Even though I wouldn’t have put it quite the way he did, I’m diggin’ Bill Maher’s good-riddence to David Koch the other night (see vid link below). When is the other Koch brother gonna pass, is the only question that remains–at least for worst-moi. Then again, there are a lot more Koch-types in the wings, eh? Nomatter.
I can’t remember how many books I’ve read that mentioned the destructive brilliance of the politics that is the Koch brothers. Whether it’s massive funding for right-wing, bat$hit think-tanks, buying university economics departments so as to teach generations how to NOT think but instead behave–as in do what you’re told and question nothing–or whether it’s to promote the inherited moneyed status-quo that is #Americant. Why is it that these guys are so powerful? Oh wait. Welcome to modern #Americant where you have to have a lot of THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID to make things happen.
So there’s that.
I have a bit of a different take on the Koch brothers. It’s obvious that this family is the epitome of old money and that they are one among many such families. But there’s something else that makes them tick. As you may or may not know, the Koch brothers inherited everything. Nothing that they have, they made themselves. Even though they are accredited with university credentials and supposedly are considered great masters of business, the fact remains, of their industry, all that they own, they have done nothing new or innovative. They are rich because they found a way, perhaps better than any other inheritors, to protect the interests that their father gave to them. Interests, by-the-buy, that are stuck in a past that won’t die. You would think, with so much wealth given to a person, that you could at least try and apply it to something worthy of the future–especially if/when the patriarchy dies. Yet the Koch brothers whole heartily remained in that patriarchy.
Obviously there is little room in this phase of capitalism run-amok for change, innovation or anything new. How else could misconstrued politics end up with the likes of #Trump. Yet I can’t help but laugh at all those #Americants that enable this level of dysfunction–all in the name of greed, spite, bigotry and abuse. Indeed. Not only should Bill Maher make a joke about the painful death of one man who has lived a life of greed-galore but he should also start joking more about all those who keep this $hitshow going.
“Similarly, the Republican Party’s dominance of the Supreme Court allows it to shape policy on issues ranging from voting rights to health care to the workplace, without actually needing to enact legislation. If Congress were able to legislate, by contrast, it could overrule many Supreme Court decisions and shift power from Republican judges to the American people.” -see ThinkProgress link below for source of this quote
Now that I’ve dabbled here and there in krapp about Aaron Burr, Alexander Hamilton, Gore Vidal (tag link), the federalist papers and blue M&Ms, it’s time to move on to other things worst. Or is it? I mean, have a go at the quote above, dear worst-reader. It, and the article it stems from, is indeed a nice little write-up that summarises a big deal. You know, the big deal that is the slow train wreck of today’s #Americant–and how it got that way thanks to the uglies of the GOP, stupid white people and, of course, greed-galore. Other than that, though, there is something else in the write-up.
Whenever the federalist papers is mentioned in anything regarding the history of my beloved & missed united mistakes (of #Americant), I kinda lose my $hit. WTF, I usually ask (myself). How misconstrued can things get? I mean, there’s a reason the friggin federalist papers have been relegated to the bat$hit shelf of history. Even the blowhards of the day knew that ideology, especially in the hands of government, whether federalist or republican, is a dangerous thing. The federalist papers only purpose was to convince a bunch of eligible voters (rich white men in New York, btw) to support a centralised form of national government, backed by George Washington, btw. It was not about governing itself. Or something like that.
One should be very cautious when reading the federalist papers and then drawing some sort of conclusion based on what faux-newz or rush-limbaugh has told them to think (today). One should be especially careful when/if one is trapped in the $hitshow that is greed-mongering #Americant. You know, those who think they actually worked and do something with their lives when in reality all they’ve done is behave–as in compulsive behaviourism. This is quite the opposite of what men were doing back in the day the federalist papers were written, don’t you know. And. I know. I know. Who isn’t trapped in the $hitshow these days, eh, especially if you’re still dependent on behaviourism(s) to earn a living–as opposed to just outright owning slaves. But enough about worst-writer having found a way out and thereby laughing at the rest of you’all in your pseudo-slavedome.
The author of the ThinkProgress article below does a great job providing a concise and informative counter to #MoscowMitch’s op-ed in the NYT and thereby defending the destructive, albeit status-quo maintaining nature that is the united mistakes Senate. I most certainly remember the situation when Harry Reid fiddled with the so-called nuclear option between 2011-13, thereby infuriating the base of white-privilege republicanism that is Reaganism, faux-newz, Limbaugh & Co that have been building stupidity (or should I say $hitting) in the heads of #Americant dunces for the past four or five decades. Still. I thought Reid’s effort was worthwhile. If only there wasn’t so much LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID that republicans can use to counter the smarts of the (politically) cognitive few. And so. Republicans keep winning, which culminates in the stupid and uglies of #Trump. On top of that, it’s no longer the American dream but instead: #failupwards. Indeed. And so. If you work for a living, welcome to your… THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID is fcuking you galore, baby. Enjoy.
“So this is the legacy of the procedural avalanche Democrats set off: Justice Neil Gorsuch, Justice Brett Kavanaugh and 43 new lifetime circuit judges — the most ever at this point in a presidency. The consequences of taking Senator Reid’s advice will haunt liberals for decades.” -from #MoscowMitch’s NYT article, see link below
Considering not just the quotes above but the context of the greed $hitshow that spewed them, it’s no wonder that #Americants today are all $hitting their pants as if there’s no tomorrow, hence #Trump and his pee-pee-hair. I mean, how else should someone wake up to the fact that they’ve screwed the pooch with every breath, every deed, every pledge of allegiance.
– ThinkProgress article here
– MoscowMitch McConnel NYT article defending minority over majority government by filibuster here
As stated in this previous post, dear worst-rider, I’ve been urbanising my hardtail electric mountain bike. Reason? I’m getting too old? No? How about: I’m too fat? Na, that’s not good. How about this one: It’s time to move on? Yeah, let’s go with that one.
After 8000km and a second rear tire, I replaced the original razor rock (rock razor?) knob mountain bike tires with something a bit more comfortable–AND quiet. I also trimmed those extra wide handlebars that I never liked in the first place. I cut off about 2cm on each side and boy does it make a difference. Getting the bike out of my basement is much easier now with the somewhat less-wide bars. The new width is also a more conducive to my riding style. Also. As worst-posted here, I had new chain and sprockets installed at around 7000km. Which brings me to the gist of this worst-post.
After changing tires to Schwalbe Super Moto-X, the first thing I noticed about the bike was how quiet it had become–except for the chain. Other than the whining motor, and according to the mechanic who installed it, I thought it would take a few KMs before the chain would break-in and I just had to deal with the noise till then. But then five-hundred KMs rolled around and the chain was still loud. Then came a thousand KMs and and the excessive chain noise never subsided.
The other morning I took it upon my worst-riding self to give the derailleur a good cleaning, thinking that might be the reason it was so loud. I also wanted to have a look to see if, perhaps, the chain wasn’t the proper size. Of course, the thought ran through my head that maybe, just maybe, the mechanic screwed the pooch with this chain. Remember, the mechanic did inform me that the chain was a bit different than the original chain. He said it was an e-bike chain, don’t you know. Indeed.
During cleaning I removed the pulleys from the lower pivot of the derailleur and gave them a good once-over, replacing them exactly as I removed them. With a soft brush and WD-40 I cleaned out the upper part of the derailleur, as well. I then gave the chain a good wiping. Although there were a few moments of confusion reassembling the now cleaned derailleur–whereupon I relied on a quick check on the interwebnets to make sure I was doing it right–I was able to get it all back together. At least so I thought. I then took the bike out for a quick test ride. And guess what? It was just as loud as ever.
For a while there I thought I might have gotten myself into a bit of a mess on account I hadn’t fiddled with the innards of a derailleur for sometime. It is a rather complex component on an otherwise simple device. And that’s all fine & dandy. The only problem is, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where on the chain all the noise was coming from when I peddled the bike. Remember, even though the bike was a lot quieter since changing tires, the majority of noise coming from it now was that damn chain, derailleur, sprockets, etc.
Frustrated I jumped on my über-e-bike and headed to my favourite mechanic in the city. When I pointed out the situation, he recalling that they changed the chain in April, he then took one quick look and grabbed my bike and passed it on to a mechanic. The mechanic raised it up on his hydraulic rack. He unscrewed the lower pulley, removed it, separated the pulley mount, put the chain in the proper position through the mount, and then reinstalled the lower pulley. I watched him do this and at the same time my jaw continuously fell to the floor like the low fruit of a society that can only yield its mindlessness to the likes of idiot politics and #Trump. (Giddy w/laugh.)
The chain was thread through the wrong position in the lower part of the derailleur. It was literally rubbing and scraping on the centre of the pulley mount of the derailleur, hence the noise. In fact, and forgive my horrific pic skills, as you can see, the chain did quite a number on the metal at the centre of the pulley mount. When I asked how the chain got in the wrong position the mechanic simply stated/assumed that it’s a common problem and usually occurs when people take the derailleur apart. They subsequently miss threading the chain through the pulley mount properly when putting it back together.
