Why not just commit suicide?

That would be redundant.

I know next to nothing about entomology, but their conclusions seem quite rational. After all, people around the world are living longer and longer and getting stupider and stupider.

I enjoyed getting to know them, but I’m not exactly sure why. They’d appear to be good blokes, but I think the true reason is that meeting them in Dr. McMullen’s presence gives them a certain cachet. She’s like that, and I’m very glad that she is.

He never said that; Yogi Berra “inspired” that remark. I’m revealing my source—something I almost never do—because I just discovered Berra’s source: Richard Daly.

Daly, the short, bloated fascist who was mayor of Chicago during the 1968 Democratic convention, presided over an organized police assault on peaceful demonstrators. The police, who literally bludgeoned in protesters’ heads in front of television cameras, came in for virulent condemnation for their Gestapo tactics. Daly came to their defense, and demanded that journalists to stop criticizing his henchmen.

“Gentlemen, get the thing straight once and for all,” Daly lectured, “the policeman isn’t there to create disorder, the policeman is there to preserve disorder.”

I’m sure Daly didn’t steal that line from anyone; he wasn’t that clever.

“I wonder how much sand he’ll show up with?” Charlie snickered.

“I think you’re being too hard on him,” I said. “His English is better than your Spanish.”

“I know, but we’re talking about a written spelling error by a guy sitting next to a dictionary,” Charlie replied defensively.

“You’re being ridiculouser than usual,” I concluded. “Let’s change the subject.”

I saw no reason to mention that I didn’t know how to spell dessert either. Why should I? I hate sweets.

“How long has it been since you washed your towels?” she asked.

“Uh, a year or two, maybe never, I guess,” I replied, “Why would I?”

“Um, that would be because you’ve never washed them,” she responded.

We then launched into a learned discussion about towel physics. I posited that, since a towel never comes into contact with anything except recenty-washed skin, it’s impossible for it to get dirty. Valerie asserted that I was an ignoramus. After much backing and forthing, Valerie prevailed. The outcome was a foregone conclusion; I never win a debate with her.

I don’t care that I lost; I always dry my hands on my pants.

“Why’s that” I asked.

“One word,” Seymor replied, “ukuleles. You can’t escape their mawkish, cloying whining unless you have headphones. I wouldn’t think about going ot Hawaii without the MC5.”

I thanked Seymor for his excellent advice. I hadn’t been to Hawaii since the last millennium; I’d forgotten about the ukulele menace.

Kick out the ukuleles, Hawaiian pluckers!

It’s tediously conceptual, and I like it even though I’m a chromophobe. Eight Frequent Colors is also available as a PDF.