Last Of The Mohican Bookshelves

Actually the brand that is the last of anything is “Mocoba” not Mohican. As in the last bookshelf I’ll probably ever consume-to-survive.

So much for worst-writer worst-humour.

This is indeed a fancy-pants bookshelf system sold by some fancy-pants art-like shelf dealer in Köln. It is created/designed by some fancy-pants architect, I think. (#Interwebnet search it yourself on account I’m not selling anything here except worst-writing.) Yes. Architect. You know, those dudes who look and live like nature is the enemy they’ve long since turned into their lover? Yeah. Architects. Anywho.

After more than ten years with our Ikea Billy bookshelves that were showing a bit too much wear, we decided to make one last investment in new shelves in order to begin our own little home physical book museum. Actually, the Billies we had were also dark brown and we were tired of how they stole so much light from the room. When we bought them they were set up in a large foyer/entry area to our one-hundred-fifty year old apartment. Now they’re in a living room that was built five years ago. The walls are clear white, without aged stone blemishes and cracks and the damn floor is even level. And the reason I’m referring to this our last physical book shelf museum is because… Well, you know, on account, all the books I’ve read for the past three years have been ebooks. This books shelf shall house all the real (physical) books I bought between 1985 ca. 2014. It was a hard acquaintance, if you dare to know, dear worst-reader. Leaving physical books for something new. In my own defence, I fought the transition for as long as I could. Then, one day, while traveling, I was reading an ebook and I realised: Gee, this ain’t so bad. When I finished that ebook and I then directly bought another and without snail mail delivery time, I was reading another ebook and lovin’ it. Now my problem is which ebook service to use. Yeah, first world problems, eh.

IMG_4mocoba bookshelves almost filled.JPG

-Rant on

T

Pork Bellies, Wives And The Real Fake Newz

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Let us begin, dear worst-reader, with a worst-writer transcription from a great movie. Sometimes I get a kick out of doing this sort of thing. It has something to do with my love of typing. Here’s another one, if you dare. The reason I chose the movie Trading Places for this post, by-the-buy, is because, in these times of fake newz galore, is there really a difference between (comedic) fiction and all things fake newz? With that in mind, let’s get it on.


The worst-writer transcript below is from the movie Trading Places. For whatever worst-reason, the scene transcribed reminds me of the/a conversion between fiction (fake) and reality. Even though the dialogue reflects something that could actually happen in (real) life, the actors are able to cartoonize it not unlike what President Stupid has done with #Americant.


Disclaimer. I transcribed this by watching a clip on the #Interwebnets. I make no garantee of accuracy–especially since I’ve been drinking a bottle of Aldi Weissbegrunder  (Pinot Blanc) for most of this post creation. Indeed. Weissbegrunder and lots of ice is a great way to battle this #Eurowasteland heatwave I’ve never before experienced while living in this gold-cage life for almost a quarter century. Good luck.


Scene: Mortimer Duke, Randolph Duke and William Valentine are sitting in a luxurious, old-money, pseudo aristocratic #Americant office of a Philadelphia, PA, infamous commodities trading firm. They are all watching the commodities market on closed circuit CRT monitors.

Mortimer Duke picks up phone, connects to a commodities trader.

Mortimer: Mortimer here. Buy two-hundred pork-belly contracts at sixty-six point eight.

Valentine: You’re making a big mistake, man.

Mortimer: Valentine, something very important is going on here. Just watch.

Valentine: Alright. But you’all gonna get reemed on this one.

Randolph: Why shouldn’t we buy now, William?

Valentine: The price is going to keep going down.

Mortimer: Randolph, this isn’t Monopoly money we’re playing with.

Randolph picks up closed circuit phone and connects to commodities trader.

Randolph: This is Randolph Duke. Hold that belly order a moment.

Randolph hangs up phone and turns to Valentine.

Randolph: Tell me why you think the price of pork bellies is going down, William.

Valentine: It’s Christmas time. Everybody is uptight.

Valentine gets up out of his chair and walks around the room.

Mortimer: (to Randolph.) Could we please buy now, Randolph.

Valentine: You want to lose money, go ahead.

Randolph: What are you trying to say, William?

