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

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Benefits

Dear Ask The Alien:
My boyfriend says that if I don’t do certain things he wants, I don’t love him. I can’t mention what these things are as this is a family-oriented site, but believe me, it would take some gumption. Excuse me, I’m from the South and if your Galactic Universal Translator won’t tell you what “gumption” means, let me know. Anyway, the fact is: I don’t really love him, but he is rich and popular and has the neatest pickup truck at our high school and takes me fine places and buys me nice things and I wouldn’t want to give all that up. Currently, I'm the envy of my class. So, should I pretend to love him and live the good life, ... in other words, do as he says, be his faithful friend, and keep the benefits?
Signed,
Living In Luxury

Dear Living in Luxury:

Thanks to my pal Big Dope, I know have a better understanding of what “friends with benefits,” means. Oh my. The key word here is “pretend.” And my advice is, don’t do what you suggest. Concentrate on your studies and not on practicing being married. Oh, and by the way, my GUT tells me many things, and I trust it. Please, you trust me. Gumption is good when used properly.
Signed,
The Alien C.W.

Taste

Dear Ask The Alien
My brother is a year younger than I am, but the same size and height. I have caught him several times now trying on my clothes, including my best wig. When I confront him, he makes up weird stories, the last being that he just wanted to gain access to the girl’s locker room at our local gym. He also claims that he wants to familiarize himself with the way women dress in order to perfect his skills at helping them undress—when the time comes. In addition, he steals my glamor magazines and hides them in his room. Yesterday I found him practicing walking in my best pair of heels. He claimed he was simply “developing empathy.”

My question to you is this: should I offer him tips on selecting wardrobes and makeup? He has a tendency to mix plaids and stripes, and his lipstick choices clash with his skin color. Plus, his favorite outfit makes his butt look huge. And don’t get me started on his horrible tastes in jewelry. I hate to intrude on his fantasies, but I don’t want his poor grooming choices to reflect badly on our family. Any suggestions?

Signed,
Helpful Sister

 Dear Helpful Sister:

Perhaps you could subject him to what your species calls “aversion therapy.” Tie him to a chair and make him view pictures of those women they call The Kardashians. Ask him if he wants to end up like that. Then show him photos of rich and famous women. My research shows that poor taste rises in direct proportion to wealth. That should send him to a sartorial school or back to faded jeans and sneakers in short order. Oh, and please send photos, for my, uh, files.
Yours,
The Alien C.W.

Need I say more? - C.W.

See Also: www.wattensawpress.com

241. Merit

“You got some ‘splainin’ to do.”

Oh no. C.W. has become fascinated of late by reruns of “I Love Lucy,” on TV. Unbeknownst to us, he ordered a complete set of the episodes and has been watching them on TV. He even took on the form of “Ricky Ricardo” this morning to ask me some questions about our language.

“Whaz this mean?” he said, plopping into a chair and reading from a notebook. “He was bornded on third base but goes through life tinking he hit a triple.”

“It’s and idiom using baseball terminology.”

“Say what?”

“In baseball, the second best hit a batter can get is called a triple. It allows the batter to make it all the way to third base.”

“Thaz good?”

“Very good.”

“Means the batter has accomplished something good?”

“Yes. The batter has done very well.”

He made notes. “So if someone is ‘bornded on third base’ they just happen to be there?”

“Correct.”

“And they ain’t done nothin’ to make it there?”

“Correct.”

“But they may claim they did?”

“They may indeed.”

Hey started scribbling notes and muttering to himself. I made out, “George W. Bush, Romneys, Kennedys, Waltons,” and a few other names. Then he said something strange, “White males,” and “northern Europe.” It caught my attention.

“Wait” I said. “You may be getting this all wrong.”

“Splain,” he said.

“You’re not accusing white males of the ‘born on third base’ analogy, are you?”

“No,” he said.

“Good,” I said, nodding and sighing in relief.

“Just the ones,” he said, “whose ancestors came here from northern Europe.”

“Now just a dad gummed minute,” I said.

“Qué pasa?”

“You’re not lumping me in with the privileged set are you?”

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t born rich,”

“You were born of the color of milk or fresh snow weren’t you?”

“I was born white, yes.”

“And a male?”

“Yes,”

“Second base already,” He said. “Now, Latin, Mediterránean, African, Asian, Eurasion, …

I interrupted him. “You know darn good and well that I am of northern European descent.

Where you start can sure go a long ways
in determining where you will finish, eh? - C.W.

