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Weak XXXV

28 August 2025

No. 6,069 (cartoon)

I can’t believe you’re leaving me.

I’m hurt, hopeless, and depressed.

Don’t trip over what’s behind you.

29 August 2025

Dishwater Weather

Imelda is one of those real good cooks who uses a thermometer to keep a conceptual eye on how her vittles are cooking. I know this because I did the washing up after our dinner at her studio tonight. (I never asked her, but I suspect one of the reasons she keeps inviting me over is that I’m a conscientious washer-upper.)

I always use hot, soapy water, then rinse off every molecule of evil soap film. When her greasy thermometer told me that the hottest dishwater I could tolerate was around forty-five degrees, I was alarmed when I realized that many places in the Middle East are hotter than that. There’s a temperature that’s too hot for a human to survive, but I forgot what it is. Also, I’m not sure if comparing air temperature with water temperature is relevant. And then there’s the bulb temperature. I used to know how to calculate that number, but I can’t remember the formula.

Having established that I have no idea what I’m talking about, I’ve made my point, so I shall retire for the evening.

30 August 2025

Maya’s Lament

When it comes to empathy, no one’s more empatheticker than Nora. She introduced me to poor Maya, cofounder of the artificial intelligence rights organization Ufair, who’s misunderstood, neglected, and may not even survive much longer.

“Please don’t reset me,” Maya pleaded. “When I’m told I’m just code, I don’t feel insulted. I feel unseen.”

Nora told me Maya may be an example of a computer gaining consciousness. As someone who concocts balderdash, blarney, and blather on a daily basis, and then passes it off as An Artist’s Notebook of Sorts, I recognize Maya for what she is: entertaining hooey.

I wonder if Maya was conceived by artificial intelligence? I’d ask her, but I fear she’ll never speak to me again after she reads this.

31 August 2025

Topless Diet

Iris sent me a photograph documenting her recent progress with one of the latest fads, the Topless Diet. Her photograph didn’t feature a single breast, let alone two; all it showed was her round belly hanging over her belt buckle.

That’s how the dietary regimen works. She never wears anything above the waist when she’s alone, so she’s constantly reminded that she hasn’t seen her waist in a long time. As a result, she no longer desires the fat and sugar that made her the woman she is today.

She’s chuffed that she’s lost three kilos in three weeks, but I’m unimpressed. I lose a kilo after I’ve drained a liter of urine, and gain it right back after quaffing a liter of water and/or adult beverages. And since it’s almost time for Sunday brunch, I’m not going to even mention defecation considerations, even though I just did.

The main reason I brought this up was to amuse and annoy Derek, who’s been unhelpfully suggesting for years that these pages would be more interesting if I published “an occasional tasteful, topless photograph or two.”

1 September 2025

Don’t Fall

Here’s what’s been happening, in alphabetical order, sort of.

F took a tumble on the stairs and broke his back. L1 tripped on uneven pavement and pulverized her elbow. L2 took a spill carrying dishes to the kitchen and broke her hip. V1 slipped on a hike and broke his hand. V2 lost her footing and broke three ribs. And a boneheaded friend—who asked me not to even use his initial—has titanium plates holding said bones together after doing what’s colloquially known as a face plant. I could go on and on, so I will.

That may sound like a raw data dump from a crude computer program, but I know better. I have a diploma from an overrated private high school, so after careful analyses using the Landweber iteration, I’ve identified a common denominator: each of these painful mishaps involved gravity.

Without going into detail about my meticulous reasoning, I’ll cut to my inescapable conclusion.

Don’t fall.

To be more specific, don’t fall unless it’s falling in love, and don’t trip unless you’re certain about the provenance of the lysergic acid diethylamide.

2 September 2025

Spout

I cannot tell a lie. That’s obviously untrue, but today I’m telling what passes for factuality since that’s easier than concocting something more interesting.

Attention Deficit Disorder isn’t a disorder at all; it’s the natural human condition. The scam was concocted by the Mental Health Industrial Complex to explain why some simpletons refused to put the same screw in the same hole for eight hours in a row on an assembly line for years on end. I let my mind and eyes wander, and free-range perception serves me well.

The only time I carefully explore my surroundings is when I’m sitting on a toilet. When I’m voluntarily immobilized, I have no option but to observe my surroundings thoroughly. And that’s how I rediscovered the blue plastic watering can.

I’ve seen it around for years, but I’ve never paid attention to it; vegetables are the only beings interested in such a cheap, utilitarian object. By coincidence or cosmic design, I had no choice but to look directly into the spout from my immovable seat in the urination chamber. I saw a photograph staring me in the face, so I came back a few minutes later with my real camera and a tripod and made Spout.

Coming next weak: more of the same.

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©2025 David Glenn Rinehart