Repeating History Because You Like How It Tickles

Time to celebrate. Break out the bubbly, the cheese & crackers, turn on the game, crack open that can of rice beer. And what is it we celebrate? Well. What is about to happen, dear worst-reader, is more than just a new year. To (y)our joy this is a year just like the last and the last before it and the last before it. And what ties every year together? 2016 will bring just as much truth that 2015 brought and 2014 before it and 2013 before it, and so on and so on and so on. Yes, the truth is here. But that’s not what we’re celebrating. No. We’re celebrating another year after another year after another year of avoiding truth. Some like to call it avoiding the mirror. But I’m not one for mincing words–at least like I mince meat. Indeed. And so. We are once again at the truth. It is right in front of us. And do we see it? Of course not. At the least, I, worst-writer, have tried to put it out there. Just have a look here. Yes. I’ve tried in vain to articulate in the worst-way possible anything akin to truth, albeit Tommi’s worst-truth. And what is that truth? Well, it goes something like this: you are fucked. I don’t mean that in a literal way, although for some it would be welcome. No. This form of being fucked has nothing to do with the tingling and pleasure grinding that remakes you, your parents and every other lost soul that has walked this jungle of consume to survive. No. This form of being fucked has more to do with payback, revenge, vengeance. Yet when worst-writing about such acts one can only wonder who is the one doing the payback? Well, the answer is easy because it is yet another part of the truth avoided. For you see, dear worst-reader, the truth is simple. The thing fucking you is the past. And not just any past. It is not an infinite past. It is a not-so distant past that has found a way to rear its head out of its smelly coffin. It’s still wearing jewelry, a necktie and even a pocket watch. It’s tophat no longer fits on its flaky skull, though. But tophats are neither here nor there. Eh? If you haven’t guessed who or what this past is, then I reckon I should just come out and tell you. It is the past of your great grandparents, the near past of your country, where tophats are common place amongst the grinding folk of Greed’s yesteryore. Indeed. For you must realize eventually, dear worst-reader, that the comings and goings of your country–that place you so mistakenly love without condition(s)–is ramping-up yet another assault on you. You know what assault I’m worst-writing of, don’t you? I know it’s hard for you. But you must (eventually) try (to look around). All it takes to wake-up from the dream that is your nightmare is to try (and look around). You will see how and who is fucking you so royally into oblivion. Your sweet-lie that is the middle class has been decimated. The poor have finally washed their last dish–there is no more chance to being a millionaire. (Boy, I particularly loved that lie we were fed: dishwasher to millionaire.) Or maybe not. Yeah. Forget all that. It’s end of year buying season. Go buy something. Or. Maybe. Have a look at the commencement speech above. It’s from the guy who “bet against America” because he was able to see the truth. Yes. He was able to see your truth. He was able to see how (y)our past reared its ugly Greed face and took over everything. Greed is a vindictive bastard, eh! That Greed face told you to buy and buy and buy–nomatter what–and you abided. You bought and you bought and bought more. And when there was no more money to buy with you borrowed and you borrowed and you financed and you financed. And now that the bottom has fallen out and your pants have been hanging at your ankles for so long you can’t tell anymore the difference between penetration, violation and procreation. Yeah. You are fucked. And with that in mind. Even though buying season is almost over, it doesn’t matter. The first thing you’ll do as the year changes to the next is what did previously and what you family did previously. All because you can’t see the truth. Or maybe not. Nomatter. Good luck suckers. Rant on. -Tommi

Anti-Theist vs Atheist In The Church Pew

doodle from a church pew

Anti-theist. There. I said it. (Pause.) It’s who I am. The only problem is I don’t feel any better by having said it. I mean, it’s obviously not the same as coming out as gay or purple or a hetero who likes pink. But my therapist said that by going public with it, it will help my self esteem and my posture. (Pause.) Yet this “coming out” most certainly isn’t helping with that alienating feeling I get after having talked to my therapist about it and/or that one visit to Curacao where I thought I saw a whale shark in the Willemstad harbour. It turns out that it wasn’t a whale shark at all but instead the backhand of a creole doll that thought little of my attempt at flirtation while practicing Dutch. (Short pause.) Ok. Whatever. §Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. I’ve been to church (accompanying my mother) twice with this US visit. And it looks like I’ll be going one more time before I fly back to Eurowasteland. In fact, last night, at mid-day mass, I felt compelled to listen to the preacher talk about what he thought were the original songs sung during the Christmas celebration at the birth of Christ. They sang songs, I asked myself. Sure, why can’t the three kings, the shepherds and the guiding angels sing songs? I mean, there has to be something about our commercial Christmas that relates to the birth of Christ–other than his supposed birth date? It’s obviously not relevant that Jesus was probably born in July. Which is even more confusing when one considers that he was a Pisces. I mean, that’s why people put those fish symbols on their cars, right? Pisces the twins. Oh. And who was Jesus’ twin? Nomatter. And then there’s that thing with the tree. A Christmas tree is from a pagan, nordic ritual, ain’t it? Again–nomatter. §While sitting in the pew of my mother’s church, after the boredom set in once the preacher was done with whatever I thought interesting, I reached into the prayer/song book holder on the back of the pew in front of me. And what do I find? Someone left a nice little doodle (see pic above). Did they leave it for me? Did they forget it? If only I could figure out what it means. Not unlike trying to figure out virgin births, angels, metaphysics beyond the realm of nature, physics, etc. Oh well. At the least, it sounds better to be an anti-theist than it does to be atheist. I guess. Rant on. -Tommi


Antitheism | Wiki

Packaging Hell And Out Of Season Berries

hell packaging
Favorite feel-good food from my beloved America. But the packaging. Who designs, engineers, makes the packaging? College grads.

