306. Confusion

"So explain something to me," C.W. said, as we enjoyed ourselves at a local Little Rock beer joint. I it was pleasant, with his taking, for once, the sensible shape of a good friend. I was having a beer and he a soda, his usual since the incident with the female police officer. Don't ask.

"Explain what?"

"This concept your species has called a 'love-hate' relationship."

"What do you mean?"

"It doesn't make sense," he said."Is it what you call a combination of contradictory word such as a 'definite maybe,' like Mrs. Big Dope says all the time?"

"You mean an oxymoron?"

"That's what I said. Your repeating of everything I say is becoming a periodic constancy."

It took a moment for that to register. "She doesn't say that all the time," I said. It's just a falsehood she uses to express the truth."

"You are confusing me with elucidation," he said.

"So what was it you want to know? Forgetting what you say is, for me, a cruel kindness."

He scowled at me from across the table. “Would you rather play our beer-drinking game?”

Oh no. We have this game we play called “Songs and songwriters I enjoy disliking.” The image of Tony Orlando popped into my head. I quickly changed the subject.

“So what was your question again? I’m drearily attentive.”

“What does it mean to have a ‘love-hate’ relationship with something or someone?”

“Well,” I said, “it sort of means you love something— or maybe the concept of something— at one moment but then hate it at another. You know … possessing simultaneous or alternating emotions of love and hate.”

“Like in marriage,” he said, “when …”

I interrupted him. “It doesn’t have anything to do with sex,” I said.

“Hmm,” he said, and he took a small notebook and pen from his pocket and began to write.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh nothing,” he said, “just making a note to get a second opinion on something.”

“You leave her out of this,” I said. “Or I’ll catch you sleeping and play, ‘American Pie,’ as loud as I can.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said. “I have ten Tom Waits discs just waiting for you.”

“Okay,” I said. “Truce.”

“Truce,” he said. “Peace through war.”

“You got it,” I said. “But why are you off on this love-hate kick?”

“Your species seems to live by it,” he said.

“Confound me with clarity,” I said.

“Look at your religions,” he said. “Between those urging love, and those urging hate, which are the fastest growing?”

I took a drink of beer and signaled the waitress for another, not from desire, but from a need for a second or two to think. She came and I stalled some more, asking about her family.

“Oh my granddaddy said the nicest thing to me the other day,” she said.

“Really?”

“Yes, he told me that he was so proud that I had five kids and that I knew who the daddy of each one was.” She took the empty bottle and wandered away.

C.W. stared at her. “How old do you think she is?”

“Nearly 30, I imagine.”

“What her grandfather said, isn’t that what you would call ‘praise damnation’ or something like that?”

“No,” I said. “I think that’s what we call redneck sophistication in the South. But back to your question …”

Something tells me that his man
is not reciting the Beatitudes. - C.W.

“Yes,” he said. “Now take a look at your current crop of political candidates.”

“What about them?”

“The ones who get all the attention, what are they whispering most loudly?”

“Uh,” I said, once more stalling for time.”

Let me answer with a hint,” he said. “It isn’t love.”

I nodded. “Just what are you trying to say?”

“Just that,” he said, “you species never seems to feel more correct than when they are wrong.”

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248. Insults

“What your country needs, it seems to me …”

“Yes?” I was all ears. After all, I was listening to a 16-year old whiz kid about to tell me what my country needed. Actually it was C.W. the Alien taking on the form of a whiz kid, a young African-American youth with thick glasses and a pocket full of pencils. Back in the day, he would have sported a pencil protector, but this was modern youth, no frills.

“What you need is a good source of insults.”

“A what?”

“Insults.”

“Insults?”

“Quite so,” he said, nodding his head like an Oxford Dean.

“I don’t understand.” And I didn’t. He was busy pecking away at my laptop and I was lounging on the couch in our high-rise condo. Off to the west, our city’s skyline darkened in the evening gloom.

“Seems to me to be a real opportunity for a young man filled with a strong desire to do or to achieve something, typically requiring determination and hard work.”

“Ambition?”

“Why do you repeat what I say?”

“Your Galactic Universal Translator confuses me at times.”

“Leave my GUT out of this. I need to work.”

I sighed. “At creating insults?”

“Your people love them.”

“Where did you get that idea?”

“Watching television.”

“Oh,” I said. “I can see how you might. That fake news channel again?”

“In exact terms; without vagueness.”

“Well what, precisely, will you call your enterprise?"

“I think ‘The Bitch Slap Store’ or something like that.”

“Uh,” I said. “Maybe you ought to give it some more thought. But anyway, you’re going to create insults for sale?”

“I’ve already created some. I’ll let you hear a few, but you may not understand them. After all, you’re so dumb that Sarah Palin wouldn’t even pick you for a running mate.”

I stared, as you might expect, in complete disbelief.

“You should see yourself,” he said, “You’re so ugly I can’t look at you for fear of déjà vu.”

Shaking my head, I said nothing.

“You got a look on your face like a monkey in church needin’ to pee real bad,” He said.

That made me turn and look at him.

“Did you get your brains on sale at Walmart?” he said.

It was impossible for me to say anything. I just stared more.

“If you ask me,” he said, “stupid, lazy, and confused is your default mode and you ain’t got no reboot key.”

It was then that I tried to speak, but no words came out.

“You’re so sorry,” he said, “that someone would have to pay Joel Osteen to take your money.”

“Now wait a minute.” I finally found my voice.

“Besides,” he said, “if an idea ever came near your head, it would take one look and fly on to the next galaxy.”

That was it. “Look, C.W.,” I said, “you know about as much about our culture a pig knows about the rhumba.”

He was about to speak, but stopped. Pain covered his face like curtain had been drawn over it. “Why do you want to hurt my feelings?” he said.

“Are you serious?”

This is how Big Dope looked the moment that
he learned where babies came from. - C.W.

He looked down. “I have a sensitive nature, you know. I need love and you give me grief.” He actually sobbed slightly.

“Look, C.W.,” I said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Well you did.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He looked up and said, “I know.” Then he laughed and said, “You’re also as gullible as a teenage girl choosing a boyfriend.”

 

 

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C.W.