Taking a break. Major break.
Taking a break. Major break.
Few and far between are these visits to my beloved & missed #Americant. When was the last time I was here prior to May 9th, 2021? Well, there was a short kinda emergency visit in November 2019. What a mess that was. Before that there was a short visit in March of the same year. Not so much of a mess but a mess all the same. And so goes the pattern, dear worst-reader. I usually try and come twice a year, sometimes three. Of course, the reason for the visits are to checkup on my ageing mother. Indeed. The prodigal son having a look at how Mom is getting on. Either that or I travel here or there to put out the fires, bandage the various wounds, beg my mothers church for forgiveness that I’ve left her alone in a rural #Americant beach town that is three months out of a year a hell traffic zone full of drunkards or whining brats and the other nine months (off season) it is a find your way around the bottle $hithole. Then again, there is also the chore to maintaining my citizenship, don’t you know. A citizenship that is waning, I should worst-say. How long have I been an expat? Thirty-five years or so? Again. Indeed.
But then, there are the other issues that I must address each time I travel to the LAND OF FREEDOM TO BE STUPID. For example, this time I renewed my driver’s license. Wait. Hold a sec. I didn’t have to renew my license. But the state issued these new-fangled licenses back in 2017-18 that is supposed to meet federal standards for I.D. cards which is also supposed to make it easier to travel if/when you do so without a passport. Although I wanted to do this in the spring of 2020, covid nipped that in the bud. And so. With this visit I went ahead and paid the twenty bucks to get it done–even though my license expires in 2023 and I’ll have to renew it again then. Also, and get this, after so many years of blowing it off, dear worst-reader, I went ahead and filed my friggin taxes. When was the last time I did that? Of course, since I don’t earn anything (for I am worst-writer, don’t you know), there’s no need for me to file taxes. Ever seen a 1040 tax form with nothing but zeros on it? Then again, with all the so-called stimulus money floating around, I thought, what the hell, why not see if I can get some of that. It’s still not clear if I’m gonna get the stimulus payment but I’ll be sure to let you know if I do. And then there’s the last reason for visiting my beloved & missed #Americant. That’s right. To be reminded of who I am, where I’m from, taste the water that bread me, eat a few blue crabs, admire the Atlantic form this side–say my final goodbye? Of course. There’s also the issue of having a look at what’s happened to my beloved & missed #Americant post president pee-pee-hair. Which begs the question: Does all this soothe my lost soul that is also losing touch with my… beloved… and missed…?
Btw, dear worst-reader, President Biden is only up the road from me today at his Rehoboth Beach house. Now wouldn’t that be cool to run into him on a bike ride and give him all-hell about how I’m just another #Americant on the verge of giving up my citizenship due to his lifelong politic? But I die-gress.
And there you have it, dear worst-reader. I’m here (in #Americant) to check on things. To clean things up. To organise an old shelf. To wipe the table. To cook a meal (for my ageing mother). Etc., etc. But then, also, there’s something else. There’s that thing that one cannot avoid while here. There is this place that is starting to look more and more like a foreign place. Even the crumbs on the table that I’m trying to wipe away that are magically replaced by the local ants, seems foreign to me now. Like something I no longer know. It’s as though I’m returning to that dream of America that I used to have–oh so long ago. It’s that dream where I got a chance to make sweet love to Farrah Fawcett. Oh! What a dream that was. And so. What has become of the America that gave me that dream? Oh yeah. Republicans happened to it. Greed happened to it. (Not that greed hasn’t always been there, don’t you know. But the greed post Reagan has grown a few more tentacles. Or?)
With that in worst-mind, let’s have a look at #Americant today and the things that perturb me like nothing else. Like words. Like the media. Like #Americants. And so. How ’bout the word: patriot. For it is a word flung around here and there as much as I fling around my Farrah Fawcett goo. But that’s not the only word. What about the word hero? Holly-molly, dear worst-reader. If I hear that word one more time, usually echoed when someone does something so banal that the it requires embarrassment banality–everyone cannot be a friggin hero. And so. Shall we (not) talk about diluting, deflecting, avoiding reality? This country is awash in it. And why? How? The media? Is it all the tv channels? The robocalls? Bumper sticker intellectualism? Faux-newz? All the above? Just call someone or something a patriot or a hero and then complain about the foreigners, Democrats and liberals, wearing masks. Should I even get on about the economy? You know that nebulous thing that happens to have a word associated with it and, of course, fits on a bumper sticker? Indeed. And so. Is it a wonder that I came up yesterday with a new word for my beloved & missed #Americant?
The whole country is but a scam. Which also means: who’s the best scammer? With that in mind…
There you have it. And now I should stop. Nuff worst-said.
It takes another two weeks for the vaccine to do its full job, dear worst-reader. But at least I can say I got both shots as of today. And how proud, thankful, grateful I am to be able to get vaccinated. In fact, I’m so tickled, I’m thinking of getting an image of the corona virus tattooed on my arm (where I got the shot) with the letters MRNA just below it. Now wouldn’t that be worst-writer cool, eh? For those doubters out there–you know, all those science deniers. If you’re concerned how I’m gonna feel if all this is for not, well, get this. I’m so convinced that MRNA treatments like this (vaccine) are so advanced that the Covid-19 debacle and subsequent inoculation could mean the end of global pandemics. So will I be sad (or dead) if I’m wrong? Maybe. But at least I believe in science–even if science gets things wrong sometimes–instead of all that other bull$hit like free markets, fail upward capitalism, greed-mongering-galore and spaghetti monsters in the sky. So there. ;-)
Rant (and get vaccinated) on, baby.
Worst-writer can remember his first confrontation with a movie sequel. It was Superman. Then came Star Wars. If you don’t know, dear worst-reader, I’m worst-writing here from the POV of movies from the 1970s. Soon after that, the 1980s, the movie sequel would become the norm. But then, probably around the turn of the century, something changed even with sequels. It is worst-writer’s worst-opinion, dear worst-reader, that change was, of course, only for the worst. And so (1). What happened to the movie sequel? Well, the easy answer is: money. The difficult answer is: creativity is dead. And so (2). The movie sequel was replaced with the movie franchise. Indeed. Which begs another worst-question: are you splitting hairs, worst-writer, or do you actually think there’s a difference between sequel and franchise?
I’ve always judged movies, first and foremost, on whether or not they are based on impulsive creativity or compulsive creativity. Most modern movies that are based on a screenplay alone suck–in my worst-book. Unless, of course, those movies are comedies or horror or whatever genre. Most genre movies suck anyway. But before I get too far off subject, let me abruptly close this worst-thought with this idear: The movie franchise, or the new never-ending sequel, sucks just as much. Reason? Again. Creativity, like god, is dead. So take that Robert Downey Jr. And. By-the-buy. Even though the first Iron Man was great. The Marvel universe sucks batballs. But at least Downey made a lot of money, eh?
Which brings me to James Bond and the article linked below. In worst-writer’s opinion, all James Bond movies sucked after they ran out of source material–which I think ended around Moonraker. With that in mind, 2006’s Casino Royal saved the franchise for worst-moi. Reason? I’ve read the book. The 2006 movie, Daniel Craig’s premiere, was a great version of the book. Of course, every subsequent Bond/Craig movie kinda sucked but I watched them all, on account, well, as far as big screen action movies goes, I’d prefer a weak written Bond movie to all other action movies. So take that praise with a grain of worst-salt. Which begs the question…
Am I interested in what a screenwriter says about the business transaction that is the purchase of MGM? Fcuk-no! I mean, Amazon hasn’t created a thing (except maybe one-click purchasing) since its inception. Can the same be said of the business that is MGM? On the other hand, has Amazon sold more books–created by others–than MGM has made original, non-compulsive (written) movies? Indeed (1). Creating anything was never the idear behind Amazon. And since movie sequels have given way to movie franchises…? Indeed (2). Everything and everyone is about making money and that’s it. Blessed be the greedy heart, eh, #Americant? With that in worst-mind, fcuk Bezos, Bond and all the rest where money murders creativity.
