248. Insults

“What your country needs, it seems to me …”

“Yes?” I was all ears. After all, I was listening to a 16-year old whiz kid about to tell me what my country needed. Actually it was C.W. the Alien taking on the form of a whiz kid, a young African-American youth with thick glasses and a pocket full of pencils. Back in the day, he would have sported a pencil protector, but this was modern youth, no frills.

“What you need is a good source of insults.”

“A what?”

“Insults.”

“Insults?”

“Quite so,” he said, nodding his head like an Oxford Dean.

“I don’t understand.” And I didn’t. He was busy pecking away at my laptop and I was lounging on the couch in our high-rise condo. Off to the west, our city’s skyline darkened in the evening gloom.

“Seems to me to be a real opportunity for a young man filled with a strong desire to do or to achieve something, typically requiring determination and hard work.”

“Ambition?”

“Why do you repeat what I say?”

“Your Galactic Universal Translator confuses me at times.”

“Leave my GUT out of this. I need to work.”

I sighed. “At creating insults?”

“Your people love them.”

“Where did you get that idea?”

“Watching television.”

“Oh,” I said. “I can see how you might. That fake news channel again?”

“In exact terms; without vagueness.”

“Well what, precisely, will you call your enterprise?"

“I think ‘The Bitch Slap Store’ or something like that.”

“Uh,” I said. “Maybe you ought to give it some more thought. But anyway, you’re going to create insults for sale?”

“I’ve already created some. I’ll let you hear a few, but you may not understand them. After all, you’re so dumb that Sarah Palin wouldn’t even pick you for a running mate.”

I stared, as you might expect, in complete disbelief.

“You should see yourself,” he said, “You’re so ugly I can’t look at you for fear of déjà vu.”

Shaking my head, I said nothing.

“You got a look on your face like a monkey in church needin’ to pee real bad,” He said.

That made me turn and look at him.

“Did you get your brains on sale at Walmart?” he said.

It was impossible for me to say anything. I just stared more.

“If you ask me,” he said, “stupid, lazy, and confused is your default mode and you ain’t got no reboot key.”

It was then that I tried to speak, but no words came out.

“You’re so sorry,” he said, “that someone would have to pay Joel Osteen to take your money.”

“Now wait a minute.” I finally found my voice.

“Besides,” he said, “if an idea ever came near your head, it would take one look and fly on to the next galaxy.”

That was it. “Look, C.W.,” I said, “you know about as much about our culture a pig knows about the rhumba.”

He was about to speak, but stopped. Pain covered his face like curtain had been drawn over it. “Why do you want to hurt my feelings?” he said.

“Are you serious?”

This is how Big Dope looked the moment that
he learned where babies came from. - C.W.

He looked down. “I have a sensitive nature, you know. I need love and you give me grief.” He actually sobbed slightly.

“Look, C.W.,” I said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Well you did.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He looked up and said, “I know.” Then he laughed and said, “You’re also as gullible as a teenage girl choosing a boyfriend.”

 

 

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C.W.

Collateral Damage

Dear Friends and Followers:

Today marks the 50^th anniversary of the end of what you call the “Vietnam War.” I have studied this event in your history and have tried my best to explain it to the Falloonian Elders.

I failed.

One of the best quotes I came across explaining your country's involvement, although it doesn’t explain it fully, was from a book called Tree of Smoke by a man named Denis Johnson:

“The Americans won't win. They're not fighting for their homeland. They just want to be good. In order to be good, they just have to fight awhile and then leave.”

Another, longer quote, is an excerpt from a short story by our own Jimmie, and today, in honor of the anniversary, I won’t call him Big Dope. This is scene based on his experience in which a young American sailor, on his first day “in-country” is sent to help escort a Vietnamese woman and her baby to medical facilities on an American base at Da Nang. It is part of a collection of stories he hopes to publish in a few weeks and deals with what you Americans, rather blithely in my opinion, call “collateral damage.” Enjoy

 Zimmerman placed the woman between him and Hinson and the three started back along the main street toward the heart of the base. As they walked, Hinson noticed that Zimmerman had ceased talking. Hinson looked at the woman, who was staring straight ahead and still held the baby tight against her body, as if every tree and every building wanted nothing more than to snatch it from her.

“The baby sick?” he asked.

Zimmerman shook his head and walked on a few steps. “Blown up,” he said.

“Blown up?”

“A stray rocket hit her house in the village and blew the baby into a fire pit.”

“A stray rocket? Was it VC?”

“Nobody knows. What difference does it make?”

Hinson turned to the woman who appeared to him to be past the age of having an infant. “Is it her baby?”

“Yeah, it’s hers,” Zimmerman said, pointing with a thumb. Before he could say any more, the woman realized that they were talking about her. She showed concern and turned toward Zimmerman. He wouldn’t look at her so she turned to Hinson. He made the mistake of showing interest.

The woman, in order, it appeared, to justify being on the base, relaxed her grip on the baby and lowered it, supporting it with one arm near her stomach. As Hinson watched, she gently unwrapped the cloth that covered the child and motioned for Hinson to look.

