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Weak XV

9 April 2018

No. 6,344 (cartoon)

Why did you become a veterinarian?

People pay me to murder their small dogs.

10 April 2018

Black Cats in a Coalmine at Midnight

Deirdre is bragging about her ridiculously expensive new camera as if spending a lot of money was some sort of notable personal achievement. She boasted that her camera was so advanced that she was now able to photograph black cats in a coalmine at midnight by the light of a single candle.

She never will; she’s all hat and no cattle.

Photographers have been bloviating about making such a photograph since long before I was born, and I’m fairly certain no one ever has. I know she never will, and not only because the last coal mines in California, the Tesla mines, closed in 1911.

Deirdre is one of those photographers who will never make the images she claims that she wants to create because she doesn’t have the right cameras and lenses. They don’t exist and never will. And even if they did, that’s when she’d decide to take up painting and never make one because she’ll be forever looking for the perfect paints, brushes, and canvases.

11 April 2018

Let Me Get My Heads

Every country has an imaginary zone. Canada has the mythical “Newfoundland,” a fictional island somewhere in the ocean where “Dildo” is the third largest city. The Easter bunny seems more believable.

And the Americans have a make-believe place called West Virginia, where every man is every woman’s father, brother, and son, and vice versa. That’s why I just rolled my eyes when I heard the tall tale about Roena Cheryl Mills.

The alleged events took place on April Fool’s Day in West Virginia; that was the first red flag. She was covered in blood, carrying a knife, and talking with an invisible “Daddy” when deputies asked her to leave a neighbor’s property.

Mills protested when the cops forcibly removed her, screaming, “Let me get my heads!” That sounds of kind of like, “Let me gather my wits,” but it’s completely different. She wanted to retrieve the head of Bo White, her late boyfriend. He was late, not because he wasn’t punctual, but because she cut off his noggin.

I think she’s actually rather attractive for a hillbilly, but she’s no Ellie May Clampett, and certainly not beautiful enough to make me lose my head.

And anyway, this is all balderdash, because everyone knows there’s no such hell as West Virginia. And no woman would cut off her boyfriend’s head on April Fool’s Day unless she had a really great West Virginian sense of humor.

12 April 2018

Nixon and Close

Two of my favorite artists, Chuck Close and Nicholas Nixon, are vanishing in front of my eyes. Sort of. They’ve both been tried and found guilty in the court of public opinion of being dirty old men.

Large exhibits of their work have been canceled or taken off gallery walls ahead of schedule because of the way they treated models and students. I find this problematical since taken to its logical conclusion the only art and music anyone will experience will be made by politically correct saints.

I also have problems with Close and Nixon’s behavior; they used their positions of power to act creepily with people who weren’t in a position to tell them to bugger off. I’m bothered by their apparent misuse of authority, but I don’t think that’s a reason to hide their work.

I’m not one to judge anyone’s consensual behavior. I’m thinking of my late friend Charles Gatewood. He was definitely a dirty old man; Dirty Old Man is the title of his unpublished autobiography.

13 April 2018

Brett’s Missing Pants

Brett told me that had a nice visit with Rhonda last night. He used her washing machine to clean his laundry while they went out to dinner. But that was then; this morning they had a nasty falling out.

It started innocently enough when Brett realized that he’d left some of his laundry in her clothes dryer. He sent her a brief message, “Sorry, but I left my pants at your place.” That was all it took to set off a tirade.

Rhonda sent him a nastygram complaining that “all men were pigs,” “why couldn’t a guy visit and not leave his trousers just once,” and, “if you think ‘pants’ rhymes with ‘romance’ you got another think coming.”

He said he was tempted to note that “mercurial” apparently rhymes with “menopause,” but decided to cut his losses at two pairs of britches and make a note of the false economy of “free” laundry.

14 April 2018

The Fecal Sciences

I think unforeseen consequences are one of the great underappreciated forces of nature. For example, what’s the best way to dry hands after washing them in a public toilet?

Once upon a time, sanitary engineers, i.e. the poor folks who have to clean the filthy facilities, installed long rolls of cloth towels that could be washed, dried, and reused. The problem was that they absorbed organic matter that might be transferred to the next user.

Paper towels largely replaced them, but at the expense of using dead trees to simply absorb water. Electric hand dryers that projected a jet of hot air were deemed to be more hygienic, or at least they were until scientists from the University of Connecticut documented that the devices were bathing users’ hands in fecal dust, bacteria, human pathogens, et cetera.

I just shrugged and tossed their paper, Deposition of Bacteria and Bacterial Spores by Bathroom Hot Air Hand Dryers, into the recycling bin. I’m ignoring all the latest trends in science and wiping my wet hands on my pants as humans have been doing with impunity for centuries.

15 April 2018

Roscoe’s Hilarious Letter

Roscoe insisted on reading me the hilarious letter he just received. Since I was too lazy to flee, I had to reluctantly agree.

This is a difficult letter for me to write so I’ll get right to the point. I’m ending our relationship unilaterally and forever; there’s nothing to discuss. I can understand why this has probably come as a complete shock.

I still remember our last visit. I was so close to you as we gazed into each other’s eyes that I could feel your breath. You were very patient and trusting as I was alternately rough and gentle as I probed you. You were great, but it’s over.

Goodbye ...

“What’s so funny about that? I asked. “It sounds creepy.”

“Not at all,” he laughed. “It’s a letter from my dentist; she’s retiring and shutting down her practice.”

I had to admit that was a pretty good punchline.

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©2018 David Glenn Rinehart