CHOICES

 The Alien C.W. had been hiding from me since that incident over the antique sewing machine. I was looking for him.

“Oh wow.”

I heard that from my work area and knew it meant trouble. Surely enough, I walked in and found Arnold Awesome at my computer. Yeah, it was the Alien himself in one of his favorite shapes. He turned and saw me.

“Hey sir,” this is beyond awesome. Come look.” he said, pointing at the screen and seizing the initiative in one swift move.

I looked. “What? And don’t use the word ‘awesome.’ It makes you sound like a sophomore.”

“I am a sophomore,” he said. “But never mind that. See here?” He pointed at the computer screen.

“It’s just the daily news,” I said. I’ll read it later, after you have straightened up your mess in the sewing room.”

“Mrs. Big Dope said for me not to worry about it,” he said. “All is forgiven. Now check this out.”

“What?”

“I’m special.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

“How?”

“I’m a man, least I will be in four more years. This is, like, great.”
“Don’t insert ‘like’ into your sentences. It makes you sound illiterate. Besides, you are an alien.”

“Exactly.”

“Elucidate.” He loves that word.

“Means I have choices now that I didn’t have.”

“What choices?”

“In Falloonia, we have no choice about ‘Shtukwida++kreap,’ don’t you see?”

“With what?”

His Galactic Universal Translator hummed. “What you might call ‘marriage’ in your society.”

“Ahh.” I sipped my coffee.

“So look what I can do here. Your Elders say so.”

“What?”

“What are the main two things in choosing a mate-partner?”

“You tell me.”

“Making sure you like them and making sure you can procreate with them.”

“That’s the way you see it?”

“Yeah, but the order is important for us men.”

I felt my eyes start to roll but controlled them. “How so?”

“Some guys tell me that it seems that you like one until you procreate and then find out that you were wrong. By then it’s too late. You are left with all sorts of responsibility.”

“And?”

“Your Elders say now we can procreate first—a man like you or me can—then decide if we like them.”

“I’m confused. What happens next?”

“If you don’t like them after the unit is born, you just try another choice. What is it you say, ‘No harm, no foul’ or something like that?”

I sighed. “And what happens to the object of your first attempt?”

“Who?”

“The other half of the species required for procreation?”

“What do you mean?”

“The non-male bearing the child from the experience.”

“Oh,” he said. “They aren’t among the chosen.” He closed the computer. “Look,” he said, “I have to run. I wasn’t being exactly truthful about Mrs. Big Dope forgiving me. I’m lighting out for the next territory over with some buddies.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, we’re trying out for parts in a movie they are filming there.”

“A movie, you say?”

“Yeah, it’s one of those ‘coming of age comedies’ about a boy like me spending his summer vacation seducing his girlfriend to win a bet with his pals.”

 

 

387. Lines

“How do I look?”

What could I say? C.W. looked like weird, even for him. Remember those male models they used to put in the old Sears catalogs? I’m talking about the men advertising work wear, guys who looked like lawyers wearing work shirts, work pants, and steel-toed boots. Only he had this orange tint on a face topped off with a red baseball cap that said, “Make Everyone Reject Democrats,” under the large letters spelling out “MERD.”

“You look … uh, … swell.”

“I thought so. Are you ready to go?’

“I’m not sure I can. I have a lot to do around here.”

“Nonsense. You’ve got to be my modified forelimb that bears large feathers man.”

“I’m not sure I want to be your ‘wing man’ in that getup.”

“Nonsense. We’re going to score on some chickee babies, grab ‘em you know where.”

“I’m not sure my wife would allow that. Besides, I’m behind on my chores.”

“Nonsense. We’re going to wow the babes. I guarantee it.” He paused. “Oh, and speaking of Mrs. Big Dope, is she going with us?”

“Hardly. Don’t you remember? She said she would never be seen in public with you again after last time.”

“Nonsense. That wasn’t my fault. How was I to know that woman was a TV evangelist?”

“The forty pounds of jewelry and five layers of makeup, along with hair standing up a foot high might have given you clues.”

“I though she may have been a politician, state senator or something.”

“Your pickup line didn’t help.”