Valentine: Ok. Pork belly prices have been dropping all morning. Which means everybody has been sittin’ in their office waiting all morning for the prices to hit rock bottom so they can buy cheap and go long. So the people that own the pork belly contracts are goin’ batshit. They be thinking about losing all that damn money and Christmas is around the corner and I ain’t gonna be able to buy my son the G.I. Joe with the kung-fu grip. Ok. And my wife ain’t gonna want to f… And my wife ain’t gonna make love to me cause I ain’t got no money. So they sittn’ there and they panickin’ and sayin’ sell sell sell! Cause they don’t want to lose all their money, right? They out there panicking right now. I can feel it. They out there. They panickin’. Look at em.

Closed circuit CRT screens shows stats of pork-belly pricies on the commodities market incrementally falling.

Randolph: My God, Mortimer. Look at em.

Valentine: I’d wait till you get to about sixty-four, then I’d buy. You’ll have cleared out all the suckers by then.

Randolph is punching on a pocket calculator.

Randolph: (To Mortimer.) Do you realise how much money he just saved us?

Mortimer: Money isn’t everything, Randolph!

Randolph picks up closed-circuit phone and calls commodities trader.

Randolph: Advise our clients interested in bellies to buy at sixty-four. Mister Valentine has set the price.

Randolph hangs up phone and goes to Valentine and shakes his hand.

Randolph: Well done, William.

Mortimer: (Obviously frustrated. Getting up to join Randolph on way out.) Come on,

Randolph. We’re gonna be late.

Randolph and Mortimer exit and Valentines smiles–as only Eddie Murphy can!
-end-


And now on with the worst-post about #Trumpism run amok and all (the) things them #Deplorables will never know.


Why is it so hard to read certain newz stories? Can it have anything to do with the farce of #Deplorable facilitated #FakeNews? Seriously. “Fake news.” Who came up with that? Someone who’s never watched TV in the past thirty years? I mean, get a load of the article below, dear worst-reader. Can you believe that someone or some organisation in the journalist world is trying to sell anything #Trump–or #Americant for that matter–as positive–based on stats and stuff? Oh wait. We’re living in these times, eh. These times of all things fake. And so. If anybody thinks that President Stupid is gonna actually do anything positive for the world, stop thinking. (Not that you actually thought much in recent years.) It’s time for you and your cronies to pack it up, hide your junk, the only women-folk that is gonna fall for you is one that luvs to be grabbed by the…

But on a more worst-serious note: the Reuters article (link below) is really hard to swallow. (Wait. Did I actually just write that? Indeed, I did.) The hardest part about swallowing (it), though, ain’t the mess (left on your face)–but instead the unfake-newz (reality) that President Stupid is really there to wreck everything. The propaganda machine that he has behind him–thanks to Reagan, Rush and faux-newz–is doing a pretty good job of it. Does that mean that Reuters is part of it? Who knows. The unreal question is: considering the state of things, that is, how people are struggling, how the middle class has been decimated, the bar of Stupid has been lowered, this level of optimism and/or misinformation that contains no connection to that struggle, should be reason enough to grab your ankles and hope the inserter brought some lube.

If you’re in anyway invested or vested in what Reuters is reporting… Good luck suckers.

-Rant on

T

Link that motivated this post:

Exploding Shrooms Or How To Razor Wire Your Paranoia?

