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?”

 

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

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

- C.W.

Problems

Dear Friends and followers:

I’ve been working on a report to the Falloonian Elders on the difficulty your species in this country has with identifying problems. I mean, you have a major problem with addiction but you seem to think the problem is the addiction element. You have a problem with crime and you think the problem is the number of incarceration facilities. You have a problem with ignorance and you think the problem is the lack of skill in taking tests.

I just don’t know.

I finally figured out how to describe it. My counterpart in Spain once described a bullfight to the Elders.

They were disbelieving at first and then aghast.

Anyway, since they were familiar with this barbaric practice, I used it to illustrate my report.

See:

This bull comes into the ring and, correctly perceives that he has a problem.

He thinks the problem is that red cape they keep waving at him.

So, he applies the correct solution to the problem as he sees it.

But, the first real problem is the man on the horse with the long spear in his hand.




Strategic Analysis Gone Bad - C.W.


 

Still, he remains stubbornly convinced, (See DEA) that the problem is the cape and he applies his solution again.

This time the problem is the man with the barbed sticks. The bull is getting tired now.

Still, he remains convinced that the problem is the cape. Again, with one last burst of energy, he applies what has become an obsessive solution.

And … after the final charge at the red cape, he discovers, to his everlasting regret, that his greatest problem all along was the little man behind it with a sword in his hand.

 

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The Blame Game

Dear friends and Followers:

Has anyone but me noticed the new conservative way of explaining things? For example

- A racist rant by a college fraternity is blamed on Hip Hop.

- An Arkansas legislator who gave his adopted daughter to a sex offender without telling anyone blames the state agency in charge of adoptions.

- A group of U.S. senators, 47 in all, commit an act of treason and, get this, they don’t say the “Devil” made them do it. No it was President Obama.

I suspect this is a new approach fed to these folks in their daily briefing memos. If it works then is this the way Tea Party conservatives would work history?

- Charles Manson could blame Sharon Tate for getting pregnant before he decided she needed to die.

- Lee Harvey Oswald could blame President Kennedy for getting in his way when Oswald was carrying a rifle and having a bad hair day.

- Timothy McVeigh could blame the feds for building a building beside his van full of explosives.

- Ted Bundy could have blamed the press for offering him fame.

- Charles Whitman could blame the University of Texas for building that tower.

- Adolph Hitler could blame the Jews. Oh wait. He did. Never mind. Say … you don’t suppose that is where they got the idea, do you?

- Your Forever Pal,

C.W.

 

240. War and Peace

Talk about being in a bad mood. C.W. hates Daylight Savings Time. I think they programmed his functions in Falloonia without taking our twice-a-year changes into account. It really sets him off course for a few days.

Come to think about it … it does the same for everyone. Oh well.

Anyway, here he comes, in critical mode. For this no form will suit him but Lucky and Lefty, the conjoined twins. Here they came and I began mentally to batten down the hatches. I could hear them arguing fifty yards away. We suffered a late winter storm and I was enjoying the first time it had been warm enough to sit outside and watch the snow melt.

“Asshole,” I heard.

“Douchebag,”

“I told you we needed overcoats.”

“Pussy.”

It continued this way until they stood in front of me. I nodded and braced for the worst. “What’s up boys?”

“I think snow is beautiful,” Lucky said.

“It hurts my feet,” Lefty said.

I tried to bring peace. “Don’t you fellows agree on anything?”

“I try to,” Lucky said.

“Why should we?” Lefty said. “Do you think just because we were born attached that I have to listen to this prick?”

“You could try,” Lucky said.

“Bite me,” Lefty said.

I said nothing.

“I’m going to slug this moron if you don’t make him shut up,” Lucky said. “I’ve had about all I can take.”

“You try, you numbskull,” Lefty said. “Remember what happened last time.”

I couldn’t stay neutral any longer. “Fellas, fellas,” I said. “What has happened to put you in such a state?”

“Might as well tell him,” Lucky said.

“Go ahead,” Lefty said. “You do it.”

“Screw you,” Lucky said. He actually phrased it a bit more directly but you get the picture.

“Cut it out,” I said. “Go ahead, Lucky.”

“Some Xenaprichians landed not far from here yesterday for a reconnaissance mission.”

“Really?” I said. “They landed on our farm?”

“They do it all the time” Lefty said. “They stay around awhile, making extra money doing things they call energetic meetings intended to revive religious faith.”

I was confused.

“He means ‘revivals,’ and they are good at it.,” Lucky said. “I enjoy hearing them preach on love and the joy that grace brings. It is very soothing to one’s spiritual well-being.” He turned to Lucky, “I told you to get that goddam translator fixed.”

“Jump up my ass,” Lefty said.

“Stop it guys,” I said. “So why are you so upset?”

“We hate Xenaprichians,” Lefty said.

