Occupy, Version Two Point Oh

Source of pic: screenshot from r/wallstreetbets

“The game is rigged,” they’re saying, dear worst-reader. But worst-writer say: if it’s rigged, especially on such a grand scale, how will/can you ever know it? In other worst-words: part of the rigging is making sure that those who are (being) rigged can never know that they are (being) rigged–or, at best, always made to think that they know the game is rigged–when they don’t/can’t know anything on account, well, they’re f’n stupider than rocks. Also. If you’re just now coming to terms with the reality of the system is rigged, how come you only notice it when/if your stock valuations are on the jimmy?

Yeah. As far as stock valuations go… you been jimmy-dicked, morons.

And then there’s another worst-question. If, for whatever reason, you notice (think/imagine) the system is rigged, and, you suddenly wake up to a world where a guy like #Trump can become president, wouldn’t it make more sense to perhaps look a little further back in time to see if/where/how the rigging started? You know, as in, your whole life has been one giant rigging session that you’ve been too stupid to wake up to. Yeah. That’s the ticket, biatch.

Or maybe not.

Did you get a load of the recent Wall Street GameStop thingy, dear worst-reader? You know, the thingy where, perhaps, hopefully, a bunch of hedge fund managers are losing their shirts on account other non-connected younger stock traders out-witted them to the hilt. I mean. Wow! I love this story so much I’ve actually had a moment or three where I thought: Hey! Maybe there is some hope for 2021 being a turnaround year on account, I mean, at least #Americants got rid of president stupid, eh. On the other hand, what do my beloved & missed #Americants have instead (of president stupid)? That’s right. Now they have president old-man. I mean. Biden doesn’t only look old. Depending on how the cameras catch him, he looks like a friggin corpse. But on that worst-note, I probably should die-gress.

Oh yeah. We were gettin’ on about GameStop and Wall Street…. But before I do that, let’s get on about terminology. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, terminology is especially important to peoples who are incapable of intellectualising their world. Just listen to any/most republican politicians in my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant. I mean. Say what you will about the arsehole, elitist Democrats–but there’s one thing you can’t say about them. Democrats don’t vomit up the likes of Alex Jones, Limbaugh, tea-party and #MAGA. Hence the silly madness of #Americant conspiracy theories, fake newz, the media, etc. Would all of that be around if Republicans could intellectualise? Heck, just have a look/listen at all the new republican $hitbags that got voted into the Congress recently, all on account Democrats are too dippy to figure out how to actually fight for taking away the label #Americant. But on that note, I once again die-gress. And. Back to terminology.

You know, dear worst-reader, I’ve heard some folk compare the goings-on at Wall Street, including the GameStop thingy, with something akin to a casino. You know. They’re comparing their life to gambling houses where men wilfully continue on with the delusion of being men in a world that is probably run by women–or at least it’s not being run by the fantasy of their manhood. Then again I can see why some folk consider manipulated stocks as gambling–or as a casino. But here’s worst-writer’s thing about calling Wall Street a casino. It just ain’t right. I mean. As you may or may not know, the system is not only rigged but it is also kaputt. That’s it. It’s called #Americant for a reason, don’t you know. Yet the comparison to a casino…? Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. Even if you tried, even if you stealthily, with hundreds of millions worth of tools and trickery, if you go into a casino and cheat… What do you think is going to happen? And I don’t mean cheating like they did in that Rain Man movie or, perhaps, one of them stupid, mindless, Oceans Eleven movies. You go into a casino and try to cheat–someone will come along pretty quick and cut your friggin fingers off. You know, so you can’t deal cards anymore. Or so you can’t throw dice anymore. Or pull a slot machine lever. Or. Or. Or. So you get what I’m sayin’, eh dear worst-reader? Of course, what we all know by now is that you can walk into Wall Street and cheat your arse off–if you’re friggin privileged and already rich. You can cheat till the cows come running, baby. In fact, in kaputt #Americant, cheating is about the only way to get on with life–unless you want to starve. Or have you already forgotten that you elected #Trump–the born cheater–as president? So. Stop calling Wall Street a casino. The terminology just doesn’t work.