Wait a sec, I thought. I’ve had this problem for over a 1000km, since THEY changed the chain and sprockets in April. It only became prominent when I changed tires and got rid of that obnoxious mountain bike tire sound. The mechanic was assuming that I didn’t put the derailleur back tougher properly when in fact his colleague–back in April!–most likely did the faux pas. Yeah, what a stunner (sarcasm off). As usual I now have one more reason to give up on these bike mechanics and bike shops. If only I weren’t so lazy and able to afford their errors, eh.
The ride home that afternoon was the quietest I’ve ever experienced on my über e-bike. The thing is as silent as it’s gonna get. Unless, of course, Bosch comes up with a system update that takes that whine out of the motor. But I’m not counting on that one.
Never understood Peter Fonda, dear worst-reader. Although I liked a few of his films, there was always something about him that bugged me. Maybe it was his odd, non-leading man looks–yet he got leading roles. Perhaps it was the hair line that he managed to cover up most of his life, replacing it with a huge forehead. Heck, he had a huge head. And then there’s that baby-smile. You know, the type of smile that some men have that shows teeth, skull, the innards of a face-soul begging for parental love and affection, and it all never quite making it to full blossomed adulthood. Then again, he’s quite the opposite of his sister, don’t you know. Especially in the looks department. Jane Fonda was one heck of an actress–in her day. Or did you not dig Barbarella, dear worst-reader? And what about that cunnilingus scene in Coming Home? How the heck did John Voight come up from down there without a smear or blemish on his Vietnam protesting beard? Oh my. So much for brother Peter becoming a kind of flaccid action hero in the 1970s while dear sister, Hanoi Jane, nails it–both in Hollywood and post McCarthyism.
Of course, there’s no talk of Peter, or his sister Jane, without first talking about Henry, the patriarch. My guess is, Henry Fonda was a huge a$$hole. If there was ever an iconic yet misconstrued patriarch of Hollywood, it had to have been Henry Fonda. I mean, another fcuked-up Hollywood a$$hole was Charlton Heston. In fact, most of these so-called leading men of the gilded age of Hollywood had to have all been a$$holes. Or? I mean, that’s what their generation was all about, right? And then they past that on to the next generation–the consequences we’re all living with now, don’t you know. Then again, as fcuked-up as kids of patriarchs can be, Peter and Jane kinda turned out ok. Or?
Personally, I thought Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry was one of Peter’s best films. The thing about 70’s movies was that they couldn’t help but portray the lingering reality that was becoming the future of my beloved & missed #Americant. That is, they portrayed the true face of things to come. You know, fascism, white supremacy, greed-galore–and the lust for physical objects. For it probably was 1970’s America that paved the way for what the world is now. Indeed. And so. In the back seat of a Dodge Charger the grand SHE lay waiting with legs wide open, dear worst-reader. Unknowing but filled with desire, Peter Fonda enters HER and all hell breaks loose as he fills it up with regret and she giggles and wiggles and shiggles–as HER and the #Americant meaning of life become manifest… In the back seat of a huge, two-door super car sedan named Charger.
I particularly liked the sudden crash ending of not just Dirty Mary but also Easy Rider, two similarities the films share. In Dirty Mary, as the characters smile and laugh thinking they’ve outsmarted and out-run the police, including a helicopter, in a car chase that couldn’t have been more banal, the film is randomly and violently ended as our anti-heroes crash into a moving freight train. The beautiful Dodge Charger lights up in flames and the soundtrack of the movie seems to try and hide the screams of the conceiving female in the back seat that is now dying, burning away, becoming ash. I remember the credits of the film rolling as the car continued to burn. What a unique way to roll credits, I thought to my young self, thereby also noticing the flaws of the car that indicated the cut scene, the use of a dummy car, and the oddly undamaged, unblemished freight train passing and passing and passing by.
But enough here and there about b-movie making galore. With his recent passing, I can’t help but recall the issues I’ve had over the years with Peter Fonda’s most iconic role. Easy Rider, to me, was never the counterculture film that it’s been labeled. The main reason for that is my cynicism regarding the so-called hippie generation, or the counterculture stemming from the 1950s to the 70s, which is somehow supposed to be part of Easy Rider. The reason for my cynicism is simple and perhaps better addressed in the confusion that is this worst-blog. So I’ll not linger on all that here. Instead. To worst-moi. Peter Fonda ain’t no hippie and he certainly can’t play one.
Easy Rider is a reflection. It is also a question without answer. Hence, it ain’t so much a film about, well, hanging out and partying it up on two wheels when your parents want you to become a doctor or a lawyer but instead a portrayal of what goes on in the world when no one looks in the mirror. People just go about life and their circumstance as though there is no cause and effect. In other worst-words, there is no backstory to the film. There is no character development either–except, maybe, Jack Nicholson’s character. And when all is said and done, when all the substances are ingested and the mind’s eye swirls just enough, the only thing that remains is how two lucked-out drug dealers get blown away by redneck hillbillies because, well, they were too stupid to know that freedom in #Americant is only free as long as someone or something enables it for you. Yeah, what a waste, eh? Still, a kind of entertaining movie–if you’re into that sort of thing. There’s a reason Easy Rider and what it is probably won’t transcend generations. But I don’t want to get too critical here.
Instead here a few minor criticisms.
One of the first things I noticed about the fakery of what Fonda was portraying in Easy Rider was the moment after their big drug sell-off at the beginning of the movie. Suddenly the scene cuts to them packing away their cash and then to chopped motorcycles and perfectly tailored hippie outfits. There was a word that came about in the 1980s that better fit this scene than the word hippie, don’t you know. (I first saw the movie in the early 1980s, btw.) That word is yuppie. Or did you not get a load of what Wyatt was wearing before transforming into a biker from la-la-land? Seriously. If anyone fit the bill of an up-n-coming yuppie, it was Wyatt. Buy-the-by, the only difference between a hippie and a yuppie is the environment in which their greed operates. Wouldn’t it have been more fitting, if this were some kind of ode to drug smuggling, that these two men weren’t so clean cut? Also, Wyatt’s cool-headed, contemplative nature didn’t fit well to the adventure he was on. Or did it? What do I know. Fonda could’ve been my dad. But I digress.
So what about the iconic nature of the movie, dear worst-writer? Sorry. If you think about it, there’s not much iconography here. In fact, the only thing iconic in the movie are the props, including the motorcycles. But even that’s weak. On the other hand, the motorcycles1 ultimately have nothing to do with the myth that the movie might be trying to perpetuate. In fact, considering what Harley Davidson has become, you’d think there were a few wise former hippies out there that would boycott such a greed-mongering product. Harley Davidson is a company shrouded in the ills of #Americant business malpractice. Whether it’s the lie of being American made or the manifestation of a kind of freedom dictated by your wallet, the company is nothing more than a scam, especially considering they couldn’t make a modern motorcycle, including their Porsche Harley, even if they wanted to.
The other props worth mention in the movie are the drugs. What’s important to remember about them, though, is this. The drug used to afford Wyatt and Billy the trip is cocaine. Cocaine is the drug of choice for yuppies, especially those who think they’re free as they earn so much via the skyscrapers in and around Wall Street which then allows them to go out on weekends with their über-expensive HOGs thinking/hoping, like so many others, they’re Easy Riders. What banality, eh. And we all know what happened with cocaine by the time the 1980’s and Reaganomics greed-mongering rolled around. The other thing to keep in mind about cocaine is that it is not a drug that changes one’s mindset. That is, it’s not an hallucinogenic. It is, in fact, a drug that keeps people stuck in a mindset. At the least, cocaine is not like the acid they have a bad trip on while in New Orleans. How/why that was even in the movie, I have no idear. But enough about what should be commonplace in a world where illicit drugs are about avoidance, eh.
What about freedom, dear worst-writer? Yes. What about it, dear worst-reader? As you may or may not know, Wyatt kinda has seen the light by the end of this movie. Although Billy thinks that they DID IT, Wyatt thinks they screwed the pooch. Combine that with the crisp, creaseless leather jacket, and that immaculate American flag sewn on his back as their trip begins, and things start to unravel in the/a world of iconography. Also. So much for Hollywood and its rig(ging) of counterculture, eh, dear worst-reader? I mean, you can only take iconography so far before it all starts to unravel. Disney anyone? But hey, who am I to poop on your iconic movie parade? You want a cheap, thrown together motorcycle named Captain America as an icon? Go for it. Or how ’bout a half-written road movie that was really about all the internal conflicts between creators and financiers? What the heck, eh. On the other hand, I’d prefer Wyatt’s gold watch, which he throws away because it stopped at the beginning of their trip—NOT because he didn’t want to tell time anymore. And then there’s riding cross country next to a doofus. Seriously. Billy is a Tonto-like sidekick, who, to this day, I have no fcuking idear why he’s even in the movie. At least Dennis Hopper, as a director, was pretty good. Yeah, direction that pushed a few buttons before buttons became obsolete.
Don’t get me wrong, dear worst-reader. I love Easy Rider. But I also hate it–because I know what the generation that made it turned out to be. I think I’ve got two copies of it somewhere in a box of DVDs in my cellar. Heck, it’s not even ripped to my home server where I could view it anytime, anywhere. No. I’ve seen it twice, I think. One more time than I needed to see it. At least it was fun the first time and some of the memories that go with that first viewing are pretty cool, too. I think her name was cutie-pie and she could suck a golf-ball through ten feet of garden hose. Miss you cutie!