“I don’t,” Lucky said. “I want to visit with them more to discuss the way our planets can live in harmony.”

“I want to blow their goddam spacecraft up with their sorry asses in it,” Lefty said.

“Asshole.”

“Crap for brains.”

“Now look,” I said. “It doesn’t seem wise to do harm to them. They may then want to damage to you in return. The rest of us may suffer in the process.”

“My feelings exactly,” Lucky said.

“Chickenshit peace-weenies,” Lefty said.

“Now let’s calm down and discuss this rationally,” I said. “We don’t want to start an interplanetary war on our farm.

“There you go again,” Lefty said. “You’ll never learn.”

“Why don’t we give freedom from disturbance; quiet and tranquility a chance?” Lucky said, turning to Lefty.

It seems to me that your species should try to find
a philosophy that teaches peace instead of war. - C.W.

'“Put your ‘peace’ where the sun don’t shine,” Lefty said. “Anyway, I’ve already talked to Mrs. Big Dope and she has agreed for us to wipe them out. That’s where we were headed now—to talk to her about the details.”

“Wait just a minute,” I said. “My wife won’t make such a decision without consulting me.”

“Poor deluded child,” Lucky said.

“Dumbass,” Lefty said.

They both laughed, spun three circles to the left then three circles to the right, settled on a course, and headed toward the house.

Hey ... click an ad. Big Dope is taking us to a revival, he says.
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239. Intimacies

Saturday is usually “explanation day” as C.W. calls it. He persisted for some time in calling it “making something clear” day until we adjusted his translator. Anyway, it’s the day when he forgets his get-rich schemes and practical jokes and quizzes me about specific aspects of our species. His appearance and behavior at such times would be best described as a mix between Mr. Rogers and Glenn Beck.

Anyway, you should have been there the day he tried to penetrate the puzzle of how the simple act of procreation, apparently somewhat of a drudgery on his planet, had become such a pervasive theme on ours.

“Let’s see,” said. “Am I to understand that it all starts with fore-activity engaged in for enjoyment and recreation?”

“Uh,” I said, “We actually call it ‘foreplay’ and that, according to some females of our species, is considered optional by some male members of our species.”

This set his electrodes to sparking and he wrote in his notebook for a long time. Then he looked up with a combination of curiosity and disgust. “Frequency?”

“Frequency?”

“Frequency.”

I turned suspicious. “What about it?”

“Why would not once a year be the absolute maximum frequency?”

“Are you serious?” I said.

“I am always serious when probing about things,” he said. “Wouldn’t once a year maintain the population of your species?”

“Not in a very happy state, I’m afraid.”

He wrote in his notebook and then looked up at me. “Explain,” he said.

I turned serious. “I think frequency has to do with statistical probability,” I said.

“Like the law of larger things?”

“Large numbers,” I said. “It’s the Law of Large Numbers.”

“Your species seems to be intrigued by large things in many facets of its daily life,” he said.

“Could we talk about something else?” I began.

“Guns, for example.”

“Anything else. Please.”

“Automobiles.”

“Anything at all.”

“Houses.’

“I have to go now,” I said.

“Wait,” he said. “It is my understanding that too much attraction to what you refer to as sex is thought to cause problems.”

“Yes,” I said. “They say it can become addictive to the point of an obsession.”

“So that a member of your species even wants to sit around and watch …”

“C.W.” I said, “surely there is some other aspect of our species that we could discuss.”

He sighed and stopped writing. He flipped through his notebook, found a page and read. “Okay,” he said. “Religion.”

“Oh no,” I said.

He ignored me and read. “It says here that some religions develop extremely stringent and bizarre doctrines about sex.”

“So I understand,” I said, my antennae going on full alert.

“It says also that some of these attract followers that seem to be forever wanting to kill someone.”

“Where,” I said, “did you find that?”

“From notes left over from my predecessor.”

“Oh my,” I said. “You had a predecessor?”

“We don’t talk about it much,” he said. “He turned to acting and wasn’t doing his job of investigating.”

“Is he still here?”

He ignored me, made a note, and looked up. “So about sex,” he said. “Am I to understand that too much can be dangerous and too little can be dangerous as well.”

“Seems to be the case,” I said, turning it over in my mind.

“So how much is considered optimal?”

We were suddenly interrupted by a female voice from the next room. “You are actually asking a man that question? Why don’t you ask how often the wind blows?”

I rose quickly and closed the door. “C.W.,” I said, “can we talk about something else?”



So you had really rather do this than read a book?
Think of the sand, the salt water, and grit.
The horror. The horror.  - Your confused alien friend, C.W.

He placed his pencil on his pad, ready to write. “Is this making you feel uncomfortable?”

“Something else,” I said. “Anything else.”

He looked disappointed, but turned to a blank page and said. “Okay. Guns.”

“Guns?”

“Yes guns,” he said. “What sizes do you own?”



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