And while I’m on the issue of terminology #Americant-style, I’m not even sure the David v Goliath analogy works either. Perhaps a better way to animate what’s going on with GameStop and Wall Street and, of course, #Americant, is to try this: as the lemmings are lead to the edge of the cliff a few lemmings manage to $hit on a few other lemmings–you know, as they did during the January 6, 2021 pseudo-putsch on the US Congress–just before their final leap which causes all the lemmings to laugh their arses off as they fall to their doom–all laden with $hit. Or something like that.

The thing that doesn’t really work by calling GameStop David and Wall Street Goliath is the fact that even though the enabler and facilitator of GameStop’s stock is the ranting and ramblings of various Reddit users–an online message board system with the not so uniquely titled subject: WallStreetBets–and those users ain’t exactly small in numbers. In fact, as the whole GameStop thingy started to surge in late January, 2021, it’s impossible to know exactly who all the buyers that created the squeeze are. Put another worst-way. Even though there may be thousands of Reddit users that bought up thousands of available GameStop shares–hence the squeeze–there has to be some other form of buyer or buyers out there to cause such a sudden surge in a single stock. Oh my. All this terminology combined with the pseudo-complexity of the US stock market is mind-boggling–if you can’t intellectualise it, don’t you know.

There’s one more #Americant terminology thingy that need be addressed. Another player in the $hitshow greed-game is a company called… Wait for it. That’s right. Where there’s David and Goliath, where there’s casino capitalism, where there’s… There must also be a Robinhood. You know. As in Robinhood.com. And what a misplaced (or is it misspelled) euphemism we have to intellectualise now. And so. Just as confusing as calling Wall Street a casino, let’s call a greed-mongering website that enables the buying and selling of stocks without any fees…

Seriously. One of the culprits in one of the funniest, most hilarious stock thingies in decades, is called Robinhood.com. Intellectualise that, dear worst-reader.

Indeed. Leave it up to #Americants to confuse the name of a free from fees stock trading service/app with the fiction of old British aristocratic story telling that enabled another kind of nation-statehood idiocy, i.e. that of Great Britain, to get caught up in story telling as opposed to facing the truth about the utter ridiculousness of monarchies… And so. What the creators of Robinhood.com really mean by giving their company such a name is more like: robbing the hood. Get it? I mean. A few letters here or there are no-never-mind to #Americants who are all drifting around in the ignorance of still trying to fathom #MAGA and/or taking a dump while pseudo-invading the US Capitol building (Jan. 6, 2021). And so. How do you get a bunch of suckers in the right place at the right time in order to rip them off because they are intellectually incapable of understanding that their lives are rigged and it’s just a casino and they’ve played it all their lives–and now they’re just bored out of their minds? And. And. And.

Again. Indeed. For those who think fee-less stock trading is a real thing, then perhaps you should apply some face-bag (facebooK) reality here or there. Namely, FB’s only product on which and/or with-which it makes money is stupid users, i.e. YOU. That is. The way FB makes money is by collecting information about how you use the Internetwebs. And just like FB, Robinhood’s product is NOT free stock trading but instead gathering data of what you do (with your credit-card money) and selling that data to the highest bidder. Hence, it was a no-brainer that when Wall Street came calling to suspend trading of a stock that was bankrupting a few hedge funds, the guys at Robinhood obliged.

The only question remaining, dear worst-reader, is how/when/what will the government that is a/the reflection of its people step in and finally do something about how rigged casinos, the inversion of Davids and Goliaths and the whole shebang of #Americant greed-mongering–which is, by-the-buy, the single greatest social experiment in human history that has culminated in: THE LAND OF THE FREE TO BE STUPID–be regulated.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.


PS And GO! r/WallStreetBets.