As you may or may not have noticed, dear worst-reader, I’m visiting my family in times of Covid. Reason? Well, I’m not quite uncomfortable enough to say exactly why I’m here. Let me just put this out there in the mean time: I’m here, during the worst pandemic in a hundred years, because a family intervention is necessary. That being said, I’m actually gonna try to enjoy the company of my mother for a few days, maybe even a week or four. Of course, due to covid–and the sheer angst I now have from how #Americants refuse to accept CDC guidelines–I won’t be doing any of the shenanigans one usually does when one visits a redneck beach resort town. My priority is, in fact, to take care of the family issues surrounding my ageing mother and also, to get my second Pfizer shot, which is scheduled for June 1. Still. There are a few other things that need be taken care of. For example. There’s tons of yard work–which I’m going to hire out. There’s also lots of family finance stuff to be taken care of. And then, well, there’s my mother. With that in worst-mind, let’s just worst-say that she’s gettin’ friggin old and this most certainly won’t be my last rushed trip here in the near future. Hopefully, though, I won’t have to rush here anymore during this hellacious pandemic!
One of the things I’ve enjoyed doing with my mom as she’s gotten older is going with her to her Church. I don’t know where that comes from because when I was younger I didn’t enjoy it all. And don’t worry, dear worst-reader. I know what you’re asking. You’re asking how can worst-writer, a devout disbeliever, an unabashed skeptic, a promotor of religious alternatives in the form of great spaghetti monsters in the sky, someone who clearly has not been blessed with the gift of faith… How can I attend church? Well, the answer is easy. First. I see in my mother’s eyes her faith. Even for a skeptic like me, that’s good enough. Also. Church is good down time with my mother. Then. It’s also something I can talk to her about–since I’m well versed regarding Bible stuff. (That’s right. I’ve read it. So there!) Also. My mom’s pastor is a really nice guy and if you ask me, she lucked out with this church in redneck-beach-ville. Yeah. He’s a heck of a guy.
Anywho. One of the things that impressed me with how the church has been able to hold mass for the past few months, especially since they haven’t been able to do so for all of 2020, is how well they’ve organised everything according to CDC guidelines. Her church has a rather large gymnasium-like facility attached to the chapel where there’s plenty of room for seats to adhere to social distancing. Of course, everyone wears a mask and even temperatures are checked before entering. But the real cool thing is the transubstantiation stuff. And let me not get-on about how this sort of thing totally doesn’t fit into a Lutheran church. And so. Just get a load of the pics above. I don’t know about you, dear worst-reader. But you gotta hand it to these church managers for coming up something like this. How ingenious. Or?
I try, dear worst-reader. I really do. In fact, I might have broke my personal record when it comes to days watching at least fifteen to thirty minutes of faux newz. As revolting as that is, I’m glad I got through it–and it’s now over. And so. Indeed. It takes a day or two (or three/four) for me to purge the emotion-driven bat$hit political broadcaster from my (mothers) home–if not my own worst-mind (oh the poison of stupid). Of course, until she met her un-gentleman suitor a fews years back, she never even watched the network of lies and untruth. But that’s a whole ‘nother worst-post. Or?
Allow me this, dear worst-reader, about the un-gentleman suitor. My widowed mother has hooked up with a redneck. There! I said it. Don’t get me wrong. I’m only (obviously) a hop + skip away from being a redneck. Or? #Nomatter.
After my stepfather died I was hoping my mother would take the path of independence. But I suppose for her that was asking for a bit much. Of course, over the past two and half to three years, she’s obviously developed a fondness for an un-gentleman suitor. And. Again. I’ve got nothing against that, if it’s her choice. It’s just that. Well. There’s no other way to put it. He’s one of them… faux newz diehard blah-blahs. And that’s not all. He is also a member of one of them #Americant “clubs” (or is it “lodge”) that oh so emulates the clubs of #Eurowasteland history that gave way to the making of conspiracy-theory #Americant. I’m worst-writing, of course–and without getting into specifically which one–that he belongs to one of those organisations where like minded individuals… also freely wipe away their individualism. You know, the clubs/lodges that sew the seeds of convention, compulsion and the grand #Americant sickness that is: conformity. Of course. Let’s give credit where it’s due. As conspiracy-theories have become the new norm, I can imagine that historically like-minded persons of, say, Free Masonry, are laughing in their graves as to what has become of the once great idear that is now #Americant as it is propagated through the mills of never questioning anything or employing just a hunch of skepticism.
But before I get lost in all my family negativity. At least–if you’re not watching faux newz–there’s plenty of other stuff regarding former president pee-pee-hair and what will hopefully become the perfect ending to a life of grift—that can make worst-moi smile:
There are moments when advertising even works for me. Take for example this billboard. I mean. As worst-writer, it’s kinda obvious I’ve already failed but at least I answered that question long ago. Or?
I’ve been in my beloved & missed #Americant during the worst pandemic in a hundred years for a week now. I received my first covid shot within hours of arriving. Should be getting second shot within the next three weeks. I consider being able to fly here and get vaccinated an awesome privilege–and for that I am humbly thankful. But get this, dear worst-reader. I’m kinda shocked that this whole pandemic thing ain’t just a touch worse. I mean. Come on. Check out some of the numbers. Officially almost six hundred thousand brethren have died from this disease. Many many more refuse to even recognise that it’s a problem–even after so many deaths. Yet what do I observe after being here for only a week? People are utterly clueless as to what is going on. They don’t understand six feet distancing. If they were giving cartoon directions they couldn’t wear their masks properly. And #Americants young and old are obsessed with returning to a normalcy that contains EVERYTHING that lead to this problem in the first place. Obviously I’m generalising and there are those who do have a clue. But then there’s that other post Reagan new-fangled #Americant way of life: the gluttony and sloth greed $hitshow. Indeed, baby. Greed is good, eh? (Sarcasm off.)
Ok. What is the result of not handling covid from the get-go? Indeed. For my widowed mother, it’s obviously not been good, although she’s vaccinated and safe for now. Hence, this trip ain’t about covid distress per say but instead is a family intervention. Of course, without divulging personal family matters, allow me to worst-write that the ageing matriarch of my family is not well. Put another way, not only has she not done well with widowhood, she’s given in to the demons of sloth and gluttony that are personified by everything that worst-writer despises and ran away from so many years ago, namely the ugliness of white trash galore. Although she has not fallen off the edge, certain activities around my mother’s life and lifestyle have raised alarms. As far as my siblings and I are concerned, something needs to be done. Hence, I have travelled here from afar–during the worst pandemic in a hundred fcuking years and I’m pissed. I mean. I don’t know about how you were raised, dear worst-reader, but are we now in times where parents, after fcuking up both their kids and the world, simply throw in the towel and treat their remaining years as though they were the crud and slime below the sandals of Caligula?
With that in mind, in the past few days things have escalated where the first casualty must be registered. After returning from a short hospital visit, I found our front door knob lock busted (see pic above). Obviously the locks have been changed but the situation does beg the question: WTF Mom!
I can feel it dear worst-reader. The contempt. The disdain. The disrespect. It’s everywhere here, don’t you know. Of course, what better place to actually see the origin of it all–the all that is contempt, disdain, etc., than to be in the lower canal bowels of the bellied beast that is my beloved & missed #Americant. Indeed. I mean. I’m actually here and I still refer to Her in the past tense. But let’s not get to far off worst-subject. Let’s just stick with contempt & co. For. Don’t you know, dear worst-reader, it’s a good thing #Americant is vaccinating people as fast as it is. Every time I look around, no matter where I am, someone with a mask hanging half down his/her face is hugging someone who has a mask hanging around only one of her/his ears. And then there’s all the touching. People literally go up to other people and get in their face. I saw this really tall, fat American lean over one of those clear guard panels in order to point to a clerk with his long arms and fingers that his papers were in order. As he pulled his hand back over the guard panel he almost hit the clerk in the face. Perhaps social distancing hasn’t registered here even though there are lots of markings on grounds and floors detailing six feet social distancing. Hence. #Americants hate what is happening to them post Ronald Reagan and the dipshittery of thirty or whatever years of wars of choice. So what should they care about pandemics? But I digress.
