- The Panzer (trusty e-bike) that gets me there
- An almost perfect triangle of pigeons
- A cathedral that calls me; why?
- Bridge of ships
So what’s my excuse this time? I’m 7 km/h above the 50 km/h speed limit. Go figure.
I can’t remember how many times I’ve been caught doing five to ten km/h above a speed limit and then get this stupid letter. Can’t they at least take better care to take my picture? I mean, this really is the stupidest $hit out there that a government can do. Unless, of course, one were to actually find out what that government does with what must be a quadrillion fines worth of twenty Euros a piece that it gets every year. On the other hand, I think I’d rather have all these stupid big-brother cameras on roads instead of all the neo-nazi sheriffs that used to pull me over when I still lived and drove incorrectly in my beloved and missed #americant. Yeah. Neo-nazi cops. Or am I the only one to remember that scene from Thelma & Louise where the cop stops them while they’re driving through the middle of nowhere desert?
“Growing up, I was surrounded by broken men ― men who came home from the war filled with shrapnel and guilt. Men who were misled into a losing ideology. … And right now they’re resting in hell.” -Arnold Schwarzenegger
My grandfather was in the German Navy in WW2. I’ll never forget him telling me how much he hated Hitler. He also hated the Nazi flag. Once when on a ship crossing the baltic, he heard some of his comrades talking about Hitler. He said that they were making jokes about Hitler, laughing, etc. Two days later after reaching port, the men who were talking and laughing had disappeared. No one who served with them on that ship ever heard from them again. My grandfather never heard another sailor making those kinds of jokes again either.
My grandfather told me what it’s like to look up in the sky and watch American and British planes open their bomb-bay doors. The screeching sound of those bombs made you lose your orientation when trying to find cover, he said. What he meant to say was… you lose your mind. His English wasn’t perfect–but it was damn good. Luckily, he was outside of Bremen that day so he wasn’t in direct danger of getting hit. But he watched both the planes fly off beyond the horizon and the smoke and dust rise in the sky of Bremen.
My grandfather was captured by British soldiers as he was trying to defend his ship after the port where it was docked in Belgium was invaded in 1944. Two of his comrades were shot and died instantly, one fell into the water. As my grandfather reached for a concussion grenade, a British soldier pointed a gun at him and yelled… Don’t. My grandfather surrendered. He was taken to a prison camp in England where, because of his ability to speak English, was made a kind-of chief liaison officer.
My grandfather always expressed, with the deepest sincerity a defeated Prussian can, how grateful he was that the Americans not only freed him but also Germany from the horror of Hitler.
No hate. No Nazis.
No. Seriously. Like. I’m walking Beckett, the killer pug. It’s eight in the morning. I notice people in the water… Swimming in the Rhein? Ah. Yea. Very strange. To each his/her own, eh.
While listening to the news about my beloved and missed #americant, and, of course, news about #Trump, some talking-head started on about a Faustian Bargain. In the wake of Charlottesville, VA, isn’t it time to have something new to take your minds of the reality you’ve given yourself? Of course, I have to stop in my tracks. #Trump and neo-nazis are not about a Faustian Bargain.
Now. I’m obviously no über literary type. In fact, at last count (this morning) it’s been at least fifteen or so years since I read anything Goethe. (Yeah, kinda gave up on the German literature thing after the Germans, like the Americans, gave up on me. Fcuk ’em all, eh. But enough about worst-moi.)
Here’s two things to keep in mind:
Now. I’m not familiar with the original story of Faustus, which is from German folklore and where Marlowe got his story two hundreds years before Goethe wrote his. Goethe’s version is different than both the original story and Marlowe’s–and that’s what always drew me to it. But, again, enough about worst-moi.