Sites seen while walking Beckett, The Killer Pug. The mushroom is at least 12-14 inches in diameter. When it ejaculated its spores there might have been a slight wind from the South West. There is a metallic greyness, an almost mechanical shade around the base of the fungus. I never before thought I could see a smell, especially one that must, if a taste for it could be acquired, that has a look that smells so hideous. Perhaps I should document how the fungus will end up once it’s completely dried out. For indeed, dear worst-reader, there are hardened, if not fossilised fungi in the forest-park that Beckett and I traverse. And so. Yes. Two things I need to do in life (before it ends). One is to photograph all (ALL!) the churches in Köln and the other, perhaps, is to take majestic pictures of all the fungi inherent to the Germanin Boden (ground). And worst-speaking of Germania. Once I left the forest-park and began the trek home–for my pug has a difficult time right now dealing with the extreme weather situation caused by a world of greed mongers galore and their hate of climate–I finally took a snapshot of one of the houses on Rich-Inheritor Street that I walk by almost daily (on account it’s between where I live and the forest-park). Don’t you know, there are a few of these streets in every major village of Germania. (For those not in the know: there really are no cities in Germania; only villages.) They are the streets where no one earns a thing but their parents and grandparents did. And so. The lap of luxury in almost ancient, if not old #Eurowasteland villas, that all say fcuk-you in caps to people who would like to have a chance at upward mobility, where grand-children of Nazi conspirators and/or corporate fascists bought their way through the game of life. These places (villas) when listed for sale on real-estate sites go for millions of €uros. Yet there is something sinister about them–about them all that is above and beyond their fiat value. I’ve spoken to a few occupiers of these old-money places (villas) as I can’t help but pass their servants who walk the watch dogs. “What’s with the military grade razor wire,” I inquired of a MILF walking a mut hound-dog that has the longest droopy ears I’ve ever seen. Before she could answer I glanced at an open button on her thin blouse, gazing at the lace of the brassiere underneath as it pressed and smooshed her ageing teat. I could see sweat in her sweet place and I think the hound could smell it, too. “So, baby. Is the razor wire because of the neighbour-hate that you Germans have for one another,” I added. For a second I thought she was gonna point two fingers from her breast to my eyes and then to her eyes. But she is not a German servant. Instead her hound growled and she went on a short tirade complaining about Merkel and the immigrant problem that Germans shouldn’t be having at this time. I kept my rude eyes fixated and showed sympathy to her dog. Once she got on about the increase of break-ins in the area I got bored. I then asked her if she wanted to fcuk in the forest-park. “I know of a soft stump you can use to bend over. Will your hound mind or will I just have to push his nose away all the time. Such a thing is very distracting, don’t you know.” But she had moved on down the street, somehow proud of telling an immigrant how she hated immigrants. Nomatter. I’m keeping an eye on that one. I know where she lives. I know that there is no military grade razor wire on one of her accessible ground floor windows.

-Rant on

T

The Anatomy Of Corn, Puffy Nipples And The One That Got Away

What are the things you miss most as an unwilling expat? It used to be blue crabs. But I’ve indeed had more than my share of them. (May the God of the Chesapeake, you lovely Bitch, have mercy on my soul for all my sins!) There was also a time when I missed the #Americant highway–especially when traversed on a motorbike. Oh how things have changed throughout the years. Yet there are things I still miss, still yearn for as this going-native journey has become something quite unexpected. For example. Soon in my beloved & missed United Mistakes, especially in the mid-Atlantic area where the headquarters, Washington DC, land of free to be stupid suburbia, it’ll be corn–as in on-the-cob–season. Of all my memories, the fishing and crabbing, the hunting, the untrimmed putang of the early 1980s, etc., etc., and the puffy nipples of THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY, the thing I’m thinking about most, especially this time of year, is the corn. Those ten to twelve inch cobs that are anywhere between two and three inches in diameter, with light-green, almost transparent husk-leaves…. Yeah. My mouth is watering already. And then there’s the experience, once perfectly cooked, you bite into the small, stiff, snow-white kernels of the super-sweet kind and there is literally an explosion between your teeth and gums of juice filling your mouth with a sweetness unmatched by even honey droplets delivered by THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY and her luscious puffy-nipples. And so. In the mean-time, considering that I probably won’t make it there till October, I’ll just have to have some puffy candy to stare at. Indeed. I won’t eat that krapp. But it is a great image to fill the mind’s eye of dreaming about puffy nipples during corn season while growing up.

-Rant on

T

Unusual Heatwave Bringing Out Nature’s Best And Miele Makes Best Washing Machines

Pulled this nasty guy off my dog, Beckett the Killa pug, this morning. It’s the second one in a month. Indeed. An unusually long heatwave is doing its job on nature here. Bugs are flying around I’ve never seen before. The Rhine river is extremely low and somewhat more toxic than usual. Last week while out and about I noticed a fairly large group of seagulls on the other side of the Rhine. They were there eating all the dead fish probably caused by either temperature or low water levels. Temperatures in excess of thirty degrees for weeks on end with little rain is tough in a place that doesn’t have air conditioning. But that’s neither here nor there.