The plan was to self-test after three or four days of arrival. You know, check and see if the airports, the planes, the pretty stewardesses, didn’t pass on the covid worst-moi. According to the result above, I reckon I’m in the clear. Then again, this morning I did spend well over an hour in a department of motor vehicle facility waiting to get my new-fangled state slash federal driving license. I mean. I’m not really sure what it’s called or what it’s actually about. But ever since early 2019 (pre-pandemic) I’ve been itching to get me this license on account I was approached in an airport on a connecting flight that inquired about my driving license and that to avoid any sharper scrutiny I should renew my license to this new fangled one. But. Again. I’m not really sure what these government agencies post Homeland are actually up to with their enhanced bureaucracies. All I know is, like the comforts of home (or underneath one), I prefer traveling and talking to as few people as possible about who/what I am. Which means, I got no issues showing an identification here or there. So I went and got the damn new fangled license this morning and after being crowded into such a low ceiling building with so many people–even though you couldn’t get in unless you had an appointment–I’m thinking I need another antigen test. Speaking of which. Time to go wash my hands with lots of lather for twenty or so seconds.
Other than that, dear worst-reader, at least there are some nice fews when taking walks in a beach town.
My scheduled appointment was at 10am. I arrived at the vaccination centre and 9:56am. Although traffic cones by the thousands were prestigiously aligned, most certainly capable of guiding hundreds if not thousands of cars, there was no vaccinations being given in cars. In fact, the only cars there were those parked at reserved spaces. So we drove up to the entrance of the old concert hall. A concert hall, btw, where I saw Judas Priest back in the day (forty years ago, perhaps). Turns out that the authorities had changed the office-hours for that days vaccines. It wasn’t open till noon. Bummer, I thought. If only they would have told me that earlier I wouldn’t have put all the effort into driving the 40miles to get their on-time. Heck, they even sent me a reminder the night before–I guess to make sure as best they could that I would show up to get the shot. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, there really are #Americants that refuse to get vaccinated. As simple minded as that sounds, I suppose for any admirer of #Americants past, you know, where it actually did things and built things and maybe, just maybe, fought wars that had some semblance of merit… But I digress.
Turns out while I was killing the two hours instead of driving back home that I finally gave an earnest look at the previous reminder email I had received. And guess what, dear worst-reader? I screwed up. At the bottom of the reminder email they had actually included a new appointment time. So it’s all on me that I wasted the morning. That worst-said, the two hours went by pretty fast as I drove around Salisbury, which I hadn’t done in at least ten years. But I won’t bore you with that.
When I returned to the vaccination centre two hours later things were hopping. Although clearly under capacity, I was somewhat relieved that people were getting vaccinated at all. And since I was at the Pfizer facility, which only recently had been approved for young people, it was nice to see the youth was there en masse getting their shots. Indeed, dear worst-reader. All the newz about how #Americants and their misconstrued skepticisms could actually prevent if not delay the eradication of this obnoxious disease really turns my pickle back into a cucumber. But let’s not go there.
Needless to say I got my first shot with ease and it couldn’t have been easier. With that in mind, does this mean that I might have to consider alternative nomenclature for my beloved & missed #Americant for the success of making this available? Does the success of vaccinations–at least for those willing to get vaccinated–warrant perhaps going back to calling HER America? Now. Now. Calm the fcuk down, baby. Let’s not get out of hand. Instead, let’s wait things out. Let’s give it all a bit more time. I mean. Who knows what these MRNA thingies are doing with me right this sec as I worst-type these words. Even though I’ve felt nothing since receiving my shot, things could be happening behind the scenes. My cells might be changing and dancing more. My DNA could be adapting–or not–better forms of anti-body-cells and whatnot. Are my brain cells swelling to where I might actually and voluntarily watch faux newz? I think not. And with that in worst-mind, it’s approaching that hour where I must cope with jet-lag. So too does my beloved & missed #Americant for which I’m grateful that I could get a shot in the arm today.
PS No pictures allowed on the entire grounds of the vaccination site.
Have to admit something, dear worst-reader. I was a bit nervous about my first flight in so long. And then there’s that silly (sarcasm) COVID thingy. Of course, after getting tested negative, the only thing left was to actually get through with it. Yeah, it’s worst-true. I thought once or thrice about cancelling the whole thing. But family does call–especially when one has a rather rampant if not rabid family. Anywho. So I had to rush off with a rash decision to travel the high skies during the worst pandemic in a hundred years. With that in worst-mind, all is not lost and it’s time to appreciate the little things in life. For example. The couple sitting in front of me in economy class had booked the higher priced economy seats where you can stretch your legs. When the cabin crew announced that bording was complete they both got up and occupied two empty centre rows so they could sleep the eight or so hours to the east coast of #Americant. That’s when I jumped up and asked if they’d mind that I took the seats they were vacating. Before you know it, I was cheeping out like a mobster, baby. Beyond that, I heard one of the cabin crew say that the entire economy cabin of an Airbus A300-300 had 57 passengers. It was most certainly the emptiest Lufthansa flight of my life. With that in mind, hats off to the cabin and crew and the airport workers and the ghosts that occupy the skies between #Americant and #Eurowasteland. And. By-the-buy. If it weren’t for the requirement of mask wearing through out the entire flight, LH418 on May 9, 2021 would have been just a touch niftier. And so goes the cheep-o life of a loser-writer, baby. Yeah. It’s all about lucking-out for the little leg stretching things. Or maybe not.
Mega empty terminal. Or did I just snap the picture at the right moment of terminal emptiness? #Nomatter. As usual I’m an early bird kinda traveler. Since this is my first flight in 1.5yrs and there’s all these extra precautions and protocols to confuse me and and and… say, how is it that this world ever functioned? Oh wait. This is worst-writer. My pseudonym is dysfunction. And on that worst-note. Even though I snapped the pic at the right empty moment, I’m surprised how much traffic there is in Frankfurt. It’s certainly not the bustle of the past but things/people are flying.
And with this I can board an airplane that will most definitely be pointed in the direction of my beloved & missed United Mistakes. And so it shall be… in a few hours.
It’s the first time, since I can remember, dear worst-reader, that I’ve gone more than a year without visiting the country where I was reared, raised, braised and ruined. But that’s what love is all about, eh? #Nomatter. On this quest to find the home that I will have to (eventually) leave again, here’s a few things I take with me for $hits & giggles. Nothing like fresh Haribos, baby–from the source. Of course.. This is the first batch. Getting my Mom some German (European) coffee tomorrow. Thank goodness I could afford to pay the extra amount for the airplane fare that allows me to 1) check in luggage and 2) luggage that may or may not weigh 25kg. Oh. Shame I didn’t take better care with the pic. Under the Haribos is a box of chocolate for Mothers Day.
Well, there you have it. After a year and a half of quarantine and only touching my direct family in the confines of two households, it’s my first PCR test. Reason? Not what you think. Instead. Worst-Writer is flying home on Sunday—to enter a third household—and like anyone else flying I have to be negative. Everyone in my family has already received all their shots (back home). And get this, baby. Worst-writer has an appointment next Tuesday for my first shot. And it’ll be Pfizer, don’t you know. Looking forward to MRNA entering my system. For, again, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, worst-writer can certainly use a bit of DNA mutilation—or whatever conspiracy BS it is #covidiots have put in their tattered minds. And so. Most certainly looking forward to whacked out micro stuff doing its science. (Sarcasm on/off.)
Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. Worst-writer has owned an e-bike since 2017. I’ve also been an avid cyclist since (about) 2007. As an e-bike consume-to-survivor, though, there’s often a bit of here and there about the industry that kinda gets under my skin. A few recent articles and a YouTube video have woken up the issue(s) once more. You know. As in. It’s good to be constantly reminded of the krapp that pisses me off. So let’s go there, shall we?
Things that piss off worst-rider:
In Germany, pedalec e-bikes (no throttle) are regulated to 25km/h (ca 15mph), which is what I have–and I’m perfectly fine with it. Anything above that speed and up to 45km/h (ca 28mph) is regulated like a moped. That means, even if a 45km/h bike is pedal-assist, you are prohibited from using bikes lanes and/or bike paths–which equates to literally competing with cars while peddling a bicycle. Then there’s the issue that the faster e-bikes also are required to be registered with license plates and insurance, you also have to wear a helmet, and the bikes are required to have rear-view mirrors and brake lights. Moving on.
The things is this, dear worst-reader. Why is that government folk are not only slow but utterly out-gunned (intellectually) when it comes to regulating things? I mean. I’m totally happy with a 25km/h pedalec e-bike. In fact, my wife and I gave up owning a second car for our e-bikes and we have never regretted it. The only time I use our car is when the weather is so extreme that it makes shopping errands unbearable. And now. Let me get on to the gist of what this worst-post is supposed to be about.
