259. Failure in Communication

“I hope I never have to explain your species to an alien.”

“What?” This took me by surprise. C.W. and I were watching Fourth of July celebrations on television, he in the shape of an American-Asian teenager and me in the shape of a senior citizen on tranquilizers.

“Your species,” he said. “The abode of god and the angels forbid that I should ever have to explain it to an alien.”

“You are an alien,” I said, “and heaven forbid anyone should have to explain anything to you.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “How would you like explaining things to someone who wasn’t from here?”

“Uh, C.W.,” I said, “I’ve been trying to explain things to you for five years or so. Don’t you remember?”

“Well,” he said, “you have failed miserably.”

I bristled. “I’ve done a fine job,” I said. “Where have I failed you?”

He thought, then turned to me. “You haven’t explained hot dog-eating contests.”

That took the wind out of my sails so to speak. My stomach rebelled and I had to stifle a series of retches. “No,” I said, “I don’t suppose I have.”

He nodded as if he were teaching a class in astro-physics. “Care to try?”

“No,” I said. “You have to understand that there are, as the Good Book says, ‘things that passeth understanding.”

“Speaking of that book,” he said, “please reconcile ‘Suffer little children to come unto me,’ and ‘Take this kid up on the mountain and kill him for me,’ if you will.”

“Are you purposefully trying to make my hair fall out?”

“Hate radio,” he said.

“Stop it,” I said.

“The preoccupation with Kate Middleton’s womb.”

“I said stop.”

“Golf.”

“Quit, please quit.”

“Tattoos.”

“I’m leaving.”

“No wait,” he said. “I need you to help me.”

“You’re making my circuits smoke,” I said in a reference to a phenomenon unique to confused Falloonians.

“Care to explain NASCAR?” he said.

“Oh please,” I said, “don’t start again.”

“Okay,” he said. “I was going to mention dog shows, but I won’t.”

“Good.”

“Or skiing.”

I didn’t respond.

“Or video games.”

I ignored him.

“Or bowling.”

I'm hoping to use this image as the cover
on my final report on your planet. - C.W.

I studied a spot of poison ivy inflammation on my hand.

“Or banjoes.”

I jumped up straight. “Now wait,” I said. Actually I screamed it this time. “Wait just a damned minute. Let me tell you a thing or two, you, …you, … you ungrateful interloper.”

“Yes?”

“Just because something lacks vast appeal doesn’t mean that, for selected members of our species, it doesn’t provide peace, tranquility, a moment of distraction from a troubled world, an appreciation of nature, or a contributing factor to human development. What do Falloonians do to relax?”

“Oh,” he said, “the best analogy I can think of is that it is a game involving the ability to solve matrix algebra problems in one’s head.”

“Sounds like a load of fun,” I said, still smarting.

At that point, he began to whistle the tune from the movie “Deliverance.”

 

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258. Strange

C.W. actually asked for my help yesterday. I was taking a break from working outside in the summer heat (he had declined to assist—claiming an important deadline). In walks this … person I suppose, looking every bit like a rodeo clown.

“I’m stuck,” he said. “Like a pig playing the Paganini Violin Concerto, I find my fingers unequal to the defined piece of work, sometimes of short or limited duration.”

“You mean ‘unequal to the task?’”

“That’s exactly what I said. You have this problem with your Universal Decoder Device and Receiver.” He gave what appeared to be a sigh. “Your species always has UDDER problems.”

“So what kind of help do you need?” I said, ignoring him.

“I’m making a report to the Falloonian Elders.”

“And?”

“There are some things I just can’t explain to them. Perhaps you could help.”

“Such as?”

He pulled a sheet from a pocket of his baggy pants and read from it. “This rich man with the funny hair,” he said, “who says he is running for president.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Explain please.”

“I can’t,” I said, “and neither can anyone else. Don’t you have abnormalities like him in Falloonia?”

He looked at me and thought. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “I’m serious.”

“What’s your next one?”

He read. “These followers of a religious figure who said, ‘Blessed are the poor, blessed are the meek, blessed are the peacemakers, …”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What happened? Now they are saying “Blessed are the rich, you burn in hell, and let’s all go to war.”

“I don’t know. Maybe they changed their minds, some of them.”

“Strange species,” he said. “And speaking of that religion …”

Oh no.

He continued, “It seems to particularly glorify a king who wanted to gubmpinnicht with his best friend’s wife.”

