Benefits Of Pressure Cooking, Long White Wrapping Tape Poetry, Subcontinent Blues

benefits of pressure cooking

Bought a pressure cooker the other day. When it arrived and I unpacked it I realised quickly that lowered expectations would have served me better. But how low? This is not the continent, I remembered. Lower your expectations, my thoughts repeated. Sub and sub-par. One of the security guards who watches over our little gated community just sneezed. I can see him from outside my worst-writing office window. He sits in a stool glaring into nothing while watching the/our grounds. What is he thinking, I think. But he can’t be more than twelve years old, I add to my thoughts. At least he looks no more than sixteen. On the other hand, he has a job. Is it better to have a job watching over those from the continent or, perhaps, cooking in a shabby restaurant along side other earthly refugees? That was the last place I saw a boy that looked almost like a man–twelve or sixteen? He prepared my meal the other night when I went out alone to a local western-like mall. My better half was away on business. I need to get out. That’s what this place is starting to feel like. Not getting out but getting… I’m starting to feel confusion boarding hysteria–it’s getting me. My minds-eye therapist says: that’s perfectly normal–unless, of course, they deliver your golf club membership this week. But I digress.

Where am I? I’m on a subcontinent of earthly refugees. But before I get too far off subject. Our only protection from the wolves of the starving classes and their bigoted expatriates is a sixteen year old that looks twelve. I’m not sure if that will do. Golf anyone?

While getting used to this new culture I started wondering who cooks with a pressure cooker anymore/these days? I thought everything was done here with a microwave. You can tell how often they use microwaves here. Just count the amount of times the power goes out. I want to ask our napping security guard about how life is here. My therapist doesn’t think that’s a good idear. Reason, she says, he’s even further away from my language than the rest of them–that live here. You’re here as a guest, she reminds me. Besides, she adds, to think I thought that English was pretty prevalent here, I hope I’ll be proved wrong, but you are a bit naive. You know, she continues, with that colony history not all that far in the past, perhaps they don’t like English. Thinking twice before answering her, I say to myself, Oh but what kind of person would I be to ask a rinky-dink rent-a-cop about subcontinent cooking utensils and life as an expat? Besides, I have a read a book or three about this place to prepare me for being so far away from home. Conclusion? Men on the subcontinent don’t cook. If they do cook, they certainly don’t use a pressure cooker. Unless, of course, they’re paid to do it. And some of them are obviously paid well. That’s what all my books say. Pay well inside your pressure cooker. Don’t you know.

I was told by our maid… Wait. I was told by our housekeeper… Yes. That’s the politically correct way to put it. Is there anything politically correct in this part of the world where pressure cookers rule the day? Which brings me to the income-plete question: the things that come out of pressure cookers is what? Such questions don’t matter anymore. Hence, once again, before I forget while staring at our security guard who is still wiping the snot from his leaky nose and completely indifferent to the mannerism where I come from… But I’m off subject yet again.

I was told by our housekeeper to get a pressure cooker. So I did what any digitally aware sentient would do. I ordered it online. Even though delivery here is slow and painstaking, it arrived. The twelve-sixteen year old accompanied the delivery boy to our door. Yes, everything here is pains-taking. That’s clear to me now. Such pain and takings are probably best felt/seen/learned in the girl that packaged our package–it even confused the youthful security guard–who is probably not unlike our packager, if you will. And get this. The tape that sealed up our package was wrapped around the box perfectly and neat. None of the tape overlapped, crossed, showed sign of breakage or was anywhere pinched together. I mean, come on, dear worst-reader. Don’t you hate that when you are trying to wrap something and the tape tapes itself?

The tape was white and had some kind of handwriting on it. From stern to bow, from east to west, the tape was filled with handwriting that was done with a black magic marker. Of course, that’s not really the shocker here. The shocker is, the writing was in English. Still, I couldn’t make heads or tales of what was written. Was the packager practicing? Was she taking notes? I proceeded to remove the tape from the box and put it to the side. Since the side wasn’t long enough I stretched the tape on the floor. We have a thousand foot long living room that is connected to the dinning area. That should be long enough. But it wasn’t. I found a place on the tape that would allow a carriage return and then cut the tape. Lined side-by-side, the tape stretched one and a half times the length of our stone ground floor. The only other problem is, I couldn’t break away from the tape and what was written on it–even though our maid…. Even though our housekeeper was waiting in the corner of the kitchen for me to provide her with the cooking utensils she needs. How hungry was I going to be in a few hours, I thought. Hunger must take a side-seat.

Language is confusing enough and some day I must provide input here about what the packager, yes, she was female, wrote on that tape. Till then, I’m busy elsewhere. And so. I finally got through the package to the packaged pressure cooker inside. At that moment, which I guess could be a moment of truth, I realised that I wasn’t as far away from home as this whole trip may seem. Three thousand miles here or there, the consume-to-survive world knows no boundaries or nationalities or bigoted usurpers. In all my passivity our new housekeeper tripped me up and grabbed the packaging of the new pressure cooker. She left with the online delivery and its confused packaging. That surprised me. What was I to do with yet another box from Amazon?

The housekeeper said, while she freed the new pressure cooker from its factory packaging, in Indian-English gibberish, This is good, sir, I can save time preparing your Dal, sir, and if you like I’ll even start cooking for your dog, that way you can save more money to pay for me, industrial dog food is bad for the little guy. The only thing I could think about, as my dog slept in the corner that was infested with ants, how the hell is she really gonna save time? Obviously that question actually came out of my mouth. Within a few seconds my new housekeeper put the instructions from the pressure cooker box in my hand and showed me a small piece of paper. There, she said, pointing. There, she repeated, pointing. I read the small paper where her finger left a blemish. Indeed, I thought. She is right. And she should be right. This is her country and her pressure cooker was even made in her country. Within a blink of an eye she was off again whizzing around the kitchen, preparing my Dal.

We are scheduled to be here for three years, I thought to myself while sitting in the corner above my dog watching our housekeeper cook. We are at the front of a three year quest. The end of that quest has never felt so far off, though. How time doesn’t fly when you’re having fun, eh. Our contract says that we will be in India for three years. I bet my bottom dollar that that’s not possible. A high price to pay, I say to my better half. Not a price too little or too big, she says back to me. Now I’m worried about saving my housekeeper time when she cooks us Dal and also wondering how long it will take before our security guards stop sneezing or grow up–because there has to be an end to this (for lack of a better word) adventure sooner or later.

