Lefty said.

“And what has brought about this sudden burst of nicety? I thought you guys despised one another.”

“Us?” Lucky said in mock surprise.

“Yes you. What’s up?”

“If you must know,” Lefty said. “We are trying to set an example.”

“A good example,” Lucky said.

“A good example of what? Hypocrisy?”

“Oh dear friend, you don’t really mean that,” Lefty said.

“Okay,” I said. “You are trying to play nice. Why?”

“We are concerned,” Lucky said.

“He’s concerned. I’m alarmed,” Lefty said.

“About?”

“The current lack of civility among your species,” Lucky said.

“I see,” I said. The fog was beginning to lift.

“The Falloonian Elders are deeply bothered that your government is planning another shomachocratask” Lefty said.

“Another what?”

“Another war adventure” Lucky said.

“So you are proposing?”

“A world-wide week of civility,” Lefty said, beaming.

“Civility?”

“Yes,” Lucky said. “Civility, Everyone must be nice to everyone else for a week.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Have you ever seen an old movie called ‘The Day the Earth Stood Still?” Lefty said.

“Yes.”

“What would you do if we told you that it was more accurate than you could possibly imagine?” Lucky said.

My earthling friends, you can't imagine the
consequences of this pervasive hostility. - C.W.

“I would be nice to everyone for a week.”

“Our brother,” Lefty said and they held out all four hands.



“Wait a minute,” I said. “Would I have to be nice to the ‘pistol slappers’ as well?”

“If you are referring to our dear cosmic kinfolks, the Second Amendment Enthusiasts, then yes it would,” Lucky said.

I didn’t answer.

“Now go forth and sin no more,” Lucky said.

With that, they left me struggling with conflicting emotions as I watched them walk away, stopping every few steps to spin in a circle, first in one direction, then the other.

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.”

91. Sports

She was beautiful, the kind of creature that would make an old man buy a Harley. I figured it was C.W. of course, but oh my goodness. When I opened the door, the image took my breath away.

Fortunately, my wife was visiting her mother, for there before me stood a nearly six-foot tall goddess in a string bikini that stopped a heartbeat shy of saying “howdy.” One could have fashioned both top and bottom from a single hanky with enough left over for a headband. Her face seemed to leap from the pages of a glamour magazine and her body would have made Pat Robertson do the “buck and wing.”

She was that stunning.

“We need to talk,” she said as a single tear slid down her perfect face. She brushed past me into the living room and asked if she could sit.

I sat and motioned. “On the crotch …” I stammered. “The, uh, couch,” I corrected myself.

She gave me a quizzical look and sat.

“What’s up, C.W.?” I asked.

“She looked confused. “I’m Delta Donax,” she said. “Don’t you recognize me?” She crossed her legs.

“Should I?” I asked. “Are you a pubic figure?” I said, and froze.

“I am an Olympic athlete. Haven’t you seen me before?” She looked directly at me.

“Your thighs, I mean your eyes look familiar,” I managed. “What sport?”

“Beach Volleyball.”

“Are you sensuous?” I stopped. “Serious, I mean serious.”

“Yes,” she said. “That is the problem.” Then she burst into tears.

“Now, now,” I said, trying my best to comfort her. “Why don’t you get it off your breasts and tell me about it.”

She looked confused but explained between sobs. “Nobody takes me seriously.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” I said.

“No,” she said. “Some sportswriters think that I am simply a hot body.”

“Well,” I said soothingly. “They are just boobs, dummies I mean.”

“If I was an Indian who could run fast, they would write books and make movies about me.” She stood up and paced.

“Perhaps,” I said. “Especially if you could excel in the longer buns.”

”What?”

“Uh, longer runs,” I said. “Long runs.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “Do you know what the Greeks first wanted to promote with the Olympics?”

The air conditioner had kicked on a few second earlier and her body immediately manifested the fact beneath her bikini top, attracting my gaze.

“Peas.”

She glared at me.

“Peace,” I said quickly. “Peace among the city states.”

“You men are all alike,” she said.

”Perhaps if you wore less revealing uniforms.”

“Tell that to Jesse Owens and Michael Phelps .”

”You have a couple of good points there.” She caught me looking again.

“Is there something bothering you?” she said.

“Well,” I said. “There are differences between track and field, gymnastics, and beach volleyball.” Not quitting while I was ahead, I added, “Mounds of difference.”


Phidippides would have made it
to Marathon even faster had these
athletes been wating there. - C.W.



She exploded. “Well why don’t you take your ‘mounds’ or whatever and ..”

“C.W.,” I said. “Calm down.”

She didn’t say another word, just walked to the door and left. As she walked out, I couldn’t help noticing the raised outline of a tattoo beneath her bikini bottom. It read simply, “Bite me.”

At least I think it was C.W.

89. Mandates

There are times when C.W. can break your heart. I know, he broke mine this week when he appeared in his saddest form yet.

It was late when I answered a knock on my door. There stood an American soldier in the kind of Class A uniform they made military personnel wear in public back in the day.