“I forget what it was.”

“Pardon me miss, didn’t I meet you at the meeting of the Existentialism Club last night?”

“Oh, yeah. Didn’t work too well, did it?”

“It got worse after you did realize what she did for a living.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Would you get on your knees for Jesus?”

“No. Really?”

“And go with him, with him, all the way?”

“I was just trying to speak in her vernacular. I don’t know why she got mad.”

“That’s the trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“She didn’t get mad. Don’t you recall?”

“She’s not the one who …?”

“Yeah. She’s the one.”

“She had a nice house.”

“It took us forever to find you.”

“It had over forty rooms.”

“Do you want to go back?”

He blanched and shook his head. “No,” was all he said.

“Now you know why I don’t want to go with you.”

“Nonsense. Bar springing lightly is fun.”

“Bar ‘hopping’ is far from fun with you, and besides, that wasn’t your worst pickup line.”

“Oh? I had others you didn’t like?”

“Let’s cut out the small talk and start some serious bargaining. I bid one kiss on the ear.”

“I used that one?”

“I like sex infrequently. Care to find out if that’s one word or two?”

“No, really?”

“A quiver-full begins with a quiver. Want to help string my bow?”

“I’m not believing I said that.”

“Oh, it gets worse.”

“Nonsense.”

“Remember the one about the difference between walking up and sticking it in, and sticking it in and walking up?”

“I don’t remember that. Besides. I’ve learn about salvation through sincere contrition and penitence.”

“Redemption? From whom?”

Please. Don't ask. - C.W.

“Big hair.”

“She taught you about redemption?”

“Oh, she taught me many things that have made me a better person, or imitation person, or whatever.”

“I still don’t want to go with you.”

“I’ve learned my lesson. Trust me. I’ve gone straight.” He stopped, thought, and grabbed a pad and pencil from his pocket. He began to write and nod, saying “How would you like to get something straight between us?”

A scene from a famous movie flashed before my eyes. Click here and you will understand.

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

260. Leading Women To Bed

If there is one thing C.W. is determined to do during his stay with us on the planet, it is to write a best-selling “how-to” book. Past attempts have been strange and unsuccessful, but his most current scheme topped them all.

I found him furiously pecking at my laptop this morning, looking exactly like a young Phillip Roth, and muttering aloud.

“That’ll get her,” he was saying, “she's as good as in the sack.”

“What on earth?” The scene shocked me.

“Later,” he said, “I’m onto something having a high degree of heat or a high temperature.”

“You may be onto something hot,” I said, “but you’re doing it on my computer. Remember when you left stuff on my hard drive and my wife saw it? And your Galactic Universal Translator is malfunctioning again.”

“My GUT is leading me to success,” he said, “and Mrs. Big Dope will love this.”

“This what?”

“This mega-seller written just for men.”

“Oh really? And what mega-seller might that be?”

He looked up. “How To Get Any Woman Into Bed.” He raised his eyebrows and smirked. “Got the title off the internet. Want to hear some of it?”

“C.W.,” I said, “you have had some crazy ideas before but this takes the cake.” Then I stopped and thought. “Hear some of it?” I thought again. “Maybe just a line or two.”

He scrolled back a ways. “Here’s Number One,” he said. “Mark the way to the bedroom very carefully with directional signs.”

“Say what?”

“Women need to be led,” he said, "carefully led."

I was stunned. “And where did you get that idea?”

He reached into his pile of research material and pulled out a worn Bible. “Here,” he said, holding it up. “You got a problem with that?”

“Go on,” I said.

“Number Two,” he said in senatorial voice, “post a set of rules for use of the bed in a conspicuous place near the bed itself.”

“What on earth?”

“Women need the guidance of men,” he said. “Don’t you read the newspaper accounts of your legislators?”

“Are you crazy?”

“Number Three,” he said, ignoring me, “have the bed decorated in bright colors.”

This time I couldn’t speak. I sank into chair, dumbfounded.

“Bright colors attract the female of the species,” he said, flourishing a book on zoology.

I waited.