Welcome To $hithole Country

Welcome To Poophole Country

Sh*thole country… -Donald J. Trump

Where to go with all the toxicity, dear worst-reader? Hence a country is awash in poison, filth, dreck–including #Trump’s hair–and whatever drug concoction of the day fits into the nose or arm of the lower and middle classes that are subsumed in the aftermath of political conservatism run amok that is the end of the 20th century. Or. Did you see something other than all-things disgusting the other day at the US Capitol in my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant? And I’m not even concerned about the crowd. I mean. Get this. For the first time in history, the confederate flag was totted around the Capitol. Grown men were heisting office material, especially the speaker of the house’s podium, and then dancing around with it as though they just won a prize on the price-is-right–and thereby giggling while posing for said photographs. A half naked tattooed man with his face painted red, white and blue mockingly wore a hat made of fur with two horns attached–looking as though he were in a drug induced state ready to invade Sweden or Denmark or wherever else his sophomoric mind could fathom that vikings still exist. Yes. 2021 #Americant is where the whole world can see what happens when you can’t pull yourself up by the mental bootstraps, have no dreams to pursue, or simply can’t tell the difference between stupid and stupider–even if it came up to your face and said… Hi. I’m Martha. Wanna join me and George in a three way?

Quick question. Is it at all possible that human history’s first and best form of collective governance could actually enable people instead of disabling them in the name of greed, greed and more greed?

But I die-gress.

As of the writing of this worst-post, dear worst-reader, five people have died in #Americant’s first (internal) coup d´etat. Two of those people were killed through direct violence and three others died due to circumstances that may or may not have had to do with… #AmeriCANT. As in, the country simply CAN’T dig its way out of the pit of poop it has dug itself into. And by the buy, that chick that was shot while disobeying the-man and trying to break into the US Capitol building the other day, shouldn’t be dead right now? I mean. Where does all this mental toxicity come from? Could it have anything to do with covid-19 and being locked up in your own four walls since ever-more—because your government is so inept at dealing with the reality that viruses exist and exist and exist? And what about that alien, DNA rendered (sarcasm off) vaccine that they’ve got in the works? Were any of these rally-goers inoculated–which has obviously (sarcasm on) activated their zombie-ness? Indeed. Zombies. They’ve been zombies ever since their $hitkicker trailer-park ways took over their already empty-space minds and they finally discovered shits&giggles by enabling the election of president piss-hair. Or have you witnessed an ounce of political smarts–before or after #Americants first coup d’etat?

Am I wrong. -Walter, The Big Lebowski

Hold a sec, dear worst-reader. That woman who was shot and killed was a veteran of the US Airforce. In fact, according to various reports, there were numerous veterans at that “rally”. And there you have it, eh, dear worst-reader. The makings of a coup? You know. The makings that include… Gee. Let’s see. Lust for authoritarianism. Lots of stupid–on account everyone was obviously educated in #Americant. Guns. Idolatry (MAGA hats). And the fact that the only way to make a living in a country that has completely decimated its manufacturing base (since Ronald Reagan) is to join the military and be taught that you’re the only hammer in a world of nails. Etc. Etc.

Or was it just a political rally stirred on by president piss-hair all on account he might be (finally) facing financial ruin and jail because he is unable to rise up, like most (74m most) of his generation, and do the job. I mean. How do you expect white men to respond to facing the reality of imminent fail upward recognition? And so. Veterans, trailer-trash and #Americant united in one big WWE kumbaya that did nothing but solidify a new kind of wall thereby relinquishing any chance whatsoever of political this or that. And do you know what that act was? That’s right. It wasn’t protesting a valid election. It wasn’t even a coup. It was thirty, forty, or fifty years of republican bat$hittery drilled year after year, generation after generation into the mind’s of… #Americants.

That’s your opinion man… -The Dude, The Big Lebowski

And that’s not all, dear worst-reader. Just when you thought the #Americant fail-upward coup d’etat was over, it turns out that the MAGA protestors left one last thing. That’s right. The political act that will forever be associated with January 6, 2021, in worst-writer’s opinion, that included the ransacking of what could have been humanities greatest government…

Someone actually took a sh*t in the open, right in the middle of the building.

