Deliverance

This morning I grabbed a cup of coffee and headed into my room. I saw a familiar sight and spun around to leave. Too late.

“Come in my child.”

There at my computer was The Galilean, one of the favorite shapes of the Alien C.W. my more or less permanent houseguest. I dreaded our conversations like a prostitute dreads a police interview.

“Come and sit.”

What could I do? I sat. “What the hell are you up to?” I wasn’t going to go gently into this good fight.”

“Be calm,” he said. “Have you said your morning prayers, yet?”

Let me explain. The figure before me had long, greasy black hair, a stringy beard, glassy black eyes and robe that smelled of long days’ wear. And he was quizzing me on prayer.

“No,” I said. “You know I quit praying while I was still in high school.”

His dark eyes bore into me and I shivered. “Tell me, exactly what did you pray for then?”

I knew he wouldn’t stop, so I might as well go along. “I prayed to be tall enough and big enough to be a football player.”

“And what exactly happened?”

“Nothing. I walked through graduation at five-foot-ten and 130 pounds.”

“And for that you quit praying?”

“Yes. Wouldn’t you have?”

He ignored me. “How much do you know about prayer, my son?”

Oh crap. Here we would go. “Just that it didn’t work for me.”

“Is there what you call a … ,” He paused and I heard his Galactic Universal Translator hum. He studied some notes he had on my desk, “a ‘statute of limitations’ on prayer?”

“A what?”

“Do your entreaties and pleas evaporate over time like a thin fog on a spring morning?”

I hate it when he gets poetical. “How the hell should I know?”

“Don’t blaspheme, my child. Think of what I asked. It may be hard, but think.”

He resorted to one of his favorite tricks, a challenge tinged with an insult. “Okay, I’m thinking.”

“If faith is eternal, shouldn’t the requests of faith-based prayers be eternal?”

“Beats me.”

“Let me answer. Yes, my child. Prayers are eternal. There are no expiration dates for them.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. But we’re talking about you.” He paused, for dramatic effect as much as anything. “Not tell me how tall you are this morning and how much you weigh.”

I heard the trap door slamming shut and didn’t answer.

“I know the facts anyway,” he said. “Now aren’t you as tall and large as many successful football players?”

“But I’m …,” I began. He cut me off.

“A prayer response delayed is not a prayer request unanswered.”

My mind twirled and a bell rang in my head. “But what about the few in Germany in the 1930s who prayed to avoid war?”

He grimaced. His GUT hummed. It was his turn to stammer. “Is there any more of that coffee?” he asked.

POWER

 I worry when he gets like this.

The Alien C.W. was buried in a pile of papers and notes this morning looking much like a harried professor at “publish or perish” time. He paid no attention to me. I sat, sipped my coffee, and watched. Actually, I sometimes like it when he is quiet. We are still under a restraining order on account of the “garage band” he started despite the fact that we have no garage.

Anyhow, he finally looked up and saw me. “I’m busy,” he said.

“I can see.”

“Minor assignment for the Falloonian Elders.”

“Don’t mind me. I’ll not interrupt you.”

“Good,” he said. He returned to his work.

He shuffled papers, wrote a note, and turned back to me. “It’s a report tracing the development of mental cognizance in your species, from the end of the Neanderthals to present. Pardon me if I’m too busy to visit.”

I nodded. Minor assignments require concentration as well as major ones.

He struck through some writing and looked at me. “It was developing well for a while, cognizance was. Now excuse me.”

I nodded.

He retained his stare. “You were making great progress.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Your ancestors discovered that dances didn't make it rain and sought the physical facts. This led to findings that allowed the Egyptians to forecast flooding phenomena that led to a stable civilization lasting for a longer time than that which has passed since their last great empire. Now if you will excuse me, I’m busy.”

I nodded.

He didn’t return to his work. “I found it amusing at first that your ancestors tried to turn lead into gold.”

I nodded.

“But then I discovered, from reading this,” he held up a worn copy of The Golden Bough by Sir James George Frazer, “that this seeming folly actually led your folks to a development of the Scientific Method in research.”

“So our development went well?”

“Not really. I’m sorry. It faltered, but I can’t go into it now.”

I nodded.

He put the book aside and turned to me again. “Seems apparent to me that religion hindered the development.”

“Oh? How?”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?”

I nodded. He started to go back to work but stopped.

“Seems that religion led to an understanding of power, and how to use it, as opposed to the seeking of knowledge.” He reached and held up a copy of the Bible. “These folks weren’t very high on knowledge.”

