274. Scriptures

What’s this all about over in Kentucky.” C.W. looked up at me when I walked into the room and found him in one of his rare moments of watching TV, looking a lot like his Grandpa Amos McCoy character.

“What, over in Kentucky?” I said.

“This county employee that won’t do her job. She’s a pill, by golly.” He cackled.

“Oh the woman who doesn’t like gay couples and won’t give them marriage licenses?”

“That’s the one. She says it’s not because she don’t like gays.”

“Yes.” I said, “and Robert E. Lee said he didn’t wage war against his own country four years because he didn’t like black people.”

He looked at me funny. “He always said that violating his oath had nothing to do with slavery,” he said. “In fact, he was agin’ it.”

“Yes,” I said, “and I suppose that’s why, when his army marched into Pennsylvania, they rounded up all the free African-Americans they could find and sent them South to be sold, according to the scriptures.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “But about this sister in Kentucky.”

“What about her?”

“She says it ain’t Biblical for a person to marry gays.”

“Well,” I said. “It ain’t Biblical for one person to judge another person, either.”

“She thinks she’s acting on higher authority.”

“So did the World Trade Center bombers.”

“You don’t like her much, do you?”

“I don’t know her,” I said.

 “But you don’t thinks she would pass the pass ‘The Trip To the Calvinasian Galaxy Test,’ I reckon.”

“The Trip To the Calvinasian Galaxy Test?”

“To take a long trip confined in a spaceship with a nutcase.”

“We call it,” I said, “The Trip To California Test.’ And no, I hardly think I would like to make it with her. Besides, she’s breaking the law and violating her duty to observe it.”

“But she cites a scripture to support herself.”

“So do parents who beat their children to death.”

“Are you telling me,” he said, “that your species is free to cite any scripture that supports their insanity and ignore those that don’t?”

“That’s pretty much it,”

“That’s Kopapilakrapuhdae,” he said.

Making sense of things in Kentucky is
as hard as making sense of banjo music. - C.W.

“No doubt,” I said.

“So, say I … uh … say a woman was to bust up all her husband’s guitars and banjoes, based on the scripture that says ‘Make a joyful noise,’ and the sounds y…, uh, the man was making wasn’t very joyful, there would be spiritual absolution?”

“Not at all,” I said, “any scholar of the scriptures knows that a woman exists solely to serve her husband, and that would hardly be serving him, now would it?”

“Have you explained that to Mrs. Big Dope?”’

“She doesn’t need to understand it. As Job said, ‘Can anyone understand the spreading of the clouds, the thunderings of his pavilion?.’”

He started to cackle and said, “That’s purty good, so …” he stopped and turned toward the TV. “Wait,” he said, “they’re going live to Kentucky. Hey … can you hear that banjo music playing?”

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- C.W.

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273. Protection

 “No, she absolutely will not.”

“Well at least ask her.”

“You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

C.W. rubbed the side of his head. “What do you think happened?”

“I could have warned you,” I said, “if you had only checked with me first. And why did you decide to look like Matthew McConaughey today?”

“I thought it might help,” he said. “You know how much Mrs. Big Dope adores Matth …”

“I get the picture,” I said. “But she still said no?”

“That’s why I need your help.”

“Why do you think I could talk her into it?”

“You talked her into going to Gatlinburg, Tennessee once. She told me all about it. A man that could do that could talk someone into about anything.”

“That’s why my credibility with her is still near zero.”

“I know she could help me, though, if she only would.”

Against my better judgment, I entered his dream. “What exactly is it you want her to do?”

“Sew.”

“Sew what?”

“Gun belts and holsters.”

“And why?”

“Are you kidding? They’ll sell like Confederate flags in this state. Everyone will want one.”

“I won’t. My wife won’t. My mother-in-law won’t. None of my friends will.”

“That only takes a half dozen people in the state out of the market.”

“Besides,” I said, “you remember her response when you asked her to help with your last venture, sewing those very flags?”

He rubbed the other side of his head. “This is different.”

“How?”

“Didn’t you read what your Attorney Applicable to the Whole said?”

“Our Attorney General isn’t known for her legal perspicacity.”

“She said people in your state are free to carry guns around on their hips as long as they don’t intend to harm anyone.”

“And,” I said, “exactly why would you carry a weapon on your hip if you didn’t intend to harm someone?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” he said. “Besides, I intend to specialize.”

“Specialize?”