I was trying to worst-write about having purchased a new Indian pressure cooker. The thing is, when it arrived and I unpacked it, our housekeeper was all over it. She cleaned the new cooking device and put all the parts together, remarking that I need to eventually go to the store to get an extra o-ring. Can’t you get that, I asked her. She stared at me with those dark eyes. There was a glistening of jewellery that she hadn’t yet removed because she hadn’t started cleaning yet. That was her thing, you know. When she cleaned she removed her jewellery, when she cooked she put it back on. To top things off, she knows that the o-rings wear out quicker than one should assume. It’s the pressure and the heat, she said. The pressure and the heat kill the o-ring. She then proceeded to stuff the new pressure cooker full of Tuwar Dal. Aren’t you gonna put other ingredients in it as well, I asked. She turned to me, one hand sweeping the floor and the other stirring the Dal in the heated water. No, sir, she mumbled as though chewing on a mouthful of soft marbles. Listen, sir, hear me, on Tuesday when I come, not Monday because Monday is a big cleaning day, on Tuesday, I will show you how to make Dal. And it was at that moment I thought about what brought us here. We were brought here in a pressure cooker. A nice pressure cooker, at that. Probably made out of bronze with copious wings and a singing pressure valve lid that, when used precisely, will actually levitate in the releasing steam just above the valve–what a sight! Yes. I’ve seen the pressure of our cooker and it’s mesmerising in the odds of it all. Or something like that.

Rant on.


Another Do-It-Right Check For #Eurowasteland


Aaron Swartz would be proud? The only problem is, what would make him proud ain’t happening where it should be happening. I mean, who cares about #eurowasteland anyways? Nothing comes out of #eurowasteland except new fangled ways of implementing centralised government and nifty ways to tax the sh*t out of people. On the other hand, while #americant continues down its path of Darwinian greed mongering, literally turning society into a cesspool of Mad Max movie extras elbowing each other in the eyes, #eurowasteland, every once-a-once, does throw a glistening light of hope into the ether of worldly greed. Yet, in the context of information being free, worst-writer has this question:

How do you differentiate between what is publicly funded vs what is privately funded?

Which raises another question.

If privately funded research results in discoveries that benefit society, shouldn’t that research also be freely available?

The problem in both the US and Europe is that conservative, neoliberal politics has so successfully merged public (government) with private (corporate) interests that information has become a commodity, informing has become a privilege and Mickey Mouse is the ultimate form of evil because, well, its copyright will never die. It’s a really good thing that #eurowasteland at least attempts to free information from the tyranny of greed, although I doubt this will make much difference in the end. Stupid will always be freer than… But I digress.

Rant on.


Link that lead to this post:

Pumpkin Head And The Misogynistic Nation Of Dips And Dimwits

Crying Girl

A worst-reader sent me a email this morn. In the email I was asked the following question: What is the essence of evil? While eating breakfast, drinking too much English Breakfast tea and surfing the Interwebnets, my mind drifted to the following in its quest to find an answer.

  • Is the essence of evil murder or rape or pillaging?
  • Is it war or politics or meddling wives?
  • Is it the opposite of right or worshipping the devil?
  • Is the devil the essence of evil?
  • Is the devil actually a woman who set up her own email server to protect herself from the piranhas of Washington DC politics?

After clearing my system with a grand morning constitutional, and like most other challenges in life, I gave up on finding an answer to one of my three worst-readers. Reason, I must by a woman hater. I mean, just look at the sh*t that came out of my mind–as transcribed in the bullets above. Wow. I need to take a break–from being an #americant.

Break is over.

The question and the answer are moot. For one thing, conjuring evil by finding its essence is like finding out what the core of a baseball is in order to understand the game. In other worst-words, evil is not a  grand thing. If it were, then, I believe, nature, a’la Darwin, would have somehow rid evil from our species. Or are other living things plagued with so much evil–like we are? Which brings me to the female part of this.

(You see, there I go again. So I really should move on.)

Couldn’t help but notice a correlation between two articles I read this morn and the/an attempt to answer an innocent albeit naive question by just giving up on it. That said, the hate for Hillary Clinton is deep and I’m wondering more about how deep that hate is more than the essence of evil. Or. Perhaps. Maybe hate is the essence of evil. Hey! I think I found it. And just in the nick of time. I found that the essence of evil is hate because, well, so many people just hate women–and I’m not one of them. Or am I? Oh no. My last blog post is about giving up my love for Hillary.

On that note, allow me to add this. Donald Trump has been married three times to women that are so similar one could surmise, if one were a psycho-analyst-type, that he has an infatuation that borders on the psychotic or he never learned during that stage of life where boy turns to man that you really have to put some effort into finding the right woman on account, well, since it’s all pink on the inside, you might as well get something different on the outside. But enough of my worst vulgarities.

Hillary Clinton was able to save her marriage and keep her family together as the misogyny of an entire nation weighs upon her without remorse or consideration.

Oh my.

Rant on


Links that motivate this post:

Apple Pie, Pumpkin Sky, Bern It To The F'n Ground Already

Repeating myself goes like this: I wanted Hillary in 2008. Not repeating myself goes like this: I wanted Hillary in 2008 but…

That may bring you, dear worst-reader, to ask the following question: Why the “but” and why now? Well. I suppose most of the/my reasoning for wanting Hillary can be traced to a bus ride in DC in 2010 where I attended the Rally To Restore Sanity. When I got on the public bus it was already filled with young rally goers on their way to The Mall. One of those goers was passing out pieces of tape that, once written on with a black permanent marker, could be put on your hat or your clothing and thereby you can declare your favourite Barry-O political accomplishment. When the young rally goer turned to me to ask if I wanted to join the group in supporting Barry-O, I nodded my head and said: But could you please write on mine: Hillary ’08. Suddenly the commotion and enthusiasm of all the young rally goers in the bus stopped. They all stared at me as though I was alien. As quick as they were called-out on the lie of the(ir) democracy, they also lost interest in the middle aged sour puss with an odd sense of humour.

