122. War

Hello my fellow Earthlings. I say that in anticipation of achieving my citizenship soon. It seems that most obstacles to my becoming a productive American have been eliminated. In fact, Big Dope is so ecstatic that I allowed him to sleep in this morning so that I might visit with you directly.

 

First, I would like to say that much of what Big Dope prints about me is slanted toward the entertainment value. I am not, I repeat not, in trouble with the Falloonian Elders. They didn’t approve of my latest fiancé, it is true, and my prank involving the painting of vaginas on certain political signs seemed odd to them. Of course I couldn’t have guessed that a grown man running for a serious national office would actually repeat the “information” I sent him concerning a rape victim’s ability to prevent pregnancy. Geez.

Well, there was that dancing horse video. But all in all they are pleased with my progress.

Which brings me to today’s project. Since all dedicated citizens should do something for their country, I ask your help in forming and supporting my latest effort, a grass-roots effort to be known as Citizens Resisting Asinine Policies, or CRAP. It primary focus is to reinstate the military draft in America. Its final aim is to stop war.

That’s right, I said use the military draft to stop war. Now you may immediately be asking yourself, why associate war with CRAP? Well the two concepts are connected like Lucky and Lefty the conjoined twins. Can you imagine our country invading another sovereign nation when facing a strong CRAP? Can you imagine the generals having to wade through CRAP? Can you imagine congress voting to sustain a bloated military while admitting that “First we must cut through the CRAP?”

No, a strong CRAP is just what this country needs.

Here’s how it would work. The concept of an all-volunteer army would be abandoned. All males, upon reaching the age of 18 would be immediately drafted into military service. No exemptions. No deferrals. We wouldn’t even need a draft board since service would be mandatory for all American males.
 

Please help me restore honor to our
country with a good CRAP.
- The Alien C.W.

Now, why subject only males to CRAP?

The mothers of America, that’s why. They would recognize the advantages of a CRAP when they saw it. And they seem to care more about their sons than they do their daughters. Don’t ask me why.

So, CRAP, in order to be effective, must fall upon our national decision makers. My research indicates that, since World War Two, your country has pretty much relied upon military action to promote its intentions with regards to other sovereign nations. What CRAP ... wait, what I mean to say is, what CRAP would do is undermine this policy approach by disarming the American Military-Industrial Complex, the monster that your former President Dwight Eisenhower warned you about. He was a man who truly saw a CRAP on the horizon.

So, you might say, “What could possibly defeat the intent of the Military-Industrial Complex? Nothing has so far.”

A good CRAP, I say to you. CRAP in the form of the mothers of America, the only known force that could bring about peace in our time.

- Your friend, C.W.

49. War

They were having a literary festival in our town and I was walking to it when a figure fell along side me from a side street. At first I thought it was a street hustler since the man was shabbily dressed and smelled like a boatload of used cigars. I pretended not to notice until I heard a clanking sound. From the corner of my eye I saw the slouch hat and faded jacket of a civil war general. I looked closer. Hell, it was U.S. Grant himself, easily recognizable from period photographs.

“Hello Sailor, what’s up?” he said.

Of course it was C.W. I hadn’t seen him in weeks and thought perhaps he had left for good.

“Where on earth have you been?” I asked.

“Nowhere on earth,” he said. “I was called back to an intergalactic conference on intra-species hostilities. Your little planet was the subject of much of the discussion, by the way.”

“My planet?”

“Yes. Tell me—what is it about war that you find so appealing? Hell, I hated it and I got paid for it.” He was General Grant now.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You seem to forget that it cost me four good years as well.”

“I thought that at least your Christians found ‘The Peacemakers’ blessed.”

“Used to. The ‘Peacemakers’ were replaced by the ‘Moneymakers.’”

“Funny,” he said. “And all those comedians out of work.” He pulled a cigar from a pocket and, as we walked along, lit it and blew some smoke my way. For once, people didn’t stare as I assume they though he was just part of the literary festival.

“Tell me something else,” he said after we had walked on a ways.

“What?”

“What is this fascination your region seems to have with that greatest of warmongers, old Bobby Lee?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you even honor his birthday. Why don’t you honor the 25,000 of his men he massacred in his insane little venture up in Pennsylvania?”

“You mean Gettysburg?”

“I mean ‘Lee’s Folly.’ Hell he lost more troops there than they say I did in The Wilderness. And I said I was sorry and came down in history as a butcher. He is the national symbol of the noble warrior. Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I’ll tell you,” he said.

“Tell, me.”

“Because the goddam Virginians, who lost about 7,000 in that war, compared to more than 20,000 from North Carolina, wrote the history of that miserable little affair.”

Hey Barack and Hillary - war isn't really that great. - C.W.

He began to cough, so I didn’t say anything.

“Then they blamed the fact that George Mead whipped Bobby’s ass on everyone from poor Pete Longstreet to Heth’s Division.” He drew on his cigar and inhaled. “And all because General Lee didn’t want to send any of his troops to help out at Vicksburg.”