“No,” I said. “No they weren’t. You can ask Paul of Tarsus if you happen to run into him during one of your enphasngs. ”

He ignored me. “That set the stage for rule by force, over rule by reason, as a method of retaining power.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, all because of religion. When the dark side of politics joins the anti-cognizance stance of religion, all hell, pardon the allusion, may break loose: darkness and destruction, with the aid of religion as a tool. Now you’ve bothered be enough. I must work.”

“Fine,” I said. “But I wouldn’t publish your findings here on Earth.”

“Are you kidding?” he said. He buried his nose back into his notes.

Blue Eyes and Polio

This time of year, I get confused. There is so much mythology floating around, that it is hard for me to accept that your species has managed to escape Earth’s gravitational field. Yes, the distance involved is only relative to a fraction of a layer of soap film compared to real space travel. But it is an accomplishment for a species that accepts that an old fat man delivers free presents to every believing kid on the planet in one night.

Big Dope says I must develop what he calls a “suspension of logic.” That’s one term that my Galactic Universal Translator cannot accommodate.

Although my GUT recoiled at the suggestion that I try to make my Earth hosts happy, I tried. I failed. Suspend logic? It was logic that enabled me to travel to your planet from a couple of galaxies away. It was logic that has nearly rid your planet of polio, although I understand that a breed of your species that calls itself “libertarians” wants to bring it back, along with other nearly defunct diseases.

Anyway. The thing that confuses me this time of year, is what you call the “Nativity Story.” That’s the story of the birth of the figure Big Dope calls “The Galilean.”

As he would say later in life, the Galilean, in what one of my friends calls “The Gig on The Hilltop,” assures the crowd that he is not about to destroy “The Law” but to fulfill it. He’s referring, of course to the Old Testament law, largely set forth in the book of Leviticus and Deuteronomy. Here’s the rub, to a lover of logic. According to the latter source, The Law, as the Galilean calls it, would have had his mother taken to the gates of the city and stoned to death before he was born.

I mentioned that at the supper table the other night while shaped as former president Ronald Reagan. My companions both laughed. The answer? If a snake can be made to talk, a pregnant virgin can withstand a stoning.

It’s going to take your species a long time to reach the next galaxy over.

Sorry, must run. One of my favorite films is about to show. Ironically, it’s about the life of the Galilean. Oddly, the main character has blue eyes, but who cares?

Joy

Do I have to be careful or what? Take this morning for example. I got in trouble for trusting my GUT, my Galactic Universal Translator. I maintain my innocence. See what you think, dear reader.

Big Dope constantly loses his wife. That’s partly because he loses things and partly because she’s a diminutive person and moves in random and undetectable movements, like some distant star which we can’t see but we discern its presence by the movement of other celestial bodies toward it.

Big Dope is walking around looking for his wife and can’t find her anywhere. I’m in my usual early morning shape of Arnold Awesome watching a Bowery Boys movie. He interrupts my act of minding my own business and asks if I’ve seen her.

“Nope. Want me to look for her?” Sometimes she hides from him early in the morning because he goes around singing old church hymns, and that gets on her nerves something awful.

“Nah,” he says. “I guess the Rapture has occurred.”

“The rapture?”

“Don’t you know anything? Look it up.”

I go back to the movie. Halfway through it, guess who walks by looking for her husband? I disavow any knowledge and go back to watching Huntz Hall and the gang.

“I guess he thinks I have disappeared forever again,” she says.

I make the mistake of trusting my GUT to try and help. “You may be right,” I say, “he did mention something concerning a feeling of intense pleasure or joy.”

Now I’m on what they call “double secret probation” and can’t watch TV for the rest of the day.

What did I do? I can’t seem to acquire or secure anything as a result of a contest, conflict, bet, or other endeavor no matter how hard I try. Oh, and those celestial bodies that we can't see but we know are there? The Falloonians discovered your planet by a similar, but opposite, phenomenon. We knew you were here from the sight of so many other bodies moving away from you.

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."

Spokespeople

 Big Dope doesn’t like it much when I question him about religious ecstasy among your species. He’s says it’s too complicated for me.

Me, a member of the Falloonian intelligentsia? Someone who travelled through three galaxies to reach your puzzling planet? Too complicated? Someone who can speak fluently in over 6,500 of your languages, some of which are spoken by fewer than 1,000 people. That doesn’t include dialects. I can even understand and translate rural southern English, although I do have trouble speaking it, and the Falloonian Elders claim I’m making it up.

