195. Ratings

It turns out that C.W. didn’t fare well with his plan to get rich staging contests. Actually, he was quite despondent about it.

“There is already a contest for about everything,” he said. “The field of staging contests is thoroughly soaked.”

“I thought you might find it saturated,” I said.

“Besides,” he said. “The Falloonian Elders refused to approve it.”

“They have to approve your business ventures?”

“Quite so.”

“What happened?”

“They said I was deranged, demented, and not my right mind.”

“They thought you were crazy?”

“That’s what I just said.”

I ignored him. “What was the basis this time?”

“They accused me of making things up.”

“Why?”

“They ruled that no species in the Universe would ever stage a contest to see who could eat the most hot dogs. They said I must have been imagining it.”

That made me think. I actually felt sorry for him. His current form created the “spitting image” of that TV personality Jerry Springer. He shook his head in sadness, but then snapped to attention and smiled.

“I have a new idea,” he said. “A real winner this time.”

“And that is?”

“Lists.”

“Lists?”

“Creating lists. Americans are wild about lists.” He thought for a moment. “I think it has something to do with your national obsession with being first at something.”

I nodded.

He added, “Except greed, of course.”

Ignoring this, I pressed him. “So what kind of lists will you prepare?”

“Oh,” he said. He reached into a pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper. “Here is one your species is particularly obsessed with.” He read, “The best city in America.”

I groaned.

“No, really,” he said, preparing to read.

“Wait,” I said. “This topic has been beaten to death. Each list names a different city.”

“Exactly,” he said. ”That is because of the rating criteria.” He smiled wistfully. “Control them and you control the world of list-making.”

I was curious so I let him continue.

“Whatever Chamber of Commerce wants its city first, I can do it.” He studied his sheet. “Here is one. Want to hear the rating criteria?”

“Very much so.”

“Okay,” he said. “The city must have at least an African-American population equal to the national percentage or it lacks inclusiveness or, worse, could be classified as a moment when the trailing edge of the Sun's disk disappears below the horizon city.”

“A ‘sundown city’ in other words.”

“Why are you always repeating me?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Go ahead. This is interesting.”

“Okay,’ he said, “the city must be at least 500 miles from the ocean.”

“Why is that?”

“So it won’t be underwater in a hundred years or so.”

“Okay. Keep going.”

“Must be located near a fresh water supply so it will be one of the last remaining places to live when your planet runs dry.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“Must have been around at least 200 years to prove durability.”

“Maybe,” I said.

This time he ignored me. “So, there are other criteria, catchy nickname, neat skyline, and so forth. But do you want to hear the winner, the best city in America?”
 

“By all means.”

He waved the list in my face. “Why Detroit, Michigan, ‘Motor City’ of course.”

As I pondered this, he pulled out another sheet. “Want to hear the one I did for Flint Michigan?”




A city without a skyline is a city without a soul. Don't you agree? - C.W.

Also check out www.wattensawpress.com
 





Spring

Dear Friends and Followers:

It seems that spring may have arrived in my assigned location, so Big Dope and I will be outdoors doing what he calls "manly-man" things today. Later I am going to work on a new career. I think he may report on it tomorrow. I expect great accomplishment of an aim or purpose. (Editor's note: He means "success").

In the meantime, check out a sappy entry on his blog about how he met his wife. You earthlings always lightly touch or prod me in a way that causes itching and often laughter. (Editor's note: He means "tickle me").

194. Salvation

C.W. was bubbling over with enthusiasm. He showed up as I was enjoying a late evening martini and he was in a state of undisguised enthusiasm. He had taken on the form of one of those TV evangelists that preach the so-called “Prosperity Gospel,” I can’t think of his name right now but it’s the one from Houston with all the teeth.

“Where have you been?” I said.

“Walking to and fro upon the earth,” he said, flashing a smile.

I returned to my martini.

“Do you really want to know?”

Before I could answer, he kept talking. “I have some great news for you.”

I set the glass on a table and said, “And that is?”

“I’ve been busy all day.”

I waited.

“Don’t you want to know what I’ve been doing?”

“I’m all ears.”

He looked puzzled. “Tell me,” I said.

He gave me a syrupy smile, one of those he knows I detest when he appears in this form. “I spent the day in an Intergalactic Conference Call.”

“A what?”

“I was in communication with the Falloonian Elders and the other leaders of the Terspellian Ten.”

“And?"                                                                                                                                       

“I was summoned,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Want to know why?”

“Sure.”

“They had put your planet on the ‘re-spermiation List’ again.”

I said. “What the hell is re-spermiation?”

His smile dropped. “You don’t want to know,” he said darkly. Then the smile was back. “But I saved you again.”

I was beginning to understand. “What did we do this time?”

“Stidombassistica.”

“What the hell is that?”

He retreated into thought. I could almost hear his Galactic Universal Translator hum. “In your vernacular? I would say it means, roughly, ‘too stupid to live.’”

I groaned. “What did we do this time? Have they been monitoring Fox News again?”

“No,” he said. “Oddly enough it was your CNN this time.”

“And what happened?”

“An airliner disappeared, as you may have heard.”

“I did,” I said. “Nobody has discovered yet what happened or where it is.”

“That’s just it,” he said with a broad smile. “Aren’t you glad that I’m here to be your friend?”

“What did CNN do?”

“Now,” he said. “we understand that it is presented as a legitimate news outlet, not a parody like the other one you mentioned.”

“The network claims to be a legitimate news source,” I said in agreement.

“Then you can imagine the agitation among the Terspellian Ten.”

“Over what?”

“Over a spot in which one of their news analysts interviewed someone claiming to have psychic powers that could locate the missing airliner.”

“They interviewed a psychic on the air to determine the fate of the missing airliner?”

“In exact terms; without vagueness.”

Then maybe we precisely deserve re-spermiation, or whatever you call it.”

“Oh,” he said, flashing that ridiculous smile. “Don’t worry. I saved you.”

“How?” I was skeptical.

“I presented convincing proof that life on your planet has only a few more years before it will self-adjust.”

A day spent saving the world is a
happy one for all. - C.W.

“Self-adjust?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“So you bought us time?”

“It’s a wonderful day when we provide joy to others,” he said.

“Well,” I said. “I guess we should thank you for all your hard work.”

“Oh,” he said “I didn’t do anything. The work was already done.”

“By whom.”

“Someone named Al Gore.”

Voting

Dear Friends and Followers:

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Your Friend

C.W.

 

Also check out www.wattensawpress.com

 

Oops

Dear Friends and Followers

While Big Dope wasn't looking, I was fooling around with the layout of our webpage. Now I can't change it back. If you happen to like it, let me know by commenting and maybe he will shut the place where the wicked are punished after death up. (Editor's note: he means "hell").

Your friend C.W.
Oh, and hit one of the ads. That will make him some money and perhaps he will lighten up.