Morning Thoughts

We were walking along the river, C.W. and I. He chose his Edward R. Murrow shape so he could smoke a cigarette as we walked. He likes to flip them at rude bicyclists. I try to discourage him but a “get out of the way,” will result in a speeder with a butt in his ear every time. Anyway …

“What is the thing you call a ‘single issue voter,’ in your political races,” he said.

“It refers to,” I said, “someone who decides their vote upon one issue and who pretty much ignores the others, no matter how important they might be.”

“Single issues such as?”

“Abortion is a big one,” I said, “and guns, and Bible quotes.”

“Bible quotes? Just a single one or the entire Bible?”

“Oh,” I said. “Just a single quote or passage. You get into the whole Bible and it gets too confusing.”

“I can see that. Take this marriage thing. Is it one man and one woman or one man and a passel of women? And in one place, someone says don’t get married at all unless you can’t withstand your sexual urges. And another implies you better choose carefully because you mustn't get a divorce. Which is the controlling quote?”

“Depends on who you ask,” I said.

“So you also have,” he said, “one place that says, ‘an eye for an eye,’ and another that says ‘blessed are the peacemakers.’ I’m assuming that a single-issue voter can pick either one?”

“I suppose so,” I said.

“But,” he said, “some seem to pick both. One of the more difficult things for me to explain about your species is an individual specimen’s ability to harbor two contradictory thoughts at once and not go insane.”

I laughed. “Who says they don’t go insane,” I said. “Haven’t you noticed anything about the man running for president?”

“Out of the way, assholes,” someone shouted from behind us.

Seconds later there was a crash as the bike rider attempted to swat a lit cigarette from the collar of a shirt with the words, “Peace, Love, and Harmony” printed across the back.

“Now,” C.W. said, “since you and I are the gentlest of souls, tell me about this gun thing.”

327. Elections

There are forms that C.W. loves but some of those would get on the last nerve in my body. Take, for example, the one he calls “Redneck Raymond.” Yep, you guessed it. A big bushy-headed bully with a paunch cantilevered six inches over a belt buckle featuring a cowboy riding a bucking horse. He grates. Really grates.

And he showed up yesterday.

I was in the back yard waiting for the family to come back from grocery shopping. I was enjoying a summer breeze, a cigar, and a rum and tonic when he just walked around the corner of the farmhouse and plopped, uninvited, into a chair. He grabbed a glass belonging to my wife and poured himself a liberal shot of rum. He sipped it, made a face and held it out. “Not bad,” he said.

“Where have you been/” I said. He hadn’t appeared in this form for some time.

“Preaching,” he said. “I tried preaching.”

“Oh really? How did that work out?”

“Not bad at first. Found me a little Baptist church, learned a few gestures, perfected a little sing-song babble and off I went. Just had to work a few hours each week. Good gig.”

“So what happened?”

“Well,” he said. Before continuing, he took a good sip of rum, looked away, and then turned back to me. “To tell you the truth, the son-of-a-bitches wouldn’t pay me.” He slapped his knee and let out a hearty laugh. Then he took another drink. “Anyway, the Falloonian Elders have me on special assignment for a while.”

“Oh,” I said. “Doing what?”

“Elections.”

“Elections? Helping with them?”

“Hell no,” he said. “It seems your species, or your voting habits, is the talk of the galaxy right now. I’ve been directed to make some notes.” He poured himself some more rum. “Want to hear what I’ve done so far?”

“As long as we finish before my wife gets back. That’s her glass you’re drinking from.”

“Mrs. Big Dope’s never seen me drink,” he said. “She thinks I’m a saint.”

I rolled my eyes. “So what have you got?”

“I started with the types of elections, that you folks seem to have.” He took a small note pad from a shirt pocket, flipped a few pages, and read. “Types of elections.” He looked at me.

“Yes,” I said. “Go ahead.”

“One,” he said, “Americans sometimes have ‘Hissy-Fit Elections,’ or elections designed to express displeasure over some insulting occurrence, such as the election of a person with the wrong racial features or of the wrong gender.”

I thought about this. He continued reading. “Earthlings in this country have had, on one occasion, what I called a ‘You don’t mean it election,’ which is not simply an election but an intercession by its highest court when the court feels the electorate is about to make the wrong decision. The results can be devastating.”

