Why haven’t I seen severed chocolate fingers before?

But that’s not the worst of my problems.

It seems that none of the sullen air servants realize the perils of dehydration on eleven-hour flights. I’m on my own, and decided to act accordingly. That’s when the real trouble started.

“Monsieur, no no no no no!”

That’s what the nefarious “flight attendant” shrieked when she caught me grabbing a few tiny bottles of cheap wine from the galley. Le grande fit du hissy!

Then things got worse.

Since none of my three French basic phrases seemed appropriate for the situation, I resorted to primitive French. I made a nasally congested snort followed my an almost inaudible grunt.

The waitress of the sky responded in kind. She threw back her head, aimed her nostrils at me, snorted contemptuously, then made a strange guttural sound.

It was a French standoff.

The American government is a collector with narrowly defined interests. Every year, the American government wants to review more images of ducks. No kittens, beautiful women, or heroic landscapes need apply; the bureaucrats want pictures of ducks.

When it comes to art, the American government’s desires are extraordinarily practical. The government reproduces the image winning duck on federal “duck stamps,” a government license every duck hunter is required to purchase.

Government art: quack, quack, quack!

Q: What would it take to reunite the Beatles?

A: Three more bullets.

I’ll never tell that horrible joke again. I just learned that, like all things, George Harrison has passed. It’s all very sad. Fifty-eight is too young to die, and cancer’s a horrible way to go. Although I’ve never had any interest in Harrison’s spiritual pursuits, I’ve always liked his music, especially his plaintive voice.

This is all very morose, but I suppose that’s to be expected when it comes to death and bad jokes.

The garish display is an electric carbuncle on an otherwise grand panorama. I’m annoyed, but only moderately. It’s only going to get worse over the next few weeks.

Bah humbug.

In fact, Fine Arts Vision appears to be nothing more than the biggest television set in the world. The Grundig site shows a grown man dwarfed by a mammoth television set the size of a truck. I can’t tell whether the man is controlling the television, or vice-versa.

The ad promises, “a new dimension in vision coupled with creative aesthetics.” Creative aesthetics! What will those wacky Germans think of next?!

I have no use for Grundig’s “Fine Arts Vision.” Although the Teutonic box is a handsome toy, I doubt there’s anything in it.

Contemporary Art Perspectives is a tedious read, full of long-winded essays in which a variety of critics go on and on and on and on some more. The writers spoke with one voice, the voice of a boor.