There are two links in this worst-post. The first is the video above. I’ve been a fan of NYC Propel bikes for some time. Chris has done a great job with his channel, too. This particular video highlights exactly what I’ve alluded to in this blog when it comes to the ills and irks of e-biking. With that in mind, though, there’s also the opposite of the goodness that Chris espouses. Which brings me to the link below.
For whatever reason the folks at The Verge are a bit confused when it comes to e-bike regulations. I mean. Don’t get me wrong. The article is acceptable as a review of the Stromer ST2 series of e-bikes. I am a big fan of rear-hub e-bikes, too–even though I own a mid-motor e-bike. In fact, I’d be the owner of a rear hub e-bike such as the one featured in the article below if it weren’t for the one-sided and slightly skewed mindset of the manufacturer–which is something that the somewhat skewed attitude of the article author misses. Then again, what can one expect from #Americants who ALL seem to be so indoctrinated when it comes to government this or government that that they may miss the entirety of the ($hit)show. But before I get to lost in worst-writing.
My point is this. What the guy at The Verge misses is the fact that I would gladly own–even pay the Apple-like–price for a Stromer e-bike if the manufacturer would wake up to the reality of EU regulations–and not just stand against them. It makes no since to me that a company like Stromer would so willingly disregard said regulations simply because, well, I don’t why they don’t offer a 25km/h version of their e-bikes. Heck, I’m sure they could just offer such a version by fiddling with their software. Again. I mean. Say what you will about stringent EU regulations and in most cases they do suck. But then again, ride an e-bike around any major European city on a sunny weekend. You’ll be glad that there are regulations. Anywho.
I’ve lost my way in this worst-post. Hopefully I won’t lose my way on my afternoon ride.
Been itchy lately, dear worst-reader. Itchy means breaking out my old Hermes Baby.
The Boxing Ring
Another dream worth transcribing, dear worst-reader? Not sure. But let’s go with it anywho.
I am a court jester, a janitor’s fool, some wife’s bathroom cleaner. But I am also a professional boxing referee stuck in a loop transaction of a match inside said ring. And here’s the thing that could make this interesting. No matter what I am in the ring, no matter what fight takes place, the ring always changes at the behest of the wife. That is. If the wife is fighting about my cleaning skills or lack thereof then the boxing ring is a bathroom. If the wife is complaining about my cooking then the boxing ring is a kitchen. Etc., etc. But here’s the other thing. While the situation plays out with the wife there is a real boxing match going on in the ring. So. Let’s say. I’m fighting with the wife while out on date-night. The boxing ring becomes a fancy-pants restaurant with waiters, cooking smells and candles, consumed bottles of wine–plus we are surrounded by large sweaty men throwing punches at each other which leads to bursting cheeks and slow-mo visions of flesh being crushed against bone. And while the wife is complaining and complaining and complaining I’m refereeing the match. All the while other boxers are, let’s say, somewhat perturbed with my referee skills as they too complain that the current match is taking too long. Just as one of the fighters falls to the matt after a hard right hook, he looks at me and complains, literally emulating the wife. As banal as this all may sound, dear worst-reader, there is a glitch in the matrix (excuse the pun) and we are all suddenly propelled to another boxing ring scenario. The glitch occurs when the wife takes on that I’d punch you in the face if I were man look when I turn around to find not just two but a dozen or so massive heavy weight fighters in the middle of a grocery store boxing ring. All of these fighters are fighting with each other thereby exchanging punch after punch. And note this, dear worst-reader, these aren’t trivial cartoon punches. These are, indeed, massive blows causing devastating damage to jaws, kidneys, ribs, etc. While blood and sweat spurts around the grocery store boxing ring I find myself standing at the entry way watching/listening to my wife who is in the middle of the battle. And guess what I see when I turn away to get some relief by looking outside? You know. That look every man has when he’s fed up, when he can take no more, when his Woyzeck kneels by his punched-out girlfriend, pulling the knife out from underneath his jacket. I see in the streets, outside the grocery store boxing ring, the town of this or that #Americant where really, really STUPID people are running on both sides of Politic Street. The one side is full of dumb-ass Republicans, don’t you know. The other side is full of smart-ass Dems. And both sides are wielding their weapons. I, the referee, am now watching it all from the middle of the street which has become my boxing ring. And as the two sides begin shooting–not unlike those who shoot and shoot and shoot from my previous post–I feel the bullets of #Americant go right threw me albeit filled with the yelling and screaming and angry voice of wives and girlfriends stabbed by the love they all think they’ve wasted on men. And then it all ends with a zap of the mind and risk of George Büchner’s lost pen and I’m no longer a boxing referee but instead a bystander in the war of life, liberty and the FREEDOM TO BE STUPID. The bullets flying from one side to the other go through me like the eyes of all loves lost. As I fall to the ground the dream ends and I wake up to… this.
Alternate worst-title: Back in the day you could play musical cars (as in: musical chairs) at a great drive-in movie.
Disclaimer: this worst-post contains spoiler alerts for an old movie and may (or may not) be NSFW.
Back in the day, dear worst-reader, when I was still tuned in to TV, as in, you know, when I actually watched network or cable TV or even went to the cinema, I remember watching, for the third or fourth time Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Not the original, don’t you know. I’ve always preferred the 1978 version–the best version. One of the things I remember about that particular viewing–other than I had to watch it in German–was that I had also re-seen a bunch of other–let’s call them–70s dystopian thrillers around the same time. I don’t know what the issue was that caused me to watch so many old movies that may or may not be about American dystopia but let’s rack it up to Germany finding ways to allocate nighttime TV programming to the masses and/or bodies not finding better ways to sleep through the night.
The thing is. I had just moved to Germany and, even though I didn’t have a TV in my little flat, having often hooked up–you know, in that forever search for –what do girls call it?–love–everyone I met did have a TV. So. Between flirting, conjugating, waking up in the middle of the night to piss and/or continue with her, I watched whatever late night movie (on her cheap couch) that was available and when things were really good I even got some really great head until we both fell asleep, she in a warm cum soaked lap, and me with my head blown out the rear.
It took till my expatriation in Germania that I finally started to grasp the meaning of #Americant dystopian thrillers like Soylent Green, Logan’s Run, Planet of the Apes, Mickey Mouse Takes Paris, etc. No. Seriously. I saw these films while in a drunken stupor, high on fresh-flesh and within my first year of living in consume-to-survive #Eurowasteland. Of course, the one film that stood out, because I had already seen it a number of times, was Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Yeah. During my youth and college days Invasion of the Body Snatchers was shown on some channel late at night or at some cheap cinema here or there. And why not? What a great movie, eh, dear worst-reader! And as far as my experience with the movie goes, there is something aphrodisiac about sci-fi dystopian horror thrillers–and chicks on the run or, at the least, Looking for Mr. Goodbar. But on that note, I probably should (but won’t) die-gress.
Flash to now. That’s right. I re-watched Invasion of the Body Snatchers the other night for the first time in about thirty years. Keep in mind, even though I have a fairly large ripped movie library–which I try to populate with old movies when I come across second-hand DVDs–I do not have Invasion of the Body Snatchers. And so. While arguing with my little family about what movie to watch on Easter Sunday evening, I managed to win the fight. And get this. Just like so many times before, I was enamoured with this movie–as though I had seen it for the first time. I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. When everybody had to get up and take a pee or fill their wine glass–it is a two hour film–I remained silent and in awe, transfixed on the paused screen image of Donald Sutherland, Brooke Adams, the cinematography, Spock! I can’t say enough good things about this movie, dear worst-reader. I mean. Is it me or should this movie be up there with Citizen Kane, The Third Man, Casablanca, Austin Powers? Okay. Ok. Forget that with Austin Powers. Just kidding.
What is it about these old movies that makes them so good? Is it the lack of CGI? Is it the mix of brilliant acting, direction and editing? Or is it the times? You know. As in. Man-o-man am I sick of high budget comic book movies that I’ve had to watch over the past twenty or so years. Or. Didn’t all that bull$hit about conspiracy theory really get its mojo on during the 1970s and no one can deal with it today–in movies? Hence, all the comic book movies with über-huge budgets that don’t really have much to say. Am I wrong.