Don’t worry, dear worst-reader. We all have too much time on our hands–especially during this time of year. The fact that I’m projecting my (too much) time on others in this manner is yet another indication that the transition from industrial age > technical servitude is almost complete. The good thing? It’s just a blog. The bad thing. It’s a blog with nuggets of truth, albeit worst-writer truth. Which means. Just a few more industries need to be decimated in order to fulfill the wishes of the ghosts of the robber barons of yesteryore. You know. Those ghosts are the ones that the baby boomer generation pray to. Just imagine the image of that prayer. And so. Anyone wonder why things are so bad, why there is no future–unless you’re already rich or you’re parents will inherit you something. Indeed. Otherwise, the working stiffs of this nation lay claim to all this free time and call it Xmas. They/we hide behind the mask of midnight mass and the thrill of something coming down our chimney–that chimney really being a metaphor for our throats. And so. We Throats celebrate with friends and family, including all those that have been exploited in one way or another–especially the inner family throat exploits. But, of course, rational minds call this free-loading time of year simply #americant; yet another perfected by-product of consuming to survive. Merry this or merry that. Buy this or buy that. And find your only solace in the innocence you brought into this world through some seriously fucked up loins. Or maybe not. Let’s move on. §Just get a load of the links below. Get a good load of them. I mean, this is the season to be jolly and, more importantly, to charge up the credit cards, or, if you’re lucky, get another credit card so that you can charge that one up–adding it to the ones you’ll already never pay off. Free money, eh, worst-reader. Yeah, it’s all free money. §That said. I really miss American cereal. What I don’t miss is the packaging. First. Sorry for the bad pic (above). I’m still trying to figure how to work my new-fangled iPhone 6s camera (which I bought outright, no credit, 64GB!) It’s just that, I thought I would throw this rant out there into the ether of blogging nothingness. Who the fuck makes the packing of cereal boxes? Why is it that I can’t open these friggin’ boxes without always ripping the lids? Who makes this krapp! And why? I know. I know. They do it just to piss of worst-writer. But then worst-writer knows something they don’t. For example. Cereal box packaging is made and designed by college grads. People go to college to get a job so they can make deficient packaging. Just look at the result–the result of what all the college grads do. Doesn’t that say something about college? I mean, heck, the entire US government is managed by college grads. Yet college today has no more value than a high-school forty years ago. What could that mean? At the least, we know what previous generations have done to the whole shebang. Btw, is that the reason we deplete the future for our children? But I digress. Or do I? §The other day my mom bought blackberries. I watched her stand in front of the huge display of blackberries at (you know what store). I told her, “Mom, they’re waaaaaay out of season. People shouldn’t buy waaaaaay out of season fruit. It’s bad for the environment.” She turned to me, she gestured to the size of the display of blackberries. It was the size of a friggin’ pool. Blackberries in small and large plastic containers at least fifteen feet long, five feet wide, stacked on plastic box on the other. My mom winked that cute republican wink and without saying a word I knew her response. “Don’t worry chummy, the environment is here to serve me. That’s why I came to this country.” And so. When we got home I tried a berry. And to my un-surprise they taste like shit. I swear they do. They taste like water coloured mush paper. “Add some sugar,” my mom said. And then I realized something. Yeah. Add some sugar. Add some butter. Put cream on it. That’s how America rolls! I know. I know. That’s how the whole western world rolls. But I’m not in the western world right now. I’m in America where presidential candidates complain about immigrants. And if those immigrants are removed from the American equation then no one will have shitty tasting blackberries to choke on anymore. Wow. Things to weigh while we all have a bit too much time to kill. Yeah. Rant on.

hell fruit
Blackberries. From where? Picked by who? Totally out of season. They taste like krapp. Just add sugar.


Links that helped motivate this post:

 Who Has Sold You

louis cypher the grand salesman
Screenshot of Louis Cypher. The man who could sell you a soul at a really great price. The American soul.
Schadenfreude is not my thing. Nor do I wish any one ill-will. Live and let others live better–that’s my motto. But there are times, moments, where I giggle and smirk at the goings and cummings of my beloved #americant and of those still trapped in all (her) confused greed-dollar-tendrils. On the other hand, of course, I don’t laugh out loud at what happens within those tendrils. That would be rude. Or would it? Actually, when I rehash it all in my head, I guess it wouldn’t be rude. I mean, all things considered, what is “rude” these days? A bubble world in which the participant’s lives are determined by the behavior of all participants–hence compulsive behaviorism, corporatism, cronyism, etc. It means that eventually there will/can be no difference between rude and not rude. Which brings me once again to The Donald. I can’t remember that last time I travelled to my beloved #americant and found so much excitement when turning on the boob-tube. I am, you know, a cord-cutter. But when I’m in America I can’t help but turn on the boob-tube. Obviously I’m not alone. The boob-tube runs twenty-four-seven here. Or? §Usually when I’m in the united mistakes I check the news, maybe see if tits are showing somewhere on HBO, or, at the least, bear witness to the cummings and doings of faux newz so that I may continuing standing on my limited raised pillar that keeps me a head above the rest. The good thing is, the rudeness can’t stop with The Donald or his adherents. Which means there will be entertainment forevermore. The bad thing is, as The Donald overwhelms the airwaves (and the fragile minds of the dumb-downed via ever higher levels of rudeness), there are so many other examples of why/how things are so so so bad. Or are they not so bad? Does rude equal bad? Obviously not. So. Are things good? Has my beloved #americant caught the curve, beat the bear around the last turn, sucked it up? I certainly don’t know. I’m only here for a few painstaking days then its up up and away eh in my beautiful balloon. I have to return my expat comfort where I have never seen a doctor bill, a dental bill, a psyche bill. Of all my gold fillings, none of them are ear-marked by a creditor or bank controlled location beacon. I most certainly don’t have to worry about the same beacon being put in the car that you will never own–volunteering as an indentured servant. But I’m off subject–as usual. This post is supposed to be about the articles below. About the people in the articles below. Who are these people? What are these people? Where do they come from? Where are they going? The simple answer is thus: America. The complex answer is thus: Money is God. Or maybe not. Need I mention the simple fact that the united mistakes of #americant is not only the sole perpetrator of giving the world a middle class but now it’s also the one to take that middle class away. Indeed. And don’t get me wrong. I could give a rats ass about the middle class. Seriuosly. Fuck it and fuck all those who adhere to it. I mean, hell, the middle class is where I was reared. I have seen all it has to offer. I have seen it naked and puking and defacating upon its mothers and its children–having convinced its prey that what it’s doing is Disney World. The middle class is the ugly picture of white men of Euro-heritage. They are perverts and simpletones who have found a way to rule the world. All because they prey on the fear of those who might wake to the true reality of their Disney World. Which means, in my worst-mind, in my worst-fantasy, the American middle-class should be left somewhere on the side of the road so that it may wither away or become the homeless it deserves to be and then, like us all, finally, finally, fucking die. Or maybe not. I mean. Why bitch & moan & rant. Why should any white man die? Someone has to survive. Survive this experiment in greed and idiocracy. Survive so that a child can sit on a perverts lap and wish for everything in the world as the tree gleams of snow white and her seven owned dwarfs. Which brings me once again to The Donald. The ultimate white man. The ultimate Santa. Yet even I, dear worst-reader, underestimated the size of the lust from which The Donald has emerged. Lust, you say, dear worst-writer? Yes, lust, dear worst-reader. For what is lust? Well, lust is what we all try desperately to fulfill as though it was the empty bucket that is our minds and our souls. The #americant dream, baby. Or. If you prefer, dear worst-reader, check out the articles below. Check out the personalities featured in them. Here we have the top of crop. The entrepreneurs. The college educated. College drop-outs. Those who are driven. Yes. Those who are driven. Look at what they do. Look at what they sell. Look closely. Look at who taught them. OYG! Good luck suckers. Rant on. -Tommi

Links that motivate this post:

A Childhood's War On Xmas

childhood sucks
A questionnaire I was recently given to help the powers-that-be, i.e. The Homeland, determine whether or not I can be trusted to deliver xmas presents to the unneedy.

