This is almost a book review I’ve been meaning to do for years. But it’s still not quite there. Instead, let us, together dear worst-reader, have yet another review of what it’s like to live among the seedy Germanians. (“Seedy” being a term used by Ben Franklin when arguing against making German the official language of the newly independent colonies back in seventeen hundred and… whatever.)
First. Remember at the beginning of the film Gladiator where the Romans are preparing for battle and waiting for the return of their carrier and all that shows up is a headless body on a horse? The scene cuts to a huge barbarian standing on a hill waving a man’s bodiless head. The barbarian throws the head to the ground where it bellows a hallow thump and then yells to his Roman counterparts:
“Ihr verfluchte Hunde!“
The barbarian is speaking a not-so distant form of German that basically translates thus:
- You fcuking dogs
- You dog fcuks
- Fcuk you dogs
- No thank you. We Germans are really not interested in being a slave colony of you stuck-up, half-African Romans who all think indigestion is a mating call that requires barfing before copulating. Have a nice day.
I’m not quite sure why but two things have stuck with me since becoming an unwitting expat and–aghast!–part of a collective:
- Why couldn’t I have become an expat in California–which kinda makes sense because I’m from the mid-Atlantic coast of the US? No. Seriously. I’ve seen more of the US since moving to Europe/Germania in my mid-20s. During my travels I’ve concluded that there are more similarities between western Europe and the US east coast then there are similarities between the US east coast and the US west coast.
- There is no scarier thing in the world than a nation-state of peoples that all think the same, act the same, eat the same, birth the same, fcuk the same, drive the same, walk the same, speak the same, the same, the same, the same… the collective.
No. Seriously. You wanna know the secret to success of the post WW2 Germans that Trump recently called “bad”? (Btw, I’ll avoid getting into the magic of debt cancellation that was the gist of the Marshall Plan.) It’s all about one thing and one thing only.
Everybody is the same.
It’s really that simple. There is no independent thought. There is no tolerance of others. There is no creativity. There is only the same, the same, the same. The thing that keeps the German from exploding is the simple fact that WW2 has pacified them to the point of no return. Also, add to that the shit-kids of Margot Honecker are now running the show. Thank you Angela Merkel. Anywho. That is why, as the rest of the world struggles with Trumpism, authoritarianism, austerity and keeping the rich richer, Germania, barbarians at heart, are still yelling at Roman overlords…
You fucking dogs… Now: how can I serve you more white asparagus with Italian twenty-four month cured ham with a wondrous glass of Graubegründer? Oh. And before we rudely forget. Would you like to fcuk Heidi Klum?
With that in mind, allow me, dear worst-reader, to cut to the chase. Obviously I’ll have to review the book “Getting Along With The Germans” another time. Till then, read it–if you can get it–and heed this pic:
There is indeed in EVERY German a fcuking policeman and within every German policeman is another German policeman waiting to German-come-out. And do you want to know how to get all those policeman out from deep within every German? Well, you can start by being a 54 year old man that has to pee a lot when going on long bike rides–and can’t find a place to do it.
Yesterday, while taking a bike tour with my better half (who loves the way I talk about her homeland and her Germans), I had to go #1. (For those not in the know, that’s peeing; ask an anglophobe what #2 is.) My better-half was perturbed and said:
We just got started. Why didn’t you go before we left?
She’s right. But. The obvious problem is: I forgot to go before we left. And. The thing is. At my age and my physical demeanour, when/if I gotta go, I gotta fcuking go!
Since I was familiar with the bike route we were on, I knew of a rather secluded corner where I could whip out the monster and help filter some man juice to the Rhine River. The problem though is that the day before was Ascension Day. Ascension Day is yet another mandated-by-law paid vacation day that always falls on a Thursday. That means that the day after (Ascension Day) is what’s known as a bridge-day. (It’s not known as Friday.) A bridge-day is a day that the collective usually takes a vacation day from the compulsion they call work or career. That means that there are double the amount of Germanians out enjoying–in this case–the great weather. It was indeed a rare beautiful day. There were a lot of fcuking Germans out and about. It was not a good time for me to screw up. But I had to go. I really had to go!
So I find a secluded corner and do my bidness. But before I can get the monster back in my pants, I hear a male voice from a short distance behind me. I can’t remember exactly what he said–yeah, I’m kinda deaf when I’m focused on zippers and flesh and really, really tight, padded bicycling undergarments. When I finally turned around (yes, with my monster tucked away and zipper up) a German (a little bit smaller than the one throwing bodiless heads) was standing there preaching about the vulgarity of what I had just done.
Ok. Now this isn’t the first time I’ve been confronted by the plain-clothes collective police. But this was the first time when the guy took his civil duties a bit too far. He started yelling and preaching and demanding and and and… The German language can sometimes be very scary! Without paying much attention to his words, I simply said:
“You want to lutsch my Schwanz, you vixxer! Mind your own fcuking business.”
He proceeded to explain to me that I was peeing on a fence that guarded the entrance to a part of a water plant… blah, blah, blah, achtung, dumbkopf, fahrvergnügen…
Stupefied, I looked around. He was right. But it was a secluded fence. It was off in a corner at the end of a driveway. The fence was totally corroded with algae and other growth as though it hadn’t been used in a long, long time. By standing in the corner, facing the entrance there was no way to see me unless you put some effort into it. Welcome to Germany!
I told him once again that he really should mind his own business but then I pulled back and realised that this type of confrontation can have no outcome. No. Wait. My better half told me that. Of course. And so. That is the main problem of a collective society where nothing gets done beyond the compulsion of what’s already been done and most individuals can’t find their way out of a collective wet paper bag–but at least they can afford to lease, on the taxpayer teat, lots of BMWs, Audis and Krautracers.
But before I get into too many details about what I think of The Collective, for it was quite a vulgar display on my part (thank you very much!), the German put away his collective policeman and we both went about enjoying the sunny day. With that in mind, dear worst-reader, don’t worry about me. I’m already planning in my head where I can find another more quite and secluded place to piss on the Germania water supply.