For those worst-reading this but also born on or around the millennium, the 1970s were the f’n bomb in #Americant when it comes to two things. First. Oil. Yeah. Oil was scarce–or at least they (THEY!) made it out to be scarce. And second. Movies–on the whole–kinda sucked. But let me not get too much on about sucky movies from the 1970s. Smokey and the Bandit anyone? On the other hand, one of the reasons some older movies are so much better than newer ones is because, well, the newer ones have nothing new to say. Again. Am I wrong.
While I’m on the subject…
Everything that is $hitty today, as in, Republicans, greed-mongering old people, über-stupid graduating from college and fail-upwards-ness being the new career mantra, that whole mess started in the 1970s. Seriously. It did. For. Don’t you know, dear worst-reader, the high and the party and the fun-fun of post WW2 was over by the 1970s. Indeed. The 1970s was about no-fun, the re-establishment of patriarchy (as men began their fight in earnest against feminism) and, of course, making $$$$ at any cost. It’s no coincidence that the 1970s lead to the election of a two-bit actor who’s best role was hiding all his personal hate and greed and racism and white supremacy, which he learned by-the-buy from his adopted state of California and the career that did not choose him: acting. Again. For those not in the know. If the 1970s weren’t as fcuked up as they were, there might not have been a Ronald dip$hit Reagan. But on that note I must die-gress.
Which brings me back to the topic at hand. I re-watched Invasion of the Body Snatchers the other night and was just as tickled as the first time I saw it. Well, almost just as tickled. Reason? Boy does this movie bring back memories. And I mean worst-writer memories, baby. Are you ready?
I was in my late teens when I first saw Invasion of the Body Snatchers, which was right around when it was released. And, although I was afeared more of suspense than of horror, this movie subverted all that on account, as I was to be told, it was more of a… And this was the first time I had ever heard such nomenclature before. This movie was not a horror movie. It was not a sci-fi invasion movie either. It was a… dystopian thriller.
Seventeen year old worst-moi said at the time:
Two things happened that coincided with the first time I saw Invasion of the Body Snatchers. First. It didn’t scare me. But it did thrill me. Second. I think this movie was a wake-up call. Indeed. It was my wake up call to digging the idear of the dystopia I was living in. At least that’s what she called it. It was also a movie that could be viewed in various states of mind without which you don’t have to shut off your brain. Get my drift, dear worst-reader? No? Wait. Cancel that. Let me move on.
Everyone called her Beka. That was short for Rebeka Tabatha Short. Beka was my first older woman. Although years later I kinda knew she was lying about her age, at the time she told me she was thirty four. (She was at least thirty-nine, eh.) Of course, I didn’t care how old she was. Reason? She could suck a golf ball through ten feet of garden hose–and she could do it ten times a day, no matter when, no matter where.
Beka was the assistant manager of a fitness club I worked at and she was also a licensed masseuse. For those not in the worst-know, I worked two jobs to save up money for college back then. The first was tending bar in Washington, DC. That was my night job. My second job was at a kinda uppity fitness club just south of the city where a lot of really, really, really expensive upper middle class women were trying to keep their product in order. But that’s not the reason I worked there. I worked there because it paid well above minimum wage–and all I had to do for that was dance around a room providing MILFs aerobic excercise. Anywho.
Becka lived in DC only a few blocks from the restaurant where I tended bar at night. Because I was all into saving money at the time, I would drive to the fitness club, park my car, work my shift, and if our schedules worked out, Becka would take me to my night time job saving me the gas money. When I finished there she allowed me to stay on her couch till the morning when she would drive me back to the fitness club. This relationship went on for about six months. Of course, only after a short initial period, I no longer stayed on her couch. Unless a late night movie caught us.
We watched a lot of late night movies. The movies we watched were the really old ones, too. Most were also black & white movies. You know, Frankenstein, Dracula, Creature From The Black Lagoon, etc. But then, one day, after a Sunday shift we worked together but I wasn’t scheduled to work that night at the bar, she asked if I’d like to join her and some friends and go to a drive-in. She even added that it was her treat. I agreed but made it clear that she would still need to bring me back to my car in the morning. She smiled and winked. I then joined her and a few other people/couples in various cars and we went to a drive-in cinema to watch the recently released Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
That evening I learned three things. Beka was a divorcee and her former husband was a great guy and he loved movies and he was there with a new date. The second thing I learned was that I could come four times in two hours at the behest of three different women, who went from car to car, and all I had to do was stay in the back seat of one car. The third thing I learned is that after a movie, when smart people think about it, they can come up with some pretty interesting words to label it. As in. Everyone from the group that I was with that night agreed that Invasion of the Body Snatchers is not a horror movie, nor is it a sci-fi movie, but it is a criticism of where America is going: it is a movie about (our) dystopia.
But enough about worst-writer’s history of cheap love affairs and/or (intellectual) seeds that would lead to the tree of my expatriation. Or. Am I wrong.
Since, dear worst-reader, you’re obviously here for whatever else I learned from my various viewings of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, here are a few issues that stand out for me, even after this most recent viewing:
Actually. The (other) truth is. And I don’t mean this to toot my own horn any louder than I already do in this worst-blog, but on the/my first viewing of this movie I ended up that night with my first older girlfriend coming a fourth time after her former husband dropped us off at her place. That’s also when I first learned the word insatiable, swinging and there’s no such thing as jealously if there need not be. Oh. And if you’re ever at a drive-in and you see girls moving from one car to the other, you now know why.
Alternate worst-title: #Trump, Roger Stone, Matt Gaetz and the man-child $hit$how that is the bottom trolling of #Americant with a bit from Oliver Stone’s JFK.
Disclaimer: this post is NSFW.
Sometimes, dear worst-reader, the waters recede enough and the bottom is revealed. And what a bottom it is, eh. But does that mean you finally know why a man’s underwear is brown in the back, yellow in the front and red in-between? No. Perhaps it does not. Or. Perhaps we should stick with bottom trolling metaphors instead of dirty man underwear–which in and of itself is better than swamp-talk. This may or may not also be true (relevant) when it comes to facing your devils by having coercive carnal knowledge with a man as he turns around to give you a better view of what it is you’re about to… Indeed.
Since the election of prez piss-hair in 2016, including the reveal of his golden showers in a Moscow hotel, a scene and/or character development from Oliver Stone’s brilliant movie JFK has lingered in my worst-mind. This scene, as far as worst-writer is concerned, is a huge tell-all about what’s just below the surface of greed-mongering #Americant–that can and must lead to the likes of #Trump, #MAGA, tea-party, etc. Perhaps you remember the scene, dear worst-reader. It is the scene where Clay Shaw, David Ferrie and Wille O’Keefe role-play as Greek gods in a drug-infused gay orgy. No? Don’t remember that scene? Ok. Let’s go there, shall we.
In Oliver Stone’s JFK, Clay Shaw is being interviewed by Jim Garrison. Shaw is a prominent New Orleans business man. During this interview Oliver Stone utilises flashbacks in order to depict the private life of Shaw. These flashbacks show Shaw’s homosexuality and his New Orleans, French Quarter lifestyle. Included in the debauchery is David Ferrie and Willie O’Keefe. Now, from what I recall about this movie, it is important to note that the character of Willie O’Keefe is the only made-up character in the movie. That is, Shaw and Ferrie actually existed and were part of the (real) Jim Garrison investigation. Which begs worst-writer’s question: why does Oliver Stone have to make-up O’Keefe for the development of the Clay Shaw character? Or. Perhaps. A better question to ask is: why do we have to split hairs on whether or not #Trump likes to watch girls pee or if he prefers having them pee on him? But I die-gress.
Here’s where we get into a bit of the reveal which is my beloved & missed #Americant. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, there is a bottom below the surface that is always yearning to be revealed. Or is it? It is an ugly bottom, don’t you know. It is also a disgusting bottom. A bottom of ill repute and vile and it is full of the waste of man-children never allowed to grow-up and out of the confines of their equally disgusting parentage, especially their fathers and mothers. (Insert redundancy laugh here.) And as much as #Americant would like to keep that bottom covered, hidden, out of sight, there are times when it must be revealed, i.e. the reveal. What better way to reveal such a reality than by the magic of Hollywood–or the antics of right-wing, $hitbag politicians that have never-ever had an original thought (check out video link below)? Also. Perhaps the control of this reveal is the greatest achievement that is the social and cultural experiment of #Americant–and its über, pseudo-fascist government. I mean. We see the disgust and vile in other countries. Yet somehow the red, white and blue has covered our vile for most of our history. Or has it?