Yesterday while walking my dog I came across a nice old lady with her nice old Irish Setter. The Setter was stuck in a low water canal that encircles a large park nearby. It had gotten away from her and jumped in to cool off. She said the dog was struggling and couldn’t make it up the high bank. She asked me if she should call the fire department or something.

“Heck no,” I said to her. “This is a job for neighbourhood nice-guy!”

I jumped in the canal to do my good deed for the week. What was unexpected from my little rescue mission was a nice and nasty dip in two feet of water and three feet of mud. The woman offered to wash my clothes when I finally got her dog out.

“No thanks,” I said. “I have a Miele.”

Of course the German worst-joke here is: I actually have a Bosch washing machine, which is half the price of a Miele and it’s been going strong for almost ten years now. (Knock on wood.) Which means I’ve been among the Germans long enough to know their dry humour (if you can call it that) which can only reference consuming-to-survive.

-Rant on

T

 

Caught With The Cookie In The Hand Jar

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Screenshot from the Interwebnets

Title 2: Jar Caught With Hand In The Cookie

Title 3: Cookie With The Hand Jar Caught

Etc., etc.


Let’s figure them out, shall we? I’m referring, of course, to right-wingers. I mean, it’s one thing to simply call them all Deplorables–as Hillary so brilliantly but also mistakenly did–but it’s another thing to actually get down to the nitty-gritty of what these ugly and disgusting morons–I mean Deplorables–who are ALL so susceptible to propaganda and manipulation–really are. And so. While walking Beckett the killer pug this morning in ravaging heat in old Germania, I thought of the old #Americant adage of the child stealing from the cookie jar.  So let’s give it a go.

First. Here the parameters of a cookie jar world that is fundamental to right-wingers, conservatives and GOPers and their political ideology.

  1. The cookie jar is owned.
  2. There is a time and place for a cookie.
  3. The cookies are manufactured.
  4. The thief is a child but old enough to understand rules.
  5. An authority establishes cookie rules.
  6. Everybody wants a cookie.
  7. The cost of a cookie is equal to how much it’s wanted or needed.
  8. A cookie can be a physical object or not.

And so. Here’s the scenario.

A child comes along one day and steals a cookie from the cookie jar. In the spirit of truth, justice and an all-powerful lust for cookies, a few other children call out the cookie thief. This call-out causes a split in the cookie nation and there is a panic. During this panic the makers of the cookie-jar, the cookies and the place where the cookie jar exists, face some existential issues. They come up with a plan to turn the lust children have for cookies into political advantage. Their plan is successful beyond their wildest dreams. All the children become mindless cookie monsters. Now, whenever a cookie is stolen, the child that stole it and was witnessed stealing it, has a huuuuuge platform that magnifies his or her baby eyes and screams of anger where cookie crumbs spew from butt-hole shaped mouths. This used to be called a tantrum. But since cookies are stolen everyday and deniability has joined with scapegoating–a tantrum is no longer a tantrum, it is a way of life. But that’s not the biggest problem. The biggest problem now is that the planners of cookie-hell have run out of the means to maintain the cookie jar. Add the fact that there are no more children lusting for cookies who also know truth, justice and…

Or something like that.

This might be a work in progress.

-Rant on

T

Opening Bottled Stupid Or Another Story Of #Americant Run Amok Galore

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Well, this was supposed to be kind of a worst-post based on the newz-links at the end but instead I got caught up in an email exchange with an Old Friend and let myself get a bit off worst-topic. Good luck 1.

The following is an email exchange mixed what I consider to be some of my best worst-writing. That is, it’s totally convoluted, somewhat in-cohesive and angrily confused. Also, much of the yelling and screaming between worst-writer and my Old Friend back home has been removed on account… See good luck 1 above. Good luck 2.

Oh. And one more thing. “Old Friend” in this post has been replaced with Worst-Reader. Good luck 3.


Worst-writer: Are you in touch with the Jeff Sessions, new #SCOTUS pick and President Stupid, dear worst-reader?

Worst-reader: Sessions? Really? Dude you gotta get over it. I told you, Trump is just one more step to the Market State. Sessions is the beginning. He is nothing. Wait till real lawyers are in there with real billionaires running the country. This is just a side show.