I walked on. He exhaled some cigar smoke and turned to me.

“I always like what little Georgie Pickett himself had to say about who caused the defeat of his ill-ordered charge,” he said.

“What?”

“He said: I always thought the Yankees had something to do with it.”

39. McBaths

“I’m ‘juvenile form of a planted,’ C.W. said as he plopped on my couch.

“Perhaps you mean you are ‘bushed,’” I said.

“Exactly, he said. He had wandered in late Sunday afternoon in one of his favorite shapes, the Falloonian version of a homeless person. In this case, it was the stereotypical long-haired, unshaven character wearing camouflage and a worn field jacket. He knew it offended me—I have told him a number of times that “homeless veterans” primarily exist in the minds of lazy reporters and overzealous do-gooders. Anyway, he looked more idiotic than normal.

“What have you been doing?” I said.

“House hunting,” he said.

“Say what?”

“Looking at houses,” he said. “They allow you to enter some of them on Sunday afternoon and look around.”

“You went looking like that?”

“Of course,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“You look like a …” I struggled for words.

“Homeless person,” he said.

“They let you tour homes?”

“Aren’t the homeless those most in need of housing?”

“Might they also be the least able to afford it?”

He looked puzzled.

“Anyway, they allowed you to tour?”

“They looked at me funny but I went in anyway.”

This didn’t surprise me.

“Know what I saw?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Most of those houses would accommodate dozens of Falloonians. Why are they so large?

“Status symbol I suppose, or some form of compensation.”

“Compensation for what?”

“Never mind,” I said. Then I couldn’t resist a joke. “Did you buy one?”

“No. I asked if I could move 20 or 30 of my colleagues in and they said ‘no.’”

“Oh really?”

“Know what else I saw?”

“I’m all ears.”

“In the bathroom …”

“I can’t imagine.”

“You know those things you people use to dispose of your bodily wastes?”

“Toilets?”

“They called them commodities.”

“No, ‘commodes.’”

“That’s it. Well, this one had a ‘large flush’ and a ‘small flush.’”

“No kidding!”

“They said it was to save water.”

“That makes sense.”

“Well not exactly. When I examined the shower, it had eight nozzles aimed at different body parts. It must have used up the equivalent of 20 additional large-flushes over the consumption of a normal nozzle during a shower. Explain that.”

“I can’t.”

“Know what else?”

“No, what?”

“When they weren’t looking, I sprinkled some bath powder in the solid waste disposal unit.”

Where's the connection between wealth and taste? - C.W.

 “And?”

“It took four small-flushes to get rid of it all.”

“For goodness sake.”

“Know what I think?”

“I think you are going to tell me.”

“You people need to learn to think things through a little better.”

30. Houses

Truth be told, I wasn’t bothering a soul, just sitting on a bench enjoying the last day of November and watching the renovation of an old railroad bridge that spans the Arkansas River. They were renovating it for pedestrian use. I was thinking how nice it is for old things to be re-used when a rather handsome blonde-haired lady in her late 30s walked up. She looked like an ad for L.L. Bean, complete with a sweater that announced “I love my Yorkie.”

“May I sit?” she asked.

I nodded at the empty portion of the bench and scooted as far as I could to the other edge.

“I’m just pooped from holiday shopping and need to take a break,” she said as she sat. “I’ve been at it since four A.M. on ‘Black Friday.’”

I nodded as if I had any idea.

She sat quietly for a few minutes before turning to me as if she had just received some hidden radio transmission.

“I’ll bet my house is bigger than your house,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“And better too. Mr. Donald designed the interior.”

“How nice.”

“My husband wants to get an even bigger one after our next child.”

I started to rise when she began to giggle.

It was C.W.

“You little prick,” I observed.

“Had you going, didn’t I?”

“Oh yes. Ruined my day completely.”

“But tell me,” he said. “What is with these big gaudy houses that Americans love so much? They even plan TV shows around them. Isn’t it a bit wasteful for a family of four to live in four thousand square foot structure when so many have none?”

“I dunno. Some form of ego compensation? Why do you ask me? I don’t have one.

The figure spoke. “Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe some day you’ll be as well off as we are and you can afford a decent home.”

“I have a decent home,” I started to say and then realized I was speaking to an alien, a smart-assed one at that. “Don’t you have something to do?” I said.

“Well, I am scheduled for a pedicure later this morning but I thought I would come downtown and see what it is about this ghastly place that attracts people. It’s so old here, and the houses are so small.”

“Perhaps the people who live here don’t rely upon the size and décor of their home to complete their raison d’être.”

“Their what?”

Houses like this were fine for your Greatest Generation.
Why not for this generation? - C.W.

“Forget it,” I said. “Didn’t you say you had something to do?”

“Well, I do have to pick up my maid, oops—they taught me at Women’s Club to call her ‘my friend.’ Sorry.”

“Say goodnight Gracie.”

“Goodnight, Jimbo.”

“Goddamit. Don’t call me that.”