I was against Barry-O as president for three basic reasons:

  1. He’s from Chicago
  2. He’s a neoliberal
  3. He’s naive

I can now state without remorse that Barry-O is the single greatest president in my life time. I love the guy. I even went out of my world travel way to vote for him–twice! Btw, I did the same thing voting against dipshit Dubya Bush. Which means, somehow and in hindsight, the greatest thing Barry-O has done is that Dubya enabled him to be elected. I know. I know. That last sentence doesn’t make much sense. But lets run with it.

Now that the republican field has been cleared of all its sh*t stains, except one, it’s time to focus on the other side of the same coin. With that in mind, allow me to interject this: I like the American bipartisan political system. I like the US Constitution, which is also kinda bipartisan. No other place on earth is as politically cool as the US–which I endearingly refer to as my beloved united mistakes of #americant more often than I probably should. That said, I’ve been having a hard time supporting Hillary like I used to support her. Does that mean Bernie has changed me politically? No, it doesn’t. Does that mean I believe all the BS that’s being spewed about email servers? No, it doesn’t. Do I even have anything negative to say about Hillary and her record? No, no, no. Yet, I’m starting to drift. Or. I’ve just boarded a DC bus. The girl turns to me and asks: what would you like on your piece of tape, sir? I look around the bus at all the automaton millennial faces that make up #americant and say: Please, young lady, write on my piece of tape: I’m feeling the Bern.

The above video is not overly convincing. In fact, it feels like a repeat of the other time Bernie Sanders was on Maher’s show. Yet, over the past few weeks I’ve been more and more weary of throwing my useless eating vote Hillary’s way. But again, I’m not defecting from Hillary because of all the BS that’s said about her. It’s just that, she’s not been moved enough by all the right (as in correct) BS that Bernie says. I’ve lived long enough in socialised countries to know that if Hillary can’t wake up to the reality that Bernie is stirring in the US right now, then maybe she’s not the right candidate.

Wow. It almost hurts for me to worst-write that.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ll vote for whomever gets the Democratic nomination. But in the last couple of days I’ve been hearing the call of Bernie 2016 more than the call of Hillary 2008. And if you’re wondering what I think of Trump if Hillary doesn’t get the nomination? Well, I’ve been giving that some thought, too. You know, maybe it would be better if Trump, i.e. pumpkin head, wins against Bernie and not against Hillary, i.e. a used apple pie. Why? The phoenix cannot rise without its ashes.


Rant on.



Populace, Popularity, Pregnancy And, Don't Worry, You're With Stupid

I'm with stupid t-shirt

Time for proof of how it’s more difficult to get rid of The Stupid than it is to get rid of ants in India or lice in dirty kids’ hair or that stupid Chewbacca mask. Congratulations are (might be) at hand. Even though it probably won’t topple your favourite stupid Chewbacca mask, #americant has something else to put on its popularity of stupid t-shirt. A highschooler just dropped a water bottle on a table and he’s really, really popular. (Pause now. Take that in.)

That worst said, is it possible to actually get rid of the The Stupid in a society? According to the most recent popular video contest, probably not. But then again, #americant hasn’t really ever graduated from high school. On the other hand, if we look at history, it might be possible to get rid of The Stupid. It was got-rid-of in Germany. It wasn’t completely got-rid-of in Japan. Which brings me to this little tangent.

One of the reason the atomic bomb was dropped on Japan was because of how radical the Japanese were regarding the divinity of their emperor. They would not unconditionally surrender because the emperor couldn’t. They actually believed a God cannot surrender to men. Talk about… The Stupid. Nomatter. When we dropped those bombs on Japan they were already defeated–just not in spirit. But I digress.

The Japanese have certainly made good headwinds in their long struggle to bring their emperor bullshit back down to earth, i.e. limit their Stupidity. So. If a populace that believes so deeply in something as noble as a divine emperor can get rid of, at the least, most of their Stupid, how can #americant begin to deal with it? Whether its a political issue like abortion or head shaking popularity i.e. Kardashians or Honey Booboo–and I mean, come on, those three things together really do represent #americant stupidity–how can this be got-rid-of? Well, worst-writer has an answer for you. Ready?

It can’t. Even if #americant doesn’t elect the ultimate stupid in the upcoming presidential race–and I really thought that #americant couldn’t get any worse than Dubya Bush–Donald Trump is proof of how Stupid a population can actually get–without being run by dictator or a god-like emperor. Which means, I suppose, my beloved #americant does have a god-like dictator that rules its collective conscience. It’s called the almighty dollar. And whatever the almighty dollar wants (greed) the All-Sttupid delivers.

Rant on.


Links that motivated this post:

The Things They Can Do You Don't Want To Know About Because You Think Your Vote Matters

The #Brazil way or the #Americant way? Raise awareness of what conservatives are capable of. In Brazil they are blatant about it whereas in #americant they just take advantage of an entire moronic voting and non-voting public that is too stupid to figure things out on its own. I don’t know about you but even as you contemplate voting for a new president or, goodness forbid, a congressman, do you still believe your vote matters? Look what they can do–what they’ve always done in S. America. So don’t worry. Brazil is far away and the people there talk funny. That’s why you think you’re not part of the stupidity. But indeed you are. You swim in it. You breath it. Now go buy something with it.

Rant on.


Link that motivate this post:

When Investors Cash Out, Mitt Already Made A Killing And Bankruptcy Is Not On Your Side

sports authority sucks and mitt does too

Hi-larry-us, dear worst-reader. I mean, I don’t mean to mock all the people that will ultimately lose their minimum wage jobs. But then again, maybe they should be mocked. For the life of me, I’ve never understood why people work at a store like Sports Authority. I understand that due to #americant democracy equalling stupidity times a gazillion that only makes a few people rich, all others seem to enjoy working for crumbs. And while I’m on the subject of crumbs, why don’t they go out on the streets and

  1. vote out political conservatism (which is obviously the cause of #americant)
  2. demand some fcuking dignity?

Oh well. So much of this world is beyond me. Then again, #american’t almost voted for Mitt Romney a few years back. Anyone remember Mitt? Anyone know why Mitt appears in yet another worstwriter blog post along side a really krappy retailer that deserves to go out of business? Well, now that one of the worst retailers in history is going bankrupt, perhaps a bit of history about where this company came from is due. Or maybe not.