I just stared. He kept going. “There is what I call ‘The Archie Bunker Election,’ based on a stereotypical uneducated, bigoted, but hard working American character in a popular TV series. The character was known primarily, at the time, for saying outlandish things, but it turned out later that a huge segment of the viewing population adored the character for saying things they wanted to say themselves but didn’t dare.

He flipped a page. “This one is complicated,” he said. “I call it the ‘We’re so stupid vote.’” He actually winked at me and took a sip before continuing. “There have been states with nearly simultaneous elections, one cutting taxes and the next mandating additional services.” He sipped. “In my own host state, where hunting is sacred and hunting rights nearly outweigh property rights, they once held an election to guarantee the right to hunt.” He made a note. “It passed, by the way.”

“Are we about finished?” My head was beginning to itch.

Your voters are certainly most particular
about to whom they grant rights. - C.W.

“One more,” he said. “It’s the ‘census vote’ and is one of my favorites.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “How do you have a census vote?”

“It’s easy,” he said. “You just declare, for example, a statewide vote taking away, from a minority group, a right fully enjoyed by the majority group. It works quite well as a census.”

“A census?”

“Precisely,” he said. “The next morning after the vote, you know exactly how many assholes are living in your state.”

Click on some ads. It costs them money and makes me some.

Also check out www.allhatnocattle.com

And buy Big Dope's book at Amazon

or  www.wattensawpress.com .

225. New Words

C.W. likes to make up words, which is humorous given the problems he has with his GUT (his Galactic Universal Translator). It is affected at times by sunspots. That can produce some interesting communications such as the one I found this morning.

“I have gone for an act of moving at a regular and fairly slow pace by lifting and setting down each foot in turn, never having both feet off the ground at once, and have left you some notes on the kitchen piece of furniture with a flat top and one or more legs, providing a level surface on which objects may be placed, and that can be used for such purposes as eating, writing, working, or playing games.”

So, while he was out walking I looked on the kitchen table and found a report entitled “New Articles of Communication Needed by the North American Species of Homo Sapiens.” I had just started reading it when he walked in, shaped as a hunter in camouflage and bright orange. He tossed his hat aside and said, “I see you found my brief record of facts, topics, or thoughts, written down as an aid to memory.”

“I found your notes and you need to adjust your translator.”

He said, “I trust my GUT. What do you think of my new words?”

“I dunno, “ I said. “I just started on them. Where did you get the idea for this one, ‘Connecdeficia?’”

“Ah,” he said, “The lack of ability to connect mental dots. That’s a badly needed one.”

“Where did you come up with it?”

“From exit interviews at your last political election.”

“Exit interviews? I didn’t know you did exit interviews.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “You won’t believe what I heard your neighbors say when I asked them what they despised most in modern America.”

“Oh?”

“I hate poor children. I really hate poor Hispanic children. And I really, really hate poor black children. And, oh yeas I truly despise the use of contraceptives.”

            After thinking for a moment, I said, “You may have a point there.” I looked at his notes. "What’s this next one, ‘Nonapplicational?’”

“Oh that’s simple. I singled out some voters who had family members dependent on governmental largesse.”

“Largesse?”

“Yes, it’s a much softer word than ‘welfare,’ don’t you think?”

“Maybe so, maybe not, but go ahead.”

“Typical was the interviewee whose grandmother had been kept alive by what you call your ‘Medicaid Program’ for the last thirty years of her life.”

“And?”

“The granddaughter voted for the party that promised to eliminate the program.”

“So her grandmother’s case was ..?”

“Non…”

“Nonapplicational,” I interrupted.

“Exactly.”

“You know,” I said, “of all the hair-brained schemes you have had, this one might be the least so.”

“Brains have hair?”

“It’s an expression,” I said. “What’s this next one, ‘Nasaladectomous’ or something like that?”

“It’s what you call an adjective,” he said. “It modifies an action whereby one  ...”

“Cuts off his nose …”

“To spite his visage,” he said. “I got this one from talking to veterans like you.”

“Veterans?”

“You won’t believe how many said they voted for a candidate simply because he was a veteran.”

“So?”

“This one in particular had cast several votes previously denying benefits for veterans.”

“They voted for him anyway?”

“ Yes,” he said, “in a classic case of …”

“Nasaladectomy.”

It was getting interesting. I looked at his motes. “Amouraprobe?”