RIP Peter Fonda.
Choppers were a dime a dozen when I was a kid in the 70s. Maybe they weren’t as shinny and spanking new, but choppers were everywhere. In fact, “chopping” old motorcycles–or cars–was no different in some places than whittling a stick. Most working poor males of suburban hell couldn’t get their rocks off otherwise and it was a great way to avoid nagging wives, I’m sure. Go out to the shed or garage and find some fcuking peace! Also. To me, Peter Fonda riding around on that bike should have ruined Harley Davidson. Ironically HD was on the verge of bankruptcy in the 70s. So what I guess is really iconic is the fact that HD found a way to capitalise on chopping motorcycles themselves, over-pricing them, and then getting a bunch of schmuck yuppies to buy them who believed, with their soul and not their politics, they could somehow become… Easy Rider. Go figure. ↩︎
“No one is having that much fun. They’re just distorting reality, too big themselves up. Trust me. Anyone out there who’s home tonight feeling left out, discarded and disrespected, if you knew how much everybody else is faking it, you wouldn’t want to join them anyway.” -Bill Maher Real Time #504
Yes, dear worst-reader. Words to steal worst-writer’s heart. You know, it’s a gift to despise most of humanity. And for those of us who work at it, it’s also a skill. Then again, I don’t believe worst-writers or worst-readers are born this way. Indeed. They are made. The only question that remains is: what will cum of them? Well, actually I could give a hoot. It’s just fun to worst-write the thought that maybe there’s a chance I don’t–really give a hoot. And so.
Bill Maher nailed it at the end of his show Real Time #504. The rest of the show was $hit, don’t you know. In fact, most of his shows this year suck. Why is that? Running out of steam? I mean, this show’s been on for how long? Whatever. My worst-point with this worst-post is that his words (see quote above) pretty much summarise what everyone should be feeling right now–and I’ve been not just feeling but KNOWING for much longer. But as we all know, eh, dear worst-reader, feelings can be a frivolous thingy. Even though most don’t know how to associated those feelings. We just flip them around, juggle them, expose them through genitals, etc. I mean, just look at how the women-folk abuse feelings. Unless, of course, you’re a German female. You know, most female-types abuse feelings in the name of, what I like to worst-refer to as, self-objectification. With that in mind, it’s no wonder that so many openly and secretly enable the likes of #Trump. But before I get too far off subject.
What the hell is “too big themselves up“? I had to re-listen to those words a few times, don’t you know. Although they kinda make sense to me–in and of themselves–I’m still not sure exactly what Maher is trying to say. Obviously my beloved & missed #Americant, which Bill is (always?) referring to, is at the centre of what bigs itself up. But is the idear of what he’s talking about clear? Ok. Ok. Since you might be gettin’ antsy, here’s worst-writer’s take on it.
As I’ve said here and there in this worst-blog, #Americant is a fail-upwards cesspool enabled by compulsive behaviourists driven by money, money, money. There is nothing else. On the whole, there are no achievers, there are no doers, there are no makers. There is only a mass horde of ill-educated robot-like individuals who only find meaning in their immediate groups and whether or not they are accepted or tolerated in those groups. Groups then become groups within groups. The result, of course, is #MAGA. It is only with such a horde of automatons that an obvious lie-of-the-mind not only exists but becomes the essence of EVERYTHING. You know, as in God We Trust on fiat currency–which kinda rules the world–and is a God.
Too big themselves up is a bit of an understatement in my worst-opinion–but I like it all the same. I don’t know if I’ll incorporate it into my worst-thoughts but it caught my attention all the same and most likely will mean I give Maher’s show another listen next week. But he is on a short list to be taken off my podcast subscriptions. Oh well. I guess after so many shows, an end must be near. Or?
Consumed-to-survive me one of them fancy-pants Ikea electric adjustable desks a few months back, dear worst-reader. And don’t you know, it’s a pretty half-decent, fairly useable thing–if you need/should stand while worst-writing. Luckily for worst-moi, as you can see in the pic above, the smallest version of the desk fits perfectly into the only remaining wall space of my mancave. It’s like having an adjustable corner to stare into the light/darkness of my brain as pseudo-ness-galore swirls around dribbling words of nonsense. Or maybe not.
After a rough start, dear worst-reader, I’ve been impressed with this desk. Why the heck it’s so expensive, I can’t say. But isn’t everything we think we need expensive? That’s how they get us, right? Even though desks of this type are pricey, and this one might lack in a bit of bling-bling compared to others, it definitely holds its own. I mean, five hundred or so Euros ain’t nothing to shake a worst-stick at. And that was the biggest hindrance to getting the thing in the first place. Yet, after a few months of use, slowly un-regretting buying it, getting a hang on how the thing works, I’m actually impressed. Oh. Wait. It should have more variety in colours. Yeah, my better half made sure I understood that. She hates the colour. Nomatter.
For five hundred or so Euros and you get a very solid, adjustable desk. And when I say solid, I mean the desktop is waaaaay sturdy. In fact, one of the things I really like about it is that when I’m sitting down and I’m done working, even though it doesn’t touch the wall for support–on account there has to be some space from the wall so that the desk can rise up and down–I can still push on it so that my seat can roll out from underneath. The desk doesn’t shift or move at all. Indeed. A very sturdy desk whether used while standing or sitting. Even though I don’t use one anymore, I think it would even work well as a sturdy undercarriage when typing on one of my old mechanical typewriters. Ah. A moment of nostalgia, eh. Sturdy under-carriages galore while typing…? Moving on.
Typical for Ikea desks, this one also has one of those net thingies underneath it for holding/organising cables. Although during assembly I managed to break one of the mounts that holds the net and I haven’t yet bothered to fix it, it works. I was so pissed at the moment I broke it, don’t you know. Why and h-e-double-toothpicks does Ikea instruct one to use a real–as in metal–hammer to hammer in cheap, plastic mounts in order to secure the net? First, using a hammer like that means there’s no feel regarding how much force is required for the mounts. I broke the first one. After that I inserted the mounts with my fingers and then carefully went over them with a rubber hammer to make sure they were secure and in place. If hit too hard, though, the rubber hammer might break the mounts, as well. Anywho. The net has enough mounts that one missing doesn’t seem to effect it. Come on, Ikea!
The only gripe I have with this desk is height adjustment. Although sleek and discreet, the lever works fine and the desk raises and lowers smoothly. Height adjustment is a bit of an oddity, though. If you bother to research/shop for this type of desk, you’ll find there are others that offer better height control. Unfortunately for me those other products aren’t readily available where I live, plus, when compared with all the bling-bling, this desk is very competitive. Bling-bling here or there, this desk isn’t less functional. That is, other brands offer preset buttons for desk height. I thought that was something I needed. When asked, Ikea simply said that this unit had no presets. Whaaaaaa?
It has presets. When you connect the app, you can set three desk heights. You would think that after setting the heights all you have to do is tap the height setting in the app and the desk will activate accordingly. But that’s not how it works. You still have to use the lever on the desk or the up/down arrows on the app. What isn’t explained anywhere–at least I didn’t find it and the Ikea person I talked to didn’t know either–is that once you have set a preset height, all you have to do is hold the lever and it will go to that preset height and stop. And that’s the ticket. You have to activate the lever. Could this be done differently without breaking the bank? Sure. Why not. It’s just a matter of doing a bit more with the app. Come on Ikea, get your $hit together.
All-in-all this has been a worthwhile purchase. In fact, if they come out with an all white version, my better-half might even get one. As of the writing of this worst-post, they are only available in brown and black desktops with the odd, off-colour (is it beige?) legs. Aghast! Again. Come on Ikea.
Don’t fret, dear worst-reader. I know I shouldn’t be laughing this much. LOL. LOL. HA. HA. Giggle. But what the heck, eh. And you can be sure I’m not having a heart attack and all that laughter is really choking. Or? I mean, come on. Some major dusch-bag recently killed himself and thereby has all the automatons of the interwebnet opinion world up in mind-fcuk-arms about who done it. Luckily for you, I know who done it. More on that here. Since that post, by-the-buy, I’ve given the situation another worst-thought or three–which may or may not be part of conspiracy bat$hittery. For example. I suppose I could make this worst-post a bit of an addendum to my previous one. You know, as opposed to making this part two or, perhaps, a re-worst-write. But then I thought: what the heck for? Let’s go with addendum.
There is so much LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID in what’s happening with the whole Epstein thing that I’m finding the humour it pulls out of my soul to be therapeutic. Not only is there giddy w/ laugh to be swum in, like a pool of pink jello, but there’s also vindication pure. You know. That whole chestnut where I’ve been bitchin’ & moanin’ for years about why I expatriated? Nomatter. Just heed this: I expatriated because, well, I was reared in all the STUPID that is the NOW. That was thirty or so years ago. Hence the therapy laughter in my gut of guts. And. As all the STUPID has become manifest–whereas when I was young it was more discreet, under the covers, lights out, door shut, all in the ill-will of state and church sanctioned STUPID matrimony–I just sit back from my thirty-thousand foot expat lazy-boy, where I’m free from the likes of faux-newz and #Americant republicanism, and bat$hit giggle, jiggle and ho-ho with my finger pointing… not unlike the finger pointing in the pic above.