Too complicated for me? Why I have more cognitive capability in less than a tenth of one of my three brains than he has in his whole puny cranium. Too complicated? Here you have a creature that can instantly compute loci to thousands of planets in over 200 billion galaxies.

One religion in one country in one planet in one galaxy of the known universe? How hard could it be?

“Then explain to me,” he says, “how the official religion of a major political party in the most powerful country on our planet has selected Rick Perry to explain the mental workings and purposes of its god Jehovah, who created those 200 billion galaxies.”

“Rick Perry?” I says.

“Rick Perry.”

“The Rick Perry?”

“The Rick Perry.”

“Let me make sure,” I says. “The Rick Perry who couldn’t name the three government agencies he would abolish if he were elected president?”

“The very one.”

If you’ll excuse me, dear friend, I have some studying to do.

449. Beliefs

It was my time to ask C.W. questions. For once, he cooperated. I must have caught him on good day. He had assumed the shape of a learned professor after all. A few minutes before, I had been talking to what seemed like a reincarnation of Liberace. He left for few minutes and returned as a Carl Sagan clone. I was confused, and said so to him.

“How do you manage all this shape-shifting? Can all Falloonians do it so seamlessly? How do you make the changes?”

“You must have fallen asleep in your psychology and anatomy classes,” he said.

That hurt my feelings. “No,” I said, “I paid attention.”

“To what?” he said, making a mocking smile. “Was Mrs. Big Dope in your class?”

“Are you going to taunt me or teach me?”

“You probably think,” he said, “that you are seeing my shape now, right? You think that little rays shoot out from your eyes … little emissions so to speak … land on me and send back what they find.”

I tried to think back. “Not really,” I said. I think my eyes are just receptors, or something like that.”

“Maybe you’re not totally stupid,” he said.

That was a relief.

“Suppose,” he said, “that I don’t change shapes at all.”

“But I see you.”

“Shut up and listen,” he explained.

“Okay.”

“Suppose that, because we are a superior species in so many ways, we Falloonians have perfected the relationship between our beings as senders and your beings as receptors. For sight, that would involve how we control information that strikes your retinas, triggering the signals that are sent to a region in the back of your brain. There, they are translated, in the words of your scientist James E. Alcock, into “colors, textures, and forms that are then compared with past experience.”

“And?”

 

Left a copy for Big
Dope to read.  You may
like it too. - C.W.

“Then the process constructs an image.”

“An image”

“Actually, a construction. Does that explain how you see me in different forms?”

“But I can touch you.”

“Same question.”

“And hear you.”

“Same question.”

“I guess I could taste you if necessity demanded it.”

“Same question.”

“And smell you. Lord I can smell you sometimes.”

“Same question. Do you want to learn or be cute?”

“Do you mean to tell me that your shapes are merely constructions that you signal?”

“Keep trying. You are on the right path but walking wobbly.”

“But?”

“But nothing.”

“You could signal something evil or non-productive.”

“Only for weaker minds. I may be programmed for periodic mischief but not for creating evil. I couldn’t if I wanted to. Remember, I’m a mental construction designed to promulgate belief, and various belief systems demand specific levels of cognizance.”

“You mean belief systems exist in a hierarchy of sorts?”

“I mean, in the parlance of your species, that dumb is as dumb does.”

“But what if a renegade from your planet came to earth with evil plans to energize the masses in revolt against a stable society?”

“That could cause a cause a problem. Won’t happen though.”

“Why not?”

“The shapes involved would be so strange and weird that even the most perceptively challenged among you would find them repellent.”

“Wait,” I said, “Didn’t you imply that our creation of these so-called constructions depends on preciously held beliefs?”

He looked at me sharply, thought, and said. “I’m tired. Have you learned enough for today? I think I’ll go watch the news.”

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Don't Get Me Started

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.

426. Newscast

Sometimes C.W. likes to pretend he is a news analyst and give me a recap of the week. He has this shape he likes when he does it, very grave and serious. He looks more like one of the great newscasters of the past. He always starts the same way, as he did yesterday.

“Good Saturday to you. It has been a week of weeks here in America, I’m Charles Wellingham here to tell you all about it.”

I don’t move, as a general rule, that is, until he makes a gaff. He records the broadcast and I worry that someone might see one.

Anyway, back to yesterday. He took a deep breath.

“Sad to say, my fellow Americans, our country seems to continue sinking into a hole from which it may never emerge.”

I listened.

“What kind of hole, you ask? That depends on you, fellow citizen. Some call in a ‘hole of despair.’ They see your species adopting attitudes that draw social lines that may never be crossed. ‘Where,’ they say, ‘did civil discourse go?’ We may never know. A species that wears baseball caps on backwards can’t be expected to contemplate complex thoughts, or follow the tenuous paths of reason.”

