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."

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 LIES

 David Letterman once commented that, in a professional wrestling match in New York City, one participant beaned another with a metal chair, creating all sorts of blood, and requiring officials to rush the recipient to the hospital.

“And there wasn’t one word about it in the New York Times this morning.”

It is that way with election news these days. One candidate simply stands before a microphone and spouts lies.

And more lies.

And more lies.

And more lies, each easily disclosed with a few computer strokes.

Over time, they become more bizarre and, well, weird. They tell of crowds that don’t exist, or do, of economies that were the greatest in the history of the world, of imaginary crime rates, of dangers far from imminent, and mostly just plain, unadulterated, out-of-this-world bullshit.

And the press treats them like the rantings of a Hulk Hogan or Jake the Snake.

“It’s just him,” the say. Whatcha gonna do?”

For one, we might remind ourselves that this is the person who seeks the most powerful job on the planet, one that makes Oprah Winfrey sound like a street corner preacher.

In other words, it is a serious matter. That red phone sits on the desk in the office he seeks.

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 POLICE OFFICERS

I’ve always gotten on well with police officers. Let me rephrase that, some of my best friends served as police officers. When I read or hear of the highly publicized malpractices of a few of the nearly three-quarters of a million law enforcement officers in our country, I think of a man I knew in a city not far from where I live.

He was a paragon of virtue. Just ask some of those who remember him. A realtor, banker, insurance agent, entrepreneur, and winner of every “man of year” award his city offered, he never harmed a soul. A real person, he is also the living representative of the same man in every city in which I’ve ever worked. The church house walls bulged at his funeral.

One of his big sources of income was selling homes to people who couldn’t afford a mortgage. He sold them “on a contract” which means they built up no equity unless the loan was paid in full. Folks in town told about the poor fellow, almost always African American, who had faithfully paid his monthly installment for years before missing a month due to a family hardship. Next day he would find his home being cleared to make way for the next family getting it “on contract.”

The newspapers never reported on that.

“Yes, as through this world I've wandered

I've seen lots of funny men

Some will rob you with a six-gun

And some with a fountain pen

And as through your life you travel

Yes, as through your life you roam

You won't never see an outlaw

Drive a family from their home.”

-          - Woody Guthrie “Pretty Boy Floyd”