EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 

TRUTH

The Alien C.W came by earlier this morning in a state of great confusion, or at least as he appeared to be in the shape of a modern Walter Cronkite.

"Woe be unto me," he said. He sometimes talks that way on Sunday.

"What's up?"

"Troubles."

"Troubles?"

"I've been accused of ballinkoutrazz."

"Say what?"

"Making things up. Lying, Submitting a false report to the Faloonian Elders."

"Say what?"

"You know I transmit a report to them each what you call, 'Saturday' on the goings on here."

"Yes. What happened?"

"You know they have a pretty good understanding of things here."

"Yes. I've seen some of your reports. Quite well done, as I recall, except for the time you referred to me as a 'kept pet.'"

"Not anymore. I'm accused of sluth."

"You mean sloth?"

"That's what I said."

"Why?"

"They say the last report cannot be accepted as the work of a true observer."

"Why?"

"No clue have I. Here. Read it for yourself." He handed me a sheet of writing.

It began, "As of today, Donald J. Trump appears tied for election of President of the country to which I am assigned with a fair chance of winning."

I looked at him. "So?"

"They say there is no country on no planet in any galaxy where this could be true."

"You've got a problem," I said.

"If you think that's a problem. Read the next line."

I looked. It read, "And his running mate seems destined for a fair chance also of being elected."