237. Idioms

 Oh dear. I can always tell when C.W. is in what he calls his “thoughtful in character or manner mode,” i.e. his serious one. He takes on the form of a monk of the Dark Ages, complete with robe and hood. That is how I found him today. He also had what he says is his Galactic Universal Translator manual spread out before him.

Of course I couldn’t read it as it was in a form only understandable by Falloonians, but I was glad to see him at work. His GUT has been volatile of late.

“What’s up?” I said.

“Idioms, my child.”

“Idioms are up?”

“Please, Big Dope, don’t be showing a lack of common sense or judgment; absurd and foolish.”

“I’m not being silly,” I said. “Besides, I’m glad you have been listening to your GUT and helping it to digest our language.” I giggled.

“For your information, I’m adding idioms to the language base,” he said, “and the flow through my GUT is fine. There are no blockages.”

I giggled again and he frowned at me most seriously. I decided to play along. “So, can I help you?”

“These are informal terms,” he said, “that seem to be related.”

“Such as?”

He looked at a note. “Cherry picking. What does that mean?”

“That is the practice,” I said, “of selectively choosing the most beneficial items from what is easily available.”

“What about those remaining items.”

“Tough sh…,” I started, but his robe caught my eye, “too bad about them.”

“I see,” he said, making a note.

“Anymore?”

“Yes,” he said, and checked his notes again. “Low hanging fruit.”

“Hmm,” I said. “that is a thing that can be obtained with little effort, that is to say you don’t have to reach very high or strain yourself to collect it.”

“Fascinating,” he said, and I’ll swear one eyebrow raised independently. He made another note.

“Is that all?” I said. “Mrs Big Do…, uh, my wife and I are going to rake leaves and I want to beat her to the places where there isn’t any junk to sweep around.”

“Two more,” he said.

“Give me the easy one first,” I said.

“Pretty bolling.”

“Ah,” I said, “you are in luck. That is an old, rural term and might be unknown to anyone who didn’t grow up in cotton country.”

“Cotton country?”

“Areas where they grow cotton, or used to. Back in the day, they picked it by hand and it was a serious offense—a beatable one during slavery—to quickly pick the largest and easiest bolls of cotton, the pretty ones in other words. This increased your daily production but left money in the field, i.e. the bolls of poorer quality or smaller size, problem ones of one sort or another.”

“Really?” he said. “That is interesting.” He made notes for several minutes.

“You said you had another.”

Fascinating. Unlike Latin, in English the
terms "rat pack" and "pack rat" don't mean
the same thing. Hmm. I wonder about the
term "house cat." C.W.

“Yes,” he said, turning over a sheet. “Ah, here it is.” He looked up at me. “Charter schools.”

That stumped me for a second or two. Then it dawned on me. “Well sir,“ I said. “Charter schools are private schools operated with public funds but permitted to cherry pick, pretty boll, or otherwise select students that are statistically likely to succeed without much effort, in other words,  the low hanging fruit of the student population.”

“Get out of the city,” he said.

“No, really,” I said.

“What about the other students, the ones that present difficulties?”

“Xin Loi,” I said. That’s a Vietnamese term roughly meaning tough sh…”

“I know what it means,” he said. Then, believe it or not, a tear fell from his eye. “So the good kids get educated and the others get lost?” He said.

“Pretty much so.”

 

Another tear fell. “Are your people really that cruel, my son?

 

Please click an ad. I need to educate Big Dope.

And see also:

www.wattensawpress.com

www.deltadreaming.blogspot.com

- C.W.

 

203. Religion

Sometimes I don’t know if C.W. is knowingly joshing me, or if his Retentive Analytic Transcriber—his RAT—has taken a flight of fancy. Today, I think he was somewhere between jokester and political analyst. He was shaped close enough to Glenn Beck as to be institutionalized and we were having, what I thought was, a serious conversation.

“So,” he said, “I think your species has what you earthlings call a “deep romantic or sexual attachment/intentional intense dislike” relationship with science.”

“We seem to have a “love/hate” relationship with many things,” I said.

“With science it is strange,” he said. “You love to take your antibiotics, even for viruses.” He stopped and shook his head sadly. “But the facts of natural selection cause you to feel uncomfortable. That is unique in the Galaxy. Don’t your schools teach the relationship between medicine and evolution, as you call it?”

“I’m not sure how much longer we will teach science in our schools,” I said. This made me feel nauseated so I moved the subject a few points to windward. “What about our obsession with religion?”

That’s when he went into his act. Here it is verbatim, with apologies to Judge Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr.

