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.

INVOLVEMENT

 The Alien C.W. was très upset. I could hear him from the next room.

“Shtoo++pitdazoles+,” he said, loud enough to be heard outside. I walked in and found him shaped much like a middle-aged Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

“Say what?”

“Foul increment,” he practically screamed it at me.

“Bitte?”

“Listen to my GUT,” he said. I heard his Galactic Universal Translator begin to hum.

“Never mind,” I said. “I think I get the picture.”

“What is it with your species?” he said, aiming the question at me like he thought I might answer.

“¿Qué?” I like to screw with him when he gets like this.

“What does it mean,” he said, “when one of your leaders talks about waging a war with ‘no boots on the ground’ in some foreign country peopled by your own species.”

“It refers to using war to settle international differences with another country without actually having our military personnel involved in that country, so to speak.”

His GUT hummed and he listened. “And how is this accomplished?”

“Remotely,” I said. “We can send planes from ships and unmanned drones from Iowa, wiping them out like cleaning a windshield.”

“To settle differences?”

“Yes.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“Then we send troops.”

“And who comprises these troops? Do they hunt down individuals to conduct these ‘boots on the ground’ operations?”

“Uh, no. They rely on volunteers now.”

“Such as the children of the leaders?”

“Uh, no. Others.”

“Like you?” he said. “No, I remember now. You actually volunteered for war, didn’t you?”

“Kinda sorta.”

His Gut hummed. “Elucidate.”

“I reluctantly volunteered for what I thought would be an assignment that wouldn’t involve my boots being on the ground, i.e. naval forces.”

“So what happened?”

“They sent my boots and my ass to be on the ground.”

He thought for a moment. “Can you see why Falloonian Elders think your species might need recalling?”

 THE ACT OF  WAR

An old friend showed up this morning. Yes, it was the Alien C.W. Showed up, best as I can guess, as Mark Twain. He was still up to his old tricks. Said he had been visiting other galaxies where the craziness wasn’t as severe. He acted as if nothing had happened, which was unsettling.

“Had a question,” he said, “how long do your wars last?”

“What do you mean?”

“What is the Standard Unifying Consistency Kinetic for engaging in a war. Your government must have an SUCK factor for controlling costs and casualties. And the private sector must have a metric for projecting Pundit Underwriting costs. The PU factor must be severe in times of war.”

“And you want to know how long they last?” I asked.

“It’s a phenomenon unique to your planet,” he said. “Same as your penchant for knowingly being burnt by overexposure to sunlight.”

“They last as long as they last,” I said. “No longer. Once side just quits and then the other has to as well.”

“Sort of like your standard act of sex?”

I stopped to think, and he continued.

“If you don’t have a SDF, they, wars that is, could last 20, maybe 100 years,” he said. See, some of the other galaxies are wondering about your planet passing the Chiroptera Scat Stability test. Too low on the CSS might bring about serious action. The ship from Tulegria that dropped your Initiation Cells on Earth are beginning to fear they have made a mistake.

“The what kind of test?”

“It’s named after a joke about bat dropping and insanity. Tulegrians have this weird sense of humor.”

“You mean like bat sh--?” I stopped.

“Precisely. Now our research shows that not only might these irrational acts be indeterminate, there is also the profit motive. Is it really true that both sides in these CSS acts are financed from the same sources? If so, that will increase scrutiny and accelerate repercussions.”

“What sort of repercussions.”

“You are familiar with the concept of a virus, aren’t you?”

Crowds

Last night, I shifted into Huntz Hall from the old Bowery Boys movies and watched TV with Big Dope. We were watching some documentary films of the Nazi rallies in Nuremberg back in the 1930s. Big Dope says to me, “I think that mob mentality leads to many of the atrocities in history. What do you think?”

Well, he asked didn’t he? I stared at the scene of thousands upon thousands of people standing and watching Hitler speak, I said, “I think that there must be at least one person in that crowd who needs to go to the bathroom real bad.”

