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Weak XLV

5 November 2014

No. 8,626 (cartoon)

When will I see you again?

You’ve never seen me.

Fine. When are we having sex again?

6 November 2014

My Kind

I liked Lina’s video demonstrating how to use a shotgun as a fire extinguisher, and told her that it was a great idea that even a pyromaniac could love. That compliment, like most of the things I tell her, was the wrong thing to say.

“David, I’ve never stooped to having a great idea,” she admonished me, “I only have excellent, fantastic, or sensational ideas. The only difference between them is the degree to which they reveal my brilliance.”

“Of course,” I apologized whilst rolling my eyes, “I’m sorry I forgot.”

In a rare display of magnanimity, she accepted my false contrition by noting, “such ignorance is to be expected when it comes to your kind.”

I’m not a masochist, so I wonder why I tolerate Lina? I’ve never given the matter much thought, so I can’t rule out her extensive liquor cabinet.

7 November 2014

Art Is Anal Cheese

I was completely flummoxed when Noah asked me why I made anal cheese. I can’t imagine what goes on in the mind of a ten-year-old boy, even though I’m not much more mature than that.

“I give up,” I finally answered, “what’s anal cheese?”

“Art!” Noah replied, “that’s what the sign says.”

He pointed to the crudely scrawled sign in the cheesemonger’s window. Someone who failed to grasp the critical importance of kerning had posted a sign that was supposed to have said “Artisanal cheese,” but instead read, “Art is anal cheese.”

I changed the subject; I didn’t want to get into an aesthetic discussion with a young boy about whether or not art is anal cheese or vice versa.

8 November 2014

Mediocre Prussian Poets

Alina is earning her doctor of philosophy degree by analyzing the work of obscure eighteenth century Prussian poets to determine why they were all but forgotten even when they were alive. She told me that her research was conclusive: they earned their anonymity the traditional way, by penning pathetically mediocre work.

She told me the real challenge will be fluffing her simple conclusion into four hundred pages of academic tedium, including fifty pages of footnotes that no one will ever read. She long ago concluded the lifeless labor will be well worth it since that’s the only way she can win the respect of others who’ve also demonstrated their ability to achieve such a challenging, meaningless accomplishment.

Alina believes the good life can be won by degrees; I believe pussyfooting is for cats. We can and do respectfully disagree; that’s what fiends are for. On the other hand, we concur that typos in general and Freudian slips in particular don’t exist.

9 November 2014

Thoughtless Thinking

After Jacob described his latest cockamemie scheme in mind-numbing detail, he noticed my skeptical looks and added, “but I realize it may just be wishful thinking.”

“I certainly wouldn’t describe it that way,” I replied.

“Really?” he asked.

“Really,” I replied, “that’s being rather too generous. I’d describe it more as thoughtless thinking.”

Jacob was crestfallen. I hated to shatter his delusions of satisfactoriness, but it’s the least I could do for a friend. And for that reason, I didn’t tell him that I quite liked the idea of thoughtless thinking; that may be a rich vein worth exploring.

10 November 2014

But How Does It Taste?

Logan’s a birdbrain, that is to say, he’s fascinated by all things avian. I asked him to tell me something about birds that would amaze me, so he did. He said there was some damn bird that could fly for three years in a row without resting, something about each half the brain taking turns sleeping, picking fish out of the ocean without landing, and other useless information.

I confounded him with the simplest of questions: how does it taste? He had no idea. I guess Logan’s not really much of a birdbrain after all.

11 November 2014

Snowing Like Hotcakes

Nico lives in Wisconsin; she got caught in a snowstorm there today. She called me to rave about the inclement weather.

“It’s snowing like hotcakes!” she enthused. “It’s iced up like a galoot’s galoshes!”

And so on.

I can’t decide which is worse: the folksy midwestern colloquialisms or the wretched weather. I don’t have to decide; I’m fortunate that both are too far away to be of any concern, Nico’s irksome weather reports notwithstanding.

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©2014 David Glenn Rinehart