“If, when you say religion you mean the evil institution, the hateful scourge, the bloody fiend that contaminates the innocent mind, dethrones reason, destroys cities, creates misery and hegemony, yea, flies airplanes into buildings, and traumatizes young children with the image of a loving spirit figure who has a fiery pit awaiting them; if you mean the evil concept that topples men and women from the pinnacle of logical, carefree living into the bottomless pit of ignorance, and hatred, and distrust and violence, and despair, that persecutes those whom nature blesses with a unique sexuality, skin color, or gender, then certainly I think your species has a problem—a big problem.

“But, if when you say religion you mean the oil of community life, the philosophic elixir that binds people and nations, the sublime thoughts that are explored when people get together, that puts music in the hearts and laughter on the lips of those gathered, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean universal charity, if you mean the stimulating contemplation that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step in his twilight years; if you mean the way of life which enables one to magnify joy and happiness, and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies, and heartaches, and sorrows; if you mean that religion that comforts the poor in spirit, exalts the meek, honors the peacemaker and seeks universal righteousness through good will, mercy, and purity in heart, the goodness of which provides tender care for our sick children, our blind, our deaf, our pitiful, aged, infirm; and least of those among us, I think your spirituality train would be on the right track.”

Please tell me more about this kindly old man
who runs the fiery pits of Hell. - C.W.

I nodded.

“But,” he continued before I could speak, “it does seem to me that the train has veered off course of late, and a debilitating indifference has allowed it to happen.”

Out of the mouths of aliens.

“Now,” he said, “let us go and see what Kate Middleton is wearing today.”

Be sure and click an ad or two so Big Dope can pay the rent. - C.W.

Also visit www.wattensawpress.com

184. Reviews

Poor C.W. I almost had to feel sorry for him. In fact, I had never seen him like this. “Crestfallen” would best describe it.

Here is what happened.

I found him at the computer desk in the form of a young man in grey, loose-fitting sweater, baggy pants, and black, lace-up tennis shoes. His hair was rumpled and he was going through a pile of papers he had printed. He seemed on the verge of tears.

“What the …?” I said.

“Failure,” he said and began to explain.

It seems that, unbeknownst to me, C.W. had written a poem and posted it on a website for aspiring writers. It was called, “Soaring Silently Through Stars in Splendor,” and you don’t want to read it. What he was holding were some reviews posted by others. With tears in his eyes, he began to hand me samples, such as

“Your poem saved my life. I had been on the verge of suicide when I read it. Now, I resolve to live in the hopes that I may yet read of the self-immolation of someone who would have the (censored) lack of taste to write such drivel. – Angstyinaustin.”

“Before reading your (censored) drivel, I had imagined that the worst fate in life would be to have a root canal performed without the benefits of Novocain while sitting on a pile of flesh eating maggots and listening to “Jennifer Hudson’s Greatest Hits.” Now I know there are worst things. – Puttermouth”

“I read your (censored) entry after attending my weekly Bible study. What a (censored) piece of (censored). I hope you choke when your severed (censored) is crammed down your (censored) throat. –Hedied4me”

“To Hedied4me: Why don’t you die for us, you (censored) moran? –Agapeluv

“I would like more information on your writing habits. In particular, I would like to know where you go to be alone and write. I would like to sell the exact coordinates to the next terrorist bomber I meet. –Right2me”

“Thank you so much for your work. My English teacher assigned us the job of reading a poem in class. When I read yours, she grabbed her throat and collapsed. After they took her to the hospital, I began trying it on other people I hate. You have been so helpful. –Angelofvengeance”

“Saying your poem sucks would be like saying that (censored) into an electrical outlet is a bad idea. –Puppykillr”

“Where did you get the idea you can write? Did Satan himself ‘soar silently’ through the filth and ooze that is life on earth and plant the idea in your (censored) empty brain? -Luvoflife”

“To Agapeluv: If Jesus had ever met you he would have made Charles Manson look like a Sunday School teacher you (censored) imbicell. – Hedied4me”

And, finally:

“Here’s a suggestion for your next poem: ‘Thoughts soaring silently through my brain just before I blow it away.’ The world awaits it eagerly.” –Luvangudness”

I think I can get this poetry stuff down
if I can just get a better computer.- C.W.

“What now?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said, stopping as another message began appearing on the computer screen.

“To: Hedied4me,” it began. “you make my (censored) crave applesauce. And …”

C.W. switched off the computer and we sat in silence, our thoughts soaring.

