124. Boredom

If there is anything worse than a bored teenager, it must be bored alien. What could be even worse? Try a bored alien who has taken the form of a bored teenager. I was trying to grade papers from a class I am teaching when who should show up but Tymber Elysibuth, the 16 year old high school student. She plopped on the couch and began tapping her feet to music that only existed in her head.

“I’m bored,” she said, as if I would have not guessed in a thousand years.

“C.W., I’m sort of busy right now.”

“Do you think Tymber is a sexy name?”

“I think you should go out for some exercise.”

“Haylee Addison’s dad says the government is taking away all of our guns.”

“That’s nice. Now why don’t you go walking?”

“Oh, puleeez. Can’t you hear? There is a hunter every ten feet out there. Duh. I would get to the edge of the woods before one shot me. Gross.”

“Maybe you could read a book.”

“Londin Colclasure studied in school that the world is only 6,000 years old.”

“Great,” I said. “Have you visited home lately?”

“Get real. It takes a hundred light years to get there.”

“So where did London ..”

“Londin! Gee, are you dumb, or what?”

“Where did Londin get her news?”

“Her teacher learned if from a man running for president.”

“Running for president? We just had an election.”

“He’s getting an early start, I suppose.”

Returning to my papers, I tried to ignore her.

“The world’s coming to an end,” she said.

“Great,” I said. “Hope it happens before I get these papers graded.”

“The U.N. has taken over our economy and is killing our economic system.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “Now who told you that?”

“Glen Beck.”

“And he is an economist?”

“No.”

“Historian?”

“Not really.”

“A political scientist?”

“No, A talk radio host.”

“Talk radio?”

“You know, the guys who are trying to protect our freedoms and restore our economy.”

“Some call it ‘hate’ radio” I said.

“Whatever.”

“So why don’t you go shopping?”

“What! And fight those crowds?”

“Never mind anyway,” I said. “The last five times I sent you for toilet paper, you picked the wrong brand.”

“Soffeeah Gabrielah says her daddy is going to take her out of school.”

“Can’t blame him,” I said, trying to make sense of a student’s effort to describe the pros and cons of public sector collective bargaining. “Any particular reason?”

“They won’t let us pray.”

“Oh? Do you want to pray?”

“Not really, but that’s not the point. “They are taking away our religious freedoms.”

“About time,” I said reading the explanation again a striving for some sign of coherence. “What freedoms?”

It would be so neat if I could just
text my thoughts without actually
having to think them. - C.W.

“Did you know that God hates fags?”

“C.W.! We don’t talk that way in this house.”

“See, you want to take away my freedom in my own home.”

“It’s not your home. And besides, you are an alien.”

“Did you know that the government is going to put all of our citizens in concentration camps and put the aliens in charge?”

123. Kings

“How do you like my outfit?” C.W. burst into the room wearing a long red robe trimmed in Ermine with the “DaKing” embroidered on the lapel. A cheap-looking crown of imitation gold lay slanted on his head. He was cradling a baseball bat with ribbons taped to the top like a scepter. He looked a lot like Jim Carey playing dress-up.

 

“Don’t tell, me,” I said. “You are going to be …”

“King of Louisiana,” he said. “As soon as we secede from the United States.”

“King of Louisiana,” I said. Of course I was a little bewildered.

“Want to hear our new national anthem?”

“Not really,” I said, with no effect.

“White is the light in Jesus’ sight,

“Along our roads and bayous.”

“Oh no,” I said.

He continued.

“Our might is right, for truth we fight,

“Bon temps for faithful rouge-cous.”

I was beginning to feel faint.

“Would you like to join me as the power behind the throne?”

My face began to sag. “Are you crazy?”

“No,” he said. “But I did check. You get bonus points on the application for being certifiably insane.”

“The application form?”

“Oh, you have to apply,” he said. “In the old days, an aspirant simply killed the old king, but we are going to be more civilized. Anyway, there is no old king to kill, just a governor and he won’t be eligible because he …”

“Isn’t white,” I said.

“We prefer the word ‘pure.’” He retrieved a reporter’s pad from a pocket of his robe and examined it. “Want to hear my proposed agenda?”

“No.”

“First, I propose to create a major city on the gulf coast of our country and turn it into a world-class entertainment center, a Mecca, so to speak of music, food, and debauchery.” He stopped and looked at me expectantly. “To attract international tourists. What do you think?”