He turned back to the computer. “Number Four,” he said, “place large, over-sized toys on the bed.” He turned and smiled. “Women are attracted to big th…”

“Stop it,” I said. “What can you possibly be trying to do?”

“Get women into bed,” he said.

“Into bed? And why, exactly?”

“So they will get out of the way and leave us alone.”

“Us?”

“We men.”

“Why would we want them out of the way?”

“So we could do things,” he said, exasperated.

“What things?”

He thought for a moment. “The sort of things you and I do after Mrs. Big Dope goes to bed.”

“I think,” I said, “speaking of her, maybe you should preview your idea to her.” I thought about it for a second or two and nodded. “I think a woman’s perspective might be helpful, and I think I hear her in the kitchen.”

“Great idea,” he said. “She’ll give me a few more pointers, too.” He grabbed the laptop and a few books and sailed off.

What can I add? In a few moments time, he came running back into the room followed by books sailing toward him. He reached safety, placed the computer on a table, and turned to me. “I’ve got a new idea,” he said.

The relative weakness of women is a long-standing
tenet of your culture for some reason or other. - C.W.

“She didn’t like the old one?”

“It’s not that,” he said quickly. “It just doesn’t take her long to review my work and offer editorial comments.”

“Oh?”

“And a new title,” he said.

“What might that be?”

He looked to make sure we were alone. “Fifty Ways of Longer Life for Men.”

 Please click some ads. My new book isn't selling well.

Oh, and see www.wattensawpress.com

And ... www.allhatnocattle.com

Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

Available at major on-line retailers, or
www.wattensawpress.com

180. Alternatives

As funny as it may sound, I find myself worrying about C.W. from time to time, like yesterday. I was minding my own business reading a magazine when a lone figure walks in, plops down on the couch, and folds his hands in his lap. It is a man of indeterminate age, casually dressed in a flannel shirt, rumpled khaki pants, and running shoes. His eyes formed two lifeless orbs that seem to watch something far away, something that he really wasn’t quite certain existed.

“Don’t make sense to me,” he said, without looking at me.

I said, “C.W.?”

He said, “I just don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“Why you people can’t see the truth.”

“What truth?”

“You know,” he said, turning toward me with no expression. “what they teach us on TV.”

I said, “Have you been watching Fox News again?”

“Haven’t you?”

“Uh, no,” I said.

“How do you keep up with current problems? For example, why is your species so concerned about the color of a person’s skin?”

I said, “Did they actually ask that on Fox News?”

“It is a choice,” he said. “A simple choice.”

“A what?”

“It is a lifestyle choice,” he said. “If a person chooses to have black skin, they shouldn’t be upset when they learn that Santa Claus is white.”

There are times when, as the young boy said when he fell into the molasses barrel, my tongue is not equal to the task. I simply stared as he continued.

“Some people want us to change our ways to fit them that choose other paths. It just ain’t right.”

“Us? Who is ‘us’”?

“You know,” he said, “the decent folks. Job creators, true believers, them that holds to traditional family values—the ones that want to save America from the dark forces. I’m talking about the ones that make the right choices in life.”

“White people?”

“That's always a good choice.”

“Males?”

“That helps. We do have some folks that choose to be wise women. Take Sarah Palin for example.” For the first time his face took on some expression. He smiled, winked, and made a clicking sound. “What a gal.”

If a person doesn't exist, does the color
of their skin really matter? - C.W.

I ignored him and continued. “Born right here in America?”

“Where else would you choose to be born?” He turned slowly and stared away again. Then he turned back and looked at me. “Say,” he said, “you ain’t one of them that believes in accepting makers of bad choices.”

“Oh no,” I said, playing along.

He seemed to brighten. “Good, he said, “come on, the Sean Hannity Show is about to start.” He stood, made a slow right face, and began to shuffle toward the door, still staring ahead blankly.

148. Rights and Powers

C.W. set my wife off again the other night by coming to the supper table dressed in a sport coat and tie. He calls it his “Mr. Cleaver look.”

“Please tell him to leave and come back when we’re finished,” she said. He smiled and grabbed an ear of corn with one hand. The other held a pocket version of the U.S. Constitution which he studied with interest.