Now that’s #Americant, baby.

Rant on.



Running Through The #Americant Trailer Park From Sea To Shinning Sea Waving $2000?

whack job trump

Worst-title #2: The reawakening and potential gruesome death scene of #Americant demise galore in the wrong porn film just before the WWE match begins while the church doors are wide open.

Disclaimer: this post is NSFW.

Still not woke up to the grift, dear worst-reader? You know, the grift that is THE #Americant DREAM–post Ronald Reagan. Well. Don’t worry too hard if you still ain’t figured it out. For the thing is this: Even though it’s pretty much game-over for my beloved & missed united mistakes, there’s still a whiff of pseudo-hope out there that could emerge once the last two (if not three) generations die off in the great 21st century culling that is COVID-19. I mean. If the covid don’t get you… there’s always that wonderful feeling that you might, eventually, get a relief check not unlike the $1200 relief check you already got but this time, says the #Americant used car dealer that is your intellect, this time your relief check will have the number two and three zeros on it and go down just a tick smoother as you swallow (it). Ain’t that as exciting as a donkey playing the violin while you fcuk a bucket of creampie?

Speaking of which…

Did you get a load of President Stupid’s recent grift with suited Georgia old-school republicans? Now. I don’t know about you, dear worst-reader, but I listened to that call in its entirety and if I may be honest…? Holy fork in your wad of money horse $hit! President Stupid is as dumb as he looks. Or is worst-writer the only one able to see through that pseudo bouffant hair-do he’s got going–which is part of the mommy issues he has for being yet another #Americant male unable to grow out of the shadow of an abusive father, don’t you know? But here’s the thing that surprised me most about listening to a man-child three year old that managed to become President Stupid of a country of three year olds. He’s actually hands-on when it comes to the grift. I mean. For the most part I thought he just handed off the grift to the various minions that are as dumb as he is–for desperation is part of the THE DREAM and it makes so many do the go-go dance of survival, don’t you know. These minions then, in turn, gallivant around as though their undertakings are real–as opposed to fake–and all the while they ride the wave of downfall that moneyed pigs have sewn throughout the land by opening the skulls of non-grifter-schmucks (the working poor that make up the 99%), squatting over their open skulls, and then taking a colossal $hit. Or do you think #Americant conservative politics via faux-newz is something else?


This all begs one last worst-question as worst-writer watches what’s going on in Georgia. Even if the two democrats unseat the two republicans, will Biden & Co. actually be able to right the wrong that is (has been) thirty, forty… fifty years of hateful, spiteful, ugly, bouffant hair culminating republican politics? I mean. Having been reared in #Americant and having been able to escape it, and all the while miss it dearly, is there anything left to save? If only the culling via COVID-19 could be directed at the perpetrators that actually caused it. You know. The part of #Americant that enabled faux-newz & co., to kill it all by… death by a thousand COVID cuts.

Or am I wrong.

And so… the COVID-19 culling question is thus: what does it look like when a rich guy gives a hundred dollar bill to an idiot and tells him he can have two more if he runs through a gun-totting, shit-kicker trailer park, survives and comes back to suck his dick? Well. Obviously. The guy grabs that bill, runs through, sucks the dick (for that is, in a nutshell, middle-class #Americant, or?) and the rich guy smiles, hands him two more hundred dollar bills and then points that the only way out of #Americant life is a repeat of the same thing where eventually you run out of dicks to suck. And so. Through the trailer park again, again, again. The #Americant song.

As our rich guy flys off with one of the trailer park’s hair dresser bimbos who promised to make his hair just like President Stupid’s hair, because, well, it’s in fashion now, we can see below as the trailer park gains two more useless hundred dollar bills and another body to feed on. You know. Soylent Green or so. Or maybe not.

So. To who ever coined the phrase: run through a trailer park waving a hundred dollar bill… if you want to see #Americant’s true character… this worst-post is my ode to you.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.