He called me an idiot. Me, a visitor to this strange planet.

439. Honor

“From things I’ve seen and learned, it’s what many of your species don’t understand about politics,” he said.

“Oh?” We were sitting under my favorite oak contemplating the death of a famous American, C.W. and I. He had, for the occasion enphased (as he calls it) into the shape of the young American soldier from West Virginia, the one who had been killed on his 19^th birthday, 14 days before this draft term ended.

“And honor,” he said.

I looked toward him.

“And duty,” he said.

“Want to explain?”

“I shouldn’t have to,” he said. “Was I honorable?”

“They didn’t think so then,” I said. “Maybe some do now.”

“Did I do my duty?”

“I would say to the ultimate limit.”

“Would it change your mind to know that I was once ordered to open fire, when I was an M-60 machine gunner in an infantry platoon, on a sleeping village?”

“On orders you say?”

“On orders.”

“And?”

“I blew the hell out of everything in sight … men, women, children, dogs, rats, water buffaloes, Viet Cong, you name it.”

He paused and sniffed. “Was I doing my duty?”

I avoided the question. “How exactly,” I said, “did you, … did it end for you?”

“It was later,” he said, “two days after the attack on the first village. In the next one, they were waiting for us, had set up the perfect ambush: rice paddies to the right, gun emplacements to the front and left. We had no place to go. The Lieutenant was from the Academy. He thought all was copacetic, as he phrased it, but we all thought things were way too quiet. “Don’t argue,” he said as he sent us forward with the squad to set up an emplacement. My crew and I had peeled off, using the rice paddies as a buffer, and set up as the rest of the squad did an oblique to the left and moved forward.”

“And?”

“It broke loose. Interlocking fire. The point man and two others fell, both dead. Two others were wounded. The rest were flat on the ground. I opened fire.”

“What happened then?’

“Troops came out of the village in perfect order, firing at us. I looked back and the Lieutenant was running toward the rear of the company, motioning it back. We were stranded.”

I waited.

“The survivors of the squad began pulling their wounded back. The three of us with the M-60 kept firing.”

“What then?”

“The others pulled back to our rear and ultimately reached the company with their wounded. We managed to slow the assault until they were safe.”

“And you?”

“We stayed and kept firing until they reached us. By the time we died, the company had formed a defensive line and was driving the enemy back. My last memory was of a mortar dropping in front of us into a mass of men. Then the rest were on us.”

We sat in silence.

“And this,” I said at last, “has what to do with our mourning an American hero today?”

“What was he doing when the ground fire hit his plane?” he said.

“Flying a mission?”

“To do what?”

“Bomb the enemy?”

“Men, women, children, dogs, rats, water buffaloes?”

“And specified targets. On orders,” I said.

“Fulfilling his duty?”

“As he saw it. As his country defined it.”

“Duty, then,” he said, “may require us to do things we ordinarily wouldn’t do?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“After capture,” he said, “how did our deceased hero perform?”

“As honorably, bravely, and magnificently as any American ever has, under the worst of conditions, for five-and-a-half years, without medical care for his broken body.”

“Withstood it all?”

“Without question.” I thought for a moment. “Did you know that, partway through his imprisonment, they offered to release him?”

“Really?”

“Yes, he was the son of an admiral, and the publicity would have been significant.”

“What happened?”

“He pretty much told them to stick the offer in their scuppers.”

“Honorable.”

“Very.”

“Even though he dishonored your country by being captured?”

“That’s the opinion of only one man.”

“No,” he said. “That’s the opinion of an entire political party.”

“Do you think so?”

“Of course,” he said. “Silence and inaction can carry honor or dishonor with equal ease. Political opportunity can determine which course people or parties choose.”

“But,” I said, “the party sends out campaign ads telling how much they love our military and what great patriots they are.”