Simply put, Sports Authority is a product of the likes of Bain & Company. Bain is Mitt Romney’s shell company where he was able to rob american’t of so much of its resources via M&A deals galore stemming out of the 1980s. Mitt’s great contribution to #Americant, in turn, was that M&A bull$hit turned into private equity über-bull$hit. For you see, dear worst-reader, this is how the smart-asses from Wall Street really screw you. Seriously. They don’t screw you by providing you with loans that you are too stupid to realise you’ll never be able to pay back. Nor do they screw you by being bailed-out because, well, there were millions more suckers than anyone could dream of who were willing to take loans that they didnt know they wouldn’t be able to pay back. Indeed. The likes of Mitt/Bain/private-equity screw you buy taking advantage the corporate needy and the corporate desperate–and let’s not forget the children of capitalist pigs who have now, pretty much, inherited everything post ww2 if not the ill-fated DotCom boom. Inheritance, btw, is the true culprit of the Dubya Bush tax cuts that have bankrupted the country. But on that issue I digress and wish all the suckers out there: good luck–you haven’t earned it.

Rant on.


Links that motivated this post:

Another Reason Why #AWS Tech People Shouldn't Sail The Boat

Screen Shot 2016-05-23 at 09.21.04

Actually, the saying goes: boat builders shouldn’t sail the boat. But we have to modify the saying today on account we’re dealing with techies. But I digress. §Got a atypical techi email (i.e. previous blog post) the other day that took me a while to comprehend. I was told by #AWS (Amazon Web Service) that my instance (a name used to confuse people about what a server is) was going to be retired on June 2, 2016 at so-n-so time. Ok, I thought. Maybe this is one of those Kenya emails where a pseudo prince is trying to scam me, albeit less Kenya. And guess what? Indeed it is a scam email. Obviously, by taking advantage of users–especially users who just want a cheap blog hosting platform and get a kick out of technology but don’t live by it–Amazon thinks it can whip up some tech problems in order to get users to dish out more free money. (“Free money” for corporate overhead, of course.) I mean, that’s how things work these days, right? That’s how things work in a trickle around and fail-upward society. As we know, dear worst-reader, no one actually “works” for a living anymore. Instead what people (automatons) do is behave and follow certain rules and regulations for their daily living. Hence, anyone with a friggin’ job and/or career (there really is no difference between the two since people don’t achieve anything other than consumerism with both) is a compulsive behaviourist. Also. Compulsive behaviourists are part of a system that is dependent on psychosis. And so. When Amazon techi shitkickers send out emails about how their hardware will fail, they do so with the advice that one should pay more money

  1. in order to understand what the problem actually is because they use words that confuse and convolute more than inform and assist
  2. for advice
  3. to fix the problem that they themselves facilitate and create

But what is the AWS problem that has so engorged my nasty parts with rage? Get this. AWS, the most profitable part of Jeff Bezos shitkicker company, has hardware failure issues. I don’t know about you but it sounds more like Amazon and Jeff are having problems that can only be solved with viagra. I mean, come on! Are you serious, Amazon? I know that hardware fails. Since when does the burden of hardware failure–even for cheap customers–fall to weary bloggers? Obviously something is amiss here. And because of that AWS sends weary customers–who are barely proud to have been able to install a wordpress blog on your fucking instance bullshit–emails scaring the shit out of them thereby making them think that if they don’t do something, i.e. pony-up, pay the Kenyan pseudo-prince, send some money, etc., etc., before the deadline their online lives will disappear. Why a customer has to partake in AWS’s inability to manage its hardware (failures) is enough of a mystery. Or is it? I mean, is this the reason that hosting a simple blog on AWS is almost free? Talk about all-things preposterous. AWS has hardware that fails and because it fails it’s up to the customer to make sure that that failing hardware doesn’t cause the loss of a fucking blog? And before I bust another nut…

There is actually a very simple solution to this AWS problem. All one has to do is stop and restart his/her server… sorry, instance. That’s it. It took me three days to figure that out–because it’s not mentioned anywhere in their documentation. Instead what AWS tries to do is up-sell you with other services. Talk about convoluted. Luckily I found the answer after I…

  1. Stopped re-reading the email AWS sent
  2. Stopped reading AWS documentation that supposedly covered the issue
  3. Started reading advice from a google search (and a FB friend) where it became clear that there are as many confused people, with much more advanced techi skills than me, dealing with this issue.

The biggest hurdle in understanding this nonsense was whether or not my blog, i.e. my data, was safe when/if I stopped/restarted my instance. Obviously I have a daily backup of my wordpress blog. What I don’t have–and what I don’t want–is to have to go through the bullshit of installing another server (instance) and setting it up with Apache & Co and then re-installing wordpress. That a simple, one sentence, explanation for this problem is nowhere to be found at AWS says everything about this service. Instead they want you to create backups and virtual copies and and and… all for a fee–because their hardware fails. Gee. I wonder how many Win95 experts are working at AWS. But I digress.

Solution AWS instance retirement:

If you’re running a simple blog on a AWS instance and you get an email stating that that instance is going to be retired, just stop the instance and restart it.

At least that’s what worked for worstwriter.

Rant on.


When It Rains It Goes Kaputt – #AWS Letter And Power Outages From Hell

AWS instance retirement email redacted pic

A post about how sh*t happens when you move to another world.

First. The power goes out in India–a lot. And I don’t mean it goes out during a storm or something. The friggin power goes out all the time. At our new place it goes out ten friggin’ times day. It’s not like we’re living in an old dilapidated house, either. We’re the first residents in a house that was built about three years ago. Obviously the place has been empty for a few years but it’s still brand friggin’ new. Of course, in India, there are supposed to be failsafe solutions to the third-world infrastructure e.g. power. The diesel aggregate for electric support is on the other side of our direct neighbours. Obviously I’m glad they get all the diesel noise and smells when it kicks in. And there’s the problem. When India can’t deliver electricity these generators are supposed to kick-in within seconds. Ours, I think, not unlike the aggregate in me, drinks a bit too much and, well, can’t really kick-in when it’s supposed to. Which wouldn’t be worth complaining about if we weren’t paying extra for power support. And so. The power goes out while I’m working on the Interwebnets and I scream “F*ck the world!” and it takes at least two or three more power surges for things to get going again in our house. Yeah, that sucks.

