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