“I can,” he said sadly, “call myself a retired veteran of a foreign war enjoying a yard full of grandchildren, but that doesn’t make it so.”

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.

437 Service

C.W. has gone missing. I can’t find him anywhere. The last time I saw him, he had assumed the shape of a long-haul trucker with a MAGA hat. He was nervous and puffing on a big cigar.

He said he was “going to join the Space Force.”

“But,” I said before he broke in.

“No buts,” he said. “They’ll need experienced men and I’m their guy.”

“Uh,” I began.

“Listen,” he said. “They have no idea what they are getting into. They won’t know a Phistupunarsigan from a Beetanisilliagan. You can’t send brave men to fight Galactic invaders without experienced warriors, and three heads are better than one. He grinned and exhibited several missing teeth. “You’d better listen to me.”

“No. You listen to me.”

“Why?”

“I have something to tell you.”

“Better make it quick. I’ve already heard that some Hierdaruckians have landed and are assuming the disguise of a wedding party. Our forces need some guidance and they need it fast. I can provide them exact coordinates.”

“Shut up,” I offered.

“What?”

“Are you listening?”

“I always listen. That’s one of my strengths.”

Letting that pass, I snapped a finger in front of his face.” He looked, and I assumed his other two heads were listening as well.

“Repeat after me,” I said. I waited a couple of seconds until he focused. “There is no Space Force.”

“There is no … what the hell are ya’ll talking about?”

“There is no Space Force.”

“What?”

“There is no Space Force, nor will there be.”

“But the President said ….”

“The President tends to make things up. That’s one of his privileges, or at least one he has assumed.”

“Why would he?”

“It’s in his nature,” I said. “He uses prevarication like some people use a paint brush.”

“But why tell us a lie about a Space Force?”

“Distraction,” I said.

“Dis-what?”

“Don’t you remember how much you like to watch magicians do their tricks?”

“Well, yeah,”

“And remember my telling you how they work them?”

A light dawned. “They fool you with one hand while the other does the trick.”

“Precisely.”

“But why would the President want to distract us?”

“Are you serious?”

“Well, they are on his ass pretty bad.”

“Because?”

“Some folks say he has been a little careless in the way he acts.”

“A little careless?”

“Maybe more than a little.”

“So, you see the need for some harmless distraction.”

“Who would he think might believe him about a fake Space Force?”

“The same people who believe a strong man can slam a metal folding chair down on another man’s head, have the poor guy hauled away to the emergency room bleeding, and have him back entertaining them the very next night.”

“But the Vice-President is setting the Space Force up, and he’s a Reckinarellerain.”

The threat is real.The President
 says this is an actual photo. - C.W.

“The best and the brightest?”

He thought. “Not exactly. They are the ones who transpermiated mosquito DNA on your planet. Some jokester on Falloonia told them it was a species of orchid. He’s been banished to Alabama, the jokester has, and they sent the perpetrator to Washington.” The fog lifted a bit. “As a matter of fact, …”

“So you see the subterfuge?”

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “I’m going to Little Rock.”

“For what?”

“Those folks up there at the Capitol respect our President. If he says we need a Space Force, they’ll be the first ones to join, probably already have. Just wait, you’ll see. If they don’t, I’ll raise almighty hell about it.” 

With that, he took off. I haven’t seen him since.

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.

415. Resistance

“Don’t make me have to come in there.”

Oh, no, as I walked in from doing some outdoor chores, I heard one of the most dreaded threats a Southern child can hear. I rushed in the living room to check on things. I heard C.W. before I saw him. He was what you might call, “wailing.”

“Oh, what will become of me, what can I do?”

A voice from the kitchen said, “Try setting yourself on fire.”

I had reached the living room by then and witnessed a sight I’ll never forget. There was the form of what appeared to be a genuine 1968 version of a Haight-Ashbury resident sitting cross-legged on the floor moaning and rocking to and fro with tears streaming down his face and onto a pale pink robe festooned with peace symbols.

