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Weak XII

19 March 2025

No. 6,416 (cartoon)

I’m disgusted by what you just did.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

That’s different then; why didn’t you say so?

20 March 2025

Ode to the Tribe Thunnini

Tuna tuna,
In the sea,
Not no more,
You’re inside of me!

Any sensible person—and most crazy people as well—would have to agree that the poem I just wrote is very good indeed. I think that the Latin in the title gives it a bit of class, et tu?

That’s why I don’t write poetry: it’s too easy, and almost always bad. Ask any tuna in the sea.

21 March 2025

George(s) Foreman

Obituaries are a good way to learn about people. Today’s example is George Foreman, now the late George Foreman. I don’t pay much attention to sports or business, and so I was unaware of his remarkable achievements in both fields. My favorite discovery was about branding and marketing: he named all five sons George.

I wonder if he ever read Too Many Daves?

Too Many Daves
by Theodor Seuss Geisel, Racist

Did I ever tell you that Mrs. McCave
Had twenty-three sons and she named them all Dave?
Well, she did. And that wasn’t a smart thing to do.
You see, when she wants one and calls out, “Yoo-Hoo!
Come into the house, Dave!” she doesn’t get one.
All twenty-three Daves of hers come on the run!
This makes things quite difficult at the McCaves’
As you can imagine, with so many Daves.
And often she wishes that, when they were born,
She had named one of them Bodkin Van Horn
And one of them Hoos-Foos. And one of them Snimm.
And one of them Hot-Shot. And one Sunny Jim.
And one of them Shadrack. And one of them Blinkey.
And one of them Stuffy. And one of them Stinkey.
Another one Putt-Putt. Another one Moon Face.
Another one Marvin O’Gravel Balloon Face.
And one of them Ziggy. And one Soggy Muff.
One Buffalo Bill. And one Biffalo Buff.
And one of them Sneepy. And one Weepy Weed.
And one Paris Garters. And one Harris Tweed.
And one of them Sir Michael Carmichael Zutt
And one of them Oliver Boliver Butt
And one of them Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate ...
But she didn’t do it. And now it’s too late.

I wonder if any of Foreman’s lads became successful pugilists? Maybe he should have named one of them Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate Foreman. I know I wouldn’t mess with an hombre with a name like that. And not with any George Foreman either; I may have misunderestimated the guy ...

22 March 2025

Bad Sign

I cycle up Claremont Avenue several times a week to perhaps postpone the inevitable physical decrapitude, or at least hallucinate that I am. A few days ago I noticed a sign indicating a curve in the road, and I’m reasonably certain that it wasn’t planted there recently. (As an alleged visual artist, I am remarkably unperceptive.) I recognized the visual warning as a pretty good photograph just waiting to be made, so on today’s ride I packed my serious camera with my very serious lens.

I got off my bike, pulled out my camera, and didn’t see the great photograph that seemed so obvious when I was cycling by the other day. I moved in and out, left and right, up and down, and ended up with a bunch of mediocre photographs.

Feh.

I reproduced one here to remind myself of the eleventh commandment: Do not believe thine own hype.

23 March 2025

Pizza Deconstructed

Walter and I were enjoying a pleasant lunch until he started to get all philosophical on me.

“Why is it that I always feel compelled to always have tomato soup whenever I eat a grilled cheese sandwich?” he asked.

I opined that he was making the common mistake of thinking too much, and explained that a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato soup is simply a deconstructed pizza. I was surprised when he agreed with me and declared that he would never eat a grilled cheese sandwich again.

I’m not sure if Walter thinks too much or too little, but that doesn’t matter. I’m guessing that he’ll serve a juicy pizza on our next visit; I hope he doesn’t skimp on the pesto.

24 March 2025

Breaching The Atlantic

The politicos in Washington are busy these days trying to figure out which countries to annex, which ones to buy, and which ones to invade. I may be a country pumpkin, but even I recognize that’s complicated. Even the dumbest of the dumb—which describes pretty much everyone in the current administration—knows it takes a village of idiots to plan such an audacious assault, so I wasn’t surprised to learn that they’ve formed a committee; that’s just basic moronic behavior.

The big news today is that they included an intelligent person in the group chat on the Internet. Yep, they sent Jeffrey Goldberg, The Atlantic magazine’s editor, plans for conquering Yemen. All the pundits are punditing about how amazingly stupid that was; the periodical’s staff and writers don’t even have a catapult let alone a bazooka.

At the risk of giving myself a rotator cuff injury, I may be one of the very few people to recognize the breathtakingly astonishing story that virtually everyone else missed: Drumph’s evil clowns got the editor of a major publication to even glance at an unsolicited manuscript.

I figger all I gotta do is to slip Goldberg some fictitious—or perhaps true—plans to replace the dollar with bitcoin, and perhaps The Atlantic will finally devote an issue to publishing Seventy-One Charles Shaw Wine Corks.

25 March 2025

Pod (Feral Dots)

I’ve never photographed a kangaroo and probably never will because they bounce around too much. I like to work slowly and methodically; that’s how I stealthily made Pod (Feral Dots).

Coming next weak: more of the same.

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©2025 David Glenn Rinehart