He looked at me for approval. I nodded and he proceeded.

“Others don’t speak of despair. They sense a moment of triumph. They see our country as being directed by more spiritual forces. The only hole they see affecting America is what they might like to term ‘a glory hole,’ and they praise its promise.”

“Uh.”

He had started to speak again, but stopped. He looked at me and said, “What?”

“I’m not sure I would use the term ‘glory hole’ if I were you.”

“You’re not me, but why? Too religious?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Okay.” He made a note and continued. “We leave our holy-roller friends to their thoughts and continue.”

“Uh.”

He sighed.

I said, “I don’t thing they like to be called ‘holy rollers’ anymore.”

“Well, you can’t please everybody. Let’s continue.” He consulted his notes, assumed his camera-face, took a breath and said. “We lost some more of America’s school children to gun violence this week. That’s getting to be a ‘below the fold’ occurrence in our country. We may stop reporting it entirely, except perhaps in the community news. That would become a sad non-commentary, don’t you think?”

He looked a me. I nodded. Pretty good. He continued.

Oddly, the president of those dead school children refuses to address this whole culture of gun violence. Some of you may think that’s queer.”

He looked at me. I nodded again. He was getting into his groove.

“It’s queer, all right,” he said. “You might say the president is acting as queer …,” he searched for words, “…, let’s say queer as a three-dollar bill.”

I straightened. “Uh.”

“Now what?”

“Not sure I agree with your journalism work there,” I said. “Try a different simile.”

“Why?”

“Because I said to.”

“Okay.” He made a note and continued. “The president’s behavior seems to puzzle nearly everyone these days, everyone that is except the man we journalists who cover government are calling ‘The Walrus.’”

I let that one pass. It seemed to fit.

“We have learned from a trusted source inside the White House that fellow staffers don’t refer to the president’s most trusted advisor as ‘The Walrus’ but as,” I could tell he was undergoing an internal translation, “a small syringe for douching the vagina, especially as a contraceptive measure.”

“Wait,” I said. “Why don’t you just leave out that part?”

“Is there a better translation?”

 

Oh dear. - C.W.

“No, well, yes, but I think it’s best avoided on a formal broadcast.”

“Damn,” he said, making another note. He continued. “Rumor has it that the president, whom most staffers now lovingly refer to as ‘The Cheeto,’ called the Walrus in last week to discuss reports that the Catholic Pope was getting concerned about our warlike actions in the Middle East.”

He made that motion newscasters use when they turn to face another camera. “What, you might ask, was the response from the Walrus? Insiders report this: ‘How many nukes does the Pope have?’ The Cheeto thought that was cute, sources also say.”

In further news, we have learned that the Walrus and the Cheeto have eliminated several governmental functions. One of those was the office of the command center for dealing with disease outbreak. He termed the office, if our sources are correct, ‘As useless as mammary ducts on a boar hog.’ Fox News science expert Sean Hannity agreed, praising the action as ‘draining the area of low-lying, uncultivated ground where water collects.’”

He made the motion of returning to the original camera.

“Now for international news, we regret to inform you of another outbreak of the Ebola virus in Africa.”

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.

405: Transformations

Probably, C.W. thought that he had captured Ebenezer Scrooge perfectly. It’s hard to tell what Dickens had in mind. He asked us to imagine his character’s physical appearance from his demeanor, to wit:

“Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.”

As the Alien’s character had interrupted my reading, I leaned back to attend his harangue and found myself as shocked as a spinster in a bawdy house to find him in a humorous attendance.

He sat, rubbed his stubble of beard, and said, “I was thinking of a cartoon I ran across while doing some research on British humor. What? Oh yes. They did years ago. Don’t know what happened. Prince Charles’ girlfriend and all that. Anyway, I think the piece appeared in Punch, a real ‘guffawer’ if I recall correctly. Is that a word? Oh, let’s make it one for today at least.” He chuckled.

Still shocked by his exhibition of an unexpected, and, seemingly uncharacteristic, display of levity, I leaned forward.

“There was this Christian Crusader on a large white horse and a Muslim soldier sprawled on the ground. The Christian held a huge lance to the other’s throat while he held a menacing sword aloft with the other in an unmistakable posture of victory.

"To this instance of impending doom, the Muslim says, 'Tell me more about this Christianity of yours. I’m terribly interested.'” With this, the laughter, which he had been subduing with such diligence, leapt its barriers and expressed itself with such vehemence that his tall hat almost toppled to the floor in total shock.