It’s not about being a bitter old man. It’s not about happiness or tranquility. It’s not about a xmas tree making one smile or cry–depending on the xmas tree topper. Indeed. This is a time of year to rejoice–but NOT in what you think. As I celebrate my own personal war on xmas, I do so with a vengeance. I don’t have to, though. My war has long been won. I suppose it’s the nostalgia that keeps me doing it. Not unlike a soldier that hangs on to that uniform only so he can wear it in his dementia while revisiting the fields of Normandy or Khe Sanh. No. In fact, I have long been vindicated in my war-efforts. Being proven right in a sea of wrong has its limitations, though. How should I celebrate? Where can I go to sing my victory song? I suppose it doesn’t matter that I would prefer to sit on a plane during this time of year. How comfortable I’ve gotten in those lovely, devoid, lust-cramped seats on Airline A, B or C. I feel in those seats the same as I feel in life–perhaps I feel a bit more. It is the perfect setting for sitting the time away at the end of a year–yet another year. Is it me or does each year end just like the previous and just like the one forty years ago? Can’t there be something different to end a year? How about ending it with a final gesture? Like a claim to fame or a last minute open-ended vacation booking to another dimension or unearthly planet? Now that’s the ticket. But since resources are limited, I suppose it would not be appropriate to make such a gesture. Those who are more in need will turn their already preposterous bitterness into a dragon flame of demagoguery. They will assert themselves into the political realm and wield power of another kind. They will annihilate me, you and all that disagree with the/our war on xmas. Either that or they will win the redneck lottery and go about their business wasting it all–just as they were meant to waste everything anyway. Remember, in these days of the one percents and wealth inequality (that the democratic system has so eagarly and willingly facilitated) all that remains is the content of (y)our character. Which brings me ’round to my suggestion on how to end a year. I say end it with a mirror or end it with the proper questionnaire. Forget the romping through walmart and target and sears & roebucks or a local ben franklin five and dime. It’s your choice, dear worst-reader. Have a look at the self or the collective you’ve joined or answer a few questions so that a market research company can figure out what to sell you/us in 2016. Yeah. Questions about childhood seem appropriate at every year’s end. Because every year ends with everyone either believing or disbelieving in childhood. And with that mind, merry fucking xmas until we do it again next year. Rant on. -Tommi

May The Blank Be With You

In a galaxy far far away the corporate automatons wear helmets that all look the same.
In a galaxy far far away corporate automatons wear helmets that all look the same.

Disclaimer: some small spoilers but no big spoilers. And so it is done. And now that it’s done, I’ve been thinking about how to worst-write about it. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far: 

  • It was good but…
  • Liked it except for…
  • Getting too old, seen too many movies, been there done that (in 70s!)…
  • Guess it was good–I guess…, etc., etc.

Yeah, worst-reader. I saw Star Wars last night and I’m still not sure about my expectations. Obviously my expectations were high–or were they? Or maybe my expectations are a bit out of the norm. Nomatter. Forget expectations. What is clear is that I feel comfortable saying this: If Hollywood wants to save itself, it better start hiring some writers. The most shocking thing about the new Star Wars reboot was the writing. It sucked. Having said that, two things saved the movie. The cinematography and the acting. With that in mind, allow me to worst-say this: bad writing can, in very rare instances, be saved by actors. There were moments, especially with Carrie Fisher, where I thought: Oh boy, this is embarrassing. But, in Carrie’s defense, she did the best she could with what she had–and I’ll always just dig her! As far as the cinematography goes, the movie felt just like the original movie from the 70s with the added bonus that the CGI finally worked. The daylight dogfight scenes are stunning. The big lightsaber fight in the forest, though, wasn’t as good. On the other hand, the crashed Star Fighter did look a bit out of place compared to the real sand that actor was walking on. Ok. I’m nitpicking. At least the forest lightsaber fight was über-cool because a new badass Jedi is born. But that’s not much of a surprise, or? New characters become old heros. Old (original) heros fade in front of you like a sunset–until they start speaking poorly written lines. Yet something holds this film together. I think that something is due to the Star Wars myth, the legacy, the history. With that in mind, JJ Abram’s (work) doesn’t stand out. I expected the director to give us something like what he gave us with his Star Trek reboot–where I found myself on the verge of tears because of the beautiful relationship between new-Spock and new-Kirk. But there is no new-Luke or new-Leia. Which is probably ok–depending on your expectations. So what does this film and its hot director deliver? Ok. I’ll just say it. This is the dullest multibillion dollar movie everyone on the planet should see–and not because of who directed it or wrote it. People should see this movie because of one thing and one thing only: George Lucas.

Rant on, baby.


Links that motivated this post:

Pros & Cons Of The 6s

tommis iphone 6s


  • Force touch rocks even though I’m only using it to get to a cursor in order to edit text! Boy, do I dig this!
  • Speed is ok, obviously a bump from my old 4s. But I actually thought about putting this in the cons. It’s just not that impressive. The speed of the fingerprint reader is shockingly fast–which is also a con below. I bet my old 4s running an iOS before version 7 would be just as fast as this device opening apps or surfing. Yeah. I loved iOS 5 and still miss it.
  • Don’t need to say much more here as Pros are kinda boring. So let’s move on to more important stuff.


  • Although I don’t have the smallest hands, coming from iPhone 4s, this thing feels huge. With this phone I have to figure out the best location of app icons so that I can access with one hand. For example, camera icon cannot be in upper left corner as it was with my 4s because I can’t reach that far with my right thumb on the 6s.
  • I don’t understand why Apple doesn’t allow the home screen to rotate like the 6s Plus. I really like screen rotation on my iPad.
  • Slippery. Slippery. Slippery. It’s not that I’m worried about dropping it. Ok. I’m a little worried. I love the Rockform case on my 4s, which has kept the old device in flawless condition over the years. The stuff I’ve seen from them for 6s isn’t the same though. The only way to deal with the slippery-ness, with protecting it, is to cover it with something ugly. Actually, I’m using the Apple leather case right now. Although it’s nice, feels great, it also feels slippery. Go figure.
  • Battery. Nuff said.
  • It crashes. This thing has crashed more times since I purchased it last week than my 4s in three years. Seriously. Ok. I may be over stating by one or two crashes. But what is true is that this thing crashes and it’s really, really obnoxious.
  • Fingerprint reader is too fast. I find myself hitting the home button with finger on my other hand so that I get to the sleep screen (or whatever it’s called). I like that screen because I use it to tell the time. I guess I have to get used to telling the time buy using the power button.
  • The power button (1) is in the wrong place if you’re taking landscape pictures. When you put the phone in landscape and then use the +volume button to snap the picture, you have to make sure that you don’t hit the power button at the same time.
  • The power button (2) is in the wrong place if you like using it to turn the phone off when you’re putting it in your pocket. If I’m using one hand to shut off the screen I have to re-adjust my forefinger and middle finger around the volume buttons so that I don’t squeeze them all at the same time.
  • The bezel on the top and the bottom. It doesn’t make any design sense–which means design doesn’t fit function. Why can’t the camera be part of the screen? I have no problem with the screen getting out of the way for a camera. Why can’t the force touch be in the screen, too? And the phone speaker on the top bezel? Why, why, why?
  • And since I’m on design. The back of the iPhone serves as some kind of life-style statement. That’s stupid, especially since the thing has to have a case in order to help people from shattering… their life-style. Apple seriously needs to re-think the design of this device. It seems to me that the sides of the device could have many more ports or speakers or microphone or cameras or whatever. After all these years of pretty much the same design, this thing is boring, boring, boring.
  • Battery sucks. Oh, did I mention that. Yeah, right.

Rant on. -Tommi

In Praise Of Dr. Capital And His Ism

Special leg room economy class
Got kinda lucky the other day. Extra leg room in economy class. Along side some good conversation.

