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Weak XLVIII

26 November 2020

No. 878 (cartoon)

You’re covered in blood!

Don’t worry; it’s not mine.

27 November 2020

Pots and Pans and the Universe

I’m only technically proficient at two things: still photography and washing dishes. No one’s ever disagreed with that until tonight, when Helen complained that I didn’t polish the copper bottom of the pot I used for cooking chili. I promised I’d do so the next time a recipe called for cooking food on the outside of a pan. She said it was about aesthetics, not hygiene, and that she didn’t want to look at “dirty” pots.

And that’s when the ridiculous exchange took a turn for the ridiculouser.

“It’s not a long term problem,” I insisted. “The sun will explode in a few billion years and then it won’t be a concern anymore.”

“It’s always about you, isn’t it?” she complained. “Your life, your home, your precious little planet. Why does it always have to be you, you, you?!”

She pointed out that the end of the sun would still leave all but three of the planets going about their galactic business, and why wasn’t I concerned about them? She added that in four and a half billion years—give or take—our Milky Way will collide with the Andromeda Galaxy.

What a great debating technique: she took our little kitchen spat and turned it into an argument of literally universal proportions. I welcomed the distraction from polishing pans, and told her I’d like to discuss this over a few tumblers of whisky. She went into the main studio to grab a bottle, and I followed her after quickly hiding the offending pans.

We agreed over the course of too many drams to count that life is indeed short, and a lovely night was had by all.

28 November 2020

No More Fucking in Austria

’twould appear that I’ll never experience Fucking in Austria, alas ...

That was the only text in Mick’s brief message, so I took the bait and called him.

“What’s all the rubbish about Austria?” I asked. “Aren’t you still priding yourself on being an isolationist who’ll never have a passport?”

A little logic goes a long way on a good day, and that was all it took to ruin his setup line. It didn’t really matter though—very little does—because I also knew the punch line.

I look at the same Internet as him, so I knew he was talking about the small town of Fucking, Austria. Soon there will be no Fucking in Austria; the good burghers have decided to change the name to Fugging in order to avoid anything to do with puerile idiots like Mick who titter at the name.

The last time I wrote about the scenic village over sixteen years ago, voters there had rejected a proposal to change the name, which comes from the man who founded it in the sixth century, Focko.

“Fucking is Fucking,” explained Fucking Mayor Siegfried Hoeppel, “and it’s going to stay Fucking.”

And it did until the Fuckingers were overwhelmed by a neverending onslaught of annoying tourists over the years. Fugging Brits ...

29 November 2020

Trailer Trash

Tony Hsieh, forty-six, died a couple of days ago in a house fire. I thought such tragedies only happened to the very young and the very old and the very poor; perhaps I should add those who inhale nitrous oxide while drinking heavily to the list. (In any case, I really should buy new batteries for the annoying smoke detector that always critiques my cooking.)

Hsieh was by all accounts a brilliant entrepreneur. He made almost a billion dollars, but lived in an Airstream trailer—that’s caravan to you Brits—because, according to the obituary I read, “he valued experiences over things.”

How insightful! How elegant! How ridiculous!

For a few seconds, I fell into two traps simultaneously: wanting simple solutions to life’s complexities and equating monetary wealth with brilliance.

Having lived for years on a small sailboat, I appreciate the minimalist benefits of simple living. But there’s not enough Scotch in Scotland to convince me that someone living in a trailer is enjoying a greater wealth of experiences than one of my friends with three de facto mansions and a private jet to travel between them.

Wisdom does not come from money and experiences do not necessarily come from a simple life, but balderdash like this does come from me!

30 November 2020

Factasy is Brilliastupid

Amelia announced that she coined a new word, “factasy.”

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“It’s something that’s both fact and fantasy,” she explained.

“What’s the definition of your new oxymoron?” I continued.

“I created the superb word,” she replied. “My work is done; I’ll let some pedantic technocrat define it.”

“That’s brilliastupid!” I agreed.

1 December 2020

Jerk Talk

After Edgar told me about his latest “hilarious prank,” I momentarily forgot all the good manners and polite behavior my mother taught me and asked him why he was such an obnoxious jerk.

I was relieved when he didn’t take offense, and instead launched into what sounded like a canned monologue. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d heard that question many times before.

He explained that his parents told him that he could be anything he wanted when he grew up. Anything. He said that they were right, and he chose to become a jerk.

“It’s a good fit for me,” he added.

“I appreciate your candor,” I replied politely.

“Thanks a lot for your dumb platitudes,” he responded, “but I value what I flushed down the toilet this morning more than your stupid opinions.”

“I understand,” I assured him. “That was probably the last of your feeble brains.”

“Hey!” he smiled. “You’re a jerk too!”

“I can be,” I admitted, “but the difference is I have to work at it.”

2 December 2020

That Warm Winter Feeling

It snowed overnight in the desert, and this morning everything is covered in a fluffy crystalline blanket of shimmering snow that makes the entire barren landscape look all Ansel Adamsy.

After I mentioned that to Rosemary, she asked me to send her a purdy photograph that would show both the icy beauty and the inner warmth. I normally don’t take requests, but I never say no to Rosemary ... and you shouldn’t either, if you know what’s good for you.

Only idiots suffer for their art, so I took a three-meter walk to find the perfect image: the warm cover of the septic tank that had melted the snow above it. Icy beauty? Check: I used a high-resolution camera with a lens that’s so sharp individual snowflakes are clearly visible. Inner warmth? Roger that: the heat generated by the decomposing feces is symbolic of the human potential that’s within all of us.

Was Rosemary grateful? She was not.

“How did you like the lovely photo I sent?” I asked.

“I was afraid you’d send me one of your shitty snapshots,” she replied, “but even I thought you’d be more imaginative than to do literally that.”

Was I disappointed? I was not.

Is that enough rhetorical questions? No, that’s more than enough.

I considered the image to be a great success: that will probably be the last commission request I ever get from Rosemary.

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©2020 David Glenn Rinehart