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Weak XI

13 March 2019

No. 7,218 (cartoon)

You take my breath away.

That’s the whole point of strangling you.

14 March 2019

Inanimate Relationships

Elaine told me that Kurt proposed having an inanimate relationship with her.

“That’s pretty creepy even for Sans Frisco,” I opined.

“Oh well,” she replied, “at least he didn’t suggest an intimate relationship; that would be even more disgusting.”

“How do you handle unwanted advances?” I asked.

“Cruelty is the only language people like Kurt understand,” she explained.

It’s too bad Hieronymus Bosch isn’t around. I can’t think of anyone else who could document the contemporary courtship landscape with all of its inanimate relationships and much, much worse.

15 March 2019

Stuck in 2003

Alphonse is still profoundly embarrassed by the time when he ... oh, nevermind.

“2003 was a long time ago,” I reminded him.

“Only in chronological years,” he replied. “Every day is still 2003 for me.”

I wonder if there is any way to bring people who live in the past into real time? I suppose not since so many people are stuck in 2003 or worse. I prefer the present, so I really should be getting back there now and seeing what it’s like today.

16 March 2019

Micropixie Revisited

I haven’t seen Neshma, also known as Micropixie, in at least a dozen years. I don’t know how she is these days, but back then Single Beige Female—another nom de art—was working so hard at being enigmatic that she didn’t have time to develop any flavor of relationship.

I thought of her the other day when I found the business card she gave me. It too was diminutive (only three by four centimeters), so I filed in a plastic casing for computer memory. I put it on my desk with thoughts of contacting her, then proceeded to drip wine on it as is tradition.

The dried wine spot aligned perfectly with her eyes, so I photographed it. Now that I have a digital copy of her card, I discadred—no pun intended— the physical one. I’m surprised that people are still passing out pieces of cardboard printed with contact information in 2019, but they are. The only thing I should be surprised about is that anything still surprises me.

17 March 2019

Our Hearts Alight

Duane, the editor of Poetic Gleanings Gazette, wrote to tell me that the assertion I made a month ago that ninety-nine percent of poetry is crap was overly optimist by an order of magnitude. That sounded like rather harsh criticism, even though I’m not really sure what an order of magnitude is.

He explained that his job would be impossible without the help of a computer program that automatically culls bad submissions before they reach his desk. It’s pretty simple; the algorithm simple deletes any alleged poem containing a list of words found almost exclusively in crap poetry such as “ebony,” “gossamer,” “maelstrom,” et cetera.

I protested that couldn’t be completely accurate; he replied that he wasn’t bothered if there was one good poem among the thousands automatically erased. He concluded by letting me in on a little trade secret: there’s never been a good poem—never ever—with a reference to a whale, porpoise, or any other marine mammal.

I wrote one to see how easy writing bad poetry is.

We see the whales a-jumpin’
We see the dolphins a-humpin’
We delight in Neptune’s splendour,
’Til all our hearts surrender!

Yep; Duane sure was right. Penning crap poetry is effortlessly and deficaciously easy.

The Internet says I’m the first person to ever use that word. And so, having made my contribution to society, I shall now take a well-unearned nap.

18 March 2019

The Problem with Politics

I read The Rutland Herald; the newspaper’s fearless journalists report the news that lesser periodicals don’t have the courage to print. No other rag would risk the political and economic repercussions of publishing the story of how the first thing the newly elected mayor of Fair Haven, Vermont, did after taking office was to defecate in public. He smirked while he waited for the subservient police chief to clean up the mess.

That’s the politics always works behind closed doors in smoke-filled rooms and other clichés, but only Mayor Lincoln had the chutzpah to run a transparent government.

Mayor Lincoln has another rare trait in a politician: he’s a Nubian goat. I’m glad that he provided the empirical evidence for something I’ve always believed: the problem with politics isn’t politicians; the problem with politics is human beings.

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©2019 David Glenn Rinehart