Disclaimer: Names and some of the issues discussed but not places referred to have been changed in this blogpost to protect the innocent. §I told him right before we exited the plane at the terminal in PHL that I found our open and at times heavy inflight conversation fascinating. And then I thanked him with as much sincerity as I could muster and I put my hand out. Indeed. I was a bit flushed, a bit embarrassed, it was a long flight. §But before that, a bit on the travel. Flying over the Atlantic I sat in row 18D, the aisle. My new soon to be friend sat next to me inside the row at seat 18F. We were on LH426, an Airbus A340, departure Frankfurt, Germany. My new friend was connecting from Beirut. He was on his way back to school, and not just any school. He attended The University of Pennsylvania and during our conversation took the time to school me on Ivy League. But, wait, I wanted to worst-write about the plane. §We were on a discontinued Airbus—not unlike how a company may discontinue making a vacuum cleaner or a toaster. It seems that the airline manufacturing industry is getting away from four engine planes. Yet Airbus seems to have put a lot of their hopes in the A380, the successor of our A340. I had the pleasure of flying an A380 a few years back while traveling from Bangkok to Dubai. “Big” doesn’t begin to explain the size of this aircraft. But, as some people tend to note, size doesn’t matter. I’m not one of those people. I prefer the size of the greatest plane ever made: the 747. The problem is, last I read, Boeing hasn’t sold a 747 in two years. Everybody who is still fyling four engines buy the A380. But that’s another post. Oddly, or not, our A340 had a strange seating configuration. First, the cabin had no seats labelled E. Is that the same as skyscrapers not having floors labelled 13? Is the letter E a skeptical, mystical, ghostly letter? Second. The reason for the odd seating configuration–beyond the letter E–was due to the seats directly in front of me. Unfortunately I didn’t capture it in the pic above. But because the seats are from Lufthansa’s new premium economy class, which look like a cheap subset of business class seats. There are only three seats in the middle row and compared to sheople economy they are roomy as hell. Row 18 is where regular economy begins. Hence the pic shows the extra leg space I lucked out in getting. Oh. How ’bout those shoe laces! Ok. Enough about the plane. §On this 8 hour transatlantic flight I sat next to an ivy league grad student who just finished a semester in the middle east learning Arabic. If I had to place this kid somewhere to be able to size him up, I’d place him right in the middle of Occupy Wall Street–even though his elite demeanor could have placed him somewhere else. He wore his beard well, he exuded privilege, and he clearly had a big heart. And since I was sitting next to a millennial, I couldn’t help but be curious, the more and more we talked, about how his generation is destined to be the first generation that will end up in the historic dustbin named: wrong place, wrong time. Whatever. §After we reached cruising altitude and got our first round of cocktails, our transatlantic conversation started when I asked about the type of iPhone he was using. I was planning on getting a new iPhone once I landed where I would cross the border from PA to DE. DE has no retail tax, which means when purchasing the phone without contract you can save fifty friggin’ bucks. That started us talking about technology, Apple Computer and the legacy of Steve Jobs. It turns out we are both fanboys. He was impressed when I told him that my Apple experience goes back to owning two Newton devices. Eventually, though, it was inevitable that he notice how I used certain terminology combined with a cynical bent in most of what I had to say when it came to any discussion that required either depth or emotion. For example, he took notice of me using the term The Homeland whenever talking about the US. He also noticed how I always praise corporations for turning automatons into the consume-to-survive slaves occupy wall streeters didn’t know they were protesting against. And then there was the issue of the patriot act and the subsequent government expansion under the Dubya administration that rivalled the government expansion of FDR. Alone this act is a major determining factor for the welfare of millennials–and I don’t think, after this conversation, they are aware of that. Which means, it never crossed my new friend’s mind to refer to his world as Disney World, i.e., the united mistakes of America, or… The Homeland. Obviously, dear worst-reader, talking about Apple always leads to talk about politics, policy and #americant. With it all the company would never be the greed monger monster its become. Which brings me to another worst-writer term that caused him to blink more than thrice. §My young friend was sharp. I wish I was as experienced in and of the world at twenty-three. In order to cool down a potentially heated debate—during sleep-time of the flight—he wanted to know why I referred to it as The Homeland. I responded thus: “I also call it #americant.” (Pronounced: hashtag-american’t.) But he wanted to focus on The Homeland. This gave me the opportunity to switch from the frivolity of Steve Jobs—and his drug-ridden tech delusions and obsessions—to a subject that was closer to my heart: talking about the downfall of… we’re #1. Or, at least, the downfall of the pseudo middle class that is as much at fault as the upper class for all the demise. But the young collegiate whipper-snapper was not very enthusiastic about the subject matter. I can only assume that was due to his youthful optimism–which is a much his bent as mine is cynicism. This brought us to the issue of education and not because he was right in the middle of it. “Education serves no purpose, it is pretty much useless these days,” I said. “Look at The Homeland and how it’s run,” I continued, closing off his attempt at rebuttal. “All the managers, executives, pawns, automatons, etc., they are all higher educated. From the president, to cabinet members, to CEOs, the middle class, all educated to the hilt. Yet the only thing they have learned is how to cheat, lie, steal and cheat again. Where does that come from?” My young friend would not be disillusioned. He believed whole heartily in the American way of life albeit without considering how it got that way. For him–and I can only assume this was due to his proximity to one of #americants most notorious neo-liberal business schools–American capitalism was in turmoil but there was a way out (of that turmoil). And then I added, “You know, dear grasshopper, Das Volk can’t differentiate between politics and economics. That’s a real problem. It’s one of the reasons I call it #americant. Seriously. It cant differentiate. Cant. Cant. It’s not Ameri… can.” (Short pause.) “So it doesn’t matter,” I said. “Capitalism isn’t only in turmoil it is the essence of being American–and it doesn’t even exist. There is a difference between capitalism being an economic system and democracy being a political one.” (Shorter pause.) “Btw, get this, it’s almost 2016 and where I’m about to go after we land there are still front yards with “Bush/Cheney” signs on them, not to mention all the polished bumper-stickers bearing the same nonsense.” My little friend got a word in. He said that he was aware of the twisted politics in America. But then he added that regulation could somehow prevent a lot of the turmoil. Regulation? Yeah, he said regulation. A young man from an ivy league school used, with utmost sincerity, the word regulation in the context of a discussion about how to change the world. The only response I could come up with was to s
mirk and show-off more cynicism. Indeed. My cynicism vs youthful twisted optimism–regarding capitalism. And so, for a few hours of the flight we went down that road–we talked about capitalism, Marx and how it all can be fixed–with regulation. And I couldn’t help but notice that there was this growing monster in the form of a pseudo neo liberal from the Wharton School of Business. To say the least, worstwriter was freaking out about the youth that will assume the roll of rulers of a world I wasn’t about to consider leaving. (Unless, of course, a terrorist act takes us down. But I digress.) Somehow I couldn’t help but connect our talk about capitalism with education. “Look what these places of higher education have given us,” I said in a demanding way. He responded with the names of Wharton alumni. Which brought me ’round to The Donald who was business schooled there. Indeed, this young whipper snapper might be a study in the confusion of neo-liberalism and drunken optimism–devoid of reality. §With that I’ll end this worst-post. Except for one last thought. When we landed and were about to depart the aircraft we said our goodbyes. I introduced myself as worstwriter and he smirked unsurprisingly. Then he introduced himself as Dr. Robert Ism Capital. And with that, I entered Pennsylvania and it was good to be home.

Rant on.


In The Land Of Jack And The Bean Counter

911 60 cent charge
Pre-paid bill with 911 surcharge.