The child’s face consisted of a continuous red scab except for a large blister that still covered one cheek. Stitches began near one ear and continued beneath its clothing. Both hands extended from the body and were wrapped tightly. It was apparent that one was shorter than the other. A patch of white gauze, lifted away from the face by cotton swabs covered one eye while the other stared ahead without moving, almost accusingly. Scabs covered the lower lip. Blood stains showed through most of the bandages. The woman shook her head and smiled at Hinson eagerly, so he would understand that she belonged here.

Breakfast bacon rebelled and roiled in Hinson’s stomach. He stifled a retch, then another. He looked at Zimmerman who had never looked around. “Jesus, god,” Hinson said quietly. The woman covered the child once more in the soft clothing and pulled it tight against her breast. The three walked together each struck silent by emotions beating against the morning heat like wild birds fighting the bars of a cage. They were silent until they reached Sick Bay.

Let’s hope your country doesn’t forget and allow this to happen again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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247. Choices

C.W. can get under my skin if I let him, like he did this morning. He walked in wearing a kimono and looking a lot like Orlando Bloom. He smiled at me and cocked his head to one side.

“I’ve decided want to be gay,” he said.

I dropped my dictionary—yes, my dictionary— and knocked over the remnants of my coffee. I placed the dictionary back on the table, dabbed coffee with a napkin, and shook my head, bewildered.

“What the hell are you doing and why do you look that way?”

He sniffed, and placed a hand on his hip. “How many times,” he said, “have I heard you say that you’re not gay but, that if you were, you’d be gay for Orlando Bloom? I just want to be gay.”

“C.W.,” I said, “you can’t be gay.”

“And why not?”

“Because you’re a go… because you’re an alien.”

“Aliens have rights. You do recall your Alien Visitation and Exploration Contract, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t say you can be gay.”

“It says that you must allow me a wide range of choices in my behavior.”

I sighed. “But being gay is not a choice.”

“That man on TV, your former governor what’s his name, ‘Hucksterable,’ or whatever, says it is and he’s a preacher. He ought to know. He’s running for president.”

Preachers don’t establish scientific facts,” I said. “Thank goodness. Neither do presidential candidates.” I stopped and thought about this for a second and relief spread over me. “Besides,” I said, “you can’t believe that everything you see on television is real.”

“You think Big Bang’s Penny is real.”

“Shhh,” I said. I lowered my voice. “How many times have I told you that we don’t talk about Penny when my wife is in the house?”

“Mrs. Big Dope knows you are an idiot.”

“No she doesn’t.”

“Does too. She told me so.”

We were drifting off course. “Well,” I said, “she did marry me.”

“It was her choice,” he said, “for some reason. Now I want to make my own choice.”

Sometimes C.W. can lead you into a logical minefield. “So what would you do,” I said, “upon becoming gay?”

“I want to find a mate and get married, so we can be as happy as you and Mrs. Big Dope.”

I studied him carefully to see if I could detect any signs of sarcasm. Seeing none, I continued. “But you couldn’t get married in this state, at least not yet.” Then I shook my head. “What am I doing? C.W. …,” I said it loudly to get his attention, “you’re a frickin alien. You’re job here, as I understand it, is to observe and report, not set yourself up for abuse, beatings, rejection, and denial of basic rights—maybe even murder. Why would you choose that?”

“For the same reason Martin Luther King, Jr. did, I suppose.”

Oh hell, there I stood, square dab in the middle of his minefield of logic.

“And what would you do after you become gay and get married?”

“You have a spare bedroom.”

An image flooded my brain. There stood Mike Huckabee, in front of a Fox “News” camera spouting away, with our condominium building in the background. That building had already been the focus of another presidential election, you know. I felt a peace spread over me as that image gave way to the exploding head of the preacher who would be president.

“You might have a point, here,” I said. He smiled and, for the briefest second, I saw Orlando Bloom and me stranded on a desert island. I shook the scene away. “You’ll have to know though, that you’re in for a rough ride.”

“Oh, I’m ready,” he said.

For some reason, Big Dope
thinks this is all funny. - C.W.

“A lot of folks will make their own choice, and that choice will be to hate you with an unfounded but unbridled passion.”



“Let ‘em.” He said.

“You will lead a life of challenge,” I said. “And some religions will refuse you. I can’t imagine a more rocky road than the one you choose.”

“Oh,” he said, “don’t worry about the churches.”

“Why not?”

“We, my spouse and I, will choose to be atheists as well.”

 

 

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Issues

Dear Friends and Followers:

I keep getting fired from my jobs working in political campaigns. I don’t know why. I’m just a poor Alien trying to make a living. Big Dope just says, “Stuff happens.”

