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Weak XXXII

7 August 2025

No. 4,330 (cartoon)

Someone should shoot that yapping mongrel.

Why?

I want to keep a full clip.

8 August 2025

New Clichés

Although Samuel Goldwyn née Schmuel Gelbfisz has been dead for over fifty years, it’s only just now that I’m getting around to his request, “Let's have some new clichés.”

From this point in time to forever and a day, I’m going to drill down to cutting-edge bromides, robust clichés that are outside the box. I’m going to push the envelope past the low-hanging fruit with laser-like intensity to create new paradigm shifts on the bleeding edge, and you can bet your bottom dollar that these synergies will be game changers. Time to get to put my nose to the grindstone and break down silos until I hit it out of the park!

9 August 2025

Dull, Boring, and Bland Day

Today is Bland, Boring, and Dull Day, an international celebration of all things uninteresting between the sister cities of Bland, Australia, Boring, Oregon, and Dull, Scotland.

I told Brett I was having a hard time coming up with new material, since my notebooks are generally dull, boring, and bland. He said he understood, then gave me some good advice. (First time for everything!)

“Maybe you should fall back on that old Sammy Clemens chestnut, ‘Write what you know.’”

I know almost nothing, I’ve written almost nothing, so I’m done writing until tomorrow.

10 August 2025

The Beer Mile

I don’t follow any games, but I’m pretty sure that the Beer Mile is a new sport.

According to the article I read, the premise is simple. Each contestant drinks a beer, runs four hundred meters, drinks another beer, runs another four hundred meters, and so on until s/he has run a mile.

The piece was interesting, but not very informative. For example, I have no idea why the new sport uses both metric and imperial measurements. Also, it’s unclear whether the athletes can chugaglug their beer while running, or if the imbibing is done at an intoxication station.

My problem with the Beer Mile is that you can’t sip and saunter, you gotta run real fast, i.e., really, really fast. I tried that when I was much younger, but couldn’t find a way to jog without spilling or having the brew foam over. That’s when I gave up running.

The Beer Mile isn’t for me, but the concept of drinking during sports remains promising. I like the idea of having a shot of whisky every x moves in a chess game; that could help level the playing field with opponents who are better thinkers than me, e.g., all of ’em.

11 August 2025

Spuddy Buddy

People say you can’t buy friends, but stupid people always say stupid things. I purchased a new pal, and we’re enjoying a great friendship.

I’m talking about Spuddy Buddy. My grocer introduced me to the nonbinary tater, and I’m glad she did. Spuddy’s a versatile, open-minded pal who knows how to have a hot time in the oven, in a frying pan, in boiling water, or even submerged in simmering oil. And whether I want to dress it in sour cream, pesto, soft cheese, or even slather it in olive oil, Spuddy’s always accommodating.

Purist fuddy-duddies will scoff at the idea of buying friends, but then purist fuddy-duddies will scoff at any idea that wasn’t theirs. Since Spuddy costs only seventy cents a kilo; that’s almost nothing in these days of higher taxes, er, tariffs, and monopolistic price gouging.

If you’re lonely or know someone who is, spread the word about Spuddy Buddy, then spread the béchamel sauce; that's one of Spuddy’s favorites!

12 August 2025

Painted Bucatini Failure

This stillborn piece didn’t turn out the way I planned it. Not even close. I’d intended to plagiarize Duchamp’s Three Standard Stoppages using Bucatini No. 15 instead of thread, but that didn’t work because the pasta didn’t fall gracefully; the strands writhed on the short drop to the cardboard canvas.

I decided to use seven pieces instead of three, then paint it to underscore its gravity as a Work o’ Art. I’d envisioned painting each strand, but I ran into serious problems. I don’t know anything about painting, and, even if I did, I don’t have a paintbrush. I decided to dribble some housepaint over the assemblage, but it came out of the can in thick globs. Even so, some of the pasta was left bare. A day later, I propped it up in the sun to make sure the paint was completely dry. When I returned a couple hours later, I discovered that the “dry” paint had dripped.

I can usually justify any aesthetic blunder as chance, a happy accident, or some other rationalization that would make a bad art student blush. This turned out to be a figurative—or perhaps literal—dog’s breakfast, so I gave up trying to rationalize my mistakes and admitted failure.

Coming next weak: more of the same.

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©2025 David Glenn Rinehart