I sat astounded.

The way to change attitudes? - C.W.

His demeanor changed as rapidly as does the weather in our world. “Tell me more about this Franklin Graham of yours,” he said, “I’m terribly confused.”

The velocity with which he changed created a skidding sensation like when the brakes of a fast-moving automobile are applied on gravel.

“Tell you what?”

“This man,” he said, rubbing his stubble again, “this self-proclaimed oracle, seems unable to extricate himself from the tar-pit of mendacity and false propheteering. I’m only asking why?”

I requested additional insight.

“Recently, he lauded the current president for ameliorating the effects of something he called ‘The War on Christmas.’ Is there such a thing?”

“Are you serious?”

“Quite.”

“Do you think that it looks like there is, or recently has been, a war on Christmas?”

“Obviously not. But is it currently illegal to observe, promote, or favor Christmas in any way?”

“The observance is criticized by non-participants, or those troubled by the ubiquitous greed involved, but that by no means implies illegality.”

“So why does this man, Franklin Graham, son of a preacher-man, imply such a falsehood?"

“Politics,” I said. “He’s assigned himself to a certain political segment of the country and, despite what others may infer from his motives, he is a proud and assiduous worker.”

“What’s next,” he said, “a lance to the throat of those who don’t agree?”

“Not now,” I said, “in the early days of the settling of Europeans here yes, but not today.”

“So his aim is to divide your countrymen into opposing segments of the populace for political purposes?”

“Quite so.”

“Fascinating,” he said, once more attending this cheek.

I waited, then, “Is that all you wanted to know on the matter?”

“I’m thinking,” he said. “Were your ancestors who first came here really accustomed to punishment for holding different religious views?”

“If hanging by the neck until dead, or lowering live people onto sharpened stakes, or burning them alive, constitutes punishment, then I am afraid so. Why?”

“One moment,” he said. “I’m thinking.”

I waited

“What I’m wondering,” he said at last, “is whether it might be efficacious to arrange for this Mr. Franklin Graham to witness past effects of such religious and civil discourse?”

Before I could reply, he said, “Then we could show him the present effect of his efforts on the poor, the mourners, and the meek, maybe others as well.”

Again, I had begun to think when he broke the silence.

“Perhaps,” he said, “with some help from the Falloonian Elders, we might even project him into the future to witness the epochal damage of his actions.”

Neither of us spoke. I drifted into sleep and dreamed. The words “Breaking News” flashed through my dream and I was whisked away. When I focused again, I was watching the end of a bio-segment of the very Franklin Graham we were discussing. The announcer turned to the camera and said:

“Afterwards, Franklin became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough.”

Indeed it would be. Then would we all be truly blessed.

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 makes him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

404. Reversals

“Are you serious?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Where on Earth do you come up with such …,” I stopped. It came to me that C.W. isn’t from Earth, so my point wasn’t going to make sense. Still, he could aggravate me at times, and this was one of those. He just smirked.

“Now,” he said, “can I get back to work?” There was no use arguing. He had taken on the shape of Reggie the Young Conservative, and there was no reasoning with him.

I tried a different tack. “So you,” I said, “are charged with developing strategies for increasing the rate of unwanted pregnancies in America.”

“Quite so.”

“May I ask why?”

“Are you really that dense?” He shook his head in exasperation. “Simple,” he said. “It’s a gateway sin.”

“What is a gateway sin?”

He shook his head slowly. “You know what a gateway drug is, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s something you folks made up to justify the billions you’ve wasted on reducing marijuana usage.”

He shook his head. “We’re not trying to reduce marijuana usage,” he said. “We’re just making sure that its usage stays illegal. Crime enforcers are among our most loyal supporters.”

“So how does that relate to a plan to increase unwanted pregnancies?”

“Unwanted pregnancies,” he said, “are like marijuana. They lead to another choice that keeps our political base charged up like an Irish Setter on steroids.”

“Let’s make sure I understand. You want to excite your constituency by increasing the number of people who have to make difficult choices?”

“Not people. Women. Don’t forget that we recognize a difference.”

I see. So what have you tried so far?”

“Well,” he said. “We’ve outlawed sex education. It’s deplorable how many young people now understand the strong correlation between sexual intercourse and procreation. Deplorable.”

“Are you still teaching young girls that, if you say ‘Mother may I?’ three times beforehand, they are safe from all harm?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Are you making fun of us?”

“Perish the thought.”

“We stopped using that one years ago. Now we just teach them to hold their breath and pray at critical junctures.”

