113. Platforms

There was nothing for me to do but sit there and enjoy the spectacle. C.W. was in full animation sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in the form of an early American patriot. The only modern accoutrements were several tea bags hanging from his three-corned hat.

“Just about finished,” he said.

“Great,” I said, “Finished with what?”

“The most patriotic, god-pleasing political platform ever designed  by …,” he paused.

“An alien?” I said.

“Who do you think oversaw the preparation of your Constitution in the first place,” he said with a taunt in his voice.

That caused me to think. “So how is it coming?”

“Very well,” he said. “Listen to this: ‘No American will profit by, live upon, aggrandize themselves or otherwise enjoy the fruits of another person’s labor’” He stopped and smiled. “That’ll get those deadbeats.”

“You mean like Alice Walton, the Koch Brothers, and the Romney boys?”

He stopped. “No,” he said. “No … just the regular deadbeats.”

“The disabled, the widows, and the orphans?”

“Just listen,” he said. “We don’t need any liberal input.”

“Sorry, please continue.”

“Okay,” he said. “No candidate shall be considered for office without passing the party’s Religious Adherence Testimony. The RAT administrators will be Rush Limbaugh, Donald Trump, and Newt Gingrich.”

“Uh,” I said. “Those RATs have had nine wives, all totaled.”

“So?”

“Wasn’t Jesus of Nazareth sort of clear about divorcing your wife? As in, ‘it’s a big no-no.’”

“Our party is the religious party, so shut up,” he explained. (Proper apologies applied for.)

“Well what about Article Six of the Constitution which forbids religious tests for public office in our country? The preparers were pretty clear about that.”

 

“They didn’t mean our religion,” he said.

“Oh?”

“No,” he said. “Just those others.”

I let it pass.

“But here is a good one,” he announced proudly.

“I am all ears,” I said.

He looked at me with suspicion in his eyes. Seeing none, he continued. “We shall invade the nation of Iran within six months of taking office and proceed with our patented ‘Shock and Awe’ treatment for religious infidels.”

“What happened to ‘Blessed are the peacemakers’ and all that?”

“There you go again,” he said. “Playing the religion card.”

My head began to swim. “But I thought your party was on friendly terms with the Iranians.”

We fired the shot heard round
the world at Gettysburg, and
we are the true patriots. - C.W. 

“Oh, go wash out your mouth,” he said indignantly. “Do you think for a second that the Israeli Prime Minister would allow that?”

“Didn’t your Pater Familias, —one Ronald Reagan—negotiate with the Iranians, while he was fist running for office, to hold the American hostages until after the election?”

“That was simply to prevent four more years of invalid government in our county,” he said. “Extremism in the pursuit of liberty is no vice.”

“I suppose,” I said, “The Iran-Contra Affair was similarly justified?”

“Why don’t you just shut up and learn something?” he said. “Now,” and here he paused for dramatic effect. “You know what evil lurks in the hearts of those women who practice birth control ...”

112. Idiocies

It was a late summer day and I was busy in my workshop when I heard voices outside.

 

“This way, asshole!”

“Screw you, dumbass!”

I didn’t even have to look. I knew.

“One foot in front of the other. What’s so goddam hard about that?”

“If your half of us just had a brain …”

Sure enough, in walked C.W. in one of his favorite forms, Lucky and Lefty the conjoined twins. I was puzzled though. The last time I saw them they had assured me that they would follow a more conciliatory path. Apparently they were in “full backslide.”

“Afternoon boys,” I said.

“Eat me,” said Lefty.

“Now that’s real cute,” said Lucky, then “What’s up Big Dope?”

I sighed. “What’s causing the problem now, boys?”

“Schizophrenia,” said Lucky.

“Dumbassophrenia,” said Lefty.

Lucky started to reply but I stopped him. I pulled a bench over and invited them to sit. “Now why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Your species is driving us batty,” said Lefty.

“Yep,” said Lucky. “Retard here got it right for once.”

I nodded.

“For example,” said Lefty.

I waited.

“We watched a grown man talking to a chair on national TV the other night.”

It was true, and I could only grimace.

“And another grown man,” said Lucky, “said the way for the country to get out of debt was to cut revenue.”

They both stopped and smiled as if the point needed no further clarification. When I said nothing, they continued.

“And what is this obsession,” said Lefty, “with bringing about peace by waging war?”

“And don’t even mention sprinkling white shit on double-cheeseburgers to lose weight,” said Lucky.

What could I say?

“These men on TV were obsessed with two things we just can’t get our heads around,” said Lefty and he stopped to smile at his own joke.

“Asshole,” said Lucky.

“Ronald Reagan,” said Lefty, ignoring his twin.

“And invading Iran,” said Lucky.

“Ronald Reagan and …” I began.

“And Iran.” Lucky finished it for me.

“And?” I said.

“Don’t they remember that Ronald Reagan illegally sold the Iranians the weapons that they will be defending themselves with?”

“That’s ‘retaconockty,’ plain and simple,” said Lefty.

“That’s what?” I said.

“Oh,” said, Lucky. “It’s not something your species can do,” he said, pausing for effect. “It involves violating yourself with your own sexual organ.”

“Not a legitimate rape at all,” he continued, and then he smiled at his joke.

“This is all very interesting,” I said. “But I have work to do.”

“We ain’t done talkin’ about Bizzaro World yet,” said Lucky and he said it with a southern accent designed to irritate me. “We want to hear what you have to say about this man running for office who believes an angel gave a con artist some golden tablets and said ‘go start a new religion.’”

“And enjoy all the young girls you want while you’re at it,” added Lefty.

“You’re talking about the Mormons,” I said.

“Who else?” Lefty said.
 

Sadly, this is the slogan for your world
throughout the known galaxies. - C.W.

“But they have such a nice choir.”

They both stared at me like I had broken wind during benediction.

“Asshole,” said Lucky.

“Moron,” said Lefty.

Well, they finally agreed on something.

111. Idiocies

There was no doubt that it wasn’t James Madison in my living room so I had to assume it was C.W. Why he chose this particular form would become obvious soon enough. With his powdered wig slightly askew, he was sitting at my desk thumbing my pocket edition of the U.S. Constitution and mumbling to himself.

 

“What’s cookin’ Satch?” I said.

“Imbecile,” he said.

“Well aren’t we touchy?”

“This thing,” he said, waving the Constitution at me. I noticed he the pages were crumpled, dog-earned, and covered with notes and underlines. “This thing is so short. I don’t remember that.”

“I thought you wanted it that way,” I said. Why not play along?

“I can find no provision for ‘aclona++snocry.’’’

“A- what?”

He thought for a second. “It’s serious crime on our planet.”

“And it is?

“Something of a cross between ‘knowingly uttering nonsense and scaring the children.”

“Examples?”

“Publicly stating that a female of your species physiologically disables her reproductive system after being beaten and violently impregnated against her will.”

“I see.”

“Or claiming that data showing increasingly warming temperatures around the globe are false because some mythical father-figure in the sky simply wouldn’t permit it.”

“Be careful with that one.”

“Stating that supply creates demand or that if you give all your riches to a few, much of it will magically trickle down to the remainder.”

“I see.”

“Or denials of the scientific processes of natural selection even after the Trogotherans dropped Charles Darwin off here in 1859 to explain it all.”

“And your point is?”

“That there no laws against this, as hard as we worked to produce such enlightenment?” He waved the Constitution at me.

“Laws against stupidity?”

“Laws against spreading it.”

“And on Falloonia?”

“On our planet, we take it quite seriously.”

“And the punishment is?”

He thought. “It would be your equivalent of Vacation Bible School as produced at Alcatraz.”

 

I shuddered. “Maybe you better check your Eighth Amendment there.”

“Levity is not appropriate when discussing this,” he said and he flourished the Constitution again.

“So what do you propose?”

“We would have the punishment fit the crime.”

“So, the ‘supply-siders’ might be given a batch of Facebook stock and forced to sell it?”

“Precisely.”

“And the ‘trickle-downers’ might be forced to live for a while at the bottom of the pile.”

If it should happen that the proposed
broom-handle remediation should
prove unsuitable to the task of
providing enlightenment to those of
the species who would aspire to
regulate the personal behavior of other
genders, a more enlightened approach
involving electrodes might suffice to
provide mental reformation. - Publius

“You are getting the picture.”

“And the ‘legitimate rape’ fellers?”

He straightened his wig, gave me a deliciously wicked wink, and began to lift himself off the floor with the handle of a broom that he had laid nearby.

“Glad you asked, Big Dope. Stand up and I will show you.”

“Uh, thanks Publius, I think I get the picture.”

110. Fixes

C.W. needs our help, he says. The Falloonian Elders are having trouble believing some of the reports he is sending. The latest has to do with our treatment of pets, the poor, and the elderly.

“I know what I send the Elders doesn’t always provide a peal of verisimilitude,” he said.

“You mean a ‘ring of truth’”?