“Tell him yourself, why don’t you?”

She slammed a glass of water onto the table in front of me by way of explanation. Part of it splashed onto my shirt. “He’s your alien,” she said. “Besides, I’m still not over the fact that he’s been using my sewing machine.”

I stopped a plate that she had slid toward me before it landed my lap. “Is this true?” I asked him.

Ignoring me, he waved the Constitution. “This part that says ‘… the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.’ Does that mean what it says?”

My wife glared at me. “Can we not bring up the matter of bearing arms right now?” I said. “But yes, I’m afraid it does.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Weird.” Then he began making machine gun-like noises as he nibbled down the length of his ear of corn.

“That does it,” my wife said. “You two have fun. I’ll be in the living room.” With that, she gathered her plate, utensils, and water glass, then left us at the table alone.

“You sure made her mad,” he said. He shook the document again. “This doesn’t seem to have been written with her in mind.”

“No,” I said. “No it wasn’t.”

“Weird,” he said. “So, these rights are absolute for us menfolk?”

“Actually for all of us now.”

“Hmm,” he said. “What about this ‘…making no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof ..’ part.”

“What about it?”

“That’s pretty much of a joke, right?”

“Don’t call our Constitution a joke,” I said.

He reached into a coat pocket and retrieved a dollar bill. Slamming it onto the table, he pointed at the slogan, “In God We Trust.” When I didn’t respond, he put it back into his pocket. “And what about this Article Six thing?” he said.

“What Article Six thing?”

“The ‘thing’ where it says, ‘…no religious test shall ever be required as a qualification to any office or public trust under the United States.’”

“So?”

“So, have you ever watched one of your celebrated political debates?”

“On occasion.”

“And the first question usually asked is?”

“Sometimes they ask about the candidates’ religion,” I said. “But debates have no official standing.”

“Boy,” he said. “Mrs. Big Dope is right about you.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” he said. “Now let’s look at this section that sets up the Judicial Branch.”

“Article Three,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “Article Three ... the shortest of those dealing with the various branches of government.” He turned the pages until he found the article. He studied it carefully with a periodic “Hmm.”

Actually, your Constitution is not a  bad piece
of work for a  bunch of aged white men. - C.W.

I ate in silence until he placed the document gently on the table.

“I can’t find the part where the court elects the President.”

“It has only done that once,” I said. “And I think most everyone regrets it. We have much more respect for the separation of powers as a result of that caper.”

“I see,” he said. “Speaking of ‘separation of powers,’ could you please have your wife bring us some more water?”

142. Taxes

C.W. heard me groaning in the next room and walked into the room in the appearance, of all things, a priest. “May I be of help to you my son?” he said.

My mind was far away, not as far as Falloonia, but far away.

“I’m okay,” I said. “Just working on my taxes.”

“Ah taxes,” he said. He sat in a chair near where I was working and folded his hands. “Rendering unto Caesar?”

“You might say.”

“I think taxes are a great way to offer praise,” he said. “So does my church.”

Now I have to admit that he had caught me in a bad mood. “That’s because your church doesn’t have to pay them,” I said.

He crossed himself. “You are forgiven.”

Ignoring him, I went back to my computer.

“So,” he said. “As I understand it, your species uses its system of taxes to help the poor in spirit and, as we say, ‘the least of those among us?’ That’s a blessed approach.”

“Used to be,” I said. “Some of us think it is old-fashioned.”

“Oh? Please explain.”

“Some modern thinkers believe that the poor will be with us always, so we should direct our public resources to helping those who are more, not less, fortunate.”

He thought for a moment. “If you don’t mind my lapsing into the vernacular,” he said. “That doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense.”

“Welcome to the modern tax code,” I said. “Aaaargh!” I continued as a figure flashed on my computer screen.

“Peace, my son,” he said. “Think happy thoughts.”

I glared at him. “Don’t tempt me,” I said.

He took on a beatific smile and formed his fingers into the shape of a steeple. “One has to admit …,” he said. He thought for a few seconds and began again. “One has to admit that it is wise of your species to prevent the government from acting unwisely by simply not approving taxes for untoward behavior, say, for casting pearls before swine or starting unnecessary wars.”