“Yes, Mrs. Big Dope had your DNA analyzed, didn’t she?

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Third base,” he said. “All the way to third base.”

“You are crazy,” I said. “Muy loco.”

He ignored me. “Let’s move on to another idiom,”he said.

“Let’s,” I said. “That one is silly.”

He flipped a page in his notebook, smiled, and looked up. “If the shoe fits, wear it,” he said. “Whaz at mean?”

 

See also: www.wattensawpress.com

And check out an ad. Big Dope needs new baseball shoes.

Oh, and buy his book. It's not bad.

- C.W.

163. Wealth

Drats. My city has the best riverfront park for a city its size in the country. I love to do my “fat walking” there of a morning. So, imagine my discomfiture when I was suddenly joined by a familiar figure, Rodney Englewood III, the proud member of the Young Conservatives of America, aka C.W. the Alien. Was this to be the ruination of a completely wonderful day?

“Big Dope,” he said. “Been looking for you.” He was breathing heavily and beginning to perspire.

“I’ve been right here. What makes you look so concerned?”

“From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.”

“That sounds vaguely familiar.” I motioned toward his blue blazer with the YCA logo. “Nice clothes.”

“Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return thither,” he said.

“Oh, please,” I said. “Can’t you be more original than that?”

“Be careful,” he said. “Do you have something against the Holy Word?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Just those who would use it for their own selfish purposes. And what brings you here?”

“A Young Conservatives conference. We’re meeting nearby.”

“And your theme?”

“Using churches to advance the conservative agenda,” he said.

“That explains your practicing the scriptures.”

“Nice park,” he said in an attempt to change the subject. “The city should be proud.”

I decided to play along and screw with him a bit. “Well, it was built by the government.” I let this sink in. “I thought you hated the government.”

He took on a stricken look. “We don’t hate the government,” he said.

“Oh really?”

“No, just the parts we don’t like.”

“Oh, I see. And those are?”

“Anything that doesn’t make us, or our parents, richer.”

“But of course.”

We started walking again. “What do you suppose we shall do?” he said. “When we have all the money and all the things money can buy?”

“I dunno. Start taking it away from one another?”

“No,” he said. “We won’t allow that to happen. We’ll have the military to prevent it.”

“One of the parts of the government you do like?”

“Of course.” He continued walking. Then he turned and said, “But won’t the poor be a problem? Who will take care of them?”

“I thought Jesus said we were supposed to.”

“Oh bother,” he said with indignation. “Don’t start with your ‘Social Gospel’ crap. It’s taken us years to wash the stench of that out of the churches.”

“I see,” I said.

“Besides,” he said. Didn’t the ‘great man’ himself admit that the poor would be with us always?”

“I think he did.” I looked over toward him. “So you and your pals are just helping to fulfill prophecy?”



If children would just be more careful about whom they
choose for parents, any one of them might be eligible someday
for the Young Conservatives of America. - C.W.

“Absolutely,” he said. “We must all do our part.”

“So you have the joint goals of producing the poor and keeping them poor?”

He contemplated this. “I never thought of it quite that way,” he said. “But it is a scriptural imperative.”

“Sort of like a ‘moral imperative’ but with your own slant on it?”

“Quite so,” he said.

“That would explain your current war on contraception.”

He narrowed his face in thought. “I suppose you are right.” Then he brightened. “Doing the Lord’s work is fairly simple once you get the hang of it.”

90. Testing

Last evening was a busy one. C.W. recovered from his somber mood of last week but was again agitated by national news. It started with a knock on the door shortly after sunset.

I opened to a snappily dressed man in a silk suit and club tie. Impeccably finished, he looked like an ad for Vogue. The smell of money filled the room as he indicated a sense of urgency. As I seldom wonder about visitors anymore, I ushered him in.

He didn’t bother to shake hands. He simply turned once he entered the room and said, “I’m Rex Tillerson, CEO of Exxon/Mobil and I have a problem.”

I waited.

Seeing no response, he continued. “There is a growing cancer in our country.”

I cocked my head expectantly.

“There is a movement among certain states to require drug testing as a requirement for receiving welfare payments.”

I nodded.

“Can’t you see?”

“See what?”

“How this would affect me.”

“Surely you are not on welfare,” I said.

“Are you kidding?” he said. “Do you have any idea how much we receive in tax subsidies?”

“A lot?”

“You couldn’t begin to imagine.”

”And?”

“If they drug test the corporation, we might lose that assistance,” he swallowed hard. “If our profits drop below 40 billion a year, I’m toast.”