Second. I got an email the other night from AWS (pic above). AWS is the system I run my blog on. As you may or may not know, dear worst-reader, AWS is, other than Kindle, probably the most profitable part of Jeff Bezos’ Amazon. When I moved my (this) blog to AWS before our move to India, the idear wasn’t about getting a blog host for as little money as possible–which is this service is. Instead I wanted to move as close as possible to being able to host my own web presence someday. You know, have my own web server, my own IP address, my own my own. After getting through all the BS of setting up an instance (their fancy word for a “server”) on AWS I was kinda proud of myself. Wow, I thought. I actually pulled that off. I set up a Linux server. I installed Apache, MySQL and PHP. And then I installed #Wordpress. There were a few burps that didn’t totally turn me off and in the end, well, has been running ever since. Ok. Almost ever since. At least three times a month I have to reboot my servers to keep my blog running. I realise that there is a configuration problem with the AWS instance and the webserver and wordpress, but, to be honest, I don’t give a sh*t. As cheap as AWS is, this is starting to be NOT WORTH IT. I moved to AWS because I thought that this part of the digital world had its shit together. Obviously it doesn’t. This part of the world still requires the mindset of the morons and automatons that gave the world the likes of Microsoft. These people, just like me, can’t set themselves free. Which means: why should anybody else be able to set themselves free?

With that in mind, all I can say is: Oh well. At least no one reads this blog that could actually be insulted by being called an automaton and delivering sh*t products.

Looks like I’ll have to start paying for my web presence again. Probably will go with wordpress.

Rant on.


Superficial Question Of The Day: What Should 7B People Do According to Mr. Jensen?

the face of god arthur jensen

The question:

What should 7 billion useless eating bottom feeder lemmings do if they are not achievers–but think they are (achievers)?

Ah. The tried & true response to a grand issue stemming out of the sophomoric mindset of a pseudo (master)debater and an unbeknownst polymath (wannabe).

The answer from she/he:

It doesn’t really matter.

But , dear worst-reader, have you listened to Mr. Jensen’s speech to Mr. Beale in the movie “Network”? Here’s the thing about the few & far between that fail to understand the intricacies of what makes life the dismal piece of shit it is. (Btw, most people fail to understand because they can’t remove themselves from a mindset. Remember, it’s important at least once in a lifetime to get up on that desk and sing-whisper Oh Captain My Captain. Or maybe not.) The problem with questions that should reflect a senior (if not graduate) mindset–as opposed to the sophomoric–is that most people are vested in a system for which they have no answers even if they are able to ask the right question(s). This is the result of the amoral and delusional dependencies of the teat that is being sucked. With that in mind:

What does Mr. Wizard and all-knowing Tommi, aka worst-writer, think should happen to 7 billion people that he considers useless lemmings, automatons and compulsive behaviourists–aka careerists, corpos, and/or those who think they’ve actually “worked” for what they have(not), etc.?

First, are you serious, dear worst-reader? Asking me what I think should happen to 7B people just because I’m critical of 300m #americants because they are incapable of seeing how their behaviour (very, very bad behaviour) is the reason the world is in the situation it’s in? Just because I’m arrogant and stuck-up and on a pedestal in my ranting and raving, the only question you can ask me is a question that not only changes the subject but also steers the debate away from the subject?

Gee, dear worst-reader, it seems we’ve come to an impasse. If that’s the case, allow me to interject (in the debate without sustaining negative points for going off subject):

What’s the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow? (That’s from another well written movie where nuggets of wisdom would not only entertain the automaton lemmings but also provide a bit of fodder for (almost deep) thought.)

Sorry, but I prefer to at least try to go beyond the sophomoric in my quest for knowledge. But since I’m in a good mood this morning and all I got is the sophomoric surrounding me, I’ll create this blogpost to, at the least, amuse myself.

The question that should be asked regarding why the world is the way it is isn’t about what I or anybody thinks 7b people should do? In fact, my ranting is, at most, about 300m Americans (or, as I like to put it: #americants). I suppose 300m compared to 7b doesn’t really matter to anyone that can’t see beyond the knotted shoelace that represents her/his life. Yet, because I don’t see things in terms of banks and corporations and government and politicians, there is no way that I can provide a vested answer to a sophomoric question–from someone who thinks being an automaton is synonymous with being an achiever. But, again, I’m feeling amused this morn–which is synonymous with indulge-me.

Things like Big-Brother and double-speak (oh no, that’s stuff from a book that wasn’t written by a nutjub) have moulded the mindset of so many that, again, people can’t tell the difference between reality and delusion. My ranting isn’t about 7b people nor is it about the 1%, yet we are dealing with an issue of major social and judicial implications. (Btw, social and judicial in the same worst-written sentence could be construed as synonymous with right and wrong, truth and lie, pomegranate and toothpicks, etc.) Simply put, my ranting is about the behaviour of those who think they have achieved something in their measly lives simply because something has trickled down to them. I could use the term neo-feudalism at this point but it’s probably better if I just breath. There. Done.

Reminder. It doesn’t really matter.

All those years that I bitched and moaned about being a failure because I couldn’t cope with the corporate world or the convention of family life, etc., were really about questioning the life of all the lemmings that I followed. But that’s how the lemming-thug-life is, right? While everyone else trudges along, no one notices what they are actually doing thereby the only thing that has really trickled down to them is greed, narcism and insert your favourite (or all) of the other deadly sins here. The saddest part about my ranting and all-knowing arrogance–and thereby getting into sophomoric debates–is that through out my life I have never met a single person that didn’t achieve above and beyond their ability to behave and/or suck up to someone else. That is the true loss of this life that I have to die with. I know that there are achievers out there. I’ve read about them, I see them in the news and on the interwebnets. But to have met someone that is an actual achiever? No. Nothing. Nada. Kaputt. As sad as that is, I laugh about it now because some (who debate me) think I am all-knowing when in fact I’m just not delusional. I’m not delusional because I’ve never been able, via the trickle down of something, to afford it. Wow, Mr. Beale, aka worst-reader, you might be right. You have seen God.

Rant on.



