Stare.
 
2007 Notebook: Weak XLI
 
   
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9 October 2007
No. 6,492 (cartoon)
I love no one more than you.

Then that’s who you should be with.

10 October 2007
Kitty Methamphetamine
Cynthia Hunter is a free woman after spending fifty days in jail. Convicted of petty theft, Hunter spent more time behind bars than usual for such an offense after police discovered a vial of methamphetamine in her purse.

Hunter claimed the substance was powdered cat urine for her son’s science project, but a laboratory exam proved otherwise. Or rather, that’s what the police field tests concluded. Seven weeks later, a proper laboratory analysis determined that the powdered cat urine was, well, dried cat urine.

According to the article I read, “It was not clear if she had an attorney and why the substance might have tested positive for methamphetamine.” The anonymous reporter obviously knew nothing about cats. Anyone who’s spent any amount of time with crazed pusses and seen them bouncing off walls, chasing imaginary objects, and acting generally deranged, knows that cats run on kitty methamphetamine. Or, more accurately, they do for brief, maniacal spurts between naps.

11 October 2007
No Wrong Cringe Notes
I’ve been hearing more and more about “cringe readings,” where volunteers read something they wrote when they were young. And not just anything: their manuscripts need to be really, really terrible. Something so dreadfully hideous that the words make both speaker and audience cringe.

That sounds like a great idea; I wish I had copies of my early writing. I threw everything away when I realized how awful it was. That was before I knew what Thelonious Monk realized, “There are no wrong notes.”

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12 October 2007
Redefining Hot Coffee
For me, coffee isn’t a beverage and hot peppers aren’t food. Caffeine and capsicum are yummy drugs. And today, I integrated them for the first time. I simply combined four jalapeño peppers with freshly-ground Italian coffee beans, then added boiling water.

Et voilà! I just redefined hot coffee! I wonder why it took me so long to do something so obviously efficacious?

13 October 2007
Vertical Frontiers of the Erotic Sciences
A month ago I made one or more snarky remarks about some extraordinarily wealthy businessmen who seem to have bribed the government to get landing rights for their private 767 jet at a military airfield south of San Francisco, a facility that’s normally off limits to the public. In response, Julian wrote to inform me, “once again, you’ve firmly grasped the wrong end of the stick.”

Julian told me that their contract calls for more than money, they also have to use their plane to help out NASA researchers from time to time. Once Julian told me that, everything fell into place.

I remembered reading that the gazillionaires had a lengthy, public squabble about the design of their bedrooms on the plane. And so the NASA deal makes perfect sense, since research into high-altitude sex is one of the last frontiers in science.

For years, I’ve heard rumors about astronauts having sex in space. Given how conservative government bureaucrats have to be in today’s repressed sexual climate, I doubt scientists will publish any NASA sex research, even if they conducted such experiments.

I’ve been too polite to ask, but I doubt mountaineers have much—if any—sex above six kilometers. The weather’s always freezing at that altitude, and there’s barely enough oxygen to breath let alone sustain more ambitious activities.

A friend, who doesn’t want me to use her name, reported that she and her boyfriend once tried to have sex in the lavatory of a commercial airliner, but they were both laughing so hard that they couldn’t do what needed to be done.

It seems obvious that the ambitious businessmen are prepared to provide valuable scientific information to generations yet unborn. And so, I profusely apologize, without hesitation or reservation, for all the uncalled-for remarks I made about the fine gentleman and their innovative plane. Maybe now they’ll give me a free ride the next time they’re headed to Barcelona or Katmandu.

14 October 2007
I Have the Body of a Dancer
Teena looked at my quizzically when she arrived at my studio this afternoon. That made me uncomfortable, since it was the first time we’d met. It’s one thing to talk with someone on the telephone, and quite another to be in the same room.

“I thought you said you had the body of a dancer,” she said skeptically after giving me the once-over twice.

“Actually, I do,” I explained. “I keep it in formaldehyde in the basement. It’s quite interesting; would you like to see it?”

I was relieved when Teena declined my offer. I wonder if anyone will ever call my bluff on that little fib?

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©2007 David Glenn Rinehart