Links that motived this post:

  • Here’s a RSS link and here’s another link to Michael Moore’s podcast where he features the entire phone call President Stupid made with other really, really stupid but supposedly highly educated republican bureaucrats in the peachy great state of Georgia. If the links don’t work just search for “Michael Moore podcast 150”.
  • Here’s a link to the one of the guys from the above link admitting to the buddy-buddy system that seems to be breaking down on account President Stupid is revealing the grift that #Americants have never been able to see for themselves on account 1) they’re all just as stupid and 2) looking in a mirror is just one step too many.
  • Here’s a link including video that scares the beegeezees out of me. This privileged old white guy actually pulls out the old rotten chestnut about voting because people died, protested, got shot, killed, blah, blah, blah… so you could have the right to vote. I mean. Who the hell is this guy talking to/at? As though it’s the first time.

Salad Days vs Beuys Days

Joseph Beuys at the beach. Source: screenshot from the Interwebnets

Worst-title #2: Thoughts stirred by Werk Ohne Autor

Worst-title #3: Stop old money making all the films so that someone else can have a shot at it.

“My salad days, when I was green in judgement…” -Cleopatra, Shakespeare

Disclaimer: spoiler alert.

This worst-post, like so many other worst-posts, contains spoilers. Not a lot of spoilers, mind you. But a few. These spoilers, by-the-buy, are from the film Werk ohne Autor (Never Look Away), which premiered in 2018 (or so) and I just happened to finally watch the other night on German compulsive-tax-paid TV received through my cord-cut digital world (which means I streamed it). With that in mind, as you like, this is a worst-post with a bit of NSFW worstness that may or may not include incredibly beautiful tits and ass galore wrapped in the historically confused megalomania of… What the hell do we do with them frickin Germans now that they’ve gone and lost two frickin world wars and pacified the Wirtschaftswunder like never before? Or something like that.

FYI, watching this movie the other night was something akin to “Date Night”. And even though we only do this a couple times a year–on account she always falls asleep during movies but not necessarily date night–I have to put this (worst-thought) out there: we didn’t just watch any film on post Xmas/New Years date night, don’t you know. No. We watched a frickin three hour long film that went right through the heart of who/what we are not unlike a love-hate dagger lost and found in a sock-pile from the Middle Ages. I mean, come on. Did you get that, dear worst-reader (above and beyond the sock pile)? This film is three hours long. I mean. Again. Come on! I get it when Hollywood makes three hour long comic book movies that fascinate child-minds with everything except tits–that I have to watch with my millennial son. But when a German dude that’s, like, eight frickin feet tall… and he makes a movie that is as long as he is tall… What the hell could go wrong on a date night where the chances of wifey falling asleep and thereby occupying the couch as though it were the Germans invading Sudentland…?


Let me try to put the beginning of this worst-post another worst-way. I finally broke down and watched Werk ohne Autor the other night on account I’ve been meaning to watch it ever since I found out it was made by the same dude that made Das Leben Der Anderen. Of course, I failed to find out how long this movie actually is. Still. Also. I failed to do any preliminary study about the film which could have warned me how stunningly beautiful tits and ass on digital celluloid can be. In fact. Praise be to the #Eurowasteland lore of artsy-fartsy films and their ease of showing skin. Lots and lots of beautiful, gorgeous, luscious, juicy, scrumptious, appetite wetting… skin.

But all worst-gesture aside.

As we traverse this $hithole of life together, dear worst-reader, let us give thanks to the privileged few that can entertain (and enlighten) us because, well, they’re rich enough to be able to finance the development and creation of… artsy-fartsy stuff. As opposed, of course, to comic book films that not only bore the $hit out of wanton minds but also prohibit the necessary jerk-off content that so many young males require in order to not turn into fascist rapists. But. Again. I die-gress. But. Again-again. Wait. Before I die-gress. Let me say this. The movie Werk ohne Autor really fcuked with my head. Hence, I should worst-write something about it before things explode into the nothingness that is my mind.