“Contraceptives have proven to be effective.”

“Correctamundo,” he said. “That’s why we’re in the process of outlawing them.”

“I guess that’s also why you don’t want men held responsible for unwanted pregnancies?”

“What do men have to do with it? That’s what we say. The last thing we want is a bunch of men running around offering to help raise a child.”

“This whole thing seems a bit turned around,” I said. “I mean, the whole idea of increasing loyalty in despising an act by promoting the act seems so …,” I struggled for words. “So Roveian.”.

“Please don’t denigrate the God of Our Movement,” he said, “but now you’re getting the picture.”

“Does it work?”

 

A hero to so many. - C.W.

“Haven’t you ever heard of poverty and our fight for it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Can’t you see anything? What happens when you increase the number of poor people?”

“Lot’s,” I said. “You increase the level of so many things: childhood disease, malnutrition, substandard housing, lack of educational opportunities ….”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “It’s crime.”

“Crime?”

“Yep. The greater the gap in wealth, the more crime, and the more crime, the more people run out and buy more …,”

“I see. I see.” I said. “I see, but it’s making me crazy.”

“And speaking of crazy,” he said. “Have you ever heard of Franklin Graham, Joel Osteen, Kenneth Copeland, Joyce Meyer, Benny Hinn, …?”

“Stop. Stop.” I said. “Yes, I’ve heard of them and others like them. Don’t go on. You’re making me nauseated now.”

“Exactly,” he said. “They are all our operatives.”

“Your what?”

“Their job is to turn young folks off religion.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t you see how much our support strengthens when they publish those reports on declining church attendance? What more dastardly trend could you hope for, to blame on your opponents?”

“I’ve got to sit down a moment,” I said. “This goes against everything I’ve ever been taught.”

“Precisely,” he said. “That’s why we have some powerful people,” he stopped, “… some very powerful people, working on education.”

400. Scoundrels

C.W. came in this morning as I was having coffee and plopped down in a seat across the table from me. He looked a lot like a young Harry Truman, complete with a white linen suit and wire-framed glasses.

“Morning,” I managed.

“Wassup?”

That maybe sounded a bit like Truman. He might have said that to MacArthur just before he fired him. I kind of hope so. “You tell me,” I said, and turned back to the book I was reading.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said.

I ignored him.

“This current batch of scandals and damaged careers proves how smart George W. Bush was.”

This got my attention. “It what?”

“If you want to run for office in the information age in your country, you must have one.”

“One what?”

“You must make yourself a ‘Salvation Date’ and stick by it.”

“A what?”

“A Salvation Date. It will get you through any scandal that someone digs up if you have the press trained right.”

“It what?”

“Makes you bullet-proof.”

“How so?”

“Simple,” he said. “It’s the date on which you made pals with the Galilean.”

“Say what?”

“They can’t ask you, the reporters can’t, about anything in your life preceding your Salvation Date. Anything before that you did before that date is off-limits. It was done by the ‘other you,’ the you that was under the spell of The Dark One. The ‘new you’ is the one since then and it is open for observation. Of course, your new life since that date must be spotless, washed ‘white as snow’ so to speak. It doesn’t pay to go back too far. Ask Bill Clinton.”

He took a deep breath and continued. “All those TV evangelists have one. Did you ever think, in your wildest imagination that people like Charles Colson, Jim Baker, and Jimmy Swaggart could ever be taken seriously again?

I thought. “Those proved modern miracles of self-righteous rehabilitation all right.” I said. “I can see where a political aspirant with a checkered past could use one.”

“This current feller has several. His tend to drift around as to the exact date and other specifications.”

“Let me make sure I understand. You’re telling me, I gather, that it gives one a clean slate from which to work?”

No matter how sleazy you might have been, you get to start afresh, sort of a political ‘do-over’ in case you need it. Jimmy Carter and John McCain didn’t need one, but most of the others do.”

“I’m beginning to get the picture,” I said.

“It’s marvelous, isn’t it? If anyone mentions a pre-date misbehavior, the bench-jumpers take to the streets to protest the casting of aspersions on their candidate’s religious bona fides.”

 

From this day on. Get it? - C.W.

“I thought our Constitution forbids a religious test for public office.”

He turned slightly toward me, pulled his eyeglasses down on the tip of his nose, and assumed a highly sophisticated and presidential manner. He spoke gravely. “Did you come into town on a load of watermelons?”

I had to think about all this for a moment. I said, “Are you sure about all this?”