When I first saw this pic, which hung in one of Epstein’s über-manhattan mansions, I couldn’t stop laughing. Then I started to read what the automatons of fail-upwards-ness started writing about it, most of which seemed to be conservative sources. Whaaaaa? No liberals writing about this painting? Wonder why. And don’t you know, dear worst-reader, not one of those automatons concluded anything near what I was concluding. In other worst-words, what does such a picture mean, especially while in the hands of a representative of #Americant perversion galore? Well, it means basically this: Bill Clinton is explaining to Newt Gingrich and Ken Starr what the word ‘is’… is. Or? Ok. Maybe it means this: Clinton is telling Newt Gingrich that his moral majority bullshit is nothing compared to allowing Neo-liberalism to run amok albeit with a bit less militarism and, of course, even less religious bigotry. Or? Ok. Maybe it means: Anybody wanna cum on my blue dress? How ’bout you?
Here’s what nobody’s talking about regarding Jeffry Epstein. The man was not just a sex-upped pervert. He was someone who believed with all his being that humans, especially the male types, should be allowed to do anything they want, including, while they’re doing it, to make the rules as they see fit–if they can afford it. Bill Clinton might have been the embodiment of this mantra, at least from a political POV. Then again, as we are now seeing more and more, there are millions of people who think this way–especially males but also a few females, hence the likes of Ghislaine Maxwell. Hail the Bimbos that support #Trump. Anywho. These people are anti-human, don’t you know. And so. Just be safe in knowing, dear worst-reader, that at least I, worst-writer, have informed you thusly. Now. Let’s giggle and wiggle and gag on laughter at the true face of #Americant as it’s reared for all, who are willing, to see… in a blue dress.
And by-the-buy, while I’m on the addendum-thing to a previous post, how ’bout this to add to the chalkboard of conspiracy about Jeffrey? If Epstein was so rich, so connected (some are now claiming that he was an enormous US intelligence asset), so powerful, how is it that it took so long to bring him down if he was such a bad guy? In other words, could it be that there is something else Epstein did that is more monstrous than, gee, abusing children? The powers-that-be couldn’t bring him down for what they consider to be his real crimes–which have nothing to do with child abuse. And that’s why it took so long. Those crimes had to get worse and worse and worse–before anything could be done about them. That’s how maniacal greed manifests, don’t you know. It becomes a monster. A Godzilla, if you will. But how do you bring it down?
As I said in my previous post, Epstein is nothing but a lair. He’s a con-artist. A grifter. Of course, like President Pee-Pee Hair, these guys are grifters of another class. Just go and spend time in NYC. You meet/see lots of them. But that’s neither here nor there. The thing to keep in mind in these days of social and cultural demise, is the big picture. Indeed. The one above of Clinton and the blue dress is as good as any big picture. Plus it’s quite entertaining. But my worst-point is this: Epstein’s true crimes are in and of the thing that holds all meaning for my beloved & missed #Americant, i.e. money. I’m starting to worst-guess (as opposed to worst-conspire) that, even though all the child abuse by Epstein is pretty awful stuff and deserving of a man’s death, there is a far worse crime that he committed that will never be revealed. And that has to do with money. Indeed. What we’re being subject to now is all a cover-up–not a conspiracy. It’s all a distraction. Goodness forbid in a country like #Americant that is now holding political rallies that mirror Nuremberg Rally, there really is little room for any truth.
Things not forgotten, dear worst-reader. Things that remind one. Like pictures found on the interwebnets. For example…
I’ll never forget my second vacation. It took many years, don’t you know, to get to a second vacation. It was cheap and coincided with one of the last times I would return to my beloved & missed #Americant with the idear that I might never return to the old country. In other worst-words, it was also part of that whole expat thing that had taking on a life of its own by the early 1990s.
I was hanging out, working, doing my thing among #Eurowastelanders as my job was coming to an end. It was late spring, early summer of 1990. I had just given up my apartment and was gonna stay with a work colleague a few days before my departure. Suddenly, on the next to last day of my job, my boss came up to me and made an offer I couldn’t refuse–that would also have a huge effect on my future. My boss, although a fairly decent guy, was a bit of wanker. Most successful corporatist are, don’t you know. First, he was a British-German citizen. Second, he spoke terrible English. Go figure, eh. I was something akin to being his personal transcriber. That is, I would not only translate his work into English but, since I was hired as a researcher for him, I also wrote most of everything he submitted to clients. Everything at the time was done in English, even though most of our clients were German, including Swiss and Austrian clients. But that’s neither here nor there.
The job I was doing was supposed to have ended at the start of summer where I would return to the States, hang-out for a bit, and then figure out what would come next. But my boss asked me nicely, including a special bonus, if I would stay for the rest of the summer. He had just procured another project–somewhere in Switzerland. I first told him no, but then he sweetened the deal. Not only would he increase my regular pay but he also offered an end-of-project special bonus. And then he sweetened it even more. Since he knew that I was on my way out of Europe, he told me I could have his loft in Köln, as he wasn’t gonna be there anyway, the entire time of the project… rent free. Whaaaaaa? Three months rent free while earning dough? I took the deal.
After about two and half months the job ended and my boss wired me the extra bonus he promised. It was a worthwhile amount. Not only could I afford a flight back home without skimping around on fares, but I had earned enough to be able to afford a short vacation on the island of Mallorca with a few colleagues. Even though it was short notice, I lucked out and was able to book a hotel and flight to the island. When I told my colleagues where I was staying they laughed and giggled and smirked and provided a few pieces of advice–that to this day I’ve never forgotten.
It turned out to be a rather relaxing stay except for one thing. I had booked a so-called German hotel, whereas my colleagues, all having booked well in advance, had other accommodations. Upon arrival on the island I went immediately to meet my colleagues for a few drinks, along with shits & giggles at bar. Afterwards I checked into my German hotel. We all made plans to meet the next day to lounge around on the beach. When I left that night they reminded me that if I wanted to utilise the pool at the hotel where I was staying, I should get up at 5am to reserve a spot. I had no idear what they were referring to. In fact, since they all knew that I am morning person, that is, I’m always the first one in the office in the morning, I thought they were making a little joke at my expense. Ah. corporate humour, eh.
After sleeping-in a bit I got up the next morning at around seven-thirty. I showered, shaved, had a few cups of instant hotel-room coffee, drank some bottled water, ate a banana and a piece of toast at the breakfast-bar, and then went out to do a bit of reading by the pool while enjoying the Mediterranean early sun. I then realised that my colleagues weren’t joking at my expense with their advice the previous night. Or were they?
I found the pic above the other day on the interwebnets, dear worst-reader. It could be the exact picture I saw that morning in the early 90s while on my second ever vacation–that I’ll never forget.
Come on, dear worst-reader. Are you getting filled and thrilled by all the conspiracy-krapp on the interwebnets regarding Jeffrey Epstein’s death? Was it suicide? Murder? Did mafia goons rip him a new one? And here’s the best one: he’s still alive. I heard someone say that in whatever $hit-talk show on the boob-inter-tube-network. There are people that think Epstein ain’t dead. You know. Like. Elvis left the building, baby. Elvis ain’t dead either. Too important to be dead. Too famous. Too many important friends. Elvis, Epstein, etc., have just left the building, baby. So chill! Let’s all go out and live our days on an island where there are no wolves and no white haired white men running around in their best wolf suits with pompadours waiting on the side of a fairytale road… on Elvis island. A wolf free island, baby. As long as daughters do what they’re told. But wait. Ironically, Elvis never bought that island. That fcuker is most definitely dead. Keeled over while on the toilet trying to push out money earned singing like an angel. And so. Doesn’t Epstein–at best–own two islands because, well, he’s a billionaire? Was Elvis ever a billionaire? Indeed. There’s a better story here than Elvis’, right? Ok. Cool.
Wait. Did I get Elvis out of the story (narrative) here? Gee, I hope so. Let’s move on.
Again. Come on, dear worst-reader. Even though it’s extremely difficult for worst-writer to get through it, I even watched/listened for about three-point-three seconds and a few lingering minutes to various crack-pots like this guy on the $hit-for-brains inter-web-net-tubes. His TAKE on the issue of Epstein’s death is bat$hit heaven, eh? But so is his TAKE on everything (yes, I’ve even held a barf-bag while watching a few of his other videos). You can tell by the way these people talk, you know. The way they breath. The way they pound their chests. Bat$hit heaven, baby. And. By-the-buy. On a kinda worst-writer side-note. How the fcuk can some of these inter-tube-google-freaks even get an audience? He’s got almost a million subscribers. Oh yeah. Wait. There’s gotta be a whole lot of stupid out there. And you know what happens to minds with a whole lot of stupid, right? Talk about extra crawl space waiting for bull$hit galore.
Beware of salesmen selling you everything.