Depending on circumstance, I can get away with wifi usage on my phone when I enter the US. On the drive from PHL to Eastern Shore MD there are a few places one can stop to get a cup of earl grey, yawn from the transatlantic flight and check messages. And since the powers that be can’t seem to do the right thing when it comes to getting rid of “roaming”, it makes no since using cellular on a German contract while visiting the Homeland. Wait. Pause. I throw up in my mouth every time I use that Orwellian word. Nomatter. The reality is, and as most folk know, living rural in the US also means bad cell coverage. At least that’s the way it was up till last year. And so. If the circumstance warrants it, sometimes I buy a pre-paid SIM and then go with that for the time I’m here, which rarely exceeds two weeks. Btw, I highly recommend t-mobile’s pre-paid stuff. Nomatter. Here’s the thing (circumstance) with this trip. Since my birthday and xmas kinda intertwine my better half went ahead and allowed me to splurge this year. She too was gettin’ pretty perturbed with all the bitchin’ & moanin’ regarding my dilapidated iPhone 4s. And so. Upon entry into the Homeland (sniff, gulp, breath) I headed from PHL south to the infamous DE Apple Store. Infamous because this particular Apple Store holds spot #2, after the flag ship store in San Fran, of selling the most iphones in the country. I reckon duty-free shopping will cause folk from New York, New Jersey, PA, DE, MD, etc. to buy their fun here. As far as coming from Germany, not only do I save the tax but, for whatever reason, German iPhones are priced almost one hundred dollars more than in the US. Plus, German tax is sixteen percent. But I digress. §I went ahead and picked me up a new iPhone 6s last night. Went around the corner in the mall and also got a pre-paid sim. Unboxed my new jewelry device, slipped the sim in it and BOOM-baby. Have to get used to the new size and texture of the device. Quite different than a 4s. I’m not really feeling the love of the rounded corners and the slippery finish, but I got a case to cover that. All in all, first impression, this is one heck of a phone. I’m really digging the force-touch thing. And although I fiddled around with the 6 model in Germany a bit, the 6s doesn’t actually feel all that much faster–except for the fingerprint reader. Enough with the pseudo product review. Two things happened with this new consume-to-survive purchase. §First. Check out the pic above. I asked the guy at the t-mobile counter what the .60cent was all about and he said it’s required so that carriers can cover the cost of being forced to enable all cell phones to access the emergency number 911. What? I couldn’t believe what he was telling me. You mean, cell carriers can’t get together and find a way to finance something as simple as this, even though it’s obviously mandated by law? Wow, dear worst-reader. It is truly astonishing to witness first hand how low the corporate mindset can sink. It also proves that there is no bottom to all that sinking. Yeah. .60cent. This is how you nickle and dime a country to death. §Second. Once I paid my bill for this life of luxury and digital enjoyment, I hooked my new phone up to my car charger to give a full charge during the two-hour jaunt south and thought: Gee, I’m still in relative proximity to civilization, try out Siri to help navigate to the proper highway exits and then get me on Route 1 which would take me to my destination (the tax-free liquor stores of Rehoboth.) Obviously Siri worked flawlessly. But then I was waiting for the cell signal to start waning. I used to be able watch the bars drop one by one the further south I drove. They did drop, too. But get this. I averaged two bars and LTE coverage the whole way down the coast. And I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of .60cents. Rant on. -Tommi

Luxury Airlines, Funny Shoe Laces And Constitutions


bus vs first class
Left: business class. Right: first class. To which I can only add: my feet are much, much happier on the right than on the left but they are also humble like dodos in spring.

Going for broke. Travel broke. Just one more trip. Trip to take me away. Away from what? Xmas? Responsibility? Btw, this is the first time I’ll be without my better-half on Xmas since she took me in and became my better half twelve years ago. And I’m sad about that. But when families are stretched on both sides of the Atlantic pond where winters can be bard on the heart, I appreciate the tolerance, the compromise, the understanding. Oh, the prices we pay. Compromises for love, for shoe laces. Wait. Get back on subject. I’ll get to shoe laces in a sec. Focus first on travel. §Precisely planned to end where it all started just before the end of the year after which it can all begin again. Where do we go? Home? Which home? Nomatter. Again. Back to subject. §After all these years of travel something really cool happened recently which I tried to capture in the pic above. As you’ll note, my very comfy shoes with the funny laces are in two different places on board a luxurious airliner. The left pic is travel to destination. The right is travel from destination. Left is also business class. Right is one crazy-cool, gnarly, step beyond… First f’n class. Yeah, baby. Finally made it! Of course, these two seating positions have nothing to do with the place I normally sit while traveling. You know what I mean: coach, economy, humble-class, sheople travel. No. These two seats are quite different than what I’m accustomed to. And before I go on, allow me to qualify this a bit. It is not my intention to toot my own horn here. Both these seats were not afforded me by my own hand (which would warrant tooting). No. They were afforded me as a gift–of sorts. Of “sorts” because it was a gift that does not require (re)payment but does require renumeration. But I don’t want to get too deep into the details of how worst-writer gets his seats on luxury airliners–nor do I want to explain the nuances of neo-feudalism–that worst-writer is able to exploit. Also. As I dabble into this/a world of duality, of dichotomy, poles, opposites, republican and democrats, is jet-lag better flying in a easterly or westerly direction, etc., etc., it is worth noting that there is something else out there that shares a commonality with seating arrangements on luxury airliners. After all is worst-said & worst-done, after all the krappy seats on airlines have been tried, it all comes back to one thing. When I end 2015’s travel itinerary it’s time to save again. For there is so much travel planned for 2016–if the neo-feudalists allow it. At least I think there is. Or? I know. I know. I know what you’re thinking, dear worst-reader. Save what? Save for what? You mean save money? For travel? Well, my answer to all your nitpicking, dear worst-reader, is simple: don’t worry your cute little head because if you plan well and you keep smiling and you are not a threat to the neo-feudalists, than travel will come as easy as the money they allow to grow on (my) trees. And in that vein, the vein of funny shoe laces or duality–or the same pair of jeans and shoes and laces on opposing flights–let’s give a bit more worst-writing a go. §While all get hot & bothered over Constitutions and how they are written–not unlike how Deist’s books were written by men from the friggin’ bronze-age–no one sees through what some people do to facilitate misinterpretation of old, old, really old words. And speaking of old words! So the 2nd amendment gets mixed up with the 14th amendment. Or shouldn’t states be able to decide what to do about their–with their–“well regulated Militia”? Again. Nomatter. §This post is a confusion of another kind. For example, instead of addressing the true cause of The Gun Problem (of #americant) change the entire discourse to immigration and terrorists and then all can be swept under the rug. Add to that a complexity of The Donald and an upcoming election that already resembles are farce that must someday be topped… Well, it’s no wonder I decided to seek out a life of luxury airline travel and funny shoe laces. Or maybe not.

Rant on.