By-the-buy, before I worst-continue, if you want a film review that includes a half-decent summary or explanation of this movie, use the google-machine and then trust in the capacity of the Interwebnets. At the least there’s enough promotion material and various interviews with the makers and players of this movie to hold ones attention for hours. If, on the other hand, you want to know how this film fcuked with worst-writer’s mind, and you’re also open to a bunch of anger, bitterness, spite and a worst-post that will include the least amount of worst-writing about my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant that is reaching the crescent moon nadir of its demise, stick around. Otherwise. Again. This movie has me in the mood of: Fcuk off baby because there is some serious gorgeous naked skin that I haven’t seen since Eva Green in The Dreamers. And so…

Dresden with a bunch of Nazi $hitbags.

As with all German stories that need be told before and/or after The Brother’s Grimm and/or Napoleon, this story starts with the Austrian Adolf Dipshit Hitler and the spiteful bombing–and good use of surplus bombs–of Dresden in 1945 after Hitler failed just a tick worse than Donald Dip$hit #Trump failed (since 2016) as president Stupid. Oh wait. Hold a sec. I said I wasn’t gonna get-on about my beloved & missed #Americant. So let’s take a breather. Ok. Gulp. There. Gulp.

Moving on.

Werk ohne Autor starts a bit before the fire bombing of Dresden which was/is covered in-full by Vonnegut’s Slaughter House 5 so I certainly won’t get into that here. Which means, the creator(s) of Werk ohne Autor need to prep the audience with some form of conduit to make this fcuk-over cinematic art $hitshow with hapless yet fantastical acting palpable on account… Who the fcuk doesn’t know everything there need be known about the fire-bombing of Dresden? And so. Let’s f’n move on.

Enter… Wait for it. Here comes the name of the director…

Hold a sec. Werk ohne Autor is written and directed and produced and and and by… Here it comes… What’s in a name, eh.

Florian Henkle von Donnersmarck.

And what a name it is, huh? Is it worst-moi or do you also get this strange anti-aristocratic, monarch-hating, loathing of all-things hereditary chill through your whole body when you hear/read a name like that? (Or is it just worst-moi?) And did I mention that the director with the douchebag name is like… thirty-five feet tall? I mean, dear worst-reader, you have to search the Interwebnets a bit to see how frickin tall this guy is. I mean. Again. A German, his name, a dude standing something like seven feet tall… what else do you want in a artsy-fartsy film maker that’s making film about…? Or?

But. Again. I die-gress.

The first too-many minutes of this movie is about Dresden and some gorgeous aunt and her nephew viewing art that is declared Entartete Kunst or: degenerate art. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, back in the day art is called degenerate by Nazi douchebags that claim it doesn’t represent national socialist virtues. And who better to bring this up in a film than a guy who totally does not look like some seven foot tall family connected goober that reminds worst-writer of what Butthead (yes, of Beavis and Butthead fame) would look like if he were real–and seven feet tall. Oh. Wait. Did I mention Florian Henkle von Donnersmarck’s hair style might be as weird as he is tall? Again. But I die-gress.

The aunt and her nephew are this hot little couple that get royally screwed by the Nazis, don’t you know. In fact, they are so screwed that the aunt gets gassed because, well, she’s suddenly schizophrenic after handing The Führer (that’s #Trump English for dear-leader, aka Adolf Hitler, don’t you know) a bouquet of flowers during a small town drive-by visit. Immediately after handing Hitler the flowers–and being taught/shown/told that any form of “art” that is NOT national-socialist is degenerate–hot Aunt goes nutso and is then turned over to the Nazis by her family. The Nazis proceed to sterilise her and, as previously mentioned, kill her in a gas chamber made to look like group showers for half-chromosome deprived girl-scouts. Did you get all that, dear worst-reader? No. Well it’s a complicated if not intricate artsy-fartsy movie, don’t you know.