But I do try to keep up. From my readings, I sense that the 2016 campaign has started in sincere and intense conviction. (Editor’s note: He means “in earnest.”)It looks like a repeat of some of the same themes from previous campaigns, as Big Dope calls them:

God-Guns-Gays

Benghazi-Benghazi-Benghazi

Iran-Iraq-Invade

Birth-Bubba-Bitch

Taxes-Terrorists-Teachers

If I were advising one of the parties, I would suggest focusing on what my research and study suggests are some genuine issues facing your country, or at least many of the communities. I would list

Drugs-Disinvestment-Despair

And by drugs, I’m not talking about what you call your “war.” Hard as I try, I fail to explain to the Falloonian Elders the concept of a war on a word. No, I’m talking about the fact that so many of your species exhibit what we all ewnnoheetudat, or what you call “addiction.” The Elders cannot comprehend why you spend your resources on making war on the transporters of addictive agents instead of medically treating the condition as they do on other planets in our galaxy.  You do this in a limited fashion with those addicted to gambling instead of drugs.

Anyway, I would love to report to the Falloonian Elders that at least one of your political parties seems willing to address genuine issues.

Oh wait. Big Dope just walked by and read this. Never mind.

Now he’ll probably want to steal it and post it somewhere.

Yesterday's Sunday post follows.

 

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246. Fresh Ideas

“So you want me to help you?”

“Please, I’m asking earnestly or humbly for something.”

“You are begging for my help?”

“Absolutely.”

There he stood, in his best chinos, looking much like a combo ad for Gucci, Lacoste Lopez, and  Ralph Lauren. C.W. was in one of his favorite forms, Reggie, from The Young Conservatives Club.

“What sort of help do you need?”

“I’m going to work in what your species calls a political campaign for the first time ever.”

“You are going to do what?”

“I’m going to help elect a candidate. I may get to go to Washington, they tell me.”

“I see,” I said, but I didn’t. “I thought you were permanently assigned here.”

“Oh, but if I can get a ‘behind the scenes’ posting, it will boost my career.” He paused and scratched his nose. “But first we must get through the first or highest in rank or importances.”

“You mean the primaries.”

“You are getting bad about repeating everything I say.”

“Never mind,” I said. “Which candidate are you working for?”

“Number Five.”

“Uh,” I said, “and who is that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Some campaign workers were having a hard time keeping them separate, so we just go by numbers, now.”

“I see,” I said, but I wasn’t sure I did. “So what is the major campaign issues that your Number, uh …, Five is going to focus on for the campaign?”

“That’s what you are going to help me with.”

“Oh,” I see, but I didn’t.

“Take a look.” With that, he turned took me to the kitchen table where a laptop computer was fired up and waiting. Across the screen was the beginning of a list, from One to Five, with the word “Against” behind each number.

“So let’s start filling in,” he said. “What goes by the first number?”

“C.W.,” I said.

“Reginald, please,” he said.

“Reggie, those are all negatives. What will Number Five be for?”

He looked at me as if I had just said that dry was wet. “Please,” he said, “our party has evolved beyond the advocacy paradigm.”

“The what?”

“You seem to be stuck in an era of reality and advocacy. That’s old fashioned. Get over it. Now let’s get busy. I have a deadline.”

I’d never seen him so forceful and full of hope. “Okay,” I said. “How about, uh, say, for the first number …Hillary Clinton.”

“Can’t,” he said. “Candidate Two, said early on that he would like to have her.”

I left that one alone. “President Obama?”

“Candidate Three, we call him ‘The Charmed One,’ captured him a month ago.”

“The Charmed One. So he is special?”

“Not particularly. It just means that maybe the third time is charmed, as you say.”

“I see,” I said, but I most assuredly didn’t. “War?”

“Please,” he said, “let’s be serious. We’re wasting valuable time.”

“Education?”

"Candidates One and Four are fighting over that one. Each claims he knows more about it.”

“Science?”

“Candidate Seven.” He nodded sadly. “And that’s a popular one. Wish I’d gotten it.”

“Immigrants?”

“Candidates One and Four are battling over that one as well.”

“Government?”

“Oh heck,” he said. “I wish. But Candidate Eight, you know, the one with the funny hairpiece, grabbed that one straight away, right out of Candidate Two’s hands.”

 “Children, women?”

“Nope, Candidate Nine, the fat one, is sitting on those.” He smiled. “Too bad for the women and kids.”

“C. …, Reggie, I’m running out of ideas. Why don’t you go against the grain and present your candidate as for something?”

He looked at me with a bit of sadness in his eyes. “Do you know what happens to our candidates who go against the grain, as you say, and advocate for something?”

“Not something good?”

He shook his head. “Have you ever heard of Archibald McGregor?”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t.”

“My point exactly,” he said. “Now get busy. Time is money.”

They rejected this design I did for the
campaign. I don't understand  why. - C.W.

I searched my brain. I really wanted to help the poor guy. “Taxes?”

Number Nine, the crazy one, still claims them, but they really don’t bother our folks much anymore, so it is a weak platform.

I wasn’t sure which candidate he was talking about, but I kept thinking. Then it came to me. “Obamacare,” I said. “That’s a winner for sure.”

 He shook his head. "Off-limits. It’s now Reaganaid.”

“Oh,” I said. “I see. And this time I believe I did.

 

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