I leave it to the reader to understand the meaning of that Falloonian word.

I prepared for the worst. “Yes?”

“So he sends his best friend to be killed in order to clear the path to the boudoir, so to speak.”

I shrugged.

“Strange standards for a religious icon,” he said. “How do I explain that?”

“What do you have next?”

“Explain to me the act or practice of refraining from indulging an appetite or desire, especially for alcoholic drink or sexual intercourse.”

“You mean abstinence?”

“There you go repeating me again. Should I have a look at your UDDER?”

“No,” I said, “I think you best leave my UDDER alone.”

“I do that, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Check UDDERs. I’ve advertised my services and everything.”

“Have you …,” I struggled for words, “gotten any business yet?”

“Not a bit,” he said, “and that is very strange. Can you explain that?”

“Uh, no,” I said. “Now what is this about abstinence?”

“Why do you want young girls to avoid reproductive activities?”

“Oh,” I said, finally feeling I might help him. “We believe young unmarried women may not be physically, financially, or psychologically prepared for motherhood without the help of a loving mate.”

“You want them to marry first?”

“Well,” I said, “we think it is a safer route for young girls to mature and marry before having children. It’s more a guideline than a rule.” I looked for recognition of this humorous allusion. I saw none.

“So you actually teach it—abstinence—as the cure.”

“Some advocate teaching it, yes.”

“They believe that pure strength of will can counteract an urge created by five billion years of natural selection?”

Sad to say, the Falloonian Elders seem
to view your species this way at times. - C.W.

“Yes.” It came out a little weak.

“And how is it working?”

“Not too well.”

“Maybe it would work better,” he said, “if your species selected, as one to spearhead your efforts, a person other than a young, inexperienced, uneducated and uninformed person who, herself, is now working on a second example of the failure of abstinence only.”

“C.W.,” I said, “where are you coming up with these examples.”

“From your most reliable national database.”

“Our what?”

“The thing you call ‘VisageDocument.'”

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257. Writing

It is uncertain as to whether I have mentioned this, but C.W. exhibits a tendency toward imitation. I think it is part of the training he received on Falloonia prior to coming here. Anyway, he sometimes goes to great lengths to imitate things he sees Earthlings do.

For example: he remains impressed by the fact that I have written a book and am on the verge of completing another. Evidently, reading is considered an admirable pastime on his home planet.

"How would a species that doesn't read ever expect to explore our marvelous galaxy?" he says. Good point.

So it was no surprise when I caught him, or at least him as Johnny Ray, the adolescent student, busily blasting away at my computer and muttering to himself.

"There you go," he said to the computer, "thrust it in and rotate. That'll make her scream. She loves it."

"C.W.," I said, yelling to get his attention. "What are you doing? Mrs. V can hear you."

"Now she's moaning," he said, ignoring me. "You got her motor purring now. She'll take you anywhere you want. Oh baby, baby."

"Johnny Ray, " I said. "Stop it."

That finally got his attention. He evidently wasn't answering to "C.W." today.

"Wait one," he said, "This gal is hot and ready to go."

"Stop it," I said. "What are you doing."

He finally looked up at me. "Writing," was all he said.

"I can see that," I said, "but what are you writing?"

"A novel."

"About what?"

"A time machine," he said. "It's creator has just inserted the rod that energizes its engine and it is becoming operational."

I covered my face with my hands. "And where did you get the idea for a novel? And what is it about, other than a time machine?"

"From reading the news," he said, "and it is about victors and victims."

"As in?"

He leaned back and smiled. "It's about the future."

"I thought that might be the case," I said. "What about the future?"

"It's like this," he said. "The powerful class has eliminated education and intellectual curiosity from among the victim class."

"Now where did you get that idea?"

He ignored me and continued. "And they have created a race that just prances around clueless all day, never questioning their fate or purpose, totally trusting in a mysterious higher power."

"And?"

"The power class becomes so depraved from all that unrestrained power that they even hate the illuminating power of sunlight and have taken to living underground."

"I see," I said. "Would you be interested ..."

He interrupted me. "That's not the best part."

"Oh?"

"No, the ruling demons feast on the helpless above-grounders, since food can't grow underground. It's a metaphor for symbiotic relationships among the classes: pleasure and sustenance and all that. Bound to be a best-seller." He leaned back and crossed his arms.