“What the … ,?”

“Oh, Big Dope,” he managed between sobs. “Am I glad to see you. You must help me.”

I was feeling a bit weak so I sat. I said nothing.

“Tell me you’ll help me, man.”

“Help you how?”

“Keep them from drafting me.”

“Keep them from what?”

“Drafting me, man. I’m not cut out for the military, man, not even the navy. You know how I got seasick when you took me fishing that day. And the sight of human blood makes me nauseated.”

“Calm down,” I said. I looked at him with all the sternness I could muster. He sniffed once and looked at me. His mustache and beard were glistening from his tears, and his nose was running. He drew a breath and nodded.

 “Now what is this about a draft?”

He started to sound off again, but I wagged a finger at him and shook my head. “Speak.”

“I requested a transfer home,” he said. “They turned me down.”

“Who turned you down?”

“The Falloonian Elders. They quoted Section Eight of the Alien Service Agreement.”

“What’s that?”

“What I had to sign to be eligible to come live with you.”

“No, I meant what is Section Eight?”

“That’s the one where it says I have to participate on host-country life to the greatest degree possible.” With that, he broke down and wailed, “Now I’m going to get drafted.” His sounds filled the room.

“I’m not going to tell you again,” came from the kitchen.

“Calm down,” I said again. “There hasn’t been a draft in this country since the 1970s.”

“And look at how many years you’ve been at war since then,” he said. “Now this new one is bound to require that they start up the draft again.” Snot dripped from his nose. “What am I going to do?”

“C.W.,” I said, … ,”

When it comes to drafting me,
I find I must agree. - C.W.

“Tranquility’s Child,” he said between sniffs.

“Say what?”

“That’s me,” he said, “Tranquility’s Child.”

“Whatever,” I said, “but there is no new war, yet.”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The political party in power in your country just declared war.”

“Did what?”

“Declared war. What shall I do? I’m too young to die.” He stopped and thought, shaking his head. “I’m only half a century old in Earth years.” With this he wailed again, “Oh what am I to do?”

“I’ve heard nothing about a new war.”

“They call it a ‘trading war,” and that means trading bombs and bodies, my people tell me, body counts and all that. They say I’ll be a hero maybe.” He began to wail again. “Help me. Help me.” His voice rose. “Help me. Help me.”

I couldn’t help thinking of that old film, The Fly. I shook it off.

I said, “Do you mean ‘a trade war’ with other countries? That’s not a war of armies. That’s only about the buying and selling of products. It doesn’t lead to invasions and battles. It’s just about products, or a product.”

“A product that one country buys and one country sells?”

“Exactly. Buying and selling. No ‘bombs bursting in air,’ no troop ships, no napalm, no draft, no dead babies. Just everyday products for sale or trade.”

“Does that include rubber and oil?”

I felt as though someone had slapped me in the face with a wet towel. I stared at the floor for a moment.

“I’m too goddam old,” I said. “You’re on your own.”

He screamed, “Oh woe is me, woe is me.”

A voice from the other room screamed back, “I’m gonna make you think ‘woe is me’ if you make another sound.” 

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.

411. Money

“I’m confused.”

Well that was understandable. He, the Alien C.W. was in a shape the calls “Carl the Confused.” It’s sort of a cross between The Riddler on the old Batman series and the newscaster Geraldo Riveria. I know, very weird, but I usually just let him run with whatever.

“Yes. And just what are you confused about today?”

“Borrowing money to pay for things.”

“You don’t do that on Falloonia?”

“Oh heavens no. We just use money curry favors.”

“Well, if you don’t use money to buy things, why would you want your favor curried, so to speak?”

“To amass money. Why else?”

“To buy things then? Now you are confusing me.”

“No, just to amass wealth and the prestige that comes with it.”

“Not to purchase things you need?”