I also read a few things here and there–you know, from other crackpot online sources, aka the newz aka the big-guns, i.e. NYT, WP, LATimes, etc. Of course, I avoid anything faux-newz. Remember, dear worst-reader. I was raised/reared in #Americant. I’ve had enough of listening to those who only make an audience stupider. Such a hard road it’s been, eh, getting all that stupid out of my system. Do I feel bad for my brethren, sisters and cousins back home who are still stuck in the stupid? Yeah, sure. Why not. Giggle. Giggle. Giddy w/laughter. So. With that in mind, do you want to know something I’ve learned about life and avoiding stupid? Steer away from $hit like faux-newz–and the arm-chair know-it-all a$$holes like the guy I linked to above. Get your own mind.
A worst-mind conclusion.
My worst-conclusion–even before his death–is that Epstein is but another useless rich-guy whose existence served only one thing: money. It’s the essence of #Americant and a generation, dear worst-reader. You know, those $hitbag boomers and their greed-mongering. The generation that thinks it actually did something other than inherit. Sure, there are a few boomers worth a hoot. You know, Steve Jobs and Bill Gates. All the others are just like Epstein, if not worse. Which means, when a bit a truth comes out about you, when your narrative/story runs out of glare-glam, what’s left? Oh, the emptiness of living for money and the stories it enables. Even glare-glam #Americants don’t like empty lies. Those lies gotta be full. They gotta be shinny. The gotta reflect the sun-God–just like #Trump’s hair. Indeed. What we’ve learned from the get-go of this #Americant story of money is that beyond being a pedophile, Epstein, like so many others, is nothing but a fcuking two-bit liar. You know, #Americant. Yeah. That’s how the place has been rolling for the past fifty or so years. Just tell another #Americant you’re a billionaire and heck… they’ll elect you president. They’ll even artificially inflate the centre of the financial world. Lies serve purpose. Lies are meaning. Oh. And when all else fails, find your exit.
Telling and living a lie ain’t no small task–if you want the big bucks. That is the essence of the boomer generation. But, let’s give credit where it’s due. These a$$holes are really good at one thing–other than lying, that is. Getting people to suck-up to them. And how do you do that? Easy. Take advantage of the disadvantaged, the poor, the desperate, the young. That’s where the AMERICAN DREAM, hard-work, play by the rules, etc., gets into the $hitshow. You know, that which can only lead to #Trump and his mantra of failing upwards, i.e. the essence of making things great again. Indeed, dear worst-reader. There is a social phenomenon plaguing the systematic forced decline of the western world so as to save a bunch of inheritors who’ve never done a friggin thing–except, maybe, Bill Gates and Steve Jobs. And it’s all due to back-seaters (the lumpenproletariat) never turning away as the ride that is their life screws their momma’s, their wive’s, the daughter’s pooch. What should be done with an entire generation of people who are so stupid that all they can do is obsess over conspiracy, propaganda, the imaginary elephant in the room, #Trump? Oh wait. There are sex abusing monsters who must get inline to be forgiven, find atonement, seek redemption… via the God of money that is god-money-fearing evangelist #Americant.
Is you fcuked yet!
Indeed. A narrative can go a long way in a society hell-bent on never-ever waking up to reality. And so. Hail Disney! Hail the dream! Hail!–that all things bad and evil and real happen to someone else’s daughter first. The only problem is, dear worst-#Americant, you’re running out of daughters. #MeToo? Yeah, that’s the ticket, don’t you know. Who/what controls the what/where/when/how for a wide and vast audience of avoiding the truth galore?
In short, Epstein is the #Americant narrative. How else is the likes of #Trump or the uglies of political conservatism possible? #Trump, by-the-buy, plays a role in Epstein’s narrative. Or did you not know that because you haven’t paid much attention to all those court documents that were released right before Epstein’s death? Indeed. It is a sickly, vile, disjointed and ugly narrative that my beloved & missed #Americant inherited from–of all places–Prince Andrew’s Europe. Another role player in this #Americant story, don’t you know. Of course, I’m not comparing this to Europe from today (#Eurowasteland) where I live. No. This story has been inherited from Europe of yore. You know, feudal Europe, aristocratic Europe, perverted Europe, etc. White men, white people, greed. Godly sanctioned misbehaviour, human exploitation, etc. Europe. Its gift to humanity, don’t you know.
The gift store.
Europe gave the world a new-world only so that the/this new-world could (finally) grow up to become what the old-world couldn’t. The behaviour of (white) people in this new-world should surprise no one. Unless, of course, you’re stuck in a narrative. Something from Brother’s Grimm, perhaps? Oh, how so many are stuck, don’t you know. So many #MAGA hats and all the matching red hand baskets that carry the weight of the poor, the downtrodden, strolling along someone else’s forrest named innocence or happy-time where smiling horror-wolves of white reign supreme and daughter’s parts await blemish.
As long as it happens to someone else’s daughter, right?
The bad news? Epstein is a necessity in a society that is the abyss of eternal emptiness. Like the black hole of the soul, don’t you know, this is what happens when everything–and I mean EVERYTHING–is about money. And you know the old saying, right dear worst-reader? What to do when the money runs out? In the case of the Boomer generation, all that’s left is Epstein & co. Hence the situation #Americant is in right now. Perpetual war. Failing upwards. #Trump. Or have you seen a more inept generation than the one facilitating this $hitshow?
Power: the story of money.
When the money runs out, everything is about power over the powerless. You know, the haves and the have-nots and the have-mores. Jeffrey Epstein, like Harvey Weinstein, Bill Cosby, #Trump, most of your neighbours, etc., are part of a much larger THANG than any couch-anthropologist slash worst-writer can conjure. The easy part, my easy task today, is to simply point this out. You are in the filth and ugly and disgust of your own making. You’re surrounded by it and always have been. Goodness forbid all you worst-readers out there actually wake up and find out some of this stuff on your own. Hint:
to both wake up and find out some stuff, you don’t need the interwebnets, you don’t need the newz, all you need is
look around (you)
get the fcuk out, quit, jump ship
read a fcuking book about history, empire and how $hitty men can be
while you’re at it, look in the fcukin‘ mirror and then think about compulsive behaviourism, i.e. doing what your told forevermore is always a mistake
and for goodness sake, blame your parents until evolution allows the unborn to pick their parents.
It was inevitable that #Americant show the world its true story that is a cesspool, don’t you know. A cesspool of mind-filth and man-child vulgarities. #Trump. Jefrey Epstein. Etc. But before I get too far off subject.
Epstein killed himself. Stop flattering your pee-brain with any other thought. There’s no mafia here. There’s no government conspiracy. The Clintons are only as stupid as any other compulsive behaviourist that managed to skip the line to the front of meaninglessness that is a moneyed career. There is no murder here. There is no connection to Jack Ruby. There is only life lost and justice suspended–all in the name of money’s best friends: greed, spite, bigotry, and those who suffer under it all. That’s all there need be. It’s everything that my beloved & missed #American is, has become, and if you must, you can thank Europe (history) and your parents for it all.
Or maybe not.
Epstein simply couldn’t get away with it anymore. His story is over. The story of his story-tellers is over. Just like #Americant? I mean. Obviously. He should have been prosecuted years ago. But we know what crime really is in the grand WEST? This is behaviourism, dear worst-reader. At its worst-best. And this is common place for a generation that has done nothing except what it’s been told. The mental, psychology outlet for this behaviour? #MeToo? Maybe. Unlike the crimes of bankers, CEOs, Presidents with pee-pee-hair, Epstein represents mechanisms that serve purpose. And so. What’s the point to life if you’re in a world of lies and you can’t tell your lies anymore and no one else is willing to tell them for you–because it might endanger theirs? As much as #Americants want to avoid it, THE DREAM has always been a limited resource, dangled just out of your reach. Or have you not had a look at how it’s distributed? But enough of my worst-non-sense, except for this almost final thought. Do you think Epstein’s mind played with the idear of what a bunch of men, who know the difference between the haves and the have-mores, would actually do to him in prison?
Maybe there is some justice out there–even if never (really) for victims.
So don’t fret, dear worst-reader. You’ll get to go on with your privilege, your inheritance, your mind full of über-stupid that is the bulwark of a once great nation-state gone to hell in a raped girl’s red hand basket–accompanied by a matching red #MAGA hat. And with that in mind, remember this, too. There are wolves out there–who don’t wear your hat(s). They see all of you with your raped red hand baskets. And they know your vulnerabilities. Your lust for money. So you might as well whistle a tune on your way along the yellow brick forrest road of a Brother Grimm fairytale to join Epstein & co. The way things are going, nothing is gonna change anytime soon. There are so many more ugly, disgusting white men out there. And so many more #Americant lies to be told.
Should have made this change a while ago, dear worst-rider. Now that I’ve finally done it, though, would you believe, there’s one more potential change lurking in the wings. More on that in a sec.
I found a special deal online for a pair of Schwalbe Super Moto-X 27.5 650B tires last weekend. 20,-€ a pop, baby. Plus, on a weekend order, it included free shipping. For you see, dear worst-rider, I was gonna wait a bit longer before making this change. Obviously, the Razor Rock (or is Rock Razor?) original knobs still have a few more kilometres in them. You can see (pics) how some of the rubber has given way–especially on the rear tire. I suppose that’s the deal with riding off-road tires on pavement for around sixty-percent of the time. And even though I’ve gotten a kick out of the Rock Razor’s over the past two and half years, something’s been telling me for a while that it’s time to switch-up to something more street friendly–but not totally street. And get this. I’ve been running the same Rock Razor front tire for 8000km–or since purchasing this mega-e-bike. I was on a second rear tire.