"I hate to tell you that it's already been done," I said.

"What, taking education from the masses, disempowering them, and devouring them?"

"Well," I said, "we'll talk about that later. What I mean is ... that book has been written."

"It's what?"

"Afraid so, by a man named H.G. Wells, back in the late 1800s."

Earthlings need to remember that their
future rests completely in their hands. - C.W.

His face fell. "Drats," was all he said.

"Sorry," I said.

"No sweat," he said. "I have a backup plan."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. A novel about a bunch of animals with no moral foundation other than self-enrichment taking over your farm and running it."

"Oh," I said, "that sounds like a good one. Go for it."


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256. Taxes

Hopping mad isn't the word for it. C.W. is apoplectic. And why?
"Taxes," he said, screaming at me when he came in to the room. "What's this deal about taxes?"
He looked a lot like one of those political candidates we've been seeing so much of lately. I didn't know what to say. "What kind of taxes?"
"This thing called sales tax," he said. "It is showing complete lack of thought or common sense."
"Idiotic?"
"Isn't that what I said."
"I guess," I said. "But what has you so upset about sales tax?"
"I thought," he said, "that I had almost enough to pay for my new computer."
"And?"
"The salesman told me how much it would be with sales tax included."
"So?"
"We've go to sell some more ads and books."
"The story of our lives," I said.
"Whose idea was this sales tax caper," he said. "Some college professor?"
"Actually no," I said. "Those in academics think it is a cruel tax. They call it regressive."
"Why?"
"Because everyone pays the same amount, no matter how rich or poor they are."
"If they don't like it," he said, "why do we have it?"
"It's the most popular tax with the people," I said. "It's easier to enact."
"You've got to be kidding," he said.
"No, really. Rich people like it for obvious reasons. Poor people like it because they don't notice paying it since it is taken in small amounts, and they aren't able to buy as much anyway."
"No wonder," he said. Then he looked at me with his most serious face. "Your species has a one-way ticket to Palookaville," he said. "You know this don't you?" (We've been watching some old Brando films lately). Don't ask.
"You may be right," I said.
"So you're telling me," he said, "that if I buy a computer and that Walton woman ... what's her name?"
"Alice?"
"Yeah," he said, "the rich one. So she and I pay the same tax if we buy the same computer?"
"Uh, yes,"  said.
"But she could buy a computer factory easier than I could buy a computer."
"It gets worse," I said.
"How so?"
"If she bought a computer factory, the government would give her money."
"Tosttigadumfulsindicher," he said. That's a Falloonian term meaning ... well maybe it's best I don't tell you what it means. Let's just say it isn't a nice term.
He wasn't finished. "So one of these rich farm corporations around here would pay the same sales tax on a computer as I do?"
"It gets worse," I said."

Big Dope thinks this is funny but I don't. - C.W.

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255.Fear

Oh my goodness … the Alien C.W. has locked himself in his room and won’t come out. “Because of the news,” he says. He swears we must be manufacturing the news, much like The Onion or that Fox Channel. “Everyone is doing it now,“ he says.

I can’t tell what shape he has assumed this morning. It sounds a lot like the character of “The Beaver” on the old TV series.

I tried reasoning with him. “Come on out, and let’s talk about it,” I said.

“Go away,” he said. “I’m sick of earthlings.”

“Whatchew mean?” I said in a feeble attempt at humor.

“Are you pretending to be African-American?” he said.

Oops. Not a good approach. I tried another. “Let’s go for a walk with our neighbor George,” I said. “He wants to come over.”

“Did you say, ‘He wants a comb-over,’ like that comedian in New York?”

“Uh, … what comedian in New York?”

“The one pretending to be running for President.”

Oops, again. Another poor choice.

“Oh come on,” I said. “Let’s go out for a cup of coffee.”

“I’m afraid someone will shoot me if I go into a coffee shop.” I distinctly heard him sniff, then say, “It ain’t safe for a man out there.”

“Then change to a woman.”

“Like that athlete did?” he said. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“You’re really upset, aren’t you?”

“Are you seriously asking me that? There isn’t a country on a planet in a galaxy in this universe that could think up the crazy things that your news reports. I want to go back to Falloonia.”

“Look,” I said, “maybe you need some quiet time. Let’s go sit in the church down the street for a while and meditate on things.”

“Ooow,’ he said. “A church? Haven’t you seen what just happened in Charleston?

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