He shook his head. “This was the strangest of all. Tell me,” he said, “would you vote for a candidate who vowed to have the government insert a metal probe into your penis for no reason?”

I gasped. “Heavens no,” I said.

“Would you like to guess how many women voted for a candidate who has vowed to insert such a probe into their …?”

A creature after my own heart. - C.W.

“Enough,” I said. “I get the picture.”

“So the word describes a phenomenon whereby the love of a physical threat produces adulation and loyalty.”

“Well,” I said, “what’s next?”

“I have to submit my recommendations to the Office of Moronascurity.”

“The what?”

“Where they obscure the meaning of words and terms so that the …”

“I understand.”

“It’s simple matter of Lambafication,” he said.” New wine is not put into old wineskins. Didn’t one of your persons regarded as an inspired teacher or proclaimer of the will of god say that?”

“One of our prophets did indeed,” I said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I think I’ll go for a walk and try to make the thought of amouraprobe become nonapplicational.

 

 

Click an ad ... I need cash for my businesses.
And check out www.wattensawpress.com
- C.W.

Voting

Dear Friends and Followers:

Big Dope is out walking so I take this opportunity to communicate without his interference. As usual, I am mentally confused by the presence of a difficult problem or matter. (Editor’s note: He means “puzzled.”

I ran across the following photograph on your book of faces site.

 

Now, as understand it, some members of your species want to hire an assassin to rid the populace of anyone voting who is unqualified for the privilege.

I understand not wanting people like J. Gordon Liddy, Chuck Colson, Oliver North, and John Poindexter to vote, but shooting them? Seems a bit strict, but you Americans know what kind of government you want.

Now though, how do you assassinate Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck? Would it be cruel to inform the sponsors of voter suppression legislation that both are cartoon figures?

Dead people? Seem messy to dig them up and shoot them, but why not? Lots of folks around here love to shoot guns and it might keep them from killing helpless animals.

The problem is: according to my research, the actual amount of voter fraud in your country is negligible.

When confronted with this data, sponsors of voter suppression legislation say they are acting to prevent something they imagine might happen.

My question is, purely as an alien observing your country: if one desires to craft legislation designed to prevent something that they imagine might happen, wouldn’t it be more productive to imagine that:

- The water and wastewater plants in the country will fail for lack of resources.

- Bridges in the country will begin to collapse for lack of maintenance.

- Nearly 20 percent of children go to bed hungry each day.

- Global warming will make Pine Bluff, Arkansas a seaport.

And finally, if there is voter fraud, the fact that such legislation is being passed seems to indicate to me, again just an observing alien, that it is not happening among the ranks of thoughtful voters, dead people, or cartoon characters. That just leaves felons.

 

Your Friend

C.W.

 

Also check out www.wattensawpress.com

 

164. Rules

School started back this past week, so naturally C.W. showed up in one of his classic forms. He calls himself Dickie Dunderwood the Diligent Student. He was all dolled up for class, with his Megadeth tee-shirt, dirty sneakers, and backpack. Seems he was contemplating his first essay.

“Your species doesn’t use the concept of “lootaquicksteria++” do you?” he said, using a phrase from his home planet of Falloonia.

“Uh,” I said. “I don’t know. What is it?”

“A simple concept really,” he said. “It provides a stricture forbidding, and a penalty for, an elder who participates in a vote involving the general populace, from which vote the elder may profit.”

I thought. “We do,” I said. “We call it ‘conflict of interest’ and frown down upon it when our leaders fall prey to the temptation.”

“Frown down upon it?”

“We deplore it. Why do you ask?”

“I am preparing a report on this latest crisis in the middle eastern portion of your planet.”

“And?”

“Several of your congressmen who are urging entry into war are guilty.”

“Guilty? Of what?”

“Of lootaquicksteria++, or, as you call it ‘conflict of interest.’ Ours is a much prettier word, don’t you think?”

“I think we would have a problem pronouncing those clicks,” I said. I was intrigued, though. “In what way are they guilty of whatever you call it?”

“They represent states or areas in which weaponry is manufactured for use in wars.”

“So?”

He looked at me as if I had just failed to guess the day of the week. “So, they stand to profit if a war commences.”

“Oh,” I said. “You don’t understand. They don’t profit personally.”

“No? Won’t it please their voters and contributors if their economy flourishes with the onset of war?”

