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Weak XV

9 April 2016

No. 4,712 (cartoon)

I never knew what true happiness was until we got married yesterday.

That’s so beautiful; thank you.

And now it’s too late.

10 April 2016

Our Wobbly Planet

Rhonda appeared to be quite inebriated when she showed up at my studio tonight. Since I’m generally positive, I complimented her on her ability to walk in almost a straight line. She protested that she wasn’t intoxicated; that’s what drunks usually say. Instead, she blamed climate change for her unsteady gait and cited a recent article in the journal Science Advances.

The ice is shifting from west to east in Antarctica, and Greenland is shedding almost three hundred trillion kilograms of ice every year. As a result, our planet is wobbling on its polar axis, and Rhonda is wobbling down the hall.

At last, the amusing side of destroying the ecosystem!

11 April 2016

Eighteen Percent Grey Star

The Russian Communist Party is trying to trademark the red star symbol. Good luck, comrades!

At least they made a wise choice of colors. My favorite, black star, is already taken by a photo agency, a brewery, a football club, a motorcycle club, and several musicians. I wonder if eighteen percent grey star is taken? That would be a convenient star for a photographer to have.

12 April 2016

Drinking Instead of Thinking

Roscoe isn’t doing very well, so I suggested a simple solution that wouldn’t alleviate any of his myriad problems, but would certainly mask the symptoms. He initially pooh-poohed my idea because of a simple misunderstanding.

“Do you have any other recommendations from A Child’s Compendium of Trite Clichés?” he asked. “Of course I think about the big picture.”

Well, that explains everything. As is so often the case, Roscoe was slurring his hearing.

“That’s not what I said at all,” I explained. “I said think of the big pitcher as in three-liter pitcher of beer, not the big picture.”

“Ah, well then that’s different,” he agreed before correcting me again.

“No you know what your problem is?” he continued.

“How much time do you have?” I replied.

He told me my problem was that I was a thinker and not a doer. He said I should stop thinking about the big pitcher and share one with him instead.

And I did. I was happy to lose the stupid argument, especially since he picked up the tab for the big pitcher. And the next ones too!

13 April 2016

When a Goldfish Dies

Brian is very generous with everyone in general and with his mother Annette in particular. And so, when she asked him to shop for her gravesite with her, he responded with the only correct reply: “I’d love to, mom!”

An overweight man with a bad combover—is there any other kind?—in an old, threadbare suit was happy to welcome them to Pearly Lawns Cemetery. Salespeople always are.

He waited to give them his pitch until they were a captive audience on a tour of the grounds in an ancient electric golf cart.

“What do you do when a goldfish dies?” he asked rhetorically.

Annette didn’t seem at all displeased by his analogy, perhaps because she knew it would be impossible for Brian to flush her down the toilet without using an industrial blender.

The huckster continued his hard sell by rifling through dozens of sheets of paper on his clipboard then announcing with poorly feigned incredulity, “Folks, this is your lucky day!” He went on to describe “the best plot I’ve seen available here in years.”

Annette politely thanked him and said he’d given her all the information she needed to make a decision. She announced that she would have her body cremated and her ashes spread in the Pacific. For good measure, she added that she would never let it end up in a grave haunted by a sales weasel with a fake smile in a cheap suit.

He let down his guard and frowned. He knew another goldfish had eluded his net and was headed to the ocean.

14 April 2016

Fish on My Dish Is My Wish

Imelda had a tasty treat waiting for me when I arrived at her studio this afternoon: she brought me a nice piece salmon to go with our usual wine.

“I dropped it on the floor when I was having lunch today,” she explained, “but I knew you love broiled fish, so I wiped off most of the cat hair and saved it for you.”

My close friends know me well! I did indeed appreciate the delicacy, and the cat hair was a bonus. Not only was it rich in feline fiber, I didn’t need to floss until I got home.

15 April 2016

Rainier Ale: The End of the Line

Nora gave me a most unexpected gift, six cans of Rainier Ale. She bought them from a store in Zigzag, Oregon, and shipped them to me. Normally that would be a ridiculous extravagance, but we are not living in normal times. She found one of the last known caches of Rainier Ale available commercially; the inimitable elixir has been discontinued by the brewers and is no more.

These are probably the last cans of Rainier Ale I’ll ever see, so what do I do with them? Drink them, of course, but then they’d be gone in an evening. Instead, I decided to turn them into an art project, Rainier Ale: The End of the Line. I’ll drink one of them whenever someone I love dies. I’ll sip it slowly, meditatively; that’s as close as I’ll ever get to the tedium of meditation.

That’s what I plan on doing with five of the cans. As for the sixth, I’ll save that for my wedding or my wake, whichever comes first.

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©2016 David Glenn Rinehart