“It’s called the ‘Salvation Date Deployment.’ Can’t you see?” he said. He was becoming quite excited. “It’s part of my new book, Scoundrels Are Us: American Politics in the Modern Age. What thinkest thou?”

“By Jove,” I said. “I think you’ve got it!”

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Enjoy theses at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy.

385. Paradise

Yesterday C.W. walked up in the shape of a well-dressed twenty-something and wanted to go downtown and have a drink at a bar.

“I understand that is where your young people go to seek adventure,” he said.

That made me think. “I guess some do,” I said.

“Where else would they go?”

“Some go to Mount Everest for excitement.”

“Are there girls there?”

“Not many.”

“Why then?”

“Gosh,” I said, “I really don’t know. To try and climb it I suppose.”

I could sense his internal computer going off. “They could encounter difficulty doing that. The elevations would pose problems.”

“Oh yes.”

“Are they sent there as punishment?”

“No. They go there willingly.”

“Where else do they go?”

I thought. “There is a place in Spain where young people let wild bulls chase them down narrow streets.”

He frowned. “A human could get killed doing that.”

“Some do,” I said.

“That sounds like allahkahgdomcince,” he said.

“A what?”

“It’s Falloonian for seeking danger when there is no danger.”

“Oh. Perhaps so.”

He paused again as his internal database kicked in. “It is similar to what your American author James A. Michener disclosed in his published book Tales of the South Pacific years ago.

“You’ve jumped the track on me.”

“He recounted how medical officers stationed in the South Pacific during one of your great wars noticed a case, among the natives of the islands, of something that deviates from what is standard, normal, or expected.”

“An anomaly?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say today?”

“No. Explain the anomaly. I seem to remember something about it. I haven’t read that book since my high school days.”

“Did they call it that because you all stayed high most of the time.”

,

“Just on learning. Now back to the ‘paradise syndrome’ you were talking about.”

He recycled. “Seems people lived on these South Sea islands in what you should call, a place or condition of great happiness where everything is exactly as you would like it.”

“Bliss?”

“Paradise.”

“Okay. Now what is your point?”

“No disease. Food hanging from trees. Abundant water. Comfortable climate. No need to work. No problems at all. That’s why it didn’t make sense.”

 

Can't have this, can we? - C.W.

“What didn’t make sense?”

“That they created cruel, inhumane, and destructive religions that kept their people in a constant state of tension.”

“I seem to remember that,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense, does it?”

“It’s almost like you live in luxury but want someone uncaring, cruel, and mean to rule over your daily activities. Falloonians would call that, kughtckoughuruhnhos.”

“Well I’m glad we’re civilized today and passed all that nonsense.”

He looked at me for a time and started to say something but stopped. He nodded to himself, thought, and said, “I’m ready to go get that drink now.”

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

367. Questions

Oh no. It was going to be a “Why? Why? Why? day.” C.W. bounded in, having assumed the shape of Little Ricky, the troublesome ten-year old. I tried to sprint from the room but he blurted out, before I could escape, “Why do they want me to buy gifts on every day we celebrate something?”

“Have you been watching commercial television again?”

“Yeah, the UFO Channel.”

“I didn’t know there was a UFO Channel.”

“They used to call it the History Channel,” he said. “Why do so many of your species believe in aliens from outer space when they watch TV, but they don’t believe in me when they read your attempts at humor.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why do they think aliens would come to Earth and just fly around forever and not land?”

“Because they think the aliens know that we would kill them the moment they land.”

“Why don’t they understand that is impossible? Your species hasn’t invented the Cosmological Ossifying. Neutralizing, Desensitizing, and Unifying Mechanism yet?”

“I don’t understand why that is important.”

“Didn’t you know that CONDUMs are the only defense against unwanted aliens? Why doesn’t your species understand more about science?”

“We are busy with other things.”

“Such as creating bizarre television commercials?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To sell things.”

“Why do they make automobile commercials featuring men and women driving cars on public highways at two or three times the legal speed limits?”

“I think it satisfies some innate desire for mastery of the universe.”

“Your species wants to be master of the universe?”

“Quite so.”

“Why? It’s not a very manageable place. Your people could get drawn into endless conflicts that would drain your energy and resources.” He stopped, thought, shook his head, and said, “But that has never bothered you before. Why?”

“Why don’t we stick to television commercials?”

“Why don’t they make movie ads that make you want to see the movie?”

“To keep the crowds down?”

“Oh.”

“I was kidding.”

“No, I think you might be right. Now, why do the food ads feature meals of two or three thousand calories when your country has such a profound obesity problem?”

“We love to eat.”

“Why? Species in other galaxies regard it as simply a refueling necessity.”