Super Moto-X, Performance Green Guard, Wired, 27.5 650B, baby.
Three things impressed immediately after about 70km.
I had no idear how loud my mega-e-bike was with those knob-tires.
Enormous handling improvement on both pavement and trail.
Yes, there is a way to find a bit more comfort on a hardtail, wide handle-bar mountain bike without compromising everything. (I hope.)
With these new tires I can actually hear myself think when I’m riding. That is, compared to the Razor Rocks, I don’t hear the tires at all. What a change that’s gonna make, eh. Maybe I can even hear that car sneaking up around the corner to run me over–you know, on account, car drivers are starting to hate bikers occupying former car lanes that are now labelled bike-lanes. Fcuk you car drivers! ;-) The only noise I have to deal with now is that whining motor and the new, somewhat thicker, more e-bike chain, including new front and rear sprockets, I had installed a few months back. Most of the chain noise, I’m guessing, comes from the derailleur now as it’s original and mechanic said it didn’t need changing.
There is still a lot more riding before making any definitive conclusions here but after a 40km jaunt this morning, including about 10km of trails, I’m won-over by the handling of these tires. The Charger GX is almost a different bike. I reckon it’s more comparable to a Charger GT. As far as grip goes, on the trails I tried a few steep, grassy and rugged hills. My biggest concern is that there’s no side-grip with these balloon tires. The Rock Razors were excellent with side-grip. But the Super Moto-X’s held up well. Will take a mountain/enduro tour soon, which I’m sure will reveal more.
These tires are rated to hold anywhere from 2-4 bar and I’m running them at 3 right now and they are pretty stiff. But they are also much more forgiving than the Rock Razors. One of the biggest problems with the Rock Razor knobs was that they were horrifically stiff at 3.5 bar on pavement. I tried them once at about 2.5bar but they were all wishy-washy and gave off no confidence. Not much versatility in the Rock Razors, they are definitely off-road tires. Maybe they should just label them: hard as h-e-double-toothpicks.
I suppose, in a way, I’m urbanising this bike. I’ve already removed that silly front rack that was basically worthless for anything 3kg and above or anything that wasn’t soft, i.e. a rolled up sleeping bag, tent, etc. Which brings me to…
The change lurking in the wings, which will add to urbanisation, is shortening the handlebars. I plan on simply cutting off 2-3cm, maybe a tick more, on each end and thereby taking away some of the width of the bars. They really are wide, even on the trails. On some rides I’ve had to get off the bike to fit it through tight spaces. I just have to gather up the courage to do the destructive sawing to the bars. I really love all the parts on this bike–and now I gotta take a saw to it? Ugh. Oh well.
All in all, I should have put these tires on a long time ago. Looking forward to another year of great riding, though. For next year, dear worst-rider, a new mega-e-bike might materialise. But which one? And can I seriously give up this Charger? I really dig this thing. Yeah. Ugh.
I live near Schloss Benrath, dear worst-reader. If you haven’t worst-read by now, I also live near the Rhine River. I live here because, well, the better-half, the dictator she is, has made it so. And it’s not so bad to live here, don’t you know. Especially considering it’s a great locality to walk Beckett, the killer pug. Although the town of Benrath is a borough of the city of Düsseldorf, its location gives it a kinda/almost rural atmosphere. This time of the year, though, it’s not so great during #Eurowasteland heatwaves. The humidity here is horrible. Then again. The weather during most of the year here sucks. But. According to the dictator, I guess, it’s great nevertheless–and I’m stuck.
Schloss Benrath is a so-called pleasure palace. What the hell that means, I have no idear. I walk by it or around it or through its grounds almost every day. Does it give me pleasure? At the least, I have no clue what a pleasure palace is. Of course, this is Germania. What the hell do you think these people do with themselves all day between over-engineering, over-managing, over-organising and always hung-up on their past/history? And yet the train system here is still never on-time. That worst-said, I don’t think pleasure palace means what a modern porn-ridden society thinks/wishes it could mean.
The pleasure place was built by some rich schmuck a few hundred years ago. Like all the #Eurowastelanders of the time–you know, those f’n feudalists-fcuks–they got their rocks off by shatting on others. That is, pleasure for them wasn’t just about gettin’ the knob suckled or whacked or jimmied by slaves and servants and underlings. Pleasure was mostly derived from controlling human beings through hereditary means, gifted privilege and God/Money sanctioned perversions. This, indeed, is #Eurowasteland’s greatest historical export. You know, white-supremacy and the hob-knob that is mostly embodied today in my beloved & missed #Americant–#MAGA–if not the dumbasses in Brexit-kingdom. With that in mind, thanks a whole fcukin‘ lot Europe for all the spiteful white people confusion!
Before I get too wrapped-up in my own uglies, like I said, the Pleasure Palace is where I walk Beckett, the killer pug, at least two or three times a day. Between all that, I worst-write something here and there, send it off to editors and publishers and the interwebnets, then return to marital un-bliss, and walk the fcukin‘ mutt a fourth or fifth time. The good news is: sometimes I see a thing or three that riles me. Hence the last pic in the series above.
The other morning I was walking along the Rhine via the rear entrance of the huge backyard of the Pleasure Palace and I happened across an odd scene. Now. You’ll have to forgive my lacklustre photography skills here. For a brief moment I thought–in the last pic in the series above–I was looking at a bodybag. I stood for a few moments staring at it. I even took off my glasses to adjust my eyes, rub them and then refocus after putting them back on and looking from the horizon back down to the object. Could that be a sleeping bag, I thought. Wait. I’ve seen bodybags before. They’re always some dark, dull colour either black, grey or green. I mean, it’s not uncommon to find corpses around here. In fact, it was a big deal a few years back when I lived in Düsseldorf’s nemesis city, Köln, which is just a tick further south on the river, that bodies were found here and there. Supposedly Köln has a bit of reputation for whatever faction of Euro mafia using it and its surrounding landscape for getting rid of bodies. I even thought: wow, should I call emergency services?
Luckily the dude that had obviously spent the night on the river-beach eventually twitched and moved but didn’t rear his head. To each his/her own, eh. And goodness forbid I wake someone up from blissful sleep. Relieved I continued my walk along the river and then entered the garden of the Pleasure Palace where I proceeded to take a few pictures of excavated tree trunks and an odd piece of equipment that I couldn’t identify. They’ve been doing a lot of work around the Palace’s grounds this year. Something about the soil rotting and getting rid of dead/dying trees, etc. Is that pic of equipment for logging? Nomatter.
The other pictures were taken at other times but perhaps can give any worst-reader an idear of how beautiful this place is–toads n’all. In fact, on any given weekend, year ’round, couples have their wedding photos done here. And. By-the-buy. I heard someone say once, something like twenty or so years ago, Michael Jackson had considered buying the palace. Obviously that didn’t happen. Not sure why. It’s not that celebrities haven’t bought castles n’shit in the old country before. Perhaps Düsseldorf just couldn’t give it up. Either that or someone already knew about all the stuff Jackson did with his youngfriends at Neverland. Yeah. Europeans are well versed in that sort of thing.
When did it begin in my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant, dear worst-reader? When did the obsession to consume-to-survive through the happy monetary machine of plastic begin? When did that little plastic card replace hard earned cash someone’s grandparents slaved for–or wheel barrelled into a bakery in Berlin in 1923 to buy bread? I mean, we all know when the greed $hit$how began, right? You know, the $hit$how where you can and must live above and beyond your means–so that you are always beholden to some/one/thing else. Yeah, baby. #Americant indeed.
Go with the following worst-thoughts for a sec, eh, dear worst-reader.
I’m worst-guessing, off the top of my worst-head, that the fascination with systematic consumer loan-sharking, or the credit card industrial complex, as a means for nation-state consumption, began in the seventies. Why the seventies? Well, by the end of the sixties, the powers-that-be realised that it was time to shift the costs of war-mongering, from which they had oh-so profited, onto the backs of something or someone else, otherwise the $hit was gonna hit the fan again–just like it did in 1929. And so. Now that the great wars-of-need were over all that was left was the creation of Empire through minor wars-of-want1 (aka wars of choice). While the military industrial complex was taking advantage of The Stupid (the riff-raff), the lords of commerce were diligently getting rid of that other burden that was in the way of über profits galore: labour. These two things put together are a potent poison, don’t you know. All that’s needed to get them both out of the way are a bunch of willing suckers, i.e. a huge consumer base that can only culminate in #MAGA. Yeah, baby. Let the riff-raff (The Stupid) pay from now on–and they will. You want a car? Well, good for you sucker. Good thing getting a car is never about the actual price of the thing. No. It’s about what they can get you to pay for that car per month–for the rest of your fcuking life. You want a computer or a smartphone? Pay 23.99% interest while you pay monthly for it, even while that device is manufactured for obsoletism in less than two years, because that’s the way it is, sucker. And not only let them, the riff-raff, pay, but let’s make them also pay double or triple with political capital, too. Enter Faux-Newz (early 1990s) and an industry of propaganda that is making Joseph Goebbels cream his deadman rotten shorts. Yeah, that is the power of misconstrued patriotism mixed with greed and spite and hate and bigotry and and and….