Below is the transcript from the movie “Network” of the speech that Mr. Jensen (the 1%) gives to the delusional Mr. Beale (300m automaton non-achieving #americants). Although written over forty years ago, this speech should be studied by the compulsive behaviourists that make up the lemming automaton workforce who actually think they achieve on a daily basis as they suck on the teat of mother trickle-down. And on that note…

But I digress.

The Speech

Jensen: You have meddled with the primal forces of nature, Mr. Beale, and I won’t have it! Is that clear? You think you’ve merely stopped a business deal. That is not the case. The Arabs have taken billions of dollars out of this country, and now they must put it back! It is ebb and flow, tidal gravity! It is ecological balance!

You are an old man who thinks in terms of nations and peoples. There are no nations. There are no peoples. There are no Russians. There are no Arabs. There are no third worlds. There is no West. There is only one holistic system of systems, one vast and inane, interwoven, interacting, multivariate, multinational dominion of dollars. Petro-dollars, electro-dollars, multi-dollars, reichmarks, rins, rubles, pounds, and shekels.

It is the international system of currency which determines the totality of life on this planet. That is the natural order of things today. That is the atomic and subatomic and galactic structure of things today! And YOU have meddled with the primal forces of nature, and YOU WILL ATONE!

Am I getting through to you, Mr. Beale?

You get up on your little twenty-one inch screen and howl about America and democracy. There is no America. There is no democracy. There is only IBM and ITT and AT&T and DuPont, Dow, Union Carbide, and Exxon. Those are the nations of the world today.

What do you think the Russians talk about in their councils of state, Karl Marx? They get out their linear programming charts, statistical decision theories, minimax solutions, and compute the price-cost probabilities of their transactions and investments, just like we do.

We no longer live in a world of nations and ideologies, Mr. Beale. The world is a college of corporations, inexorably determined by the immutable bylaws of business. The world is a business, Mr. Beale. It has been since man crawled out of the slime. And our children will live, Mr. Beale, to see that perfect world in which there’s no war or famine, oppression or brutality — one vast and ecumenical holding company, for whom all men will work to serve a common profit, in which all men will hold a share of stock, all necessities provided, all anxieties tranquillised, all boredom amused.

And I have chosen you, Mr. Beale, to preach this evangel.

Beale: But why me?

Jensen: Because you’re on television, dummy. Sixty million people watch you every night of the week, Monday through Friday.

Beale: I have seen the face of God.

Jensen: You just might be right, Mr. Beale.

-end transcript-

Email From A Friend #260


13 May, 2016

Dear Tom:

Speaking of politics… This is old but it got under my skin:

But I can say, Ted Cruz is the most depressing little dwebe that has ever run for president… I am SO glad that guy was shut out, I don’t care who did it, but that guy would have been the worst president we could have ever had, but I doubt he would have won even if he got the Repub primary.

I loved what Boehner had to say about him! Haha that he was right about for sure. And I don’t doubt for a minute his father was a SOB to.

Tom, why are you not gonna sail around SE Asia first? Or will you not buy the boat till after your 3 years there in India?

I’m about to do the online test for becoming a bar manager at a strip club again… Not sure if I’ll pass but there is this thrill about taking a test at a bar where girls dance in nothing. The question that always gets me is if I can tell when someone has had enough to drink? Haha. 70% of the people I know here in Amerika are technically alcoholics so I think I can manage that one pretty good :-)

Your old friend

13 May, 2016

Dear Old Friend,

I’m always wishing you luck. Also, the worst dwebe in my book that ran for (vice) president was Dan Quayle. But why nitpick about those things, eh.

Not sure how much you’ve been following the primary season, but if you look at what got the likes of Ted Cruz (and Marco Rubio) elected in the first place, then you’ll know better than to just pick out a single guy to blame. Personally, I’m glad Bill Clinton met with Donald trump in early 2015 where he told him, for the sake of country, to turn the fucking republican nutbag party upside down. Trump has delivered on that. Now it’s up to America if it can deal with Trump’s reality show. Personally, I think America has earned The Donald! Of course, the real, underlying problem America faces is this: what made the likes of Cruz and other tea-baggers get elected in the first place? I followed how Marco Rubio got his Senate seat in Florida. Talk about disgusting! The republican that Rubio pushed out in the FL state primary even quite the repub party after that. But I think the problem is elsewhere. I mean, it’s not just in politics and/or elected officials. It’s much deeper. Or is it shallower?

The problem is all Americans in the last thirty years who thought they were “working” or earning a living have been living a lie. Americans are ALL to blame for the mess that is NOW. The fact that the tea party could come out of an already fucked up party which has its roots back to Reagan says everything about a nation/empire in decline. I mean, this is worse than just Rush Limbaugh or Faux Newz and conservative propaganda.

How collectively stupid can a country be?

Any American who believes that they worked and/or earned something in the past thirty years is so full of shit that it’s no wonder the whole country is now awash in that same shit. No one has done anything worthwhile in the US since the fucking 70s, man!—if that. And now all that’s left is a reality show starring Donald Trump?

Ha. Ha. Ha.

As far as what Boehner says or who/what Cruz really is, it’s too late to even ask. That Cruz got as far as he did means it is the true end of the American dream. He is supposed to be the politician but instead he’s a religious nutbag that truly believes in the second coming of a fictional character.

Speaking of dreams. The dream of a sail boat will most definitely not be possible while in landlocked Bangelore. The question is, will we go back to Europe/Germany after this or be sent to some other god forsaken place until my better half reaches a plateau in her career? Either way, before I’m sixty, if the circumstances are not too impeding, I might finally get my dream boat. I hope to dock it in Holland and sail from there. The big dream is to sail across the Atlantic before I pass. That would be cool.

Good luck with becoming a bar manager at this stage in your life. The good news is, as far as having lived/worked the American dream, you can choose to do these sort of things. The bad news is, if you’re doing it because you have to, just keep in mind that the service industry in the US is only tick better than being a slave. And at (y)our age I’m not sure that’s a good idear. Now. If you decided to buy/run your own bar, that’s another story. That could be fun.

Rant on old friend,


Pseudo Review Of Jura's Impressa J85 And Its Passage To India

Jura Impressa J85

Here are five ways, according to worstwriter, how one can make coffee. Of course there are other ways but these are the only ones that matter.