The reason Oliver Stone had to insert a bit of his own interpretation of #Americant history, with the advent of the Willie O’Keefe character, is simple. How does one reveal what’s below the surface when people are incapable of looking at it as it is revealed? I mean. Certain realities simply need NOT be made obvious. Or? Is this not especially true of sexuality? Is this not especially true of (any) country that is obsessed with sex–as a commodity? This is where Oliver Stones’ script for JFK is fcuking brilliant. By portraying not only the activities of characters that operate underneath the surface of #Americant and, hence, conspired to murder Kennedy, the great weakness of righteousness that simply wanted to find the perpetrators of a crime, is also revealed. Namely, that righteousness is embodied in Jim Garrison who, it is said, was obsessed with Clay Shaw because Shaw was so blatantly homosexual–and patriotic. Actually, dear worst-reader, homo need not be used here. Sex is the only thing worth mentioning. Well, that and money and power. Moving on.
Which brings me to Matt Gaetz, Roger Stone and, of course, former prez piss-hair. How would you like your sex scandal served? You know, served so that it maintains your power? How about a little bit from the mud from the bottom of the river, just below the lake, where troll ships dig up rotting carcasses to feed the many and the needy that is the $hit$how of greed. Or. How ’bout this. Since the likes of Matt Gaetz is pretty common place in this new post prez piss-hair right-wing Republican Party, how should one go about taking down his (her?) enemies? Indeed. Could it be that the whole Gaetz scandal has come about because, well, Gaetz was too stupid in how he was trying to take down fellow republicans that wouldn’t support prez piss-hair? Remember, this young, spoiled-rotten, Florida privilege-boy went around the floor of the House of Representatives showing-off pictures of naked girls for sale. You mean, to actually sell them? Or was he simply trying to set someone up? Sound familiar? Wasn’t that Jeffrey Epstein’s entire game, as in, setting up rich and powerful men with young women in order to extort from them? Hence, Gaetz’s loud claim of how he’s being extorted? Freudian Projection anyone? Moving on.
The recent scandal of Florida House of Representative Matt Gaetz is causing me to bust a gut laughing, dear worst-reader. Reason? Can this stuff actually be written? You know, as in, written down for a film or a play or a novel? At this point in my worst-contemplation, I’m actually wondering if Gaetz has licked the knob of Roger Stone? I mean. Roger Stone, Jeffrey Epstein, #Trump, etc. Are all present? Or. Perhaps. At the behest of Roger Stone perhaps Gaetz has had carnal relations with Stone’s dead mother–in order to make sure you know who/what owns you? Does #Trump consider that entertainment, too? Or do you doubt that the likes of Roger Stone has the corpse of his dead mother tucked under a sheet in the bed he shares with his wife and other confederates? If you have a good look at Gaetz’s face, which kinda reminds me of Beavis, could there be a greater duschbag face that a world of rational people would want to punch? Also. Could it get more obvious how #Americant and it’s self-anointed, meritless class structure–which can only give rise to the likes of Matt Gaetz–is not only rotten (from the inside) but literally rotting in front of your (our) eyes? Still want to worst-talk about SWAMPS? And is worst-writer the only one to fantasize about the reality that Gaetz’s sex problem has to be connected to Roger Stone’s and to prez piss-hair’s? Remember. Roger Stone has the bust of Richard Nixon tattooed on his back between his shoulders. Is there any better way to communicate your presence? Need I even mention the mothers that raised these $hitbags?
Anywho. Back to bottom trolling under the surface of #Americant where bodies and lives and honesty and merit and value and ugly men’s underwear all rest… rotting… rotting… rotting and waiting forevermore for the rotting to end. Yeah. Laugh with me, dear worst-reader. You can’t write this stuff down. Then again. Who ever thought #Americant would allow itself to stoop as lows as it’s been stooping since, gee, I don’t know, the fcuking Reagan revolution…
Indeed, dear worst-reader. This is what happens when you have a world where sexual repression, greed and the love of death rule you.
Good luck suckers.
There you have it, dear worst-reader. #Americant cartoons. What else is there to explain to the aliens–when they finally arrive–how the human mind/intellect functions? I mean. We don’t have to explain much on account, well, it ain’t Star Trek and I’m sure most aliens don’t speak California English. And so. By simply showing the aliens how we educate our masses of #MAGA morons and man-children reared by eternal-perpetual child-brides that can only propagate the idear of white anglo Saxon milf-dom…. Hold a sec. Restart.
Perhaps it’s better to start this worst-post with that other weak link that is the #Americant intellect. Namely, the #Americant intellect has its origin in the likes of #Eurowasteland. That’s right. In case you’ve forgotten. Or you’ve misplaced in the trash bag you’re currently throwing away from some fast-food joint, everything (that is) my beloved & missed united mistakes stems from the ultimate motherfcuker: the big, nasty, bad-mood, ugly-tit, smelly biatch aka Europe. Or should we just blame Engaland since it’s the only remaining part of history that still has a useless monarch and also the only remaining $hithole across the great pond that cartoon-intellect #Americants can actually relate to? I mean. Don’t you too just love those accents? If only an accent could be turned into a cartoon. Oh wait. What about that French skunk?
Indeed. Probably should have included the British monarchy in the worst-title above, eh, dear worst-reader? But has #Americant ingenuity cartoonized the queen? I mean. Come on. Is there anything more cartoonish than monarchs, prince and princesses, Dukes and/or Dianas? Indeed, baby. There is no better example of a cartoon than the Engaland monarchy. Ok. Maybe the Swedish monarchy. And the Dutch one, too. Etc. And so. As a monarch hater, if you couldn’t tell, it’s kinda hard for me to include anything except revulsion towards hereditary privilege–in which case cartoons are a good way of explaining humanity. Then again, in terms of privilege, where would my beloved #Americant be today if it weren’t for the gradual progression of LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID–where there’s a bit too much f-you money to NOT go ’round–that so well emulates British monarchy–as a cartoon? As in. You know. Stupid only begets more stupid–especially if you’re one of the inheritors of wealth (or privilege) that goes around cracking itself on the head with a caveman stick. Eh? Indeed. But I need to move on.
Let’s be clear, dear worst-reader. Since I was born in 1963 (or there abouts), it’s pretty obvious that I was reared by idiocy–and cartoons. That is, among the various layers of #Americant middle-classes (that reared me), I’m from one of the lower ones and we were fed cartoons more than the others. But. Again. Lower or higher among the rungs of middle-class #Americant, the amount/level of idiocy is the only thing that connects us all–cartoon or no cartoon. Yet. What is obviously clear when taking a look at class structure–especially in the context of consume-to-survive #Americant–is that there is something above and beyond… a/our/the hyphen (that connects us and our classes). That’s right. If you’ve read anything in this worst-blog you know that that connection is all-things STUPID. But I’ve said that too many times already. And I want to really get-on about cartoons.
How could anybody pick on Pepé Le Pew? I mean. Get this. I’m sympathetic to the fight against rape culture. Truly I am. But Pepé was (and is) an insult to the French. At best he is/was an insult to either romantic or lustful flirtation. But to label Pepé as a rapist? Come on. Please. Dear worst-reader! Give this a thought or three: Post WW2 #Amercant was/is obsessed with the French appeasement of Nazi Germany to the point of… well… to the point of I don’t know what. But #Americants go from freedom-fries, to garlic smells to funny-nosed goblins that eat children when it comes to the inability of understanding the French and/or European history. Does any of that justify a cartoon’s behaviour towards women? Of course it doesn’t. But before I go too far and provide someone with the idear that I’m on the side of right- or left-wing cancel culture run amok….