I say American soldier. Truth be told, he looked more like a kid dressed up like a soldier. He said later he was 18 but could have easily passed for 16.

He was white, thin, and his skin seemed to glow with paleness from deep in his soul. His uniform, though impeccably arranged, hung from his frame like a sheet on a clothesline.

“What the h…,” I began.

“May I come in?” he said.

“Surely.”

As he walked into the room in a slow, funereal gate, I observed him closely. His uniform sported a single PFC stripe and a black nametag that simply said “Armstrong.” The highly esteemed Combat Infantry Badge was pinned above a field of ribbons that seemed to weight him down. They included the two Vietnam service awards and a Purple Heart. Another badge identified him as a “Marksman.”

He stood until I offered him a seat whereupon he sat stiffly and stared at me.

“Your species behaves more strangely at some times than others,” he said, after straightening his trousers and checking his highly polished shoes. Then he stared softly into space.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Vietnam Veteran.”

”Vietnam casualty,” he said. “The last day of January, 1968.”

“The Tet Offensive.”

“I had been ‘in-country’ for two months,” he said. He picked a thread from the sleeve of his blouse. “And there were a great many places where I would have rather been.”

“Drafted?”

He nodded. “Twenty-five percent of us were.” He looked at me and cocked his head. “We accounted for 30.4 percent of the combat deaths.”

I said nothing.

“But that’s not why I am here,” he said.

“Why then?”

“Questions,” he said. “I see where the Supreme Court of your country is considering passing a law that the government can’t mandate that someone do something they don’t want to do.”

“Well, they don’t call it passing a law,” I said. “They call it …”

“I know,” said. “You love to play with words. As your famous writer William F. Buckley Jr. once observed, we could call the act of sodomy ‘following too closely’ but it wouldn’t change much.”

I looked at him closely for a glimpse of a smile but saw nothing but more sadness.

“So what is your question?” I asked.

“Why didn’t they come up with this before 1968?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Seeking to change the subject, I nodded at his nametag.

“Armstrong?”

“Of the Charleston, West Virginia Armstrongs,” he said. “Did you know our state had the highest percentage of combat deaths in Vietnam?”

Can't your species find something better
to rail against than health care? - C.W.

“No,” I said.

“It’s true,” he said. Then stared away again. “They say that when Momma heard the news about me, she shouted and prayed all night long and, as long as she lived, she would tell anyone who would listen that they didn’t know what real sorrow was.”

As I say, he can break your heart.

82. World Peace

Hey folks, C.W. here. Big Dope took his wife downstairs for martinis last night and is still asleep. I know he won’t mind if I borrow his platform. I do it all the time. Besides, it is for a very important topic.

World peace.

Yes, I said, “World peace.”

Now, what, you might wonder, do I know about world peace? A lot. On my planet of Falloonia, there exists no strife of the type your planet exhibits. War? We haven’t had one since the Tlogogian Epoch

How do we manage it? It is simple really. We are a happy species. What makes us happy? The most important contributing factor is our love of Suploficating. What, you will ask, is that? It is hard to explain but it involves the communal exciting of our Suploficate membrane, an appendage that can develop a quite pleasing sensation when we exercise it.

But enough of that. You humans have no such body part, at least none without dreadful side effects, so I have had to look for some external mechanism for making your individual units happy.

I have only found one.

It is … are you ready? The banjo. Playing it, that is. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always include listening to it, but playing it produces instant and universal joy. As your comedian and actor Steve Martin once said, “You simply cannot frown and play the banjo at the same time.”

So, here’s my plan.

Your country has committed, I understand, to build four new aircraft carriers at a cost expected to reach $10 billion each. The actual purpose of such a program is unclear to me but the stated reason is to produce world peace. Pardon me, but producing world peace with aircraft carriers seems to me like extinguishing a fire with gasoline, but never mind.

Here is my plan.

For the cost of constructing one aircraft carrier, we could purchase approximately 25 million banjos. This would be enough to outfit a substantial sample of the following, remembering that these categories overlap in many cases.

- Conservatives

- Hard-line Muslims and Israelis

- End-times evangelicals

- Right-wing radio hosts

- Military contractors

- The employees of Fox News

- Third-world dictators

- Others of a generally unhappy disposition

Now, for the cost of operating one aircraft carrier, estimated at a half a million dollars a day, we could supply an additional 1,250 instruments per day or 456,000 per year.

The beauty of my scheme is that each banjo would be equipped with headphones so that only the performer would have to listen to any given output.

Can you imagine Rush Limbaugh
after a few months with a banjo?

I know that you find yourselves overwhelmed by my simple logic.

Before you scoff, however, imagine Dick Cheney, Karl Rove, and the board of directors of Halliburton Corporation sitting around a table picking banjos.

Peace in our time!

Next time, I’ll offer my ideas for (1) eliminating hunger, (2) fixing your country’s physical environment, and (3) providing decent housing for everyone.

(Oh, and visit our sponsors; I'm saving for my own banjo).