“We orient our lives around eating.”

“Why? It just makes you fat.”

“We don’t care.”

“Then why are all the models on TV commercials so thin?”

“We love diets, too.”

“So why do the diet commercials say you can eat all you want and lose weight? Why has your species abandoned any sense of understanding science?”

“So many of us believe in a higher truth than science.”

“Why? There's no such thing.”

“Just because. Maybe it makes us more manageable.”

 

This child just discovered how
you elect presidents. - C.W

He thought about this. Then he said, “That reminds me. You still haven’t answered my question about this gift-giving obsession that the marketing segment of your species has.”

“What got you off on that?”

“Your religious holiday called Easter is coming up.”

“Yes.”

“I just saw this strange ad. Why would gift-giving be related to Easter?”

“You saw an ad for gift giving related to Easter?”

“Yes.”

“What did it say?”

“It said, ‘While you wait to celebrate The Resurrection, why not resurrect your marriage with a gift from Jay’s Jewelers.’ You’ll be her savior forever, and remember, resurrection is contagious.’ Why?” He looked at me and waited for an answer.

I wasn’t sure what the question was, and could only offer, “It seems that our country is out to test the absolute lower limits of propriety and good taste.”

“Why?”

Also check out www.allhatnocattle.com

And buy Big Dope's book at Amazon

or  www.wattensawpress.com .

Morning Thoughts: Crime

C.W. and I were talking …

He reminded me that the governor of my state had decided to execute eight prisoners within a few days of one another. He had scant reason to remind me, but I expect he knew that already.

This was true, the plans for executions, but what was his point?

He was on a fact-finding mission for the Fallonian Elders and wanted a typical Earthling's take on this practice of executing criminals.

There really is no such thing as a typical Earthling's response, at least not an American Earthling's. but, he pressured me into offering mine. So, here goes.

I’m like an author I read once, Paul Theroux I think it was, who considered capital punishment at length and came to mixed conclusions. It's hard to make a "bright-line" statement.

I feel there are monsters who have no right to live in civilized society. But having watched multiple episodes of “Investigation Discovery” on TV, I know that equal punishment under the law is a major failing of our judicial system.

For example, I’ve seen two almost identical episodes. In the first, a man stalked his ex-wife, shot her, chased her into a neighbor’s home, found her, and executed her. In the second, a man stalked his ex-wife, broke into her home and executed her with her baby in bed beside her. The first man was executed by the state for his crime. The second was placed into some rehabilitation program and later, owing no doubt to some undisclosed political connection, was pardoned by Mississippi governor Haley Barbour, allowing the man to walk the streets today.

It’s not always easy to spot the monsters.

There are, in my opinion, heinous crimes that not only go unpunished but enjoy the praise and approval of many Americans. Consider the awesome abomination of infecting a young child’s mind with the primal fear of eternal damnation and unbearable torture in a fiery pit.

How about a politician, who, for no defensible reason, orders bombs to rain down on a peaceful city one morning? How about the scene from the Michael Moore documentary of a father running through those bombs carrying his son who had obviously soiled his pants from shear terror?

How about the politician who hides behind his or her Bible but orders the destruction of a planet that his or her god has provided for the comfort and solace of all creatures? People who stage fights between innocent animals, or a person who shoots them for pleasure and cuts off their tails for souvenirs? People who cheat the elderly out of their life savings? People who turn their head aside and approve dangerous products or conditions to enhance profits? People who preach morality for the poor from the comfort of a warm room and a full belly? And so it goes on and on, day after day.

I’ll support capital punishment on the day I feel I can fully identify the monsters.

What is the appropriate punishment
for damaging this young mind? - C.W.

Morning thoughts … Books

C.W. and I were talking …

He was reading the newspaper with one head, watching the network news with another, and staring at me accusingly with the third. It was unnerving to say the least.

“I see,” he said, “where your state is adopting the Holy Bible as your state book.”

I couldn’t form an answer, so he continued.

“Given what is happening in America now, it seems understandable that your state would choose as its “official book,” one with such delicious passages as Himself’s orders to the Jewish soldiers as to how to treat the conquered Midianites: "Now therefore, kill every male among the little ones, and kill every woman who has known man intimately. But all the girls who have not known man intimately, spare for yourselves." - (Numbers 31:17-18) It’s only the Bronze Age equivalent of “Grab them by the … what did he call them?”

“Don’t you, … y’all … have something better to do?”

“Oh no,” he said. “This is top notch. The whole galaxy is watching this.”

This guy is stern. - C.W.