“Oh, we have everything we need. We even have everything we want, allocated according to our social status. We inherit that from our parents.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You have everything you need or want, yet you strive to amass riches? That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard of.”

We were walking around the pasture at our farm, trying to stay fit. He stopped us, turned to me with a solemn face. He nodded it slowly and winked.

The he burst into a maniacal laugh. It rose from him like a volcano erupting and spread over his body. It shook. He clasped his arms around himself and the shaking slowed. After a moment, he began to regain composure, raised his gaze to mine, and said, “I was screwing with you. Is that how you say it?”

“But why?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just read where your government is going to have to borrow a trillion dollars so it can give money the most blessed of those among you. I thought that was funny.”

The point he was making was interesting. I found his method of making it most annoying. I had to admit, though, that it was true.

He said, “A million, a billion, a trillion … those terms sound quite a bit alike, don’t they?”

I thought. “Yeah,” I said, “I suppose they do.”

“It makes them easy to toss around playfully and interchangeably. I heard a woman say that in a documentary I watched this week,” he said. “Want me to tell you what else she pointed out?”

He was going to tell me anyway. “Sure,” I said. “Go ahead.”

“Well,” he said. “If you were to stack brand new, crisp, $1,000 bills on top of one another, do you know how high the stack of a million dollars would be?”

“Enlighten me.”

“About four inches. And a billion-dollar stack?”

I shook my head.

“About 364 feet. That’s about the height of …,”

“A thirty-story building,” I said, interrupting him and shaking my head.

“Correctamundo,” he said. “Now, about that trillion you are giving to the rich?”

“It strains my mind,” I said.

 

Will he let us know
when it's enough? - C.W.

“A stack 63 miles high, give or take a few feet.”

I said nothing.

“Now,” he said, “Do you think your people would approve of a 63-mile-high stack of borrowed money being given to people who are already rich?”

“I don’t know.”

“Or,” he said, “would they approved that it be tossed away invading a sovereign country just to prove you could?”

“I don’t know.

“Sure they would,” said. “And I find that most confusing. We, on Falloonia, call that Stchecundetnuronerss.

“And what does that mean?”

“You don’t really want to know.”

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.

Veterans Day

Hey friends. Big Dope is taking Veterans Day weekend off and asked me to post this favorite from years gone by.

398. Issues

It is one of C.W.’s most contemplative shapes, sort of the face of a famer and the grooming of a fop. He exhibits a cross between hard-earned understanding and devil-may-care insouciance wearing a John Deere hat and stockbroker suspenders. Weird.

“Come in” he said. That was a strange thing for him to say for I was already in and partway through a cup of coffee, sitting across from him. It was his way of telling me that he had only just noticed me.

“What’s up? You look pensive this morning.”

“The Falloonian Elders are concerned. Very concerned.”

I looked at him. Sometimes, usually when he has been preparing reports to transmit back to his home planet, he assumes an annoying but alarming air of flippancy. Not today.

“Concerned, you say?”

“I think I said ‘very concerned’ if you happen to have been listening.”

“Okay. Very concerned about what?”

“The continued drift of your species toward a loss of its grip on reality.”

“Oh?”

“They are very concerned.”

“Elucidate.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Where shall I begin?” he said. He rubbed his chin and moved the bill of his cap an inch or two up upwards. “We know,” he said, “that intellectual progress does not occur in a straight line.” He waited for this to settle. “Remember the abyss that sucked the daylight from Europe following the introduction of your favorite religion? It was known as the ‘approaching black in shade era’ if I remember correctly.”

“The Dark Ages, I think you mean.”

“Whatever,” he said. “At its lowest point, your panspermian sponsors revisited and made some minor genetic adjustments and ‘viola,’ the light emerged.”

“I think you mean ‘voila’ if you don’t mind.”

“What you now call the Renaissance,” he said, ignoring me.

“Yes. I think that’s what happens. Our progress is up and down, hills, valleys, and plateaus.”

