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Weak XXIII

5 June 2020

No. 8,889 (cartoon)

I was in a coma for two weeks, but it could have been worse.

How?

I could have been in Scottsdale.

6 June 2020

Mazel Tov Cocktails

Scottie Nell Hughes is one of those dumber-than-Mississippi-mud twits who give vacuous blond bimbos a bad name. The prominent Drumph apologist is as arrogant as she is stupid, and didn’t hesitate to identify the obvious source of police brutality in the United States: black people.

Proof? Yep. She cited a black musician’s promotional material featuring a bunch of uppity black folks: “One of his main videos starts off with a crowd throwing mazel tov cocktails at the police.”

Oy ...

In case you’re wondering, here’s the recipe for a Mazel Tov cocktail:

One part vodka
Two parts tonic water
Dash of Manischewitz (fortified Kosher wine)
Splash of bitters
Copious tears from parents upset at your life choices

I’m fairly certain that the Geneva Convention defines Manischewitz as a weapon of mass destruction and/or a chemical warfare agent, but that’s no excuse for a rabid idiot to promote such racist, anti-Semitic venom.

I don’t know what to say about such an ignoranus except this: where’s Sammy Davis Junior when we need him?

7 June 2020

Irreplaceable Earworm

I’ve got a problem, a very serious problem indeed. I have an earworm—a song stuck in my head—that gnaws on my eardrums constantly from the moment I awake until I blow out the candles and go to sleep. Earworms are immortal and cannot be annihilated—only replaced with a less annoying substitute—and that’s why I’m in trouble.

This earworm is making my life a waking nightmare because I can’t even substitute it with a less aggressive one: the song relentlessly tormenting me is The Who’s Substitute.

Oh well, at least I’ll get my washing done.

8 June 2020

Hoppityball

Why can’t rabbits walk? That’s the question that’s weighing heavily on my mind this afternoon.

I’ve only seen them hop thither and yon. They never amble, glide, hike, march, mosey, perambulate, plod, promenade, prowl, ramble, roam, sashay, saunter, slog, stroll, traipse, tromp, trudge, or walk; they just hop.

Period.

I’m not one to judge the way others live. Every bunny I see hopping is a bunny a coyote didn’t eat (yet); I can’t argue with evolutionary success.

Some harebrained behavior, such as copulating in less than four seconds, is just that. Hopping, however, offers some interesting sporting possibilities. I’m talking about my latest creation, hoppityball.

Hoppityball is the same as football (not to be confused with “American football”) except that each player’s ankles are bound together so that s/he can’t run, just hop.

I’m putting Hoppityball in the public domain in the hopes that someone will run with it, so to speak.

9 June 2020

Anonymous Condolences

I have lots of stellar friends, and thus through the laws of probability it’s not unusual for one of them to suffer from grief. This week it’s Charlie, so I sent him a nice note including this quote ...

We know that the acute sorrow we feel after such a loss will run its course, but also that we will remain inconsolable, and will never find a substitute. No matter what may come to take its place, even should it fill that place completely, it remains something else. And that is how it should be. It is the only way of perpetuating a love that we do not want to abandon.

He thanked me and asked who wrote that. I lied and told him I wasn’t sure, even though I know Sigmund Freud said that. I didn’t want him to think about all the other stupid things Freud said when reading those nice thoughts.

Jeremy Hardy understood my predicament; here’s his take on the problem: “It is always perilous to use quotations, because few people are consistently wise, and a person’s other sayings can be quoted back at us to our embarrassment. It is quite possible for a man to say something like: ‘The beauty and grace of humanity shall never be crushed by the oppressor’s boot,’ and later spoil it by saying, ‘All women are slags.’”

10 June 2020

Consarned Idjits

What a lovely day this is; I just identified something that’s been bothering me for decades but that I’ve never criticized.

Until now.

I dislike songs that fade out instead of concluding; they annoy me. It’s the musical equivalent listening to a drunk who eventually stops blathering on and on after realizing the words dribbling out haven’t changed in too long.

I suppose it’s also like a poem that ends in “blah blah blah.” There probably a lot of poems that end that way, but since I generally avoid poetry, how would I know?

Meanwhile, back to music: what’s wrong with the consarned idjits who make such stupid recordings? Yep, it sure is a good day to be a curmudgeon!

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©2020 David Glenn Rinehart