This/the long winded initiation into this movie culminates in the nephew learning that in order to see the truth he can/should Never Look Away, hence the English title of the film*. Never looking away is also, somehow, the subtext of this film. The problem with never looking away, though, is that it’s no different than putting a cookie jar in front of a child and telling him no touchy-touchy. The cookie jar, btw, is filled with the actresses Paula Beer and Saskia Rosendahl. They are both so stunningly beautiful that without them I would not have gotten past the Dresden bombing–or the first hour of this movie. And since I’m on the subject of hot actresses, my better half also helped me get over the trauma of watching yet another film that gives just a tick too much humanism to Nazis. And so… it’s hard to never-look-away when so much beauty may or may not be distorted by the ugliness of trying to tell Nazi stories. But. Again…

Moving on.

Now we move on to Dresden after the most devastating bombing in all of human history–even when compared to Hiroshima. The film goes to post Nazi waw-waw gibberish in the dreamland of Marx & Co., aka DDR subpar pseudo-bourgeois nobody get rich eastern Germany. That’s right. Our nephew is now a young man after the war and he’s learning NOT to use the word I (Ich) as he embarks on a life of artistry–by drawing pictures of pre-#Trump #Americants with sickle and hammers in one hand and Vladimir Putin as saviour in the other hand–or was it Marx, Lenin and Trotsky and the New York stock exchange? #Nomatter.

Our nephew has to draw pictures of/for DDR Germany which, in a way, is kinda exactly like how one might draw #Trump and my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant today as it too delves into the Mein Kampf confusion of political circumstance dictated by greed, greed and more greed albeit in a nation of mindless nationalism run amok. And… Ok. Wait. Stop the worst presses. I know I get-on a bit too much here and there with #Trump & Co and #Americant. So forgive me. Let me take a swig of post Xmas drink and I’ll try to move on.

Gulp. Gulp.

While dabbling in DDR waw-waw, studying, smoking, drinking communist beer, our cold-war artist/Nephew falls for a chick (Paula Beer) that looks perfectly NOT unlike his gassed aunt (Saski Rosendahl). This young couple now get it on in wondrous ways that the porn industry probably doesn’t want anybody to see–on account these actors loved each other on screen so well that it even gave me hope that love is real. Their post-nazi love, of course, leads to a pregnancy which in turn leads to the girls father–who I have purposefully left out up to now even though he plays a major role from the beginning to end of this film. I have left him out of this worst-post because I think he’s stupid. That’s right. I said it: stupid. In fact, I think the character of the Nazi/doctor/father is so stupid that this will be my last mention of him. If you want/need to know more about him, watch the movie. Otherwise, fcuk you and all Nazi/doctor/fathers.

Moving on.

Now. Before I continue worst-summarising. This is a movie where the director (remember his name?) seems to think he can somehow work through Germany’s past in about three hours. And while working through that past, he thinks/assumes all will be well. Or? For it is a dilemma, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, that Germans and oh-so many German speaking old white men of #Eurowasteland have to rehash their Nazi past even more than their money has paid for WW2 reparations. That’s kind of the essence in this movie. I think. Either that or rehashing the past is a new past-time for Germans born of Wirtschaftswunder parents. But don’t worry. If you’re unattainably confused about what worst-writer is trying (and failing) to say about this movie… Get this. It’s creator/director has a really really really (sarcasm on) important name and the artistry of his movie is naked… I mean stunning… I mean the actresses in this movie are gorgeous and… that… Well. Hint. I’m not sure anymore about what I’m trying to say. So maybe I should just move on–and at the same time try and stop summarising this movie. Indeed.

Joseph Beuys.

Our beloved nephew and his luscious wife end up leaving DDR waw-waw-land and make it to The West. Once in The West our nephew pursues his art career along side a bunch of other post WW2 guys who somehow find a way through life via art school at the behest of the infamous Joseph Beuys–in the town of Düsseldorf–which is also worst-writer’s golden cage… Blah. Blah. Blah. Stop. Pause.