Like a roller-vehicle that moves easily without using power.”

“That’s roller-coaster and you need to have you Galactic Universal Translator worked on.”

“All GUT repair is postponed until after this unstable situation of extreme danger or difficulty.”

“And this crisis is what, exactly?”

“First, let’s kill all the reporters. I think one of your famous writers said that.”

“I think he said ‘lawyers,’ and what has that to do with us?”

“Scientists are next, don’t you see?”

“Uh, …,”

“Then teachers, to be replaced by preachers.”

Uh, …,”

“Reason must go, to be replaced by political opportunism. Have you read about the long period of darkness between 1914 and 1946?”

“Many times,” I said. “I actually have known people who lived through it.”

“Would they have wanted you present leaders to have guided you through it?”

The thought of that stunned me. “You really are concerned,” I said. “Why? You can go back to the safety of your own planet at any time.”

“Scheduling,” he said.

“Scheduling?”

“We had your planet scheduled for shutdown in accordance with current trends and now we must re-slide the cards over each other quickly and set a new schedule. We’re thinking of swapping you with Cedsuphucadhair. It has worse leadership than yours, but it is less prone to destruction.”

“So we are in real trouble, you think? That’s ‘re-shuffle’ by the way.”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“Oh, I am,” I said. “But we are a resilient species. We overcome things, even weird and strange things. Have you ever heard of Joseph McCarthy?”

He leaned back and exhaled. “He was sent as a test,” he said, “and things just got out of hand.”

“Will you help us?”

 

Your species accomplishes mighty things
 for the worst of reasons. Illogical. - C.W.

“We’ll try,” he said. “But we have to hurry. There are other issues awaiting you.”

“Oh? What issues?”

“I’ve been reading one of your books,” he said, shifting the conversation.

“What issues?”

One by James Baldwin.”

“What issues?”

“Something about someone’s room.”

“Would you tell me what issues?”

“Want to hear my favorite quote so far?”

Please, please … the issues.”

“I think it is either ‘The world is mostly divided between madmen who remember and madmen who forget. Heroes are rare,’ or another, ‘Nobody can stay in the Garden of Eden.’ Aren’t those great?”

“And what is our next crisis after we attend to the problem of our politics?”

“There is the matter of an unexplained and unpredictable asteroid that has entered your galaxy from somewhere and seems to be headed in your general direction. But first things first.”

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.

375. Brevity

There could be no doubt of it. C.W. was down in the dumps. The first clue was the shape he had chosen for the day. Remember the silent film star Buster Keaton’s sad look? Keep it in mind.

“What’s up?”

“Bad news. Very bad news.”

“Oh?”

“Just received my quarterly evaluation from the Falloonian elders.”

“Not a glowing approval?”

“I’ve been accused of mkeenafrecnmesofyt.”

“Uh?”

“Roughly speaking, they say I tend to overstate, over-analyze, over-complicate, over-symptomize, over-explain, and waste their time.”

“That’s a long list of transgressions.”

“My fault.”

“Oh?”

“Yes … I sent them a copy of Roget’s Thesaurus in hopes of helping them understand my reports better.”

“And they devastated you with it?”

“Yes. Remember when we watched that cartoon in which Wiley Coyote was run over by the Acme truck and you had to explain the humor to me? You called it ironing.”

“Irony.”

“Whatever.” He was clearly in a dark mood.”

“Can you give me some examples?”

“I prepared and transmitted a comprehensive, 110-page report on the current state of politics in your country.”

“That sounds commendable. What happened?”

“They sent a message saying they didn’t have time to read all that. They recommended just saying ‘They need to elect better people to office,’ and be done with it.”

“I see. Are there others?”

“I responded to a request to explain why your country has been at war with various countries for 15 years with nothing to show for it.”

“And?”

He reached into a pocket and retrieved a scrap of paper. He held it and read, “Why couldn’t you just have said, ‘mass-insanity’ and be done with it?”