#Trump is not a Faustian Bargain. Nor is America’s electing #Trump a Faustian bargain. Reason? A Faustian Bargain is not a pact with the devil. In fact, from what I recall, in Goethe’s version of the story–which is the best of them all–Mephistopheles is actually the one who gives in to Faust because Faust won’t make a pact with him. Faust is simply above Mephistopheles both intellectually and morally–you know, the way it should be in an enlightened world. Without splitting too many hairs, what Mephistopheles actually ends up doing with Faust is more like a wager. In the end, even after ruining a really nice chick, Faust beats Mephistopheles.
Goethe’s Faust is a really, really smart guy. I guess, to some, Goethe is or would like to have been Faust. I mean. I’m sure Goethe was pretty ticked-off that he couldn’t get any of the fame that his English rival got. You know, Shakespeare (and the English language) did do a number on those who were interested in writing $hit down–and the German language never matched that. Wait. Let me get out of the way of that can of worms I just opened.
And while I’m off subject, Goethe is probably one of the last polymaths and he was certainly preoccupied with other things even while writing one of the greatest epic poems slash plays ever. Whereas Shakespeare was probably out there somewhere banging the women that weren’t allowed on stage in those whacky female characters he created or he was heisting text from Marlowe, Goethe was… well… polymathing. But, again, before I get too far off subject.
But here’s the thing…
America made a pact (art of the deal) with–and thereby sold its soul to–Mephistopheles long before #Trump. The most important thing to remember about the pact (art of the deal) was that it would last through generations. How many generations? Your guess is as good as worst-mine. But that’s neither here nor there at this point. The thing to remember is that it started when America, Americans (#americant) replaced God with money. A short time after that it elected a former actor and governor of the snowflake capital of the world, California, as president. Indeed. The snowflakeball of hell has a limitless mountain side to roll down.
Ronald Reagan, who was a huge fan of Mephisto–Mephistopheles’ nickname among certain privileged classes–was able to up the ante of America’s pact (art of the deal) with Mephistopheles. Reagan was able to do this because of how Americans fell for his chart plotting, thorough scape-goating of government and taxes, and the demonisation of communism. In return, Mephisto saw to it, following what Reagan had started, that the US would win the Cold War. For those who grew up worshipping the God-Dollar–i.e. the baby-boomer generation!–it was a time that can only be compared to Sodom & Gomorrah. And so. The winners of the Cold War, like evil, filthy, retarded pirates, took no prisoners. There was only pillaging, rape, a bit too much incest (hence those flag waving boys at recent Charlottesville, VA, debacle) and, of course, waaaaaaay too much… wet t-shirt heroism on the part of utterly stupid search for a husband females.
There’s only one problem now that Mephistopheles owns everything because of how Americans have sold out (to conservatives first, republicans second). Mephistopheles is bored. #Trump bores him to tears. The ignorance of Dubya Bush was much more entertaining. Even Barry-O and Hillary brought some light to Mephistopheles who was starting to regret outsmarting a country of rich nitwits. Indeed. Depravity can even bore the evil spirit.
So you see, dear worst-reader, there’s no reason to blame #Trump for your ills. He is but a cog in the wheel of the evil you’ve perpetrated to get you where you are. If you have enough money to consume-to-survive, then bend over for your Mephistopheles. If you don’t have enough money, you’ll bend over just the same as those who do. Which kind of equals things out for you, don’t you know. And in the end, while your blame game continues, while you twitter around the left and right side of your conjoined cock-pussy-brain, at least you can still buy candy corn. Halloween’s coming, baby.
Just wondering how it got there.
For posterity’s sake, and to deal with the humungous crowds of imbicile-lites out there, I feel compelled to post Umberto Eco’s fourteen point definition of Fascism. Seriously, people (imbeciles). It’s not that complicated. More worst-posts on fascism here and here. If you’ve never read this before, be warned. It might be just like looking into a mirror–or a telescope of your nation-state-hood. I’ve added some sub-bullets in a worst-attempt to show how each applies to #americant concurrently. Good luck, suckers. -T
Umberto Eco’s 14 signs of fascism along with worst-writer’s 2cents (the sub-bullets):