“Yep, mine will be designed only for going to Walmart,” he said.
 

All you need is love. - C.W.

“For going to Walmart?

“Yep, the belt will have a big red heart sewn into it just above where one’s butt-crack shows.”

I couldn’t speak.

“And,” he continued, “you can get them in custom colors to match your best tattoo.”

This time I did manage a groan.

“And the shoulder model will be designed around the gap in a sleeveless tank top and will be sweat-resistant. No more cold steel against bare skin."

“I need,” I said, “to go do some things.”

“Wait,” he said. “You haven’t heard the name of the product.”

“No,” I said, “nor do I want to.”

“I call it a “Get Out of My Way.”

I stopped in mid-stride and turned to look at him. “You are going to produce a holster and belt for carrying a pistol to Walmart and call it a “Get Out of My Way?”

He suddenly looked pleased. “I knew you would like it. Yep,” he said. “A Get Out of My Way, for when ‘Excuse me’ just sounds too timid.”

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Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

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272. Arcs

He calls it “arcing” and, I have to admit, it is one of his more interesting ideas. I’m talking about C.W. of course. He laid this whole line of reasoning on me while I was working on an old piece of farm equipment and he was watching.

“Your species not only fails to connect dots when dealing with logic,” he said, “you also fail to see arcs in logic.”

He sounded as if he knew what he was talking about as he had assumed the form of James Earl Jones, the legendary actor with the great voice. When he spoke, even the bids stopped their singing.

“Dammit to godalmighty hell,” I said.

“Did I say something with which you disagree?”

“No,” I said, “I just busted my knuckles trying to get this nut loose.”

“It may have been the most cogent thing you have said all day.” He leaned back on the bucket he was using as a stool. “Anyway,” he said, “I was talking about arcing.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“It means tying together snippets of history and using arcs to make a logical generalities. Are you listening?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“Consider Herbert Hoover’s approach to the Great Depression.”

“It hurts to, but go ahead.”

“It appears that it was one of ‘It’s better to let the country collapse than for government to save it.’”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Arc then,” he said, “to the famous quote by the army officer of the Vietnam War era.”

“Which quote was that?”

“The only way to save that village was to destroy it.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “That one.”

“Shall we continue the arc?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“Arc to the so-called ‘Libertarians’ who see the solution to governmental reform as no government at all.”

“Crap.”

“You don’t agree with them?”

“I can’t get this thing to come loose,” I said. I slammed the nut with my wrench.

“Precisely,” he said. “Maybe an example from the world of entertainment? That’s my field.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“We actually have a mechanical device on Falloonia that enables us to make these connections.”

“Super.”

“It’s called an ‘Arc Nexus Utilization Synthesizer,’ and I have mine with me,” he said. “Would you like to see my AN …”

“No,” I said. “You can just tell me about it.”

“As I was saying,” he said. “Consider the world of entertainment.” He paused. “Are you listening?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“Remember Archie Bunker?”

I stopped. “From that show All In The Family? You bet. Funny as hell.”

“Why did you like it? The show I mean.”

“It poked fun at bigotry,” I sad. “What’s not to like?”

“If you would examine my ANUS ...,” he said.

“I’d rather not.”

“You would find that a majority of your fellow Americans liked it because the main character was spouting nonsense that they themselves wanted to spout.  But they were increasingly being forbidden by societal norms to do so.”

I sat up and looked at him. “Are you implying that the average American felt repressed by facing sanctions against voicing prejudice?”

“You aren’t as dense as Mrs. Big Dope says you are.”

Now I was intrigued. “So?”

“Now make the arc,” he said, “to this, this, this …” As intelligent as he seemed today, he was struggling for the word. “This side show character who is leading in your presidential polls.”

My mind soared from one point to the other. “Surrogate racism, sexism, and scapegoating,” I said.

“The past is never dead. It's not even past.”
I think your famous author William Faulkner
was arcing when he wrote that. - C.W.

He smiled and a breeze rustled the oak trees in apparent harmony.

“Say,” I said. “You may have something here. Could I maybe borrow your AN …”

“I don’t let anyone touch it,” he said.

“Isn’t that selfish?”

“It’s mine and I’ll keep it to myself,” he said. "No touching." Then he looked at me. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Did you crack your knuckles again?”

“No,” I said. “I was just thinking about the Great Depression, an old girlfriend, and our present state of the economy.”