This is where I should definitely break from my attempt at worst-writing about this film and get into a long-winded rant about the artist Joseph Beuys who died a few years prior to worst-writer arriving in D’dorf which also turned out to be the beginning of my expatration. But I won’t do that. Instead. Allow me this.

Once I got over the waw-waw of Florian Henkle von Donnersmarck’s (what a name, eh) attempt at rehashing Germany’s recent past with lots of Nazi drama which, for him, seems to have begun in Dresden and then ended in my beloved D’dorf, I realised: Hey! This film ain’t so bad after all. I mean. Beyond the spectacular cinematography of actresses, actresses and more naked actresses, there’s actually a highly confused story that reminds me of an ugly but extremely useful quilt. But. And here’s a big but. If it weren’t for the post WW2 art school in D’dorf and the love story of a couple who deserve love, I might not have made it to the end of this film. That’s not to say that it’s bad. But it is to say that it’s long. Way too long. It’s also a rehashing of the past that I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to get a grip on–as though it were my calling on account of my mother and her war-torn Prussian father who was born in 1918 and died in 2001. With that in mind, I think it’s time to get on about Joseph Beuys.

The thing is this, dear worst-reader. This film could be condensed to an hour and a half and all the Dresden stuff could still be included as flashbacks (except the naked scenes, of course; they need to be seen in full) and then the movie could focus on what kept me watching it: namely a movie about Joseph Beuys. For here’s the kicker, dear worst-reader. In 1992 I spent three days in Kassel, Germany, at Documenta 9 staring at various Beuys’ exhibits that did nothing less than blow my weak #Americant pseudo-intellectual mind. I was so enamoured with Beuys that for a few years after that I never passed up a chance to visit a museum just to see his work.

So let me be as clear as only worst-writer can about this movie. It’s an ok movie. It’s a artsy-fartsy film. It has some good cinematography and some of the dialogue is really good–except for the scene where Ben Becker, as a DDR sign-maker foreman, spouts Shakespearean, if not Goethe-like text that was/is completely misplaced telling the protagonist (nephew) that he’s not making art but instead making posters that promote communism. And so… The only problem I have with this film is that it is miraculously indulgent. It is a film about exuberant film making–and those who can afford to make it. It is long winded and at times a bit boring. But it’s also a film that a lot of people should see. They should see it even if it’s not as good as Florian, Count Henckel von Donnersmarck’s (can you believe I’ve forgotten to include the “count” this whole time?) previous artsy-fartsy film Das Leben Der Anderen. This movie should be seen because it has something in it about the 20th century’s greatest artist, if not best German rehasher of Nazis: Joseph Beuys.

Which brings me to one last worst-thought about Werk ohne Autor. This should have been a movie about how one makes art, which may or may not include a love story. From the beginning to end, a movie about wielding a paint brush, as the nephew of this film does, or wielding the idear of art as life, as Joseph Beuys did, would have made this film a bit less banal, a bit less mediocre, a bit less mendacious. For those who have said wondrous things about this movie. That’s cool. I too recommend it. But for those who say something critical about it–take heed. In the end there’s three hours of quilt parts in this film to have fun with or without the directors stupid name.

And so…

Fcuk aristocracy, old money, the past in all its forms–even film making. It’s time to change your name, dude–because, in case you don’t know, names like yours are what gave the world (Germans) Nazis in the first place–and obviously set the example of how fascism wins wars even when Nazis lose. Instead make a film about Joseph Beuys. Stop revealing how painters paint–on account you take the fun out of it. Or go the way of worst-writer’s salad days, where/when worst-writer’s cock could cum ten times a day on Cleopatra’s face because she smiled the only way a scorned woman can–and that’s hotter than hot. And that’s what happiness is to those of us who can’t make it as an artist because, well, I guess, some of us just don’t have the right name–or all the old (name) money.

Or something like that.

Rant on.


*The translation of the German title is just as fun, dear worst-reader. It goes something like this: work without (an) author or an author without work or, maybe, art without an artist or or or, etc. WTF.