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Weak XLVIII

26 November 2019

No. 2,539 (cartoon)

You have blood on your breath.

Everyone smells their own plasma.

27 November 2019

Furtively Making Omelette Rolls

I love The Literary Review.

Having said that, I can hear all of my friends protesting, “But you don’t even like litterture!”

Actually, I can’t. Hear them, that is. Regardless, the reason I like the rag is because of their annual bad sex in fiction awards. It’s a great excuse for me to take the day off and cite some amazing writing.

My favorite from the shortlist of contenders for the prize no one wants is the French writer, Didier Decoin. Here’s the brilliant excerpt from his book, The Office of Gardens and Ponds.

“... he would then rub his organ as if he were furtively making omelette rolls.”

Ooh la la; how very French!

Or maybe not. Perhaps Decoin’s getting a bad rap because of bad translation. (Note the British spelling of “omelet.”) What if the author was talking about a Hammond B-3 organ? I’ve heard sounds come from that iconic instrument that have all the steamy cholesterol goodness of a fresh, oily omelet.

That’s enough speculation for now; I’ll find out if my bet won in a few days.

28 November 2019

Broken Filter

I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve probably bought well over a hundred camera lenses, so I won’t. Instead, I’ll say that the first thing I do with a new lens is put a clear filter on the lens, even though it degrades the optical quality. I use the relatively cheap glass to protect the expensive optics from scratches, pollutants, et cetera.

After over four decades of serious—as well as whimsical!—photography, a filter finally made the ultimate sacrifice for the lens it was guarding. I put my Nikon on a table and missed; I’ll come up with a plausible excuse later. The camera landed on the brick floor. The body and lens survived just fine, but the filter shattered.

Perfect! That’s one more thing for which to be grateful on this snowy Thanksgiving. After all, I’d feel pretty stupid on my deathbed if I’d pissed away thousands of dollars on filters I never needed.

29 November 2019

Prefab Nostalgia

Noah showed me the new toaster he bought yesterday. It’s cute, if indeed a kitchen appliance can be cute. It’s also stupid. Some idiot designer added the word “Nostalgia” in chrome lettering. Or maybe s/he wasn’t an imbecile after all, because Noah spent a hundred dollars on a toaster that doesn’t work very well.

30 November 2019

A Pencil Sharpener?!

The local university library features lots of power outlets on every desk and table. No surprises there; it’s almost mandatory in a world where almost everyone burdens themselves with all sorts of electronic doodads and gizmos.

The only electronic device at my table was a pencil sharpener. A pencil sharpener! Ha! I had no idea that people still used pencils. I think it’s hilarious that even one of the oldest and simplest writing tools now requires electricity. Ogden Nash was right: “Progress might have been alright once, but it has gone on too long.”

1 December 2019

Ignorance and Laziness Über Alles

“If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There's no point in being a damn fool about it.”

That excellent advice has been attributed to W. C. Fields, but he almost certainly never said that. And that concludes today’s research.

John Richards, who founded the Apostrophe Protection Society in 2001, is no damn fool. I know this is true because he just disbanded the organization.

“Fewer organizations and individuals are now caring about the correct use of the apostrophe in the English language,” he wrote. “We, and our many supporters worldwide, have done our best but the ignorance and laziness present in modern times have won!”

No surprises there; ignorance and laziness always triumph.

2 December 2019

The Fix Is In!

Literary Review judges announced two winners for the 2019 Bad sex in fiction awards. (That’s their curious capitalization, not mine.) The 2019 prize for “the year’s most outstandingly awful scene of sexual description in an otherwise good novel” goes to my favorite pick, Didier Decoin, as well as to British novelist John Harvey.

What a travesty of litterary “justice!” Here’s what the Brit wrote:

“She was burning hot and the heat was in him. He looked down on her perfect black slenderness. Her eyes were ravenous. Like his own they were fire and desire. More than torrid, more than tropical: they two were riding the equator. They embraced as if with violent holding they could weld the two of them one.”

That’s certainly moderately cringeworthy, but it’s clearly not as truly awful as Decoin’s, “... he would then rub his organ as if he were furtively making omelette rolls.”

The fix is in! I wonder how much I’d have to bribe the judges to buy the award for awful writing about sex. Probably quite a lot, since not only have I never written anything like that, I haven’t even read enough of the stinkers to plagiarize.

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©2019 David Glenn Rinehart