I thought for a moment. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” I said.

“Oh?”

“As I understand it, tax breaks, although a direct giveaway from the government to corporations, are not considered welfare.”

“Really?”

“Your corporation is not a single woman with a dependant child, is it?”

“Hardly.”

“Then you are fine.”

“Oh man, he said, “That is such a relief,” he started to leave but then turned. “Could I use your telephone?”

“C.W.,” I said. “What’s up?”

He avoided eye contact. “Nothing. Can I use the phone?”

I gave in. “Use the one in the bedroom. But tell me what’s going on.”

”Nothing,” he said, heading for the bedroom. Then, as he closed the door, “I just need to call the Koch boys. They’ll be so relieved.”

Immediately there was another knock on the door. I groaned and opened it. Another nattily dressed man faced me.

“I need help,” he said. “Got your name from Big Dope dot com.”

“Let me guess. A corporation?”

“Dave Lesar,” he said. “CEO of Halliburton. We’ve been enjoying cost overruns on our federal contracts for years.”

I comforted him and ushered him in out, only to hear another knock. This time it was a young man dressed in starched and pressed work khakis and a stockman’s hat.

“I’m Johnny Benson,” he announced. “I just took over Benson Farms and I’m worried about our farm subsidies.”

This time it took longer as he was neither well educated, nor very bright. Finally, I was able to relax and work on my daily quota of Proust.

The CEOs provided me with this
archetypal image of a welfare queen.
Not to be confused with an
honest corporation (inset) - C.W.

Then I heard the knocking again. Disgusted, I hurried to the door and opened it only to be dazzled by a bright and overpowering smile attached to a huge mop of hair. This time the smell of money mingled with a hint of sulphur.

“Hello,” it said. “I’m Joel Olsteen.”

46. Teachers

We enjoy an early spring in our state as a recompense for brutal summers and mercurial winters. So I was enjoying one and visiting, in my mind, a place far away in a time equally distant. I was aware that someone had taken the seat next to mine on the park bench where I sat. But I paid no attention until I felt a poke in my side and someone said, “You always did daydream a lot.”

I looked, and was startled to see, looking me over as if I were a newly captured criminal, my fifth-grade teacher, Miss Edith Rupe. Well, of course it was C.W., but the resemblance was so uncanny that I allowed myself to be transported back to 1953. It felt strangely comfortable, but then I am a white male.

“Do you remember me?” she said.

“Oh yes, you were everyone’s favorite.”

“Do you remember where I lived?”

“Yes, in a boarding house on Sixth Street.”

“From where I walked the eight blocks or so to work.”

“You never had a car?”

“Do you think a teacher in those days could afford a car?”

“What a about the bus?”

“I saved bus fare so I could have a parakeet—my only luxury.”

“Yes, I seem to remember when it died. Petey, or something like that was its name.”

“Something like that. It was a lonely time.”

“Did you have a good life?”

“What do you think?” She—it—leaned back on the bench and looked wistfully toward the river. “How good a life do you think an ‘old-maid’ had on a teacher’s pay in the 1950s?”

“Well, you were good at it”

She just looked at me as if I had passed wind or something.

“I mean, several people I know, who you taught …”

“Whom I taught.”

“Whom you taught, have done quite well. I know one, a stockbroker now, who made nearly a million dollars a year before he retired.”

“Yes, that made it all worthwhile.”

I looked to see if I could detect irony. Nothing. Just sadness.

“We all did a good job considering,” she said. “Teachers still do, don’t they?”

“Oh yes, and under very tough circumstances.”

“Then tell me something.” It was C.W. talking now.

“What?”

“Why are your leaders trying to take teachers back to the conditions that existed in the old days? Don’t they respect them at all?”

“Well, some do.”

“What about the others?”

“Well, they seem to think things would be better with private schools, or even better with religious ones.”

“After what some of their leaders have been doing to those young boys?”

“Well, in some cases their thinking may be a little behind …” I stopped and flushed a crimson red.

Not Miss Rupe, but I did get your attention, right? - C.W,

Fortunately for me, Miss Rupe interrupted. “Before you buy into that “private school” thing, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.” I was glad to change the subject.

“Did I ever teach you about a concept called ‘Cherry-picking’”?

I thought. “That is … when …”

“That is when you provide excellent service to those to whom it is profitable to provide excellent service—usually the rich—and let those to whom it is unprofitable to provide service—usually the poor—fend for themselves.”

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.”