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Weak XLVI

12 November 2018

No. 4,665 (cartoon)

That was intense.

I’ll never forget that experience.

I wish I could.

13 November 2018

Biodegradable Sex Toys

Rosalind’s romantic involvement with Oliver lasted almost a week. I’m quite surprised; that’s much longer than usual for her. On second thought, I shouldn’t be surprised at all since she refers to men as biodegradable sex toys.

Love works in mysterious ways, and for Rosalind, it doesn’t work at all.

14 November 2018

Climate Change Can Be Wonderful!

Adriana’s knickers are in a nasty twist; nothing new there. She’s fretting that Drumpf and his troglodytes have won and that we’ll be breathing the smoke from burning forests that we’re choking on today until we drown from rising sea levels.

Pish tosh and balderdash!

Burning forests are not a long-term problem. Sooner or later we’ll incinerate all of the trees, problem solved! And as for rising oceans, I’m fifty-five meters above sea level. I’ll be enjoying oceanfront property after most of the poor sods in Florida and other coastal cities are treading water.

Climate change can be wonderful for people who can hold their breath.

Some people just plain worry too much, and Adriana’s one of ’em.

15 November 2018

Incestuous Raccoons

“I’m not really rabid, I’m just drunk.”

Who doesn’t hear that line at least several times a week?

What is purportedly news is that raccoons in West Virginia are also using that flimsy excuse as a justification for their perversely deviant behavior. Before I elaborate, I’ll state the obvious: this story is obviously untrue. West Virginia doesn’t exist; it’s a mythical hell used as a cautionary tale. Meanwhile, back at our fissured fairy tale ...

Patrol Officer Scarberry with the Milton Police Department purportedly picked up a rampaging, rabid raccoon names Dallas. Fake names in abundance! The cop believed the masked miscreant’s taradiddle about being inebriated and sent it home to the outskirts of town to sober up. Cleve R. Wootson Junior, another clearly fictitious name for an alleged Washington Post reporter, clearly didn’t do a lick of research.

Yes, the raccoon was probably crapulous, is there any creature in the imaginary “West Virginia” who isn’t? No, of course not. Every fictitious concoction there is of course as drunk as a skunk, or, in the case of Dallas, as ripped as a raccoon.

“Wootson” didn’t do his homework. Had he made an attempt to find out the first thing about West Virginia, the beast was obviously acting crazy from generations of incest and inbreeding. What else is there to do is such a miserable, hallucinatory wasteland?

16 November 2018

Drawing Conclusions

A horrific fire is still raging hundreds of kilometers from here that’s already incinerated dozens of people and thousands of homes. Given the enormity of so many tragedies, I really can’t complain about the worst air pollution in Sans Frisco history (even though I just did, albeit obliquely).

It’s virtually imperative to wear a mask to keep the cremains of those burned alive out of my lungs; almost everyone is. I decided to differentiate my mask from the rest by drawing a cat’s mouth and whiskers on it, but forgot that the only things I can draw are chess games and flies.

No one will ever mistake my squiggles for a feline face, alas, so I’m going back to making conceptual art. I can’t use the label of that particular pigeonhole without thinking of Grady T. Turner’s line, “[Homer] Simpson took note of the medium that pop culture reserves for the truly talentless: conceptual art.”

17 November 2018

Luciana’s Funeral

I don’t know any two people who think about their inevitable deaths the same way. Even so, Luciana has a most unusual concern: she confided that she worried that no one will come to her funeral.

I only visit living people, not dead ones, but I lied and promised I’d be there if she popped her clogs first. I even cited Yogi Berra’s reasoning: “Always go to other people’s funerals; otherwise, they won’t go to yours.”

18 November 2018

Gravity Calibrator

Nell works for a “defense” contractor inside a fortified command bunker deep inside a mountain near Reno. The job isn’t that challenging, and not just because no one’s mounted a serious attack since 1812 or so. Her only task is to calibrate the gravity monitors, which isn’t a challenge since gravity is a constant.

She spends most workdays swigging gin in the bathroom and reading crappy novels. I’d find the boredom unbearable, but she loves her job. As she explained it, getting paid over a hundred thousand dollars a year for meaningless work is a tribute to the military-industrial complex that makes this country great for the rich.

19 November 2018

Hairy Turtle

Imogen is one of those parents who worries too much and tries too hard. Instead of letting her four-year-old daughter Gertrude simply enjoy the fleeting delights of being a little girl, Imogen has been reading her Aesop’s Fables in order to teach her about the value of hard work, perseverance, self-sacrifice, and all the other tedious burdens of being an adult that will soon swamp her.

Two can play at that game, and Gertrude is winning. She shared her interpretation of The Hare and the Tortoise: the hairy turtle’s fuzzy mane confused the rabbit so much that it won the race.

Brilliant!

I’ve been confusing people with my hair all of my life; I’m glad she learned that important lesson at an early age. Unlike Imogen, I’m sure Gertrude will be fine.

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©2018 David Glenn Rinehart