182. Resolutions

C. W. had been on my computer this morning. I found this.

 

My New Year’s firm decisions to do or not to do something for 2014

I will not get on Mrs. Big Dope’s Facebook page and “friend” people who “like” Fox News.

I will not us my pongodaschft for niciglidtyme. (Editor’s note: I’ll have to get my translator and get back with you).

I will not, while in human form, grab my chest and fall to the ground when a drunken neighbor near the farm fires his high-powered rifle.

I will not steal Big Dope’s car while shaped like him and carrying his driver’s license.

I will never again tell his mother-in-law that he once did time but that doesn’t make a boy all bad.

I will not bring that woman home, ever, ever, ever, ever again.

I will quit ordering items for her from “Victoria’s Secret” and having them sent in Mrs. Big Dope’s name.

I will quit writing fan letters to "Big Bang's" Penny.

I will cease posing as a traveling “revival preacher.”

I will tell Mrs. Big Dope that: (1) I can communicate with animals, (2) am responsible for those “incidents,” (3) but I will not do it again.

I will never again, for fun, hide the TV remote, add rum to the oatmeal, or raise the toilet seat and leave it when no one is looking.

I will confess to the Falloonian Elders that Big Dope is really not a Pro Football Hall of Fame member, a Nobel Peace Prize recipient, a famous author (although he is working on that), or a former husband of one of the Kardashian women.

I will apologize to the principal at that “white-flight” middle school (even though he was just as much to blame as I was) and I will never again pose as Rush Limbaugh. (Hell, it was funny, though).

I will apply for my own credit card.

I will tell the Jehovah's Witnesses lady that I was just kidding, same goes for the Tea Party man and recruiting sergeant.

It is hard to think of ways to improve when
you live with someone like Big Dope. - C.W.

I will cease reporting to the lady at the Veteran’s Hospital weight-loss clinic when Big Dope has one of his “Mexican Martinis.”

I will never again comment on Mrs. Big Dope’s appearance when she first gets up in the morning and I will cease the playing of “Reveille.”

As for the incident with the armadillo, I don’t admit to it but, if I had, I wouldn’t do it again.

I will be nicer about signing autographs for fans and followers.

In short:

I will try harder to abide by the Alien Visitation Agreement.

-The Alien C.W.

December 29, 2013

150. Rage

It was to be a quiet walk in the neighborhood. I had gotten three blocks from home and crossed a major street near I-30 when I was joined by a tall, neatly dressed African-American man whom I recognized immediately as one who often strolls our city’s River Market area. He eased in beside me and we walked to the next corner before he stopped and spoke.

“This is where it happened, isn’t it?”

I stopped, thought, and remembered. “Yes, along here somewhere.”

“Did you see it happen?”

“No, but I might have. I walk this way almost daily.”

“And I as well.”

“You didn’t witness it?”

“No.” He looked wistfully at the scene. “It would have been an interesting experience to report to the Elders. Your species has a unique approach to settling disagreements.”

“C.W.?”

“Who did you think it was?”

“I never knew … I mean … has this been you all along?”

“I sometimes wander the earth without you.” Before I could speak, he continued. “But tell me about this ‘rage of the road’ that is so unique to your kind.”

“This was apparently a classic case. Two motorists got into a feud on the interstate and both pulled off at this exit and stopped. One got out of his vehicle and started toward the other. The man in the second car produced a gun and shot the man three times, killing him.”

“In front of the man’s family?”

“Yes.”

“What could cause such an angry response?”

“I have no idea.”

“Perhaps one saw a car on the highway with one of those ‘these colors don’t run” bumper stickers?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps they each had seen one of those TV shows where the hero solves problems by beating up someone.”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe they watched that so-called news channel whose pundits tell their listeners that the government is coming to get them.”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps those guns of which you are so fond have an unsettling psychological effect on a person.”

“Dammit I just don’t know.”

“Have you ever carried a gun?”

“Once. For a time I carried one with me constantly, even when I ate. I stored it next to my bed at night. It was my constant companion.”

“Did it make you crazy?”

“I dunno.”

“What happened to it?”

“The United States Government took it away from me one day.”

“Well, there you go,” he said. “That’s too bad.”

“Oh no. Quite the contrary. It was one of the happiest days of my life.”

“You are weird.”

I thought this was a little bizarre coming from a shape-shifting alien and told him so.

“So we have one man dead in front of his family and another facing first-degree murder charges because of a minor fracas that either could have avoided.”

“That’s about it.”

“This worship of the gun and automobile, where do they teach it?” He pointed toward the spire of a church a couple of blocks away. “There?”