I looked up to see if he was serious. “Are you crazy? You think that stops war?”

“How could a country wage war on credit?”

“Wait one,” I said. I punched a few keys and found a “favorite” on the computer. I started it running and turned the screen toward him. It was a scene from a documentary showing the bombs beginning to fall on Baghdad on day one of the “Shock and Awe War.” As explosions rocked a public square, a father ran across the screen holding a young son. A broad stain showed that the lad had soiled himself from fear. “Ask these folks,” I said.

“I see I have angered you,” he said.

“Up yours,” I said.

“I shall leave you to deal with your anger, my son.”

“Pray do.”

“You have inspired me.”

I looked up. “Inspired you?”

“Yes, I’m going to write your congressman and suggest some changes to the tax code.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, remembering the church’s admonition to comfort those who hunger, I shall suggest that the drug Viagra be tax deductible.”

“That will make some folks happy,” I said.

“Oh, but remembering our charge to be fruitful and multiply, I have another suggestion.”

Your wars would not be as popular
if they didn't show so well
on the nightly news. - C.W.

“Let me guess.”

“Pray do.”

“Contraceptives won’t be.”

“In nomine patre,” he said, extending a hand in benediction.

86. Songs

What a mess. We were spending the weekend at the farm and, as usual, I awoke early and stumbled in to make coffee. As I switched on the kitchen light, I realized that there was already half a pot of coffee made. I heard sounds from the living room and made my way there. You won’t believe what I saw.

There, amidst a pile of papers, coffee stains, and cats, sat—get ready—what appeared to be Woody Guthrie with my secondbest guitar in hand and seated at my wife’s piano. He looked at me and smiled.

Of course, it was C.W., not Woody Guthrie, and before I could say anything, he waved me in. “Glad to see you, Big Dope. Come on in and sit.”

I tried to collect my thoughts.

“Come on. It’s all right.”

“C.W., what the …”

“I’m writing music,” he interrupted. “Watched one of them talent shows on TV the other night and figured anybody could do it, and guess what?”

I stared.

“I’m good at it,” he said, picking up my guitar and sounding a chord.

“When did you learn to play guitar?”

“I just know a few chords,” he said. “That’s all you need.” He leaned the guitar against the wall and made a run on the piano. “Did you know that Irving Berlin could only play piano in the key of F Sharp?”

“You’re going to die,” I said. “Nobody touches the wife’s piano but her.”

“We’re all gonna die,” he said. Then he struck a pose. “Excuse me,” he picked up the guitar.

“We’re all a’ gonna die,

It’ll happen by and by.”

He grabbed a sheet of paper, fished a pencil from the coffee table and started to scribble, ignoring me completely.

“C.W.”

“Woody, please,” not looking up.

“What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. The Falloonian Elders like a little showmanship with their reports, so I’m writing some songs for them.”

He stopped writing and looked up at me. He had a thought and then rustled around in the pile and came up with a crumpled sheet of paper. “I’m writing one about you. Wanna hear it?”

“No.”

“It’s called ‘Eternally Confused.””

At that point, a cat jumped onto the piano seat beside him and began to nuzzle his arm.

“Oh, and the cats and I are writing the first musical ever about cats. Won’t that be somethin’?”

“I think that’s been done,” I said.

“Not the way we’re doing it.” He stroked the cat and she purred, looking at him with adoring eyes. “The cats are militant and take over the world.”

“Take over the world?”

“Yes, the theme song is “A New Moon Over Felinia.”

The cat purred again.

“I write topical songs, too,” he said. “Want to hear my latest?”

“No.”

He fumbled through the stack. “Here it is. It is called ‘Your Womb Belongs to Daddy.’”

I was trying to absorb it all when he broke into song.

“You can speak of all your choices,


And the power of your voices.


But your womb,


Your womb,

We'd love us some Woody
- Sarah and Hillary

Your womb belongs to …”

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

“Well then, leave us alone,” he said. “We’ve got work to do.” Another cat joined him and they looked at me with true menace in their eyes.

I waddled back toward the bedroom