Wait a sec. Am I on about credit cards yet?
The reason for credit-cards as a means to consume was required because someone thought new & improved great wars must be avoided at all cost. Banking and finance in the sixties wasn’t as devious as it is today and thereby couldn’t simply jimmy and screw and dazzle The Stupid (the riff-raff) with interest rates. The powers-that-be were all still frightened out of their minds by the concept/reality of inflation, socialism and it all mixed with an informed riff-raff (the not-so stupid?) that would not only jump from skyscrapers in NYC but also rise up with AK-47’s disguised as pitchforks and then go around mass-shooting everybody and everything in El Paso, Dayton, Columbine, Las Vegas, etc., etc. As we all now know, the fun & games with interest rates, to prevent not only hyper-inflation but also stock market crashes and great wars, would be a long term game. So too would the AK-47 slash pitchfork phenomenon carried by the by-product of Dr. Americant Frankstein. Wow. Little did anyone know how willing the riff-raff (The Stupid) would become in this game, eh. Welcome to #MAGA.
But I wanted to get on about credit-cards.
Oh, how I remember those American Express commercials in the late 70s. And what ever happened to Diner’s Club? Why is it that I always think of Benihana restaurants when I think of consuming-to-survive back in the day when it was exotic to pay for anything with a plastic card? Elitism hits you young, don’t you know. It was the aura of the times, eh? Not unlike the lore of travel. High-end products. Airports and luxury. Being serviced by people who at least acted like they were interested. Pan Am. The TV show Mad Men reminded me of those days. But wait. I’m getting off subject again.
As of early 2019 I’m finally allowed to use Apple Pay as a means to consume-to-survive. I mean, it’s kinda like a credit card, right? At least it’s attached to Visa, I think. It’s been a long time waiting, dear worst-reader. The long wait has something to do with Germania’s banking system. I mean, it’s not like The Huns needed other means to enable the purchase of $hit. Their EC-Card system, which is basically nothing more than a debit-card system directly attached to your bank account, i.e without the third-party enablers like Visa, M/C & co., actually works pretty great. The only problem with it is, well, in order to have the coolness of something like Apple Pay, the bank would have to enable a third party to make it happen–which greedy little Huns don’t want to have to pay for in the form of fees. Hence, since expatriating to the Germanin tribe of #Eurowasteland so many years ago, I guess I’ve been waiting secretly to finally run up a credit card bill to see if/how they repossess me for over-draw galore. Has that secret day finally arrived with ApplePay? Not quite.
Although Apple Pay has been available in Germania since around 2017, my bank turned it on at the beginning of this year. It took me till two months ago to finally set it up on my iPhone and, of course, my AppleWatch. After that it took a few more weeks before I had the guts to actually use it. Now that it’s working, I don’t want to pay with anything else. The only problem is, The Huns are still a bit behind in making it available everywhere. I mean, wouldn’t it be cool if those stuck-up Bier servers at those great Bier halls could take payment with just a click from my watch? Or, if I need a train/tram ticket, wouldn’t it be great to just flash my phone at the ticket dispenser? And what about being able to use it in those houses of il-repute? You know, where most German males have to go in order to get some relief from being married… you guessed it… to a fcuking German female. Oh wait. Banks the world over have issues with financial transactions and… houses of il-repute, don’t you know. Yeah, cash-only still works.
The good news is: don’t worry; at this point in my worst-life, I don’t have to worry about credit. Not much into hookers anymore either. I’ve long since learned to live within my means–and I’m no longer ashamed of relieving both my balls and my prostate through other left-handed means. And although I consume-to-survive a lot of material $hit, especially tech gadgets, I think I’m pretty prudent when it comes to spending. The drive/need to exercise my prostate is also waning. Still, it would be cool to finally have a bit more payment modernity in the old country and to wait-n-see if a hot-chick repossessor rings my door-bell wearing porn clothing and carrying a bottle of that lube found in Osama Bin Laden’s bedroom at his last Pakistani stand.
But I should really really really move on now.
Using Apple Pay got me thinking about my brethren in my beloved & missed #Americant. For one thing–and get this, dear worst-reader–I haven’t had a revolving credit card for almost thirty years. For another thing, in the Germania economy, revolving credit ain’t a consume-to-survive necessity. People here have spendable income through both savings and earnings. And so. When I hear things from President Stupid that the economy in my beloved & missed #Americant is doing great but then read about how much debt is held by the Riff-raff… Come on. For the life of me, I have no idear how/why so many people subject themselves to the whims of #Americant loan sharking. I mean, is it so hard to live within your means–as opposed to charging everything until the repossessor comes or you just pay every month after month on that revolving, interest laden account for the rest of your life? Would I too be as bitter as #Americants are today–and thereby resort to drugs and violence and disarray–if I had to afford something less than this fancy, jewellery MacBook that I’m typing on now–and/or lose patients for 3pm to arrive where I can finally poor that first Gin?
And while doing all this useless, worst contemplation about all the suckers (the riff-raff) that enable and facilitate #Americant, while enjoying the fact that I finally have a modern western world form of payment in the old country, I happened across the new-fangled AppleCard’s user agreement–which, for goodness sake, no one knows when it will be available here. Anywho. The user agreement kinda threw me for a loop, don’t you know–even though I’m no where near possessing it but instead reading the rules & reg regarding a form of monetary payment made out of titanium that is obviously waaaaay cool. Whaaaaa? It has no numbers on it either. It only as the owners name on it and, of course, the emblem of the corporate elitism so many (worst-moi included?) espouses. Is this the next future of modern payment I’m waiting for?
First, did you know that AppleCard is nothing but a Goldman Sachs master-card credit card? Whaaaaa? Second, get a load of those interest rates. I mean. Goldman doesn’t even tickle you a bit here. Nor do they give you a small, slight, conduit kiss… before they get right into how they’re going to fcuk you with interest rates. I mean, come on. Are you serious? 13-24% interest rates, dear worst-reader? What idiot pays this $hit? Then something else hit me. I’ve been gone so long. I’ve been so far away from the essence that is my beloved & missed #Americant–i.e. credit-card and working poor mayhem–that I completely misplaced somewhere deep in my worst-psyche what it is people must be going through and hence only the worst of the worst of human behaviour can be the result. No wonder you’all are killing each other and no one can figure out why nor can anything be done about it.
Don’t get me wrong here, dear worst-reader. I’m no conspiracy theorist. I know that there is no single group of men (powers-that-be?) that sit around in a star chamber and hammer out a plan to screw the world. Yet, what is it that makes people accept 13-24% interest rates on doing the only thing that anyone can/should/must do to survive in the West today? Sure, the other parts of the Goldman Sachs AppleCard are a pretty good deal. There’s no transaction fees, no penalty fees, blah, blah, blah. But then the card is going to be an elite card, right? A very controlled bunch of people are gonna get it, right? You know, like American Express once was elite. Or Diner’s Club. By-the-buy, I could never get a Diner’s Club card and I only briefly was able to get an American Express card through an employer once–which I no longer have nor would I touch with a ten foot penis.
And that’s not the worst of it. What the fcuk is a Credit Bureau? Yeah, that’s the $hit that registered with me when I read the corporate user agreement. It’s bad enough that #Americants enable idiotic politicians that only favour rich people but it’s another thing when they also enable the scammers? Wait. What am I saying? They just elected a scammer as President. Ok. Ok. All politicians are scammers. But Pee-Pee-Hair #Trump is a scammer of a whole ‘nother order, or? And on top of that, there is the scam of having to rely on credit in order to consume-to-survive but to get credit you first have to go through a credit bureau, which is privately owned, that makes or breaks your credit reliability which then determines how much interest you pay for having or not having an elite credit card, and then, you know, paying between 13-24% interest….
Jesus fcukin‘ christ!
Come on #Americant. You are a country of scams. Everything is a scam. And why the fcuk did I buy this Apple computer in January in Europe where these things are even more expensive than, say, tax free Delaware? Oh wait. It cost, like, 1400,-€ but I paid cash for it. So I guess I’m not being totally scammed cause I had the fcuking cash to pay for it…. Fcuk!
Credit bureaus, people. Credit bureaus, or credit rating agencies, are an industry. What should be something more akin to a utility is instead a private, profit making industry owned by a few people with the help of more shareholders. Indeed. Like so many others, they took one scam industry to make another scam industry and when will the next scam industry happen? But wait. You also took a guy with pee-pee-hair and gave him the highest elected office of scammer-ville. Yeah, this makes sense, now don’t it. This is #Americant galore, baby. THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID.
Reading through the customer agreement document for the new titanium AppleCard got me riled, dear worst-reader. It got me riled because, well, even though I’ve been an expat for almost thirty years–and I’ve only recently received the privilege of being able to pay for $hit with a modern form of payment–the most shocking thing is how nothing has changed back home. As backwards as things are in #Eurowasteland, everything has gotten über-worst in my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant. I suppose this document only re-emphasised the fact that, for worst-moi, there’s no return. Not because I don’t want to go back but instead because I don’t know how I would deal with so much STUPID. Either that or I wouldn’t be able to buy anything anyway on account, well, I’ve got no credit.