“That’s pretty strong.”

“Oh, you should have seen the one in response to my explanation of why your species is destroying the planet.”

“I can imagine.”

“Oh no you can’t. You don’t know the meaning of the word Falloonian word Frtlihtinanishol in the context of describing a sitting political leader.”

“I suppose not. But I do know you worked hard on your report on our obsession with guns and violence.”

“All 200 pages of it, sent as a rush order after the recent case where that news reporter got smacked by the political candidate.”

“I read parts of it. I thought it brilliant. I particularly found your thesis compelling in which you surmised that the companies that manufacture products used for violence are helping to aggrandize violence.”

“For the purpose of boosting sales,” he said.

“Yes. That must have impressed them.”

He shook his head, Buster Keaton style. “They have a different explanation.”

“Oh?”

“They boiled it down one word.”

 

Your species certainly
seems obsessed with
having the biggest or most. - C.W.

“Really?”

“Yes. Wistahhdabeegern”

“And that means?”

“Roughly translated?”

“That’ll work.”

“Penis envy.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      
  See also:

Delta Dreaming
All Hat No Cattle
Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

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.

339. Advice

It’s hard not to like C.W. when he shows up in the shape of the late Edward R. Murrow. I always liked him, and, boy, to we miss him now. Only problem occurs when he lights up a cigarette. Not allowed in this house. But anyway …

I was feeling a bit blue for some reason. It has been a rough summer and the news hasn’t helped. So when C.W. showed up as the former newsman, I knew he had come to offer kindness and solace.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” he said, loud enough to wake the entire house.

“I’m okay,” I said. “Just feeling a little nostalgic today.”

“Well snap the hell out of it,” he said, lighting a fag. “We’ve got some important stuff to talk about.”

“You won’t talk about anything if my wife smells that smoke.”

“Mrs. Big Dope and I are getting along better now,” he said. “We’ve found common ground to belittle.”

I raised my head. “What common ground?”

“You,” he said. “Now what’s on your mind?”

“Just thinking about very old friends,” I said, “Friends I knew before the Navy. From college. My old liberal friends … comrades of many peace marches, sit-ins, and demonstrations. I haven’t heard from any of them in years.”

“To hell with them,” he said. “Now snap out of it.”

“I think it may link back to my ‘Yossarian Period.’ You know, the character from Catch-22, the Joseph Heller novel. What do you think?”

He knotted his brow. “I think,” he said, “that a BJ would help.”

That snapped me to attention. “A what?”

“A BJ. You know … the new app for my Galactic Universal Translator. Officially it provides a ‘Bibliographical Juxtaposition,’ for when I need to find a literary allusion. The Elders sent it with a note that said a BJ would make my GUT work better.” He stopped and stared at me. “What?”

“I think you might find another name for it,” I said. “Maybe a ‘citation reference app.’”

“You mean you want me tell folks that I need to take a …”

“No, no, no,” I said. “Let’s talk about it later.”

He concentrated. “Okay,” he said. “So this Yossarian was a bomber pilot in one of your world wars and he did what?”

“Contacted his friends.”

He concentrated again. “I’m finding something,” he said. How’s this?” He began to recite verbatim from the book.

“To everyone he knew he wrote that he was going on a very dangerous mission. They asked for volunteers. It's very dangerous, but someone has to do it. I'll write you the instant I get back. And he had not written anyone since.”

He stopped there. “Ah,” he said. “So what did you do while in your so-called ‘Yossarian Period?’ that makes you so somber?”

“It was the third day of the Tet Offensive,” I said. All hell was breaking loose and it was kind of scary where I was.”

“And?”

“I was a little pissed because I felt my old friends had deserted me when I went off to war.”

“And?

“I wrote them all letters.”

“And?”

“I told them that things looked pretty bad, but I would write and let them know if I made it through safely.”

“And?”

“I forgot.”

“And?” He blew a big cloud of smoke my way.