Lead Sinker Bon-Bon Welfare Queens

lead bonbons

The first time I ever heard someone use the term “welfare queens” was when that dirty uncle was visiting for Thanksgiving dinner. You know the conversation that eventually rears its head at a such a family gathering. You not only got your lefts and your rights but you also got your ugly faces and morons–all stuffing their mouths with stuffing. When I asked dirty uncle where/how he came up with calling poor people welfare queens he responded with confidence that he recently started listening to a man on the radio named Rush. That was back in 1990. Obviously I eventually stopped talking to dirty uncle, although I think I did see him in 2002 briefly just before his passing. Yet even after all these years and all the distance I’ve put between myself and dirty uncle, every once-a-once I come across something while catching up on the goings-and-comings of my beloved #americant that make me think of dirty uncle. The issue/article (see links below) had to sink in for a few days before I was able to really wrap my head around it. And what a thing to wrap around! I suppose, somehow, somewhere, I had hoped that the welfare queen thing had been purged from my life. Along with dirty uncle (who we all have) and the prejudice of the mind (who most have), there is little to be done about the bitchin’ and moanin’ that #americant talk radio has made our past-time. For talk radio is so deeply embedded into the #americant psyche that it doesn’t even know when it blatantly goes over the edge, rearing its true inner conscience, its true face. Hence the immaculate coming of The Donald. I mean, where else could a country like #americant come up with such a character? But I don’t want to get too far off subject. Dirty uncles and the krapp they spew are the legacy of people not only addicted to pharmaceuticals but also addicted to being given all the answers of life without ever trying figure things out for themselves. So is a world ruled/governed/educated by (conservative) talk radio. For it is true, dear worst-reader, that without talk-radio–and a little help from The Gipper–there would be no welfare queens. But, again, I don’t want to get too far off subject. Obviously dirty uncle is dead. Long live prejudice and ignorance. In fact, the only smarts dirty uncle has is in his ability to either re-invent or encode the stuff he spews. Hence there is the problem of poor children suffering from lead poisoning–all because evil landlords that listen to too much talk radio are too greedy to replace poisonous lead paint in the slums they own. Some of these poor children are able to deal with their dilemma by suing and winning in court. This so angers the dirty uncles of #americant that they replace welfare queens with lead poison babies. And so. Instead of a state (governed by dirty uncles) making laws to limit the benefits of welfare queens, they make laws that benefit banks that can prey on lead poisoned babies who won a few lawsuits. Can you imagine what a sight it is to see a banker meeting with a lead poisoned person and getting that person to sign a contract where she turns over her won lawsuit after never even reading the contract! All of this because of the mindset that gave us “welfare queens” so long ago. These poor people, brain damaged by lead poisoning, who can barely read a letter–let alone understand a contract–fall prey to the tactics of dirty uncles. Only in #americant. Wow. Good luck suckers warding off your predator bankers and the predator dirty uncles running your show. Rant on. -tommi

Links that motivated this post:

US White Males And A Flat Earth Worth Jumping Off

US white males dying large
Red line USW=US white males age 45-54. Source below.

Got caught in a rut the other night while trying to find my new girlfriend who is named Sleep. A heroic bitch she is and I don’t know if my love for her is worth the effort. For as we all know love is an effort. For example, how many kisses have you wasted on Sleep this day? That’s why, historically speaking, marriage is the way out. Or is it jumping off the edge? Yeah, jumping off the edge sounds better. At the least, since we live in a flat world, wouldn’t that be a better way out than trying to circumnavigate a round world where we invent marriage and toasters? But I digress. §As the rut deepened in my search for Fräulein Sleep the following thought crossed my mind: if the world was flat then I could jump off the edge and race my burdens to the bottom. Then again, when I hit that bottom will I have to (eventually) jump off another edge? There are surely Fraüleins on any new shelf we jumped to. Either that or I should focus on a way to get to Fr. Sleep through other means. But enough about me and my frivolous joys and tantrums. §Check out the article below. Of all the negativity that I live for, for all the pessimism that gives me joy, finding an article about a subject matter like this should rock my world. Rock me right into Fr. Sleep. But it doesn’t. And the reason it doesn’t has nothing to do with the fact that I’m only partly in the demographic that the article deals with. Indeed. So let’s go there. §There is an alarming increase in death rates of US white males between the age of 45 and 54. These days rates are attributable to substance abuse and suicide. Gee. When I read such stuff I giggle and smirk. The giggle is because I have an advantage above and beyond this demographic. For you see, dear worst-reader, at 52–about to turn 53–there is an obvious advantage to being only half white. I smirk at this article because, well, I saw it all coming thirty friggin’ years ago! No. Seriously. When I left the (your) Homeland so many years ago (before it was called Homeland; when it was still mostly a country), my departing words, shed with a few tears, were: I will miss you very much but I won’t miss the madness and the madhouse. Now look at you. Indeed. I left the madness and its house and I have been staring back at what I’ve done ever since. But it was the only way out–the only way to rid myself the flat world that raised me. So I went to its edge and I jumped. And guess where I landed. I landed on another flat plain where the edge doesn’t call for me as abruptly and the wine is better, the beer is better, the food is better–but the grass ain’t greener. Seriously. Am I the only one to have seen this coming? To have seen the madness of the madhouse take over the show with the sole purpose of widening the horizons of being mad. Death of my peers, my compatriots, my fellow Federalists, comrades. By the millions you die because you can’t see through the prick of your heroin needles, the gulp of another bottle of rye or the leap from the tall building you mistake as an edge. No one saw this coming. Except me. Death in a world made of nothingness has to be the consequence of nothingness and life run amok. Or? I suppose if one propels death to higher levels, i.e. putting a price on life (living standard) and make one live be the objects that kill (the war machine + economic conscription = the only way out of poverty) this is what must come. Especially now, or at least since 2007 AD (the great recession), since there is even less than nothingness to fall back on. And with that nonsense in mind, good luck suckers. Rant on. -tommi

Links that motivated this post:


Chancellor Of The Automatons Person Of The Year

merkel oh natural
Even though this blog is NSFW, I couldn’t bring myself to post the whole pic. If you’re interested in the rest of it, give your fav search tool a try.

Well, there you have it. Finally, after all these years–almost thirty years to be exact–a human female makes the big cover, the big issue. Time magazine has chosen its “person” of the year. Now. During such an occasion other (privileged) humans can see who/what… a human female that runs a really, really, really big corporation actually looks like. I know. I know. It’s a eurowasteland corporation. Some prefer that it be referred to as a club. But then, if you refer to it as a club in the wrong place while drinking the wrong schnapps, Swiss people get offended. Switzerland is, by all means, this planets largest country-club but also a relative small country-corporation. Or? Then again. Is there another reason for choosing Angie Merkel to be on the cover of such a prestigious, respected magazine? (Excuse me while I itch that shred of sarcasm on the back of my neck.) But then again. Let us put worst-writer’s (aka Tommi’s) misogyny and nation-state hate aside for a moment. For we not only have a woman on the cover of this influential magazine (more itching) but also an East German. When was the last time that happened? Well, it’s never happened. So I guess it was time that it happen. The last West German on the cover was named Willy and it was 1970. Actually his name wasn’t Willy it was instead Herbert Ernst Karl Frahm. But that’s neither here nor there. Anywho. I actually had the opportunity to meet Willy when I was a sailor parked in Hamburg. On numerous occasions I would frequent a pub near the water named Muschi. But don’t bother looking for it. It shut down years ago. Anywho. After a while I had stop Willy meeting in Muschi because Muschi went dry. Muschi did some bad stuff and the Hamburger authorities shut the place down. It couldn’t deal with the onslaught of new Willy’s coming in from the recently freed East. Indeed. Muschi couldn’t handle too many East Willy’s. But I digress. I don’t know about you, dear worst-reader, but I’m so tickled with Angie’s win here that I have the need to run around Germania right now yelling and screaming “Hey Toots, Muschi has reopened. Where’s Willy!” But enough about me and my Americania vulgarities and/or poorly influenced experience living among the Germanians for so long. For this is a day of celebration–even I find it a bit much to ruin such days. I mean, it’s not as though Germania has to worry about things these days. No. Germania is in fact a utopia state and highly profitable corporation that deserves having its leadership on the cover of #americant magazines. In fact, Germania has made massive headways into the societal infrastructures of both the now and the future. Germania, with a female at its head, is currently in the process of laying the blueprint for future corporate states where no one has to worry about VW execs screwing the pooch or Sig Sauer losing a new gun deal. No. Things are well in the nation-state Germania and that is the reason Angie has been chosen. And there you have it. Congratulations. Now it’s time to give out some corporate gifts like pens, t-shirts and for those with advanced degrees, neck-ties and business socks. Automatons the world over unite. The Germanians, lead by a female reared at the hand of Margot Honecker, is running the fucking show. Oh. And btw! If the world needs any more space for “refugees” just call Angie. Her doors are open and there’s plenty of sleeping space on her Autobahns and cheap labour spots on her corporations. Yeah, baby. It all reminds me of the good’ole days with Willy and Muschi. Or maybe not. Whatever.