“No. They are supposed to teach just the opposite.”

“Supposed to?”

“Some of them have gotten a little off-track.”

All in all, I think music produces
a better effect on your species
than does driving a vehicle. - C.W.

“Surely your schoolteachers warn that your DNA contains dormant remnants lying ready to activate and produce violent responses during times of stress.”

I pointed at the church. “You and I have talked about this before. They don’t quite approve of teaching science to young kids.”

He stood silent for a moment. Then he lowered his head until his chin rested on his chest. “I hope …,” he said, then stopped to gather his thoughts.

“Hope what?”

“I hope that my next assignment is to a simpler planet.”

128. Lists

I awoke this morning, a couple of days before Christmas, to find C.W. in the guise of the most innocent-looking 10 year old boy you could imagine. He was sitting cross-legged in the floor writing furiously on a Big Chief Tablet and looked up as if he had been caught in the act and the act wasn’t a good one.

“Don’t tell me,” I said.

“Hello Mr. Big Dope, I mean, good morning sir.”

My antennae immediately went on full alert. “We are being a little polite this morning, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” he said as he continued to write. “I pride myself on being nice to everyone.”

“Hmmm.”

“In fact,” he said. “I am preparing these two lists called ‘naughty’ and ‘nice’ as a recap of the past year, see?”

He held the tablet so I could see it. The list called ‘nice’ filled several pages while the ‘naughty’ list lacked a single entry.

“I should say that is a pretty fair record for the year, wouldn’t you?”

“One moment,” I said, going to my computer. As I fired it up, he began to squirm.

“What are you doing, sir?”

“Just checking a few of your e-mail records.”

“Oh,” he said. “No need. I already checked them.”

“Really?” I said. “How about this one. ‘Dear Todd Aiken: I am attaching a circular from the National Institute of Physiology that you might find helpful in preparing your campaign interviews.’”

“So?”

“The National Institute of Physiology?”

“I sort of made that up,” he said, adding ‘overactive imagination’ to the ‘naughty’ list.

“Or this one, ‘Dear Mr. Zuckerberg: I love Facebook and think it would be great for you to take its stock public so I, and other small investors, could feel ownership.’”

“So, I was wrong.”

“How about this one: ‘Dear Mr. Romney, I am attaching a Google Earth Map of the Middle East showing the canal through Syria that provides Iran access to the sea.’”

“They don’t allow geography in school anymore.”

“How about math?” I said. “Dear Mr. Rove: You might find the attached polling data from the Southeastern Headquarters for Institutional Training helpful in your punditry.’”

“Now that was funny,” he said. “I don’t care who you are.”

“Well,” I said. “This one wasn’t: ‘Dear President Obama: Next time you talk to President Putin, why don’t you tell him that you will have more flexibility in foreign relations during your second term?’”

“Well he will, won’t he?”

“Undoubtedly.” I scrolled through files. “And what is this expenditure I found for a video camera that you purchased for Jimmy Carter’s grandson?”

“So I am generous.”

“Never mean-spirited?”

“Never,” he said indignantly.

“So, ‘Dear Learning Channel: I think it would be highly educational to develop a reality television show featuring a semi-literate redneck family with a chubby, child beauty pageant, contestant as its star’ is not mean-spirited?”

“Your species loves it some illiterate rednecks.”

“You should be ashamed.”

“Well, all those were sometime back. Maybe I have reformed.”

People should do as Mr. Big Dope
does and use my advice at
their own peril. - C.W.

“Oh really,” I said. “How about this one from a week ago. ‘Dear Mr. LaPierre: I am a student in elementary school and I would feel safer if everyone that goes to school or teaches there would carry a gun. Could you help me get the message out?’”

“I was only trying to be helpful.”

“I rather gather that you aren’t expecting any presents this year” I said.

 

“What? What did I do?”

117. Citizenship

“Ich bin ein Amerikaner.”

“What?”

“Ik ben een Amerikaanse”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Soy un Americano.”

“Will you stop it?”

“Je suis un Américain.”

“C.W., will you shut up for a second?”

“Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?”

“I want you to shut the … to tell me what you are doing?”

“I am preparing,” the figure of a young farm worker, dressed in work clothes and a straw hat said.

“Preparing for what?”

“Citizenship.”

“Citizenship?” I said.

“The Falloonian Elders think it would be nice if I could demonstrate an ability to pass.”

“Pass what?”

“Pass as a citizen of your country.”

“Why the languages?”

“Quotas.”

“What do you mean quotas?”