  1. Moka Pot (the only alternative to a high pressure machine for espresso)
  2. French Press (great for breakfast or afternoon quickie)
  3. Espresso (number one but also expensive)
  4. Instant (seriously, I drink it every once-a-once to keep me grounded and prefer it over filter coffee; I’ve always got a supply somewhere)

We bought a new Jura J85 to replace our ageing Jura S7. Reason? We wanted a new & youthful machine to accompany us on our passage to India. Although the S7 was still in good working condition, we figured it was probably better to replace it with a new one instead of having to face the reality of parts and maintenance in India. Luckily I got my lovely sister to buy the S7 off us cheap–so it’s still kind of in the family. Since she lives in Frankfurt, she’ll always have access to maintaining it. Gee, I wonder if she still has it or if she turned around a sold it for more? Nomatter.

In our household a proper espresso dispenser is an absolute must. Since this is our third Jura, it’s obvious that we know what we want–and what we’re willing to pay to have it. Jura is supposed to be the Mercedes of Kaffeevolautomaten aka fully automatic coffee/espresso machines. At the least, Jura seems to charge more than any other maker. If pushed in the corner about comparing it to other brands, I’d probably always go with the Jura. If you’re addicted to espresso based beverages and can afford the addiction, these machines take on a meaning of their own, a meaning that transcends gimmicks or brands, perhaps even life itself.

Getting rid of the old.

We bought the S7 at a discount from a dealer in Wiesbaden almost ten years ago. It was a model at the end of its life-cycle and the dealer needed to get rid of inventory. For the price we paid, it was a good deal. Eventually we even added one of those fancy external milk coolers from Jura but that thing went bust after only two years of use. Something about the refrigerator mechanism going bad and it wasn’t worth replacing. After the experience with S7, though, which followed a lower-end model, I’ve concluded that these machines–from Jura!–only last about five years in a condition that does not warrant a lot of nickels and dimes to keep it going. That said, compared to other brands, I’d still go with the Jura as I don’t think those other brands are worth what they cost.

After five years the S7 required yearly expensive “tune-ups” that often took months to complete. With that in mind, here’s your warning: Jura customer service and maintenance sucks! At least it did with our S7. My better half’s sister has the S9 model and she got much better service. Eventually, especially after warranty, you’re on your own with these highly complex über-plastic machines. I say “plastic” because I took apart our first Jura to see if I could fix it (I couldn’t) and was astonished at how the Jura people built these things. Other than the the place where the water is heated, everything, including where the water is pushed through the coffee, is f’n lego-quality plastic. I just didn’t expect that. But I digress. These machines are not all-weather machines. For example. After five years, the steamer gets harder and harder to unclog and the grinder seems to get louder and louder with every brew. All of that was a signal to not trust our ageing S7 for a move to India. It took us some time to warm up to the fact of having to replace it with a lower-end model. We were also shocked at current Jura pricing. Talk about stupid money! Luckily buying the new one online saved us a few bucks.

Coffee machine facet 1.

I will not forget the first espresso I drank out of the J85. It wasn’t as hot as what came out of the S7–and at the time I could compare them directly. But the low noise level of the grinder of the J85 made up for everything. Compared to the S7, the J85 is practically silent. After a few more coffees everything was as hot as it should be. Obviously the J85 needs to warm-up.

The screen on the J85 takes a bit of getting used to. It allows one to control all aspects of coffee delivery albeit with a not very intuitive button layout. There are buttons on the top of the machine that coincide with buttons on the side of the TFT screen which are on the front of the machine. Jura didn’t quite get it right with the mix of buttons and screen–but that’s neither here nor there. They all work as they should–once you get used to them.

The most important buttons are the ones on the top of the machine. At least one of these buttons is used most by me. It is the button in the middle of the flywheel which lights up red when the machine thinks the milk dispenser should be washed through. Since this machine makes at least six lattes every morning, that button is very useful.

The button to the left of the flywheel is labelled “P”. P stands for program–I guess. When you activate P the screen corresponds as the machine goes into a kind of maintenance mode. It’s here, for example, where you adjust how much water is used in the espresso. It’s also here that one can determine ONLY three levels of heat of the water. The old S7 allowed you determine the exact temperature of the water. You have to switch from using the top buttons to the small buttons on each side of the screen once maintenance mode is activated. Again, it takes a bit of getting used to.

Once you do get used to it, though, you can set how long milk is foamed. I think it’s cool that Jura decided to go with the amount of time and not volume when it comes to foaming milk. A thirty-second draw of milk makes more sense than 60ml. And get this, you can set a pause after foam delivery and before espresso delivery. This allows the foam to settle a bit, it actually thickens up in the pause, which means it absorbs the espresso better. Very cool.

I have to admit that when we packed everything in Germany for the big move, I was a bit nervous about our new coffee machine. I made sure to prep it for long storage, which is explained in the user manual. This basically just empties the machine of any excess water. I then repackaged it in its original box, styrofoam n’all. The device made the two month container trip without a scratch. I can’t tell you how relieved my better half was when she could finally make her first latte. Seriously! For the amount of coffee she drinks, making it out of pouches in hotels with powdered milk or via cheap French presses in furnished apartments–or even trekking to Starbucks–doesn’t quite cut it after two months of withdrawls.

Coffee machine facet 2.

We’ve owned three Juras so far. I’d buy the J85 twice more. Alone the way it rinses the milk foamer mechanism is brilliant. What this saves me on cleaning time compared to the Jura S7 is immeasurable. At first I thought the TFT screen to be overkill but I’ve since gotten used to it. After every third (or so) latte the J85 tells me, via the TFT screen and the lighting of buttons, to run water through the milk dispenser. I can’t say enough how cool this is. Even though I don’t drink milk based espresso beverages, I do have to maintain the machine for my better half. Milk is a mess to clean once it dries and cakes up. The S7 was a nightmare to clean. The J85 sets the bar high when it comes to raising my hopes that Jura is nearing some kind of self cleaning coffee machine utopia. My only wish is that in the future it makes a machine that will also automatically iron my shirts.

Relocating to India with a coffee machine? Seriously?