–end correspondence with worst-reader out of pure shock.


Pause. Worst-writer proceeds to fill glass with ice and white wine. It’s approaching 100 degrees here in Germania.

Continue correspondence.


Worst-writer to Dear worst-reader: If you’re serious about Jeff Sessions, you are waaaaay out of touch. And not just out of touch with reason but also with history. Either that or you’re drunk. But don’t worry. I’m gettin there, too.

And so, allow me… (and brace yourself.)

Another pause. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.


Dear worst-reader: You do know who bows to fascist power, don’t you? All of them, from Fiat to Mercedes Benz to big-bank here or there (in old Europe). They all bowed front and backwards to the fascists. And remember:

The Germans and Italians lost WW2 but fascism won! (-George Carlin)

Let’s start with Sessions and go from there.

Sessions is a KKK shitbag fascist. The KKK and ALL racists love fascism. In fact, when business fails—as it ultimately must when capitalism runs amok as it’s currently doing in its present neo-feudal form–ALL business people will turn to fascism, too. How will you, Dear worst-reader, choose your living standard when the rug is pulled out from under you?

Are you feeling the tug yet?

If you think Trump is a pawn of Wall Street lawyers and billionaires, WOW! And you call me out of touch?

Wall Street and ALL American bankers hate Trump. In fact, one of the reasons he’s so popular among republican shitbags is because he represent… Wait for it. That’s right. He represents the 7 deadly sins (pride, lust, sloth, greed, envy, wrath and gluttony) that is rural and middle-class America. Since people have allowed themselves to be convinced of the lie of individuality and/or the lie of the American-Dream and only know how to bitch & moan via faux-newz, thereby blaming everybody and everything but themselves for the error of giving republicans so much power for the past 30 years, Trump jumped on the hate wagon. How original, eh. He and so many cocksuckers like him have been riding these sins all their lives. Yeah, #Americant, baby.

#Trump, indeed.

Btw, that’s why Trump is beholden to Russia—and he most likely has broken laws here. He was smart enough to find Russian oligarchs that use him as their money launderer. How else can he afford huge money losing golf courses in Scotland and Ireland? How does he pay for that stupid jet of his? He skims off what he can from money laundering cocksuckers that prevented Russia from becoming a legitimate country after the USSR failed. Trump then hides his money from US tax authorities. Oh wait! Business people, like you, Dear Worst-Reader, think that’s “smart”, right? Yeah. The conman is smarter than the conned. Only in #Americant, baby! Anywho. Trump thought he finally made it out of NYC shitting on him for so many years because he really is a useless, cocksucking spoiled baby jerk-off–with a Russian connection. And who knows. Maybe he has finally made it. Then again, since he’s still disgusting to any rational thinking person—and there are some left—how do you think he’s gonna pay them all back–for this his last great con-job? Or is there no collective spite in gun-ridden, rascist, bat$hit #Americant?

And one more thing. The man is beholden to Russian oligarchs and Putin. That’s clear. And when he finally wrecks everything, how will fascist US business interests, and all you cocksucking corporate automatons, all beholden to the failing mighty dollar, react then?

Yeah. The ingredients are there and I’ve consolidated them quite well for you here. Share it with your fascists friends, if you like.

But one more thing.

Even though Trump is a moron he’s obviously studied the likes of Mussolini. Just watch one of Trump’s rallies. Mussolini rose to power in the same manner. Obviously, the American system is much more robust than that of Italy at the end of the 19th century but the similarities are there.

And even one more thing about Jeff Sessions. Why was Sessions picked to run DOJ for a Trump presidency? Btw, have you been reading about Trump’s latest SCOTUS pick? With Sessions at DOJ and, in the near future, a possibly full fascist SCOTUS, i.e. the 3rd branch of government, who is gonna pay who when push comes to shove and the US House of Representatives is made impotent? Two out of three branches of government, baby!

Shame your bubble can’t let you see that.

And so.

This is not a side show. You are in the middle of something that’s been going-on since the 80s, dude. And it’s being perpetrated by republicans. Be thankful that I’m so far out of your bubble to at least try and inform you.

-Rant on

T

Links that motivated this post: