262. Felines

 “What’s up?”

C.W. looked up from my laptop and said nothing. He began to type, biting on an unlit pipe he uses as a prop when he prepares his reports to the Falloonian Elders. He assumes the shape of, oh, I don’t  know, Arthur Miller or some playwright. I waited until he finished typing and had looked up at me before I asked again. “What are you writing about?”

“Ailuromania.”

“Ailura what?

“Ailuromania … a passion for cats.”

“Oh,” I said, “like the way some folks allow them to rule their lives? I’ve heard that can happen.”

He looked at me over wire-rimmed glasses and said nothing.

“What?” I said. “We only keep four cats at this old farmhouse. Well … sometimes five, but never more.”

He continued to look at me for a moment and then turned to the laptop. He made a couple of strokes and looked back. Without removing his gaze, he turned the computer screen toward me.

“That’s just BuddhaCat,” I said. “She looked so cute I had to snap that shot and post it.”

“And why,” he said, “do you call it BuddhaCat?”

“It’s a she,” I said. “A she. Don’t hurt her feelings.”

His gaze bore into me.

“She may be a little overweight,” I said.

“A little?”

“She enjoys eating,” I said. “Isn’t she cute?”

He punched a key. Another image arose. “And?”

“Oh, I said, “that’s Sarah Palin walking on the piano. You should have heard the sound. I called it ‘The Catwalk Rhapsody’ and was going to record it but she jumped down.”

“Sarah Palin?”

“She’s not the smartest cat in the county,” I said. “But she’s so pretty.”

He punched the keyboard again. “Look at that,” I said. “There’s Buttons sleeping on my wife’s lap.”

“Why does Mrs. Big Dope display that strained expression?”

“Oh,” I said, “she was needing a bathroom break. Real bad.”

“Why didn’t she take one?”

“What,” I said, “and wake Buttons up?”

“And you posted all of these on your VisagePage?”

“On FaceBook, yes.”

“Let me read you some of what I’ve written,” he said.

“Oh, pray do.”

He returned the computer screen to his document and read: “Approximately 33 percent of American households domicile a creature know as a ‘cat.’ More than half of those homes have more than one cat in the house. This creature—scientific name Felis catus—is an arrogant, selfish, uncaring, insensitive …”

“Stop,” I said. “They’ll hear you.” I ran to the door and closed it.

“Greedy and self-centered species that allows humans to care for it and attend its every need without displaying any gratitude whatsoever. Humans become quite obsessive about caring for cats’ needs and will even take sick days from work to stay home and tend a cat that pretends to be ill.”

“She only did that once,” I said, “and that was a long time ago.”

“Otherwise mature and sensible humans have been known to dress their cats in fake outfits and post their photographs on social media outlets.”

“Did you see the one with the little vest and necktie?” I said.

“They are most devious and secretive in their habits and display a marked tendency toward demonstrating their low regard for their keepers.”

“No,” I said. “Ours would never do that?”

He looked at me. “Would you be interested to know,” he said, “that I caught the three females gathered around your laptop this morning?”

If this creature is "a little overweight," then I'm a visitor
from "a little ways away" from here. - C.W.

“They like to look at old Garfield cartoons,” I said.

He punched the computer and turned it toward me again. There, in a highly evocative and erotic design, was the home page of a site called “Cat-Sex Fever,” purporting to offer scenes that would delight and titillate the discerning and (term deleted by editor) female and to “get her fancy footwork in gear for her Tom.”

“You are being unfair and gratuitously scandalous,” I said. I was going to say more but was interrupted by three loud crashes and the sound of broken glass from the kitchen. “I’ve got to go,” I said. “We’ll discuss your libeling of these sweet creatures further.”

“What happened?” he said.

“Nothing,” I said. “That’s just their way of letting us know that they are ready to be fed.”

 Please click some ads. The cats won't share the computer and I need my own.

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

Mistakes

Woke up this morning and found Harry Truman watching television with the sound turned down low. Well, it wasn't Harry Truman but C.W., and I guessed it right away. I'm perceptive like that.

"What's up?" I said.

"Do they really intend to run this guy for president of your species?"

I looked. He was watching a speech by Donald Trump. "If the nominating convention were to be held tomorrow, they just might," I said. "He seems to be striking a chord with the base and the base rules at present."

"What if he says something really stupid?"

"Uh," I said, resisting the urge to state the obvious. "what do you mean stupid?"

"Oh," he said, "I mean something that his constituency would consider crazy or ridiculous. A statement so over the highest or uppermost point, part, or surface of something that he would lose his support."

"And what might he say that would be 'over the top' as far as his constituency is concerned?"

"Oh," he said, "I don't know. Maybe 'blessed are the poor.' That ought to do it"

A Time To Mourn

We went for a ride yesterday, C.W. and I, mostly to give my wife a break from him. We've been indoors because of a high heat index, a phenomena that seems to bring out the worst in a Falloonian. After he had played his "fake dog poop" trick on her for the umpteenth time, I invited him to go for a drive. She lowered the baseball bat and nodded her approval.

Going down a side road, we passed a large Remington Arms factory located along Interstate 40 near Little Rock. As we went by, I sensed C.W. jerk around and stare at the grounds.

"Stop the car," he said, whereupon I noticed that he had assumed a shape much like that of the late Walter Brennan when he played "Grandpa Amos," on the TV show. "I want to talk to that man," he said.

I slowed to a stop and looked. A man was draping black bunting, signifying mourning, along the fence bordering the factory where they produce ammunition. Before I could speak, C.W. had exited the car and was limping toward the man. I had no choice but to follow.

When he approached, the man stopped his work and stared in disbelief, and for good reason of course.

"Hello brother," C.W. said. "Putting up mourning cloth for our servicemen who were murdered?

"Huh?" the man said, still staring in wonderment.

"Our military men."

"What military men?"

"The recruiters who got killed."

"Don't know nothing about no recruiters gettin' killed," the man said. "This is for Obama."

"Oh no," I said. "Did something happen to the President?"

"Not yet," the man said. "But we're getting ready for when he leaves office."

"Whatcha mean, son?" C.W. said.

"He leaves office after next year," the man said, "and we're in deep mourning about it."

"You mean you liked him?" C.W. sounded truly incredulous.

"We love him."

"Son," C.W. said, "you're not making a bit of sense."

"Best thing that ever happened to us," the man said. "We haven't slowed down a bit since he's been in office. Uncle Wayne seen to that."

I joined in. "Uncle Wayne?"

"Uncle Wayne LaPierre."

"Of the NRA?"

"Who else?" the man said, sounding a bit peeved.

"But," I said, "he hates President Obama. Don't you all?" I gestured at the plant.

"Are you kidding," the man said. "Best thing that ever happened to us. Don't you keep up with the stock market?"

"I do," C.W. said, lying. "What about it?"

It was as if Joseph Goebbels had
suddenly awakened to find there were no
Jews around anywhere. - C.W.

"You can't be serious," the man said. "Can't you imagine what happens to our stock every time Uncle Wayne hints that a colored feller is going to take away peoples' ammo?"

We watched as he made the motion of a rocket taking off.

"But he hasn't," I said.

The man looked at me as if I had just said the weather was hot. "And what goddam difference does that make?" He returned to his mourning bunting.

"So you'll be sorry to see him go?" C.W. wanted to make sure he understood.

"We'll be in deep mourning," the man said. He looked crestfallen. "But we have hopes. We may be tearing this stuff down after next fall's election."

C. W. leaned forward. "And why is that?"

"Are you crazy?" the man said. "Do you know how many little 'a-rab' countries there are and how many bullets it would take to whup them all?"

See also www.wattensawpress.com

261. Professions

C.W. is playing a new game: “The Rapture Effect On Selected Professions.” He calls it a scientific study, and maintains the shape, including lab coat, of a researcher. I think he is having a bit of galactic fun at our expense, but it goes something like this.

“Combining, evangelical religious myth with professional occupations,” he says, “we consider what might happen in the sudden disappearance of all members of a certain profession.”

“Want to explain?” I said.

“For example,” he said. “If every college football coach in your country disappeared overnight, was 'raptured away' so to speak, what would be the impact?”

Before I could speak, he broke in. “More money spent teaching physics?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Perhaps a new intellectual renaissance?”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“At any rate,” he said, “nothing that would register on the cultural seismograph. Right?

“Probably not,” I said.

“And the annual salary involved?”

 “Most in the millions.”

“Wow,” he said, in an unscientific response.

“Any more?”

“TV Evangelists?”

“Oh please, please,” I said.

“Any downside to their rapturing away?”

“Only,” I said, “if one sells mansions or private jets.”

“Upside?”

“Lots of Social Security checks would go further.”

“The so-called ‘analysts’ on that fake news show named after a furry animal.”

“Nothing but upside to their disappearance.”

“That’s what the data show,” he said, consulting his clipboard. “And they are paid a lot?”

“Yes,” I said.

He interrupted. “It seems they also make a bundle off fake books that they pretend to write.”

“Really?”

“Speaking of writers,” He said, “how about authors of weight-loss books?”

“Send them into space,” I said. “No one will notice.”

“Oh wait,” he said, “here’s a good one.”

“Oh?” I was all ears.

“Pet psychics.”

I groaned.

“What,” he said, “do they do, exactly?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Personal injury attorneys?”

I thought. “That one probably depends,” I said.

“On what?”

“On which side of the personal injury one is on.”

“We’ll get back to it,” he said. “Safari guides?”

“Now,” I said, there is a certain party who would want them raptured to deepest, darkest corner of space.

“Would that be Mrs. Big Dope?”

“Herself,” I said.

“Let’s see,” he said. “She might want to send the owners of what you call ‘puppy mills’ along for the ride, wouldn’t she?”

“You might ask her,” I said, “but don’t stand too close when you do.”

“No,” he said, rubbing his forehead, “I learned that lesson when I asked her if she wanted to watch a movie about a fight between two or more fighter planes at close quarters.”

“No,” I said. “You asked her if she wanted to watch a dog fight with you.”

“Anyway,” he said, “what about so-called hedge fund managers?” He looked at his notes. “Here is one that made a billion dollars in one year. What would happen if he disappeared?”

“I can’t imagine that anything would happen,” I said. “I doubt that anyone would even file a missing-persons report. Those folks tend to move around a lot.”

“That’s what my research shows.”

“Say,” I said, “speaking of your research, haven’t you found any indispensable professions?”

“Oh,” he said, “I think I’ve found the most indispensable one.”

“And that is?”

“But first,” he said,” I must say that it totally baffles me.”

“How so?”

“It pays a drastically lower salary than any I have mentioned so far.”

“Oh really?”

“Isn’t that odd for a species to pay its most valuable worker the lowest salary?”

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“What do you mean?”



“Never mind,” I said. “It was just a joke. But what is this most necessary profession?”



Your species has a strange way of valuing professions. - C.W.

“Let’s see,” he said, thumbing through his notes. “Oh, here it is: a waste water collection and treatment specialist, or sanitary engineer.”

“A sewer worker?”

“Of course,” he said, “without them your species would be in a world of sh…”

“That’s enough,” I said. “I get the picture. I definitely get the picture.”

“The picture—that reminds me,” he said, “working in sewers is a much more valued profession than fashion modeling, isn’t it?”

 Please click some ads. The profession of alien doesn't pay well at all.

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

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