“That’s what I said, my son.” His condescension arose from his appearance, no doubt. He had chosen to appear as a high-ranking Catholic clergyman. I wasn’t quite sure of his rank, not being of that faith, but if expense of attire correlates accurately with title, he was up there.

“Pets, the poor, and the elderly,” I said, returning to his original theme.

“Yes, they are amazed, but somehow pleased, when I relate how much care and love your species lavishes on personal pets.”

Just then, as if to prove the point, the latest addition to our family, a young stray dog that my wife had rescued from under an abandoned church building, trotted into the room. She took one look at C.W. whined, backed off, and fled the room.

“I think that is some 20 or so strays that you have rescued over the years,” he said.

“At least,” I said.

“Of course the Elders are not as sharply honed about your interspecies sporting habits.”

“I’m not as ‘keen’ about them myself,” I said. “I gave up hunting when my military career ended.”

“The Elders would prefer that you engage in competitive sports in which both parties knew that a game was afoot.”

“Understandable,” I said.

“Now, about the others.”

“The poor and the elderly?”

“Yes, the Elders don’t believe me when I tell them that one of your political parties would like to pitch them out amongst the Canus Lupi.”

“Well, they don’t call it ‘throwing them to the wolves.’”

“What do they call it, my son?”

“Well, uh,” I struggled. “They would call it building self-reliance.”

“And they would call sodomy a case of following too closely?” He loves this quote by William F. Buckley, Jr. and I regret relating it to him.

“So, do you have a plan?” I tried to redirect him.

“Yes, my son.” He arranged his robe. “Why don’t you simply make pets of your poor and elderly?”

“Pets?”

Be kind to pets, not gays. - C.W

“Yes,” he said. “You could sell them in shops, give them silly names, teach them tricks, dress them in ridiculous outfits, and …” he blushed, “Have them ‘fixed’ when appropriate. This would be okay for pets but not full-fledged people, don’t you see?”

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“But,” he said. “There is one thing.”

“And that is?”

“You can’t transport them on the top your cars.”

109. Discrimination

C.W. was devastated. If you have ever seen an alien on the verge of tears, it is not a pretty site. Here is what happened.

With some misgiving, we had invited him to go with us to the Sunflower River Blues and Gospel Festival in Clarksdale, Mississippi. As everyone knows, this is the town where legendary bluesman Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil in return for becoming a guitar playing phenomenon. C.W. has always been fascinated by this legend despite his understanding that it is only one of the minor myths of both music and religion. Anyhow.

He had never been to this festival and I hesitated. Loyal readers will remember his antics, appearing as Elvis and distracting the crowd, at another show a couple of years back.

But, he prevailed and showed up as a sort of energetic version of Neil Young, the singer. He had long gray hair, a tie-died shirt, and a worn straw hat. He climbed in and off we went.

This has always been a quiet little festival, conducted in the middle of hottest month of the year in the Mississippi delta. The informality is appealing though, and the ability to seat one’s self near the stage and enjoy the show was a draw. A concrete area near the stage allowed, with the catalyst of mass quantities of alcohol, white people of all ages to display their dancing “skills.”

Not this year. Our normal route to the festival area was blocked by temporary fencing. Forced to squeeze through a small entry point, under the gaze of some jack-booted security guards with bellies as big as Texas lies, we beheld a remarkable site.

The entire area in front of the stage had been cordoned off and filled with tables, each with white cloth and flower arrangements. It belonged to the major donors to the festival who were the only ones allowed within sight of the performers.

At a blues festival, for Christ’s sake.

The “poor folks” made do with a seating area off to the side where the band members were a distant blur. Worst, for C.W. anyway, there was no area for dancing.

 “This is discrimination,” he said. “Who thought this up?”

“Well, the state has gone Republican,” I joked.

He wasn’t amused. “You know the origins of the blues, don’t you?”

“Pretty much,” I said.

Ignoring me, he charged ahead. “It was a music form created by an oppressed people who found it an outlet for the misery resulting from discrimination.”

“Well, yes.”

Want to know how to ruin a blues festival?
 See me. - C.W.

“And here, here, … here,” he sputtered, searching for words. “Here they have separated a celebration of that art form into the haves and have nots.”

It was even worse. Only four of five of the tables were occupied. The bands were literally performing to an empty space. Off to the side, in the distance, were the folks such as us, who had traveled there to see the show.

“If this don’t beat all,” said C.W., beginning the Falloonian version of a pout. Then the whole place erupted with music and a group of young ladies strolled by wearing, among them, maybe a yard and a half of clothing.

“Later man,” he said. “Got to go see what my soul is worth.” And he was gone.