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Finally, buy Big Dope's book so he'll shut up about it.
- C.W.

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271. Happiness

Friends and Fans:
Yesterday we left C.W. at our farm to watch over things while the woman he calls “Mrs. Big Dope” and I enjoyed one of the happiest days of our lives. He later gave me permission, albeit somewhat grudgingly, (“They want to read about me, not you.”) to devote a day to the occasion.  He’ll be back tomorrow if the Falloonian Elders release him. (Don’t ask).For right now, here goes.


It started over ten years ago when a couple of kids moved in with their sister and her husband who are neighbors to us at our farm. The kids were from Ensenada, Mexico, here on a travel visa. With their father deceased, and their mother remarried to a new family, they had no place to go when their visa ran out. So we “adopted” them, not legally but emotionally. The young man’s name is Arturo and he probably has an IQ in the stratosphere. His sister later married while we helped Arturo get an associate’s degree from a nearby university branch, and a Green Card. He, himself got a job as a computer-aided drafter and has become a valuable member of society.

After years of struggle, all it took was a raising of the hand.

Well guess what? Yesterday we went to the Federal Building in Little Rock to watch him and 49 other precious people raise their hands and become American citizens. Wow.



Tres Amigos

Though hardly what you would call a religious couple, we base our happiness, my wife and I, partly on the Biblical injunction: “You shall not wrong or oppress a resident alien, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 22:21 (NRSV) We believe that we are on the proper side of both history and righteousness.

We finished the day with a marvelous meal at his family’s house and a few shots of Tequila to celebrate. As they say down in South Arkansas, “Hit don’t git no better’n that.”

Anyway, it was a glorious experience to watch those folks raise their hands and see the smiles on their faces and those of their families and friends.  And while we know that hatred is currently fashionable among certain segments of our population and our views may be alien to some, let us just add that we wouldn’t trade those 50 people for 1,000 Donald Trumps.

Our proud new citizen

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270. Tripping

C.W. just came in as a, well I don’t know what … a man in his mid-twenties wearing a Ted Nugent tee-shirt and his hat that says “Remembur Gettisbirg.” He was wearing a small back pack and announced that he was ready to go.

“Go where?” I asked.

“Costa Rica.”

“Where?”

“You heard me fool, call Mrs. Big Dope’s cousin and make arrangements.”

Now my wife’s cousin works for an airline company and sometimes has limited free “stand by” tickets for family or friends, certainly not for aliens and especially not for C.W.

“No can do,” I said, “use your Digitally Operated Nuclear Getabout,” I said.

“It’s dead,” he said.

“Your DO…”

“Dead,” he said, “I’m grounded.”

I thought. “Was it that little trip you made to Thailand?”

“The Elders have grounded me,” he said, ignoring my question.

“But why do you want to go to Costa Rica?”

“To see Lisa.”

“Do you mean Lisa at “All Hat, No Cattle?"

“She’s the digit indicating a single unit.”

“If she is the one,” I said, “why do you want to see her?”

“She’s unpacking.”

“So I heard, but how does that concern you? I’ve never known you to be much help when there was work to be done.”

“I need a new pistol,” he said, “so if she is unpacking, maybe she will give me hers.”

“Her what?”

“Her pistol. Didn’t you hear me say she was unpacking?”

“Uh, C.W. …,”

“Call me Jerry Bob Tex,” he said.

“C.W.,”  I said. “I don’t think that’s what she means by ‘unpacking’ at all.”

“Whut chew mean?”

“She’s moved into a new office and is unpacking her things.”

“Whut things?”

“Her research materials, computer, and office supplies.”

“She ain’t got no pistol?”

“I hardly think so.”

“Dad gummit.”

“What would you do with a pistol, anyway?”

“Protect myself and my family.”



I still may visit there if they will allow me to
 carry my belt-fed, fully automatic, 7.62 mm, M60
Machine Gun into the Walmart store. - C.W.

“You don’t have a family,” I said, “and besides, who do you need protecting from?”

“Uh,” he said. “Them liberuls, like whut they talk about on that Fox channel.”

“I don’t think liberals attack people these days,” I said, “and besides, you don’t even know how to use a pistol.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to it,” he said, “you just wait until the evildoers shows up in your bedroom to do you harm and then you run and git your pistol and let them have it. Ain’t that right?”

“In the words of Barney Frank,” I said, “May I ask what planet you woke up on this morning?”

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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