Stare.
 
2008 Notebook: Weak XXXVII
 
   
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10 September 2008
No. 5,405 (cartoon)
I’m unhappy unless you’re unhappy.

I’m unhappy with that.

That makes me happy.

11 September 2008
Another Tedious Airport Story
An airport security guard confiscated my plastic knife, despite its provenance: I got it on a recent flight from Hawaii. And so, I had no choice but to commend the worker for his bureaucratic vigilance.

“Well spotted, Sherlock,” I said, “You can keep it.”

I was surprised when the guard seemed to take umbrage at my compliment. Who wouldn’t want to be favorably compared to the greatest detective ever, even if if he was fictional? Oh well, I suppose I can’t expect the morons posing—poorly—as anti-terrorism experts to be high school graduates.

12 September 2008
Oh Blanada!
Marie gave me a warm welcome to Canada, which it turns out is actually Blanada. And the province of Ontario? That’s Nontario. And there are no oranges in Orangeville, thus it’s really Orangenil.

We started a fire, ate nuts and berries, and laughed at the tedious Blanadians.

13 September 2008
Potatoes: Watch Them Grow!
I saw a large sign by the road at the edge of a farm: Potatoes: Watch Them Grow! That sounded tedious, the agricultural equivalent of a submarine race. Tedium is relative, and Blanada is so boring that watching the tubers’ progress into spudhood is a relatively interesting proposition. And so, I wasn’t surprised when a couple parked their car, pulled out folding chairs, and enjoyed a picnic lunch while watching the potatoes grow.

I don’t think they saw much. They were only there for a few minutes before the rain and hail returned and forced them back into their automobile. They drove off into the afternoon darkness. I watched the potatoes grow for a couple of minutes before I continued my trip through oblivion.

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14 September 2008
Omelette in a Glass
I stopped at the Nifty Nook for breakfast, an establishment that was neither nifty nor a nook. The diner advertised “Flora’s Famous Omelette in a Glass,” so that’s what I ordered. I’m glad I did; it was delightfully salty and greasy, and the little drizzle of maple syrup was a nice touch.

I enjoyed the food as well as the presentation. When I was finished, the thick patina of fat on the glass was proof that I certainly had enjoyed a quality omelette.

15 September 2008
Blanadian Nudes
Whilst driving through Nontario, I spotted a sign for the Four Seasons Nudist Resort. I’m not at all prudish, but the thought of Blanadian nudists scared me. In particular, I’m concerned about Blanadian nudes in the spring.

I’ve been in Blanada in the spring, and the sight of a even a scantily-clad Blanadian—let alone a nude one—is disturbing. To appreciate this, one has to remember that the Blanadian winter is six or seven months long. During that period, the residents of the dark, frozen north wear multiple layers of long underwear, wool shirts and pants, and puffy jackets. Oh, and let us not forget ridiculous stretch hats, each emblazoned with the logotype of a hockey team and/or beer company. I don’t blame them for their ridiculous attire; it’s the only way they can survive in their gelid wasteland.

And then comes spring.

I’ve been in Nontario in the spring, and seen what the natives look like when they walk around in short-sleeved shirts and knickerbockers when the ice floes finally recede. Their pallid, pasty skin was covered with strange blueish-grey and sickly green blotches. It could have been some sort of mold that grows in the damp, fetid darkness, or perhaps some sort of skin lesion brought on by traces of frostbite. All I know is that I haven’t seen complexions like that in California outside of a morgue.

Blanadian nudes in the spring?! Flee!

16 September 2008
Not Dreaming in Flint
I awoke from a dream at my mother’s house in Flint, Michigan, to the sound of heavy rain and railroad whistles in the distance. No, that’s not quite right. There are no dreams, just nightmares, in Flint.

17 September 2008
Artist and Ploiter
I just discovered that I’m a ploiter, someone who putters around ineffectually. I’ve always been a ploiter, but it’s just been recently that I discovered that the word exists. I could be ploiting right now, but I’m not sure if ploit is a verb. I could look it up in the dictionary, but that exercise alone would be an example of ploiting.

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©2008 David Glenn Rinehart