“Don’t you have quotas for citizenship based on country of origin?”

I thought. “Good point. Best you forget the Spanish. Stick with the northern Europeans.”

“I agree,” he said. “Want to help me with the test?”

“What test?”

“The Elders sent me some practice questions based on my monthly reports and they wish me to study them.” He held up a large sheath of papers. He read one and then said, “For example, ‘The teacher at a major university will receive the highest salary for teaching:  1.physics, 2. heart surgery, 3.chemistry, or 4.football.’ That’s a no-brainer, right?”.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Here’s another. ‘Marijuana is considered an illegal possession in the United States because, 1.it makes a person do silly things, 2.enforcement creates jobs, 3.it keeps amateurs out of the production and distribution processes, or 4.all of the above.”

“Who did you say wrote these?”

“Our planetary research institute. I send them material such as newspapers and social network videos.”

I must have looked startled.

“How about this one? ‘Social concern for the nation’s needy children ends 1.upon graduation from high school, 2.after adolescence, 3.after pre-school status, or 4.after gestation?’”

“And your answer would be?”

“I’m stumped. It would seem to depend upon your political persuasion.”

“And they think these questions will be on the citizenship test?”

“Based on your popular media outlets, yes. Here’s another, ‘The founders of the United States did not wish to maintain a standing army. Today we consider this attitude 1.stupid, 2.out of date, 3.bad for the economy, or 4.chicken shit.”

“Chicken shit? Is that really a choice?”

“That’s what they sent me.”

“What kind of material are you sending them?”

“Oh, talk radio broadcasts, news segments, blogs. You know. Typical Americana.”

“Are you sending them Fox News Broadcasts?”

Just think fans. Before long I can say "Hello my
fellow Americans." - C.W.

“Want to hear another?”

“C.W.!”

He looked at the floor. “I may have sent them a couple.”

“Sean Hannity?”

“He’s very popular.”

“Rush Limbaugh?”

“How could I ignore him?”

“Don’t tell me that your superiors think they are typical of our country.”

“Jag är en Amerikansk,” he said, returning to his studies.

85. Choices

We went for a walk the other day, C.W. and I. It was a balmy pre-Spring day and we felt the need for fresh air. It had rained for weeks, and we looked forward to a dry spell. We agreed to meet in the park across the street from the condominium and I, as usual, arrived first.

I waited thirty minutes, gave up, and started walking toward the river when a thin, dark, shabbily dressed boy of about ten years of age crossed the street and joined me.

“Mr.,” he said. “Can I axe you a question?”

“C.W.,” I said. “Is that you?”

“I don’t know no C.W.,” he said. “I just want to know.”

”Know what?” I played along.

“Would Harbard or Yale be the best place for me?”

“What?”

“Harbard or Yale. When I go to college, I got to make the right choice.”

“You’re talking about the Ivy League schools, Harvard or Yale, I assume?”

“Yeah. Ain’t they the best?”

“Some say so, but tell me why do you think you could go to one of them?”

“Cause they the best, and the man on television say I have to make good choices if I’m gonna pull myself up like he done.”

“What man on television?”

“That man runnin’ for president.”

A fog was beginning to lift. “So you want to improve yourself?”

“That’s right. That’s why I come to Little Rock.”

“Where are you from?”

“Down in the farm country, outside a place called Turkey Scratch,” he paused. “You know that white man named Levon Helm?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“That’s where he from.”

“What about your schooling?”

“We ain’t got no school there. They buses us about an hour to school and back ever day.”

“And you want to go to Harvard or Yale?”

“Got to,” he announced with finality. “That’s what that man on television done.”

“And if you don’t?”

He thought for a minute. “I might end up like you.”

I ignored that. “What do your parents say?”

“My daddy, he run off when I was born,” he said. He stopped and picked up a discarded beer can from the gutter. “My mama used to work, but the chicken plant closed. She don’t talk much now.”

“And you think you can go to college wherever you choose?”

“That’s what that man say.” He dropped the beer can into a trash receptacle on the street.

“Just by choosing to?”

“He called it ‘jerking myself off by the bootstraps’”.

I pretended to look at a tiny bud on a tree while I composed myself. “I think he said pull yourself up by your bootstraps.’”

“Whatever you say. Can you help me? It’s important.”

“What could I do?”


Young folks, remember choices are
important. Take parents for example.
I chose a father who was a governor.
It worked out great for me.

 “Help me get in Harbard or Yale, cause if you don’t …,” he paused.

“If I don’t, what?”

“I’ll have to play pro basketball.”