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Weak XXX

23 July 2025

No. 348 (cartoon)

You’re a miserable, wretched drunk.

I am a joyous, serene drunk.

May I join you?

24 July 2025

Minuscule Penis Worms with Retractable Spiky Mouths in the News

“News” is relative. I don’t think about it in chronological terms, e.g., how many hours or days ago something happened, but whether or not the news is news to me. Today’s news in the headline was five hundred million years old: “Roughly a half-billion years ago, a minuscule penis worm armed with a retractable spiky mouth crawled around prehistoric Arizona.”

That’s most definitely news. My memory is as leaky and unreliable as something that’s very leaky and unreliable, but I’m all but certain that I never would have forgotten about a minuscule penis worm with a retractable spiky mouth.

25 July 2025

Not the Word

“Theresa, m’dear,” I exclaimed, “marvelous isn’t the word!”

That was my review of the homemade stew she served me when I visited her for lunch at her studio. I was holding my tongue at the top of my lungs to keep from saying “vomitous” or worse.

Bone appétite!

26 July 2025

The Society of Dead Friends

I’m usually not a joiner, but I’ve made an exception for The Society of Dead Friends. It’s decentralized and very informal; there’s only one hurdle to getting in: I can only go there when I’m unconscious.

I enjoy lots of sleep, but on those rare occasions when the sandman doesn’t show up, I head for a meeting in my dreams. I never know who will show up, usually it’s a dead girlfriend, but my late father has occasionally dropped in for a bit. Visits are rare and unpredictable, and that’s fine with me. Only businesspeople and alcoholics go to scheduled meetings all the time.

I sometimes wonder if The Society of Dead Friends is true reality, and my perceived life is just a daylight dream with open eyes. I don’t ponder that very often; that’s the kind of thinkin’ that’ll give your brain a hernia.

27 July 2025

The Place

Cheryl went incommunicado after telling me to meet her at “the place” at eleven this morning. The place?

I went to our usual place in the neighborhood where we often visit, but didn’t see her. I looked around, and didn’t see anything like our place, or near our place, so I concluded that I must be at the place. And for once, I was right; she sauntered in ten minutes late for a punctual midwesterner like myself, but right on time for a Californian.

28 July 2025

Save the Antarctic Polar Bears (Again)!

Last week I mentioned that my essay on the nonexistent Antarctic polar bears was probably the most memorable thing to ever drip out of my pen, as if I wrote with a pen. Stephanie added to the chorus of loving ridicule with a quick remedial lesson in Greek.

She explained that the word “Arctic” comes from the Greek word for “bear” (arkoúda), thus Antarctica obviously means “no bears.”

Obviously.

Stephanie’s very smart, so that’s easy for her to say. As is too often the case, it’s all Greek to me.

Save the Antarctic polar bears!

29 July 2025

Two Giftwrapped Tins of Beach Cliff Sardines in Louisiana Hot Sauce

I’m not sure if I’m finally done with Two Giftwrapped Tins of Beach Cliff Sardines in Louisiana Hot Sauce because I may need to change the title. After I was done with the image, I looked at the ingredients in the can and discovered the fish were “sprats.”

?!

I asked the Internet what a sprat was, and here’s what I got: European sprat (Sprattus sprattus), also known as brisling, brisling sardine, bristling, garvie, garvock, Russian sardine, russlet, skipper, or whitebait.

I’m confused; I never met a fish with nine aliases and/or nicknames. I could call my friend Sarah, an accomplished biologist, and get a definitive answer whether a sprat is a legitimate sardine, but that seems like a lot of work for something so trivial.

I’ll stick with the name on the tin, even though it may be wrong. I’m thinking of Buffalo [sic] Burger, Bison Paddock, Golden Gate Park. The label on the box of frozen meat said Buffalo Burgers, but it didn’t contain a gram of buffalo meat. The fine print on the side of the box listed the real ingredient: bison.

I’m not at all picky about my diet, so I’m done with pondering whether a sprat is or isn’t a bona fide sardine. I’ll just open one can and put the other one on the fishy protein shelf in the pantry.

And now, after all that, I see I’m out of soy sauce, so I’m off to the grocery store.

Coming next weak: more of the same.

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©2025 David Glenn Rinehart