Can you believe it, dear worst-reader? I mean. Have you gotten a load of what’s been going on in the newz of late? Or did you miss the whole inbred monarchy bull$hit being perpetrated by an #Americant billionaire (Oprah Winfrey) and thereby continuing the saga of error so many generations of inbreeding via the f’n queen of Engaland can’t seem to shake–nomatter who or what she arranges for her dunce children and grandchildren to marry? Of course, let me be clear on one thing regarding the American (Meghan Markle) that a British queen grandchild recently married. This is all so friggin stupid and repetitive (didn’t Prince Andrew go through basically the same thing?) that my head is spinning just thinking about how much I loved Pepé Le Pew (when I was nine). And since I’m on the worst-subject of #Americants marrying into the dentally challenged cartoonish British monarchy…
I really, really, really felt for Meghan Markle when she had to enter that Church all by her lonesome as she was about to marry Privilege. I actually stood up from the couch (or was it from my desk chair) when I saw how she exited that fancy car–alone–and then proceeded to walk up the stairs to the church–alone–in order to marry into–alone–privilege. And ain’t that ultimately how it’s all gonna end, this cartoon of life that oh-so entertains the women-folk, dear worst-reader? You know. We’re all alone in this dream of unicorn crocodile tears as the song of weddings intrigues our feminine worst-minds. But enough of my distraught frustration at having been born so poor but still being able to respect a speck of what Markle is (could be) above and beyond the pink inside that men somehow have to marry (to keep getting into the same pink that is inside). And so. Moving on.
The thing is this, dear worst-reader. As the audience of life goes about its cartoonish ways, enjoying the hissy and the pissy of foul marriages and rich-people interviewers, the political right-wing of my beloved & missed LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID has been gettin’ on about one of my favourite cartoon characters from when I was a poor middle-class shit-kicker. And that kinda ticks me off. You know. Why drag the innocent into all this? Unless, of course, you really want to call out the cartoons that turned stupid into STUPIDER.
I’m not bad. I’m just drawn that way. -Jessica Rabbit
Which begs the question: Why ain’t anybody complaining about Beavis & Butthead? But I die-gress.
How easy it is to get caught up in the riff-raff of television $hit-talk, dear worst-reader? It makes one forget about the real $hit that is #Americant life. In this case, though, as far as $hit-talk goes, I’d take sexist, pseudo-rapist Pepé Le Pew over the likes of Beavis & Butthead. Or am I splitting hairs? I mean, at least with Le Pew you know what you’re getting. With Beavis & Butthead, it is hard to tell it is a mirror if it doesn’t look back at you, eh. With that in worst-mind, why draw cartoons into the mix that is right-wing, dimwit, dip$hit #Americant mis-information? Because it might be a sign of someone or something–especially an ideology–having reached its proverbial end? Considering the cartoon-like antics of those that marched on Jan. 6, 2021–most of whom were probably reared by Beavis & Butthead–on the cartoon Capitol of the land of FREE TO BE STUPID–and those that made it all happen–i.e. #MAGA and prez piss-hair–is it any wonder that right-wing blowhards are turning to cartoons to help them conjure blame?
Yeah, baby. All that’s left for at least two generations of #Americants–Boomers and Boomer parents–is the run-away machine of the ultimate vehicle of (their) intellects: who/what to blame? The problem is, has all the blame run out? They can’t blame the poor anymore. Been done. They can’t blame Jews anymore. Been done. They can’t blame women anymore. Been done. Will they be low enough to blame their ugly and disgusting children? Or what about their mothers–who all have been unable to teach their sons the difference between flirtation and sticking it in after she says no? Perhaps. And so. The privileged, fail-upward, white-man disease must find blame anew. It’s all like a colossal beast-monster that feeds on both stupid and ugly and is best exemplified in the intellect of Beavis & Butthead–and no longer being able to blame the French and the image of a smelly skunk that digs pussy(cats). And so. What’s left to feed it? Oh wait, some blowhard white guy says: Why not blame the cartoons that still stick in our minds like smouldering donut dough left in the sunshine of Tucker Carlson’s mother’s ugly and teethed pussy(cat)? Yeah. That’s the worst-writer ticket, baby. They (the Tucker Carlsons) are not only raised by the intellect of cartoons but they’ve never been able to get out of Toon-town. Am I wrong.
On the other hand. What can one expect when one thinks thrice again and again and again about how #Americant actually elected a guy like #Trump to serve as el Presidenté of the LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID and all its information resources can come up with now to discuss is a carton from the 1950s. Or maybe not.
Long live Pepé Le Pew!
Links that may or may not be applicable:
What does it take to change the story(line), dear worst-reader? You know. Change the story so that it fits the/your narrative. As in. My beloved & missed #Americant can’t quite figure out what to do with the mischief of its toddler man-children in the here and now that has become a $hitshow of greed and deplorable-ism run amok. Since it’s already beaten the bee-jee-zees out of most its people in the past two centuries, what’s left to do in order to maintain a certain level of control of the mind–that, of course, only benefits the few? With that in worst-mind, am I starting to sympathise with the events of January 6, 2021?
No. I’m not. But if I were….
As much as I despise the misconstrued anger and bespoke bigotry of the idiot white men who stormed The Capitol–and I also hope they are all punished for their transgressions–something makes me wish that at least part of their voice(s) could be heard. For here’s the thing these men have never (will never) learn in their measly, deplorable, mendacious lives:
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Even though no gun shots were fired from the storming deplorable masses, does the question need be asked as to why their other half was the only one to have fired a gun–and thereby needlessly kill a person? Indeed. Only one shot was fired–and it was from the pawn of the oppressor, i.e. the Capitol Police. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, if you lined all the people up from both sides of the January 6, 2021 $hitshow, and lined them up naked, don’t you know, would you be able to tell them apart? Ah. The wrath of ugly deplorable white people all looking the same, naked. Moving on.
Many of the participants of January 6 were, of course, wielding weaponry–even though the Shaman and his viking wannabe weaponry was more akin to elementary school show & tell. My worst-point is this: in a country where guns and mass shootings are commonplace, why wasn’t there more shooting from those who think they were so righteous? I mean. I don’t know about you. From what I’ve read about history, revolutions end up killing lots of people. Am I wrong? I mean. On January 6 only five people died. Could that be the ultimate fail/pass grade of #Americant politics culminating in #MAGA and president piss-hair? Or. Where have all the Patrick Henry testicles gone?
Better yet: WTF?
Which brings me to a worst-analogy that’s crossed my thoughts recently. When was the last time you watched One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest, dear worst-reader? I mean. For the past few weeks this movie has been on my mind–along with January 6. That is. Is there anything from this movie that reminds you of January 6? Murphy (Jack Nicholson) is Deplorable, is he not? Or. As sympathetic as Murphy is (in the movie version), can Deplorable be wrapped in sweet gold fun chocolate, aka take the inmates out for a fishing trip, get an inmate laid, and perhaps even become your drinking buddy? Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher), on the other hand, is the State. She was indeed recruited to run the asylum wing of said State. No? None of this analogising working for you, dear worst-reader? Well, how ’bout this? I recently (re)watched One Flew Over The Cuckoos nest and I did so because, well, I think a little voice told me it was/is totally comparable. Do you ever hear little voices, dear worst-reader? Sometimes all they do is giggle to me you know. But not this time. Moving on.
In worst-writer’s humble opinion there’s only three things one needs to know/remember/concern one’s self with… when trying to make a worst-comparison between #Americant’s newest form of idiocy-governance run amok and a film appropriately titled: One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest. Let’s list them, shall we.
And so. This latest viewing of the movie has re-channeled my POV regarding Nurse Ratched and January 6, 2021. Although it’s been probably ten or so years since I last watched Cuckoos Nest, for whatever worst-reason, this viewing has opened my mind to the idear that Ratched might not be so bad after all–and, perhaps, not all the morons of the January 6 pseudo-putsch, as dumb as they seem, are as bad either. Oh. Hold a sec. By-the-buy. Only after this third or fourth or fifth viewing of Cuckoos Nest (in early February 2021) did I hear that Ratched and her, let’s say, somewhat antagonising character, has been rejuvenated in a TV series. I haven’t seen the series as of the writing of this worst-post but be assured I intend to watch it as soon as it’s available (to me). So let’s put that aside, eh.
