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13 August 2010
No. 368 (cartoon)
I don’t believe in life after death.
I don’t believe in life before death.
14 August 2010
Some Typographical Errors Are Worse Than Others
Alexia sent me an invitation to her “Flute Rectal.”
I made an unconvincing excuse about having to attend a previously-scheduled event on the same afternoon.
I wonder if anyone will go to her flute rectal? Some typographical errors really are worse than others.
15 August 2010
I made the mistake of using the ancient cliché, “a picture is worth a thousand words,” when I was talking with Hubert, an economist with the Federal Reserve Bank.
“Actually,” Hubert replied, “a picture is now worth only three hundred and thirteen words.”
“But words are cheap!” I protested.
Big mistake: never argue with an economist. Hubert went on to “explain” how the value of imagery was artificially inflated by some damn thing or another, and that words have followed a “text constant” that has varied little since the century after Gutenberg did his printing press thing. Or something like.
I was originally going to illustrate this story with a gratuitous photograph, but, given the amount of work involved for such little added value, decided not to do so.
I’m grateful to Hubert for his befuddling enlightenment; I can always use yet another reason to be slothful.
16 August 2010
Burial at Sea
I’m taking care of Jonathon’s fish while he’s on holiday. All of my finny friends are well, all except the two that died. Fish do that; we all do, or will.
As a good caretaker, I never bury my charges alive. That’s why I put the apparent fish cadavers in the toilet bowl to make sure they weren’t playing possum, or the marine equivalent. After waiting a few hours for the fish to move, I decided to send them into the Pacific Ocean. Normally, putting fresh-water fish into salt water is a guaranteed disaster, but, since the fish were already dead, there wasn’t much more that could go wrong.
I flushed the toilet before going to bed tonight, and that was that.
17 August 2010
She Should Have Said Something
I like reading people’s last words. I should probably be thinking of mine; I’m going to need them some day. I don’t want to end up like Pancho Villa, whose last utterance was, “Tell them I said something.”
Kathleen Gomez Collier should have planned ahead, in more ways than one. The unfortunate woman was lost, and chatting on her telephone while driving. Bad idea. She was still talking as she drove down a boat ramp into the Sacramento River. Her last act was to tell her daughter that her car was filling with water and request that she call her insurance agent.
She should have said something. Searchers found her body the following morning.
18 August 2010
Astronomers report, “over the past billion years, about a quarter of the moon’s 4.5 billion-year lifespan, it has shrunk about 200 meters in diameter.”
This is news?! Poppycock and bollocks; that’s what I say.
Ever since I was old enough to look at the sky, I’ve noticed the moon shrinking. On almost a lunar cycle, even. It always grows back, so I don’t know what all the hubbub is about.
I think the whole “shrinking moon” is just another cockamamie story concocted out of scientific boredom and the global hubbub deficiency.
19 August 2010
I like beer, generally speaking. I love excellent beer, and, on a hot day, tolerate beer-flavored water mislabeled by greedy and/or ignorant American shysters as, “beer.” Having experienced virtually all of the beer spectrum and beyond, I have yet to find a beer deficient in lactose and vitamins.
An Austrian brewmeister has allegedly solved that nonexistent problem by inventing cheesy beer. (I rarely use the word “allegedly,” but will in this case since the story appears only once on the entire Internet, and is devoid of specific specifics, including the name of the brewery.)
In addition to providing lactose and vitamins, the cheesy beer is claimed (by who? or is it whom?) to improve one’s sex life. I don’t know why I wrote that sentence; is there anything for sale without a marketing campaign that doesn’t at least insinuate enhanced sexual gratification?
As for the cheesy beer, I’m not buying it, figuratively or literally. I don’t need more lactose or vitamins in my diet. And if I’m going to splurge on cholesterol, I’d rather go all the way and indulge in a grilled cheese sandwich instead of cheesy beer. And then there’s this: cheesy beer has less alcohol than other beer. All the data suggest that this is an American, not Austrian, concoction.
Wake me up when someone invents habañero beer.
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©2010 David Glenn Rinehart