“I’ve never heard from any of them.” I stopped. “Except one. I ran into her at a book festival a couple of years after my discharge.”

I don't care what Big Dope says. I
think more POKES and BJs would make
a big difference in your politics. - C.W.

“And?”

“I think it frightened her to see me.”

“And?”

“She mentioned something about a memorial service and ran away.”

“Mrs. Big Dope is right,” he said.

“About what?”

“You are an idiot. Now,” he said, “if you will excuse me, I going out to interview some young women and ask them for a POKE.”

“A what?”

“A ‘practice on kindness evaluation.’ Why?”

“Uh,” I said. “I think maybe you …” I stopped. “Never mind. I’ll see you later. I feel much better now.”

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309. Business

“Hey, what are you doing?” C.W. was sprawled on the couch making notes on a yellow pad. He was in one of his favorite shapes: how he imagined Titus Flavius Josephus looked, complete with Roman curls and a long white robe.

“Oh nothing,” he said. “Actually, I’m trying to make sense of your political system. The Elders are questioning me about it.”

“Are you making progress?”

“I’m confused, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he said. “For example, your candidates running for office don’t seem logical.”

“Oh really? In what way?”

“In many ways. Foreign policy, for example.”
“What about foreign policy?”

He flipped pages on his tablet and consulted his notes. “Here’s a quote from one of them,” he said. “I’ll bomb the excrement expelled from the body out of them.”

“I think it is just an expression,” I said.

“Not a very learned one,” he said, flipping in his notes again. “I’ve consulted Sun Tzu, Carl von Clausewitz, Dwight Eisenhower, Julius Caesar, Võ Nguyên Giáp, and even George S. Patton.”

“And?”

“No mention of such a tactic.” He paused, turned to look at me, and said, “But you want to know what really confuses the elders?”

“I’m all ears.”

“No,” he said, “you still have all your body parts … at least as far as I can see.” He giggled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh just thinking of how body parts might be switched around.”

“Oh?”

“And how funny it could be the next time Mrs, Big Dope yelled at you, ‘Are you listening to me?’”

“Let’s get back to politics,” I said.

“So,” he said, “what on earth do they mean when they say that they will run government like a business?”

“I’m not sure what they mean.”

“That it must make a profit?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“That’s comforting,” he said. “I would hate to see your generals going door to door selling the military.” He giggled again. “Pardon me sir or ma’am, whichever the case may be, you wouldn’t like to buy a war today, would you/” He began giggling in earnest. “We have a special on invasions this month.” He was wiping tears from his eyes now.

“Back to the topic,” I said.

“So how would they run this business called the government?” he asked.

“They haven’t said.”

“Hey,” he said, “how about running it like a pornography business. You don’t have to provide fire or police protection. You just show films of it.” Then he was off laughing again.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

“No, wait,” he said. “I’m okay now. But really, what business would we use to create the model for your government?”

“They haven’t said.”

“Merrill Lynch?”

“Probably not.”

“Bank of America?”

“Not likely.”

“ How about JPMorgan or Goldman Sachs?”

“Are you serious?”

“Citigroup? World Com?”

“Get real.”

“I know—General Motors.”

“Are you through?”

“I’ve got it,” he said. Then with a fourish… “Enron!”

A future historian will have to be
eloquent to explain your species. - C.W.

“You are crazy.”

“I’m not the one saying it,” he said. “Your political candidates are. I have the model,” he said. “How about those defense contractors? Boy, are they models of efficiency.”

 “You’ve made your point.”

“I read here,” he said, “where over half of businesses fail in five years. Is that what they want for your government?”

“I hear my wife calling me.”

“No she’s not,” he said. “I haven’t heard the ‘A’ word all morning.” He became serious. “But the elders do think there is one element of the business model that could do wonders for your country.”

I stopped and turned. “And what,” I said, “would that be?”

“We could move your Congress to Mexico.”

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