“Well, yes. I suppose,” I said.

“There you have it.”

“No,” I said. “Wait. See it is not a conflict of interest if they simply seek political support by voting in favor of an action that would benefit their constituents.”

“Oh, really””

“Really.”

“If you will pardon the observation,” he said. “That sounds a lot like ‘replitocartawao.’ Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Repl… what?”

“Replitocartawao. It literally means the obfuscation of economic flow by transferring worth from one personal holding compartment to another.”

A light began to shine. “Taking money out of one pocket and putting in the other,” I said.

“Precisely.” He smiled at me as if I had just given the right answer in class.

Your writer Shakespeare once said:
"There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so."
I'm finally beginning to understand it. - C.W. 

“You have a lot to learn about our country,” I said.

“I imagine I do. Now … “ he began.

I groaned. “What now?”

“Let’s consider the opposite transgression.”

“The opposite?”

“Yes, It’s called ‘putricastoglia’ and it refers to the sin of an elder making a rule for segments of the populace from which the elder will not be affected or inconvenienced.”

“Well we would agree with you on making that a sin.”

“Really?”

“Really,” I said, but somewhat less confident than before.

“Then,” he said, pulling a large bundle of papers from his backpack. “Would you like to read some laws that your male-dominated elder groups  have enacted recently, laws that affect, condemn, or punish only the female of your species?” He waved them in my face.

“Don’t you have some homework to do?” I said.

140. Issues

Although the event is well in the future, C.W. has decided to vote in the 2014 elections. His latest shape had him in a tri-cornered hat with teabags hanging from it. He had a wild look in his eyes and what appeared to be toy replica of a Beretta 92FS nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistol strapped to his waist. I hope it was a replica.

“What’s up?”

“Considering candidates.”

“Oh? Still on that kick?”

“Yep. Just picked my issue.”

“Your issue?”

“Yep. Picked the issue I’ll use to select candidates in two years.”

“The issue? Only one?”

“That’s all you need, ain’t it?”

I thought for a moment. “Well some folks would look at a body of policies and issues and pick a candidate who best covered a platform of ideas that would benefit all citizens.”

“Fiddle-dee-dee! Why clutter up my mind with all that?”

“So you would vote for a candidate for public office, to lead our people in these perilous times on the basis of one issue you have picked?”

“Oh, I didn’t pick it.”

“You didn’t pick it?”

“No, my preacher did.”

“C.W., first, you are an alien and you can’t vote. Second, how could you rely on someone else to choose your candidates even if you could vote?”

He placed his hand on his pistol. “There are weirder people than me who vote.”

“That may be,” I said. “But a preacher? Is he, or she, educated in policy analysis?”

“See, you don’t know everything, Mr. Big Dope. You should know that women can’t be preachers. And he needs no analysis. He talks directly to God.”

“You have an educated man who claims to talk directly to God?”

“Yes and no.”

At that point, I waited.

“Yes he talks to God. No, he doesn’t need education. He installed satellite TV discs before he surrendered to preach. He says that’s where he first started receiving messages from God.”

This was not going to lead anywhere, so I chose to skip over the details. “So what issue did this ‘preacher’ choose?”

“Why don’t you guess? It has to do with life and choice.” Before I could answer, he interrupted. “Raw milk, of course.”

Stunned, I could only repeat it. “Raw milk?”

“Don’t you know anything?” He gave me smirk. “They don’t let companies sell raw milk and we want to get that overturned. It is a matter of ‘raw versus made,’ as in pasteurization.”

This was getting weirder by the moment. “Let me see if I understand. God told your preacher that you should drink only raw milk?”

“I can tell,” he said. That you don’t read your Bible.”

“I know you can be condemned for eating shellfish,” I said. “But I missed the raw milk part.”

“Thou shall not commit adultery,” he said triumphantly. “And pasteurizing milk adulterates it.”

“C.W., Uh...”

“It’s really simple,” he said. “We believe we should be able to put anything we want to in our body.” He had a sudden insight. “And those of our children too.”

I would vote for Joe Stalin
risen from the grave if
he supported my one issue. - C.W.

“Even if it kills you, or them?”

“If it is our choice.”

“So you believe in individual choice, as it relates to your own body.”

 

“Absolu…,” he began, then stopped. A stricken look came over his face. He pulled a small pad from his pocket and referred to some notes. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” he said.