First. India is not a coffee country–at least not like #eurowasteland. Second, relocating means that you are dependent on the kindness of third world strangers when it comes to getting a coffee fix. This part of the developing world has yet to understand/grasp why the West was able to be so productive in the industrial age. Even trying an India-based competitor to Starbucks proved without a doubt that India has a way to go when it comes to coffee. In reality, when it comes to moving up the world status ladder, it’s all about booze AND f’n coffee, man! Seriously.

But why lug an overly expensive coffee machine to the third world?

The question is mute. As you may or may not know, India is somewhat extreme when it comes to centralised governance and state control. There is a nationalist slash protectionist thirty-percent-rule in India. The rule is thus: so that India can protect itself from being overwhelmed by outsiders, i.e. non Indian interests, thirty-percent of what a foreign business does here has to come from within India. Not a bad way to govern on the whole. Yet if you’re hooked on coffee like socialites are hooked on opiate pharmaceuticals, you may be in a pickle. So the big question we have to deal with soon is where do we get coffee beans? We brought with us a five month supply of Italian beans but what do we do after that? Yes, there is Starbucks, and I’m sure we’ll buy beans from them, but how long will our fix get fixed on krappy #americant influenced beans? Come on India, get yourself some fine roasting coffee beans. Quickly!

Coffee machine facet 3.

We’ve owned our new J85 for about five months now. Two of those months the device was stuck in a forty foot container that travelled from Köln>Maastricht>Singapore>Bangelore. Luckily it came through with flying colours and we’re enjoying life as much as anyone needing their/a fix. Although this is supposed to be a step down from the previous Jura model we owned–even though it was much more expensive than that model–Jura obviously put a lot of improvements into their new machines. I no longer regret not spending more money on a higher-end device. The most important thing about owning an espresso maker like this is that it must deliver great coffee with as little maintenance as possible. The J85 delivers on both so far. We’ll see how things go once we start nearing that five year mark. (Btw, we’re only supposed to be in India for three years.)

Rant on.


PS this is the second post initially written in mark-up. Cool.

Who Forgot The K In Barry-O's Name?

obamka ice cream

Time to go there, shall we dear worst-reader? Today, as we deal with all things worst, let’s worst-talk about food named after people. Reason? Well, get this, it has been brought to my attention that Russia–that great and vast land full of peoples destined to be ruled by two-bit dictators–has an issue with a non-white POTUS. I suppose that’s nothing new. The ilk between Putin and Obama has slipped past foreign presses of the world. Or has it? What can one do about avoidance of that nature? On the one hand, you have the “mut” president (his words not mine) of the US and on the other hand you have the uniquely mongoloid-dictator of the new & improved & leaner version of the Soviet Union, aka Russia. Obviously worlds separate these two men. But what joins them? Enter the world of food named after (famous) people. Ever considered it?

  • Caesar Salad (named after a Lost Wages (Las Vegas) hotel schmuck)
  • Eggs Benedict (see below)
  • Margarita (ditto)
  • Sandwich (some high nosed British earl got lucky with this one)
  • Oysters Rockefeller (what a great way to ruin oysters, nuff said)
  • Oh Henry! (see below)
  • Obamka Ice Cream (ditto and above)

It’s a long list, you know. And, at times, it is a very distinguished list. At other times it’s not so distinguished. For example. Oh Henry! Remember the candy bar? Can you even still buy it? From a company in Chicago, this candy bar was supposedly named after a batboy from Wrigely Field. The legend has it that Henry was a bit slow. Not with his legs, mind you. He was fast as a bullet running after those bats. No. He was slow in the head. I guess some would say he was retarded. No one knew his age or where he came from. Yet when batters threw their bats Henry was sometimes there to catch them in midair. The problem was, his coordination was sometimes off and he would end up catching the bats with his head. The players and the fans loved him for it. Oh Henry!

And what about a tasty Margarita? Any idear where this drink got its name? Well, like many others in the list, there is some confusion as to where this name came from. From my worst-studies, though, I’ve come to like two out of the many stories. The first is the most obvious. The drink was invented by a hotel magnet who was infatuated with Rita Hayworth. Rita Hayworth’s real name is Margarita Carmen Cansino. The other story is that the drink came from a bartender at the Beverly Hills Hotel in 1920. The bartender’s name was Margar Insarita. He was so angry at the enactment of prohibition he thought he could invent a way of hiding how alcohol is consumed. For you see, drinking alcohol was not illegal during prohibition but the manufacture and selling of it was. Made right, a margarita looks like a glass of lemonade.

Of course there has been lots of confusion finding out how Eggs Benedict got its name. First, is it Egg’s, the possessive form, or Eggs, the plural form? Second, this single plate meal of salt and fat and butter galore is referred to, in some circles where alcohol consumption determines one’s ability to get up in the morning, as a restorative meal. The idear is, wake up with a hangover and you’re not sure what happened the night before, let Benedict help you remember. Or something like that. (Obviously my days as a advertising texter were short and far between.) As far as the Benedict part of the name, some believe that the dish could just as well be called Traitor’s Meal. Legend has it that when Benedict Arnold defected to the British the last meal he had while still an American was a concoction of fried eggs, fried ham and lots of butter. As usual, #Americants hate the man but love the food!

Which brings me to Obamka Ice Cream. Go ‘head, google it. Then click on the images google finds. What you’ll get are a bunch of pictures of Barry-O eating ice cream. The man loves ice cream. Obviously he loves food, although you couldn’t tell from his waistline. I love all those images of him ordering junk food. On the other hand, if there is any reason to hate Barry-O, it’s because I can’t eat junk food like he can. Other than that there’s not reason to hate this guy. He’s just endearing! Yet, when some Russian company comes up the idear of naming an ice cream bar that is black on the outside and white on the inside… Well, all I can do is wave my hat to the man and say: good job. I’d go to Russia right now if I could just to try this little delicacy of international diplomacy, recognition and all things mutual. And I hate ice cream. On the other hand, I’m sure there are those would think aversely about this gesture from a Russian business man who probably likes Putin (otherwise he couldn’t be a Russian businessman). Which means I’m waiting for who will come up with something to eat named after Putin. Here’s a starter for ya, how ’bout Mongoloidbakpudding.

But I digress.

Rant on.


PS. For non-fictional explanations why some food is named after people see the wiki link below.

Links that motivated this post:

This is my first post written in markdown