Dreams can be a bitch, dear worst-reader. Especially those dreams that confuse beyond trying to figure them out. I mean, don’t you know, I’m not into figuring them ALL out. Some of them I just let go. Others linger with me for days–even as I try to let go. That means, I suppose, I have to give them a thought or three. Like this one, which I’ll try to worst-write while being soothed by Karajan’s 1963 Beethoven Symphonies.
First, most of the dreams I retain seem to be early morning dreams. That is–in what I like to refer to as my second night’s sleep–where I fall into a deep sleep after waking in the wee hours, usually around 4am–a dream ensues that takes me to deeper places than those hypnotic places Dr. Shit4Brains prescribed oh so long ago which get me to fall asleep in the first place, where a first dream happens but I usually repress. Nomatter.
This particular dream/place was a large cavernous valley with a few shinny houses in the middle of its nadir. The sky and atmosphere are lit with fluorescent, crayon coloured dim light but I can also see a sun just above one of the surrounding cliffs. Hues and shades abound from flowers and trees and perfectly manicured gardens. The vibrant reds and blues in the sky don’t match the sun or the cliffs that surround me, though. Stymied with awe, I feel something touch my left hand. I quickly turn to my left but then realise that a person is passing me on my right. As she passes me, she gallantly turns around and continues to pass but doing so while walking backwards, where I can clearly make out her face.
The first thing I see is Crouzon syndrome. The second thing I see is that the girl is a version of an old girlfriend of mine–who did not have Crouzon syndrome. She’s the same age as when I remembered banging her desperately and thereby hoping she remembered her birth control. What a gal she was, eh! But why Crouzon now? Nomatter.
She waves me along and eventually takes my right hand then leads me to one of the houses in the middle of the valley. She pulls me into the house and gives me a dry peck on the cheek and asks, whispering in my ear, if I’m missing her yet. She then reveals one breast and I yearn to fondle the puffy nipple but she moves off, stage left.
The inside of the house is a large loft, the back of which being nothing more than a large window overseeing the cliffs beyond. In the middle of the house is stage with a lone drum set with… the KIϟϟ emblem on the bass drum. After a long pause filled with contemplation about why I would dream of an ex who has Crouzon syndrome, Gene Simmons enters from a stage right (without makeup) and sits on the stool behind the drum set. He and I get into some heated discussion, he speaking yiddish and I the highest form of German I was never able to learn, until he finally stands atop the bass drum, whips out his Wiener, which, by-the-buy, is as big as his infamous tongue, and pees all over me.
I wake up to a down pour that is sneaking in through the terrace door I left open all night due the #Eurowasteland summer heat wave. I worry for a second or three about the wood floor that is now soaked, thereby feeling a few hard and heavy rain drops splatter on my morning face. I then shut the door. I go to the bathroom and have a morning piss, taking careful aim, of course, so as to not have so much to clean when cleaning is due at the end of the week. I then wash my hands and face and head downstairs to make my first espresso of the day. And so a worst-writer day begins and a dream ends, eh, dear worst-reader.
After a few days I finally figured out what Gene Simmons and I were arguing about and why he pissed on me. The conversation started with me praising him and his business acumen, thereby turning a half-witted rock band into an international sensation–that I loved when I was a kid. But then I started quoting some of the bands lyrics and probably said something about how their music relates so endearingly to the rest of #Americant and THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID and that there are consequences to turning the greatest, most powerful, ingenious nation-state experiment into a cesspool of greed, demagoguery, religious bat$hittery and, of course, guns. I then added something about how I was able to grow up and out of the three-grade entertainment that not only KIϟϟ panders and squawks but that which lead to the likes of #Trump who is the true face of not just republicans but #Americant greed-mongering, political conservatism and guns-galore–as a means of problem enhancement that only benefits the rich thereby keeping the riff-raff and lumpenproletariat in-check.
Indeed. And to think there is anyone surprised or shocked how the third-grade can become the nadir of the valley of death where guns give the blind and stupid the same feeling of success as a half-witted rock-band making a gazillion bucks or more–just so many others and others and others and money and money and money….
Am I on my last hair trimmer, dear worst-reader? At least I hope I’m on my last one. It’s a thing I’m going through right now, don’t you know, in this–the $hit$how that is consume-to-survive. The idear is the following: Pay a little bit more now in the hopes that–if there is such a thing as quality–I don’t have to pay again and again and again later. I mean, come on. This is the (I forget which number) hair trimmer I’ve had to buy in the last ten years. Am I chasing a dream up the wrong bark-less tree here, dear worst-reader? I mean, come on–again. I’m beyond middle age. I lost most of my hair by my mid-thirties. Now I’m mid-fifties and what’s left of my hair just needs to be trimmed down every few days along with a good beard shave and that lustful feel of fresh and stingy aftershave. Goodness knows how much I’ve saved over the years by doing all this without having to go to a barber. But I’m also tired of buying hair trimmers, for fcuk-sake! Then again, at least I don#t live in #Americant anymore, eh. Or did you miss the vid on the interwebnets recently that is yet another example of how a once great nation-state has devolved into a divide & conquer cesspool of THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID? I mean, my problems are ALL about finding the right product to buy, eh. #Americant’s problems are a whole nother $hit$how of stupid-galore. Or am I wrong?
My previous hair trimmer was some odd-named, cheap-o device I bought on you-know-who online shopping website. In the beginning it was a pretty cool device. It charged with a USB cable. It had the proper blade length settings that allowed me to use it without an adapter–as I prefer to keep my fading hair at around 2mm. And I even got a kick out of the little numerical screen that informed me of the battery status–which, once the battery died, was no longer amusing. It was obviously a cheap piece of $hit–even though it did what it was supposed to do for a while. Kinda like #Americant used to be, eh?
But let me give some credit where it’s due. Cheap ain’t always that bad–unless you’re an #Americant and are bitter at the $hit$how you’ve either created or inherited. Sometimes one can get lucky with cheap stuff that works great–especially if you’re a duma$$ #Trump-er with the mindset that is no longer than the hair atop my balding head. For example. I got lucky with stereo speakers and a stereo amp that I bought a few years ago to replace that stupid multi-channel, surround sound system that cost me thousands and drove me crazy and also turned me totally off to multiple channel audio. But that’s neither here nor there. Back to cheap v quality hair trimmers and a bit more about how/why it’s so hard to elevate yourself out of so much stupid when you’ve been reared by it.
My last hair trimmer worked pretty good for about a year–until the battery died a few days ago. But I already worst-said that. That is, the battery wouldn’t hold a charge anymore. What to do, what to do with this consume-to-survive throw-away world we live in, eh? Buying a new battery for it is a choice I suppose but once I saw how fiddly all that would be I gave up on the idear. As best I can remember that was the fourth hair-trimmer (or is it hair-clipper?) I’ve been forced to purchase in the last ten years–each of which as been thrown away and away and away. Even though I have a trusty Braun razor that helds-up much longer, and I even had a Braun hair trimmer once, too, the Braun hair trimmer didn’t last much longer than the cheap one that just died. Plus, the Braun hair trimmer wasn’t as flexible when it came to adjusting for desired hair length. For whatever reason, the powers-that-be at Braun thought that their hair trimmer shouldn’t go below 3mm. That’s just too long for this proudly balding guy. Speaking of proudly balding. Get a load of the vid-link below where the young gun from where-ever bum-fcuk#Americant gets out of his stupid-truck to punch what looks like a guy that could be me.
What the fcuk is going on with #Americant, dear worst-reader? Or am I the only one to notice that THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID is reaching new heights of STUPID? Oh wait. Back to the less politically correct issue of hair trimmers for ageing wannabe hippies like worst-moi.
What is it with making a half decent hair trimmer? Enter the world of half-professional hair trimming equipment–I hope.
I bought Wahl hair clippers (trimmer) the other day at almost half price. Even though the thing is double what a hair trimmer from other makers would cost (i.e. Panasonic, Remington, Braun, etc.), I went with it. Obviously the sale price helped. Aware that this is a real barbershop device, i.e. less forgiving when in the hands of an amateur hair trimmer like my worst-self, I’m hoping that this thing will give me some relief from having to buy another trimmer anytime soon. At the least, if/when the batteries die, I can send it back to Wahl and they’ll put new ones in–or, because of its build quality, I can change the batteries myself–which is just not an option with those other big-brand name devices. Also, if need be, the electrical charging cable can be used to run the Wahl if the battery conks-out. The other hair trimmers I’ve had could only be used while on battery power. Either their cables were too short or the device just didn’t work right when on cable.
The only issue after first use of the Wahl trimmer is the hard and somewhat sharp blades. The other (cheap-o) devices were easier on the scalp when gliding along and trimming. The Wahl has some serious hard edges.
So a question remains in this quest for consume-to-survive autonomy or getting away with as little cost to life as possible. Is it even feasible that this could be the last hair trimmer I buy? Indeed. Questions that need be asked as the silver years approach and those golden years aren’t far off but at least I’m far enough away from #Americant that I don’t have to worry about some stupid whipper-snapper hack-job jumping out of a #MAGA truck just to slap me around because, well, I coined the term #Americant on account the place is going to hell in a hand basket faster than you can say impeach that piece of $hit with the pee-pee hair.