“I think, C.W. that …”

He interrupted. “Could we go ahead and begin using ‘Your Highness?’”

“I think, C.W., the state already has such a city.”

“Next,” he said. “I will divert a substantial portion of our treasury toward creating a world class sports team that will compete with those of other southern empires.”

“Sports team?”

“Probably college football.”

“Don’t they already to that?”

“Now, he said. “About the name of our new country.”

“A name?”

“Yes, Texas has already laid claim to ‘Caucasia,’” he stared into space for a few seconds. “That would have been just great.”

“Yes,” I said. “That would fit.”

Being king would even be more fun
than being general. - C.W.

And of course Mississippi will be ‘Neverland.’”

Who could argue with that?

“And Alabama picked ‘Kuklanistan’ before we could,” he said. “But how about ‘Blanchland?”

“You are totally nuts,” I said.

He ignored me and started singing again.

“Blanchland, Blanchland, règne sur tout”

122. War

Hello my fellow Earthlings. I say that in anticipation of achieving my citizenship soon. It seems that most obstacles to my becoming a productive American have been eliminated. In fact, Big Dope is so ecstatic that I allowed him to sleep in this morning so that I might visit with you directly.

 

First, I would like to say that much of what Big Dope prints about me is slanted toward the entertainment value. I am not, I repeat not, in trouble with the Falloonian Elders. They didn’t approve of my latest fiancé, it is true, and my prank involving the painting of vaginas on certain political signs seemed odd to them. Of course I couldn’t have guessed that a grown man running for a serious national office would actually repeat the “information” I sent him concerning a rape victim’s ability to prevent pregnancy. Geez.

Well, there was that dancing horse video. But all in all they are pleased with my progress.

Which brings me to today’s project. Since all dedicated citizens should do something for their country, I ask your help in forming and supporting my latest effort, a grass-roots effort to be known as Citizens Resisting Asinine Policies, or CRAP. It primary focus is to reinstate the military draft in America. Its final aim is to stop war.

That’s right, I said use the military draft to stop war. Now you may immediately be asking yourself, why associate war with CRAP? Well the two concepts are connected like Lucky and Lefty the conjoined twins. Can you imagine our country invading another sovereign nation when facing a strong CRAP? Can you imagine the generals having to wade through CRAP? Can you imagine congress voting to sustain a bloated military while admitting that “First we must cut through the CRAP?”

No, a strong CRAP is just what this country needs.

Here’s how it would work. The concept of an all-volunteer army would be abandoned. All males, upon reaching the age of 18 would be immediately drafted into military service. No exemptions. No deferrals. We wouldn’t even need a draft board since service would be mandatory for all American males.
 

Please help me restore honor to our
country with a good CRAP.
- The Alien C.W.

Now, why subject only males to CRAP?

The mothers of America, that’s why. They would recognize the advantages of a CRAP when they saw it. And they seem to care more about their sons than they do their daughters. Don’t ask me why.

So, CRAP, in order to be effective, must fall upon our national decision makers. My research indicates that, since World War Two, your country has pretty much relied upon military action to promote its intentions with regards to other sovereign nations. What CRAP ... wait, what I mean to say is, what CRAP would do is undermine this policy approach by disarming the American Military-Industrial Complex, the monster that your former President Dwight Eisenhower warned you about. He was a man who truly saw a CRAP on the horizon.

So, you might say, “What could possibly defeat the intent of the Military-Industrial Complex? Nothing has so far.”

A good CRAP, I say to you. CRAP in the form of the mothers of America, the only known force that could bring about peace in our time.

- Your friend, C.W.

121. Interpretations

“Jesus!"

 

C.W. came running into the shop where I was woodworking. For some reason, four days before our national election, he had taken on one of his favorite forms, the spokesperson for the Conservative Youth Movement. Today, he had swapped his normal lederhosen for khakis and deck shoes, without socks of course. An expensive-looking sweater sported the CYM logo. He seemed excited.

“Are you finally getting religion?” he asked as a smile lit his face like a moonbeam hitting a rose.

“No,” I said. “I hit my finger with a mallet.”

His smile disappeared. “Still a filthy no-good atheistic liberal, then,” he said. “Who doesn’t accept our Christian nation.” He spat on the floor. “Rotten socialist.”

“Judge not lest ye be also judged,” I said.

He spat again. “Now where did you pick up that liberal crap?”

I ignored him and wrapped cloth around my finger to stop the bleeding.