Rant on. -tommi

Source: TIME Person of the Year 2015: Angela Merkel

Kahn And The Donald

Kahn And The Donald

Multiple monitors inject (their) information into my brain every morning. The fun usually begins before six a.m. but on this particular morn it began at five. The information, of course, is the freak-show known as (the current iteration of the grand social, national, greed-show) #americant. Most of this information comes to me in the form of news. I get this news from either reading (what remains of RSS feeds, various news aggregators, blogs, etc.) or watching podcasts or krapptube… youtube. As I was catching up on the top-rated freak show of the century, aka The Donald running for the republican party’s nomination as president, a scene and a character popped into my head from a Star Trek film as demagoguery has been elevated to new levels in American politics. The film? The Wrath of Kahn. Remember it? Of course, I’d seen that movie before but it had been a while. So I gave the film another look and then realised that the scene I was looking for wasn’t in the movie. Keep in mind, dear worst-reader, I’m a pseudo trekkie. I own all the Star Trek movies, all three seasons of TOS (the original series), TNG (the next generation) and Voyager. Obviously “pseudo” applies because I don’t own, nor have I ever seen any of the other instalments from this sci-fi universe. Even though I like all the films, except, maybe, The Final Frontier or The Undiscovered Country, The Voyage Home and The Wrath of Kahn are my favourites. But, as usual, I’m off subject again. Nomatter. The subject is #americant demagoguery and what scene in what movie it all reminded me of. And so. On this particular morn the right monitor was catching me up on the madness of The Donald. The left monitor was showing me “Space Seed”, i.e. S01E22 of Star Trek (TOS). For there was my error, dear worst-reader. The scene I had been looking for was not from the movie but instead from the TV show. And after much-much deep thought and tv-soul searching I had finally found it. Indeed. The Donald freak-show that #americants are lapping up got me thinking about the origin of Kahn. Not the origin of the movie but the origin of the character himself and the humanity that created/fostered him. I knew that the movie was a continuation of one of the shows from the original series–but it took me a bit longer to get to the actual scene that was so deep in my memory. Which brings me to Khan Noonien Singh, The Enterprise and the transcript/scene below. Kahn was the product of late 20th century eugenics in which a few of the “last tyrants” ran various parts/countries of earth. Eventually these tyrants were all defeated but Kahn managed to make a spectacular getaway. He and his crew of fellow supermen and superwomen made it to some new fangled space ship. There they (somehow) put themselves into suspended animation and, well, they were found two hundred years later. Keep in mind, this particular episode of Star Trek was written in the late 1960s. I can only assume that the generation of writers that were working at the time in Hollywood were well aware of the eugenics madness that came out of Europe in an earlier part of the same century. And so. After watching it, it hit me like a rock the thing that connected a character from a 1967 TV show with Donald J. Trump of 2015 #americant freak-show politics riding on the edge of societal danger. For your worst-reading pleasure, the transcript is below. For those of you with easy access, the scene takes place at about 29min into the episode.

Star Trek – “Space Seed”, Season 1, Episode 22.

The scene is a briefing room on Enterprise. Seated around a table are Kirk, Spock, McCoy and Scott. They are drinking (coffee?) out of cups. A picture of Khan is on a large screen behind them.

KIRK: (Picture behind him is that of Kahn when he left earth.) Name, Khan, as we know him today. (Spock changes the picture Kahn of now.) Name, Khan Noonien Singh.

SPOCK: (Abruptly.) From 1992 through 1996, absolute ruler of more than a quarter of your world. From Asia through the Middle East.

MCCOY: (Obviously aware of this part of earth’s history.) The last of the tyrants to be overthrown.

SCOTT: (Ditto awareness.) I must confess, gentlemen. I’ve always held a sneaking admiration for this one.

KIRK: He was the best of the tyrants and the most dangerous. They were supermen, in a sense. Stronger, braver, certainly more ambitious, more daring.

SPOCK: Gentlemen, this romanticism about a ruthless dictator is…

KIRK: Mister Spock, we humans have a streak of barbarism in us. Appalling, but there, nevertheless.

SCOTT: There were no massacres under his rule.

SPOCK: And as little freedom!

MCCOY: No wars until he was attacked.

SPOCK: Gentlemen.

(All but Spock laugh.)

KIRK: Mister Spock, you misunderstand us. We can be against him and admire him all at the same time.

SPOCK: Illogical.

KIRK: Totally. (He moves to activate ship communication system.) This is the Captain. Put a twenty four hour security on Mister Khan’s quarters, effective immediately.

-end of scene-

Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. This scene reminds me of the mindset of #americant right now as it dabbles so energetically and naively in right-wing extreme politics thanks to one political party and the power of its propaganda. And just like Spock, only a few people can actually see what’s really happening both within the party and with those that vehemently support it. While #americant giggles and ogles over how, for the first time ever, a national figure rises out of the ashes of an obviously broken political system, no one recognises what’s really going on. With that in mind, does The Donald sound familiar? Or does this mean that the only cure for #americant is a rational and logical thinking Spock who tries to understand how/why humans romanticise the way they do.

In closing. Let’s not forget how this particular Star Trek episode ended. The threat of the demagogue Kahn was thwarted only after quoting Milton: It is better to rule in hell than serve in heaven. How fitting for what my beloved America has allowed itself to become. Now go buy something and enjoy The Donald show you have earned.

Rant on. -tommi

Links that helped with this post:


Former US Intelligence Chief Has A Funny Nose

This is who should be our new intelligence chief 363 days a year.

Today is a day of oxymorons, dear worst-reader. We have US Intelligence and Too Dumb. Or it’s a day of dumb rearing its true face and what we see is Kim Kardashian’s left tit superimposed on the red, white and blue which is also superimposed on a xmas tree that has just exploded out of a sewer system that none of us knew was underneath the living room where we sit and watch hi-larry-us stop motion tv shows. So is the place some call the house of hell right in the middle of Walt Disney’s dreamboat. Or. Tis the season to be jolly. And. Think not of all those children that were riddled with bullets by a “mass” shooter that no one can seem to top. But I digress. It’s time to focus on more joyous things. Speaking of joy! My favourite stop motion xmas character is Rudolf (the communist-nosed) Reindeer and US Intelligence. Again. We’re combing the sands of kill-man-jar-oh in the hopes of finding promise and truth. And to think that another shooter is waiting in the wings as thought yesterday can never happen. Indeed. It never did. The only thing that happened is that Rudolf (the communist nosed) Reindeer said: “But. But you fell off that cliff.” And his budding chief of economic and military affairs responded: “Didn’t I ever tell you about Bumbles? Bumbles bounce!” And since we’re on the subject of quoting things. How ’bout the Der Spiegel article below. Check it out. And while doing so don’t forget the righteous premise of this worst-post: oxymoronic. Or something like that.

SPIEGEL ONLINE: In February 2004, you already had Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi in your hands — he was imprisoned in in a military camp, but got cleared later as harmless by a US military commission. How could that fatal mistake happen?

Flynn (former US intelligence chief): We were too dumb. We didn’t understand who we had there at that moment. When 9/11 occurred, all the emotions took over, and our response was, “Where did those bastards come from? Let’s go kill them. Let’s go get them.” Instead of asking why they attacked us, we asked where they came from. Then we strategically marched in the wrong direction.

Rant on. -T

Link that motivated this post:

Former US Intelligence Chief Discusses Development of IS – SPIEGEL ONLINE

Quotes from the US Xmas TV show Rudolf The Red Nosed Reindeer | IMBD

By Definition We Are

psycopath v sociopath
Don’t worry. This pic is a modified cut & paste picture that worst-writer made while fiddling around on the Internets. So there!

psychopath |ˈsīkəˌpaθ|
a person suffering from chronic mental disorder with abnormal or violent social behavior.

sociopath |ˈsōsēōˌpaθ|
a person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior and a lack of conscience.

In the wake of recent “mass” shooting in my beloved #americant, I got to thinking about one of the deeper issues involved in it that could also be considered a cause. This issue, of course, as with other mass shootings, is never addressed in a public forum. The reason for that is simple. If the cause for this or any other mass shooting were to actually be addressed in a public forum, I think the lights would go out and hysteria would be the new norm. (That’s right. There is lots of potential for even more hysteria!) Heck, things would be so bad that Americans might actually think twice about going out and buying something for holy consumer day–i.e. xmas or black monday or the last Tuesday before the vernal equinox. With that nonsense in mind… §The issue I’m worst-writing about is the fact that an already ignorant voting populace that consistently supports republicans, conservatives and neo-fascists, cannot differentiate between a sociopath, a psychopath and a snake oil salesman. And I’m not talking about knowing the difference between all the killers that are running around with their high-powered rifles, their extended clips and their semi-automatic hand guns. No. It’s now time for Americans to start seeing through the people that somehow, in their own perverse, self-righteous, amoral way, have stoked the crazies. Just get a load of what Cruz and Fiorina have said (see linked articles below). Carly Fiorina, a formative presidential candidate for 2016, goes so far as to equate #blacklivesmatter protestors with pro-life protestors. Now. I don’t know about you, dear worst-reader, but that blows my mind. Conservative and neo-fascists have been attacking abortion clinics, shooting people, blowing things up for years. What has #blacklivesmatter protestors ever done to anybody? But I digress. Good luck suckers. And. Rant on. -tommi

Links that motivated this post:

Science Fiction Saves The Middle East

der golan marathon

Der Heimatlose: Heimatlosigkeit is das schöne Gefühl, in der Welt zu Hause zu sein.

The Displaced: being displaced is the comforting feeling of being at home with the world.

First. Dear worst-reader, I’m no book critic–even though I probably should be. I mean. I’ve read a thing or three about writers who never made it but ended up being book critics. Or do they end up being journalists, bloggers, drunks? Nomatter. I finally got around to reading my friend’s new novel The Golan Marathon. I’ve obviously got a few things to say about it and as a pseudo writer who might end up with a swollen liver, that may or may not be a good thing. Btw, I read Yassin’s first novel, which I blogged about hereBefore I get to this new book, I have to worst-write a bit about what’s been going on for the past few months where I’ve barely blogged and even found myself brain dead in the realm of micro-blogging, aka twitter–which I usually don’t put much effort into anyway (as any tweeter can tell). And so. For those interested in The Golan Marathon, scroll down. For those who wish to waddle through more worst-writing… Good luck.

Second. I’ve been traveling. Actually, let me put that another way. My better half has been traveling–and I’ve been allowed to travel with her. Which means, other than being a failed writer–or is it a wannabe writer?–I usually join my better half for travel because she needs me to carry her luggage. Which is ok. Husband luggage carrier is also a career. Or? And. Free flights to Asia and Africa ain’t such a bad perk either. Nor do I mind sitting in economy while she enjoys the view from business class. The other good thing is, traveling ain’t such a hindrance to my work on account

  1. I’ve got an ageing but fully functional laptop plus an ageing and poorly functional iPad4 (which Apple is making obsolete because of its stupid iOS updates) and
  2. I actually like typing on airplanes–even virtual typing on airplanes with an iPad.

Btw, my better-half’s luggage has a nickname. I call it the weight of kill-man-jar-oh.

(Short pause. Breath.)

Third. I had a ghostwriting deadline for mid November. I suppose it doesn’t matter that I got the assignment way back in July. Although I thought I could manage the travel and the work since then, the thing I can’t manage is the procrastination. This caused me to go into panic mode by the end of October when we started travelling. The only thing to do at that point is shut down all extra curricular activity. In other words, shut down anything requiring brain work that doesn’t charge per page. Of course, the most significant thing I had to shutdown was reading. For you see, when I read I really, really read. Sometimes it fully occupies me–even more so than the occupation of following each letter with my forefinger and moving my lips in sync with the words on the page. And if you think that’s bad, get a load of me when I’m reading German. I’m a royal mess when I read German. After all these years I still find it tortuous. And so. It breaks my heart when I have to put down a book on account I have to make a living. It’s like leaving a movie right in the middle. But so is life, eh dear worst-reader! With that in mind, I had to stop reading The Golan Marathon when I was about half way through it. Damn! I had to put it down for almost three weeks. Luckily I got back to it. Yeah, I got back to it.

Thoughts on The Golan Marathon by Yassin Nasri.

Heimatlose is German for displaced person. I had to look that up at In a different context the word Heimatlos (without the ‘e’) means homeless-person. Confused yet? Don’t worry. It doesn’t get any worse. Unless, of course, the author decides to use words like Schwer–another confusing German word that I post about here. But that’s enough about how difficult German can be. 

The year is 2033. The Syrian conflict is over. The  pointy-eared, weasel-eyed dictator Assad is long gone. What is left is for Andy to find some roots. So he travels from Germany, where he was raised, to Syria, where his family is from. What Andy finds, though, is not what he expected. He not only gets caught up in the past of his family but he also realises that there is an alternative world out there. An alternative world that is ultimately an idea–and I will assume that it is a grand idea directly from the soul of the author. Luckily the idea is simple. It goes something like this. There is a unified, peaceful middle east by the year 2033. In this world there are guys and dolls who hang out, are cool and they all use futuristic gadgets like Google Glass and Apple’s Siri. Heck, there are even electric cars that rival Tesla. Yes, Yassin has created a world. And not just any world. A world of ideas.

At other times while I was reading this book I kept getting confused. And not just confused because I was reading it in German. I was getting confused about where this story takes place: Syria and the middle east. A place where, these days, there aren’t very many ideas. Is it possible that the middle east can someday find peace and harmony where young people from Israel and Syria can hang out at cafés and wear t-shirts with political statements? Really? Andy, Yassin Nasri’s alter-ego, makes the impossible possible. Andy dallies through Syria as though he’s sitting on a flying carpet and the world is his sweet date. In fact, I’m so convinced of the impossible after reading this book, that I can’t wait to go to Aleppo or Damascus… and just hang out. If all goes well, I might even still be alive in 2033 to do just that. I mean. Come on, dear worst-reader. A story has been written that perfectly describes peace and harmony in a place that reality dictates must be war-torn and kaputt? Yeah. Is this book a first of its kind? For me, at least, I think it is.

Once again my hat is off to Yassin. This book is a wondrous achievement in the genre of science fiction, the middle east and optimism. What a combination.

Rant on.