“You could be doing something useful instead of wasting your time like this.”

“Wasting my time?” I said. “I am building something for my wife. “

“For your wife,” he said, almost snarling. “You should be out making money.”

“House and wealth are a heritage from fathers, but a wife with good sense is from the Lord,” I said.

“Oh please,” he said. “Spare me the touchy-feely gobbledygook. Where did you hear that, from Bill Moyers?”

“I think it was from your Book of Proverbs.”

“I doubt it,” he said. “Anyway, you seem to be doing more damage to yourself than to the wood.”

“But even if you suffer for doing what God approves, you are blessed.” I said.

“You are beginning to piss me off with this liberal line. Are you trying to get my sheep?”

“It’s goat, and that line was from your Saint Peter.”

“You are purposefully trying to upset me.”

“Don't be afraid of those who want to harm you. Don't get upset.”

“Oh yes, who said that, Jimmy Carter?”

“No, that would be your Saint Peter again.”

“Look,” he said. “I’m tired of your fuzzy thinking.” He smiled at his mastery of our idiom. “Besides, I’m going to a Pro-Israel rally.”

“That’s nice.”

I don't care what St. Peter says.
I'll intepret the prophecy of scriptures
as I see fit. - C.W.

“They want us to invade Iran,” he said, smiling at the thought. “I’m going to volunteer to be on the Draft Board. We will all be expected to do our part.”

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” I said.

“You and those fromage-eating surrender monkeys.”

“Have fun at your rally,” I said. “Kill a liberal for me.”

“We’ll not kill you when we take over,” he said. “We will just enjoy your agonies during your rehabilitation.” He smiled.

“Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

“Spout that crap while you still can,” he said as he walked away. “Our Christian-nation day is coming.”

120. Frights

Disappointed I was. C.W. had led me to believe that I would finally get to see him in his true Falloonian shape. That has been his most closely guarded secret, as his long-time fans know. With Halloween approaching, however, he hinted that he might reveal all. The world shuddered in anticipation, at least my part of the world.

 

At the last minute he changed his mind.

“Your species isn’t ready,” he said. He was uncommonly serious about it but I pressed him anyway.

“What do you mean, we’re not ready?” I said. Then hoping to tease him into it, “We survived Donald Trump, Ann Coulter, and Adam Sandler.”

“I know,” he said. “The Jupiterians already got some of the best ones.”

“Then why are you worrying.”

“Can you imagine what would happen if I hit the front page of The National Enquire?” he said. “I would be the laughing stock of the Paskintwarla Galaxy.”

“But think of how much joy you would bring,” I said. We were in a secluded area of our farm, away from prying eyes. He had been trying on forms for Trick or Treat, his favorite time of the American year. “The common folk would be overjoyed.”

He stopped walking and turned toward me. I looked at him and my blood ran cold. I was staring into the face of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia.

“The common folk?” he said. Then his eyes went red and I found myself looking into a cosmic void so dark and threatening that I couldn’t move.

“The common folk” he repeated.

I found my voice somehow. “I think you might get arrested for contempt of court.” I walked ahead of him.

“Had you going, didn’t I?” A friendlier voice echoed from the white oak trees and I looked to see the form of Mickey Rooney hurrying to catch me. “Whatcha think?”

“I think your job is to scare people on Halloween, not confuse them.”

“Oh,” he said, visibly disappointed.

I stopped to make sure an oddly shaped branch on the ground wasn’t a snake. I was stepping over it when I heard sobs. I turned to see a face wracked in sorrow, red and streaming tears. Oh dear, it was Jimmy Swaggart.

“I just want to bring joy to people,” he blubbered. “This is a time of the year that your people forget their sorrows for a few minutes. Believe me, I know, for I have sinned.” He stopped to blow his nose.

“I think he reinvented himself,” I said. “He’s on top again now.”

He claims that we have no
idea what scary is. - C.W.

The figure sniffed and we continued our walk.

“You are not being much help,” he said.

“You need to be really scary for Halloween,” I said. “It takes talent to scare the daylights out of people.”

He was silent for a moment. “Can it be two people?”

I thought. “I suppose. A scary duo? Yeah. That might work,” I said, thinking of a pairing like The Werewolf and the Mummy, or Frankenstein and Dracula.

“Do you want to see something really scary?” a female voice said. I turned to look and my knees gave way as darkness enveloped me. The last words I remember were “I’d like you to meet my daughter, Honey Boo Boo.”