This most recent viewing of Cuckoos Nest has showed me that Nurse Ratched (Government and/or state authority) ain’t so bad. In fact, now more than ever, I believe that Nurse Ratched is a pretty sympathetic character, including her treatment of Murphy (Deplorables). Keep in mind, the reason Murphy is in the asylum is not because he’s trying to avoid prison but instead because he thinks:
In the novel there is much more insight to the origin of Murphy’s violence and the reason he has been incarcerated by the State. That worst-said, I still prefer the movie character, especially the brilliance of Jack Nicholson and the foresight of the director (Miloš Forman) to exclude any character development of Murphy. That said, Murphy is simply a vehicle to a much larger message which may or may not be the subtext of the movie. Namely, #Americant manhood is doomed to a life of subjugation–with or without a lobotomy.
Now. Getting back to January 6. Is it me or has anyone else noticed that the only person killed by the State during this amateur attempt at a revolution was a woman? In this worst-writer context does that then bare the question: what if Murphy actually killed Ratched? But on that must die-gress.
Indeed. The only person killed by the State on January 6 was an Air Force vet who tried to break through a window while inside the Capitol in order to get on the floor of the House of Representatives to show her hate of Nancy Pelosi. Now. Considering the idear, via the Rolling Stones, that there’s a fine line between being a cop and a criminal, do we really need to differentiate good and evil within the confines of Empire run amok, aka #Americant? You know, even though I hate the bothsideism thing in #Americant politics, the one time it is applicable is when comparing a mob of deplorable white people storming the Capitol with the poor souls tasked with protecting it.
Just as every cop is a criminal, And all the sinners saints, As heads is tails, Just call me Lucifer, ‘Cause I’m in need of some restraint, (Who who, who who) -Rolling Stones, Sympathy For The Devil
So. Like. I guess. I’m wondering if January 6 can contain the great missed message of the the film One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest? You know. Not only are criminals and madmen made (Murphy) but they are also convenient (Ratched)–especially in a State on the verge of wanton madness. The only question that remains, then, is: since #Americant has lobotomised most of its people via lack of education, religion, anti-intellectualism and consume-to-survive, who/what/where is the one sub-character to be set free?
Yes. Indeed. Things to worst-ponder.
PS Here’s a thought I wasn’t able to work into this worst-text. For worst-posterity I’ll just jot it here. Who knows. Maybe it’ll stay in my head for a while and I’ll be able to use it again somewhere else. Or maybe not.
The moment the class-clown stops your laughter is the moment you realise your lobotomy.
Links that motivate this post:
It’s what I’m feeling sometimes, dear worst-reader. In these Covid times. Even though I try my worst-best not to live off my emotions–you know, like my #Americant rearing dictates–these times of restrictions galore tempt me. For example. The other day I screwed up real bad via unbridled temptation. I mean. Since I’m not a regular consumer of Germania media, either visually (TV) or text (newspaper), I quickly realised that I’m quite uninformed when it comes to dos and don’ts while out and about during quarantine. I mean. Of course I know there’s a special kinda lock-down going on, but I’m also quite unaware of exactly what that lock-down entails. With that in mind, let’s worst-write on.
While on a get some fresh air e-bike ride the other day I wondered into two places. The first was a motorcycle dealership where I had noticed through the front window the bike I’d buy if I could in order to get back into riding. Yeah, it’s been twenty years since I’ve ridden, don’t you know. After noticing that two people had exited the showroom, I locked up my e-bike, dawned my mask, read the rules on the front door–about social distancing and masks and whatnot–and entered. I immediately squirted some sanitiser on my hands and then proceeded to sign-in on the tracking register. But before I could enter my full contact details an employee entered out of nowhere and started berating me about how I was breaking the rules and that I couldn’t just enter the place. Shocked, I quickly realised that I was in the wrong–even though I didn’t quite know why or what deserved such vehemence. Also, with masks it’s difficult to see/read all of the emotional distress I was causing. Not being a native German, all I remember is hearing the native berate me in his guttural German–along with those German eyes. It was kinda horrifying. I tried to tell the guy that I was sorry and that I just saw two people walk out of the place but he insisted on berating me at the top of his teutonic lungs and that he didn’t feel like paying a fine for my stupidity which was somewhere around twenty-five hundred Euros and he said that I am a… but didn’t actually use the word… idiot . The whole time, of course, worst-writer is smiling and quivering under my mask and on my way out I manage to snap the following pic. She sure is pertty, ain’t she?
The good news is, when I got home I caught up on the details of German quarantine rules and also started to wonder if the Germans are gonna track me down for breaking those rules. Remember, I did sign the tracking form when I entered the dealership. Wow. Paranoia in the land of paranoia. The bad news is, while having ruined my e-bike ride for some fresh air, on my way home I stopped once again at one of my favourite places to find some soul solace: a cemetery. Keep in mind, dear worst-reader, other than lots of archaic and mind-bending human mis-history, there are only two things today that one needs to experience in #Eurowasteland. Conveniently these two things are related. Have you guessed what they are? Ok. Here’s a hint: Churches and cemeteries. Indeed. #Eurowasteland is awash in mysticism and deserved human rot. But on that note, I must die-gress.
Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. During some of my e-bike treks every once-a-once I like to stop to talk with the souls of the dead to hear what they have to say about the living. This particular cemetery, by-the-buy, is also one of the regions largest. And. With another by-the-buy. Since expatriating to Germania, I’ve attended three funerals at this particular cemetery. Two of those people I knew, one I didn’t. Yeah, I guess in these waning days of worst-life, it’s time for me to pull a Harold & Maude and start attending funerals–just for the hell of it. And so. While walking my e-bike around the graves I decided to see if I could find a new exit. Usually I just went from one end of the cemetery and exited out the other–as it was also a short cut even though, out of respect, I walked my e-bike through it. Yeah, that’s how big it is if you have to ride around it. But I’ve always wondered if it was such a large cemetery was there another exit? When I began to realise that there probably wasn’t, and while in a dank corner amongst misty gravestones, I happened across what is now my favourite grave of all-time. See the pic at the top of this worst-post.
I was truly taken aback by the caged grave I had discovered. I had never seen such a grave before. It’s like a grave prison, dear worst-reader. And that really befuddles me. At least I’ve not seen, in this region of Germany, a grave that makes such a profound statement. Yet, as I thought about statements, I got hung up on two possibilities as to what that statement is. The first possible statement from the grave is thus: what’s in here needs to stay in. The second statement is, and this one really gets my croissant boiling: no, you can’t come in and join me.
And now for a bit of back story regarding my desire to communicate with souls. While living in Darmstadt many years ago, which is a few hours south of Düsseldorf, one of my favourite places to go to talk to the souls of the dead, was Frankenstein’s Castle. For you know the story of Frankenstein, eh, dear worst-reader? I mean the book, not the movie(s). Indeed. The castle is a grand place, especially if you go there when there are no tourists or it’s not late October. For if you wish you can tease the souls of the dead about how they are the ones that have given us this $hit world, i.e. the future they made. Which is what I like to do. In fact. While talking with souls I used to tell them I would be seeing them soon–with a vengeance. For someone has to make the past pay for what it has done to the future. Or. If you prefer, dear worst-reader, you can just go to Frankenstein’s Castle and chill, smoke a joint and ponder Mary Shelly’s mindset that lead to The Modern Prometheus. But on that note, again, I must die-gress.
In short, so that one may make the connection, the legend of Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus was ALL about grave robbing. But Mary Shelly got a bit caught up in audience driven story telling before she could really jot all that down. In fact, grave robbing back then was so popular that the living conspired all the time about how to protect (their) graves. If you could afford such an elaborate cage, though, why not just pay for a tomb, which also had a certain level of protection? Indeed. Many just made sure that they were buried naked and with nothing to accompany them. Or could it be that the cage-grave is from someone who thought more like the Pharaohs? You know, bury your corpse with everything, even the key, so that when you (re)awaken, you still have it all. Who can know, eh.
So let’s ponder the statement of caged graves once more. Is the cage for keeping something in? An appropriate question as the minions and compulsive behaviourist of today go about their useless eating lives emulating so well the pitchfork morons of yore. Or is the grave statement about keeping something out? Considering how the world is currently devolving via capitalism and greed-mongering run amok which has turned so many into cannibal-like goons, is the time nigh when we have to start digging up the dead? I can’t shed the thought that it’s only a matter of time before we start once again what Mary Shelly was afraid to finish and/or write–so she covered it all up with evil pseudo-doctors and monsters. Instead I’ll just ponder the possibility of what the cage-grave is stating while studying the rules and regulations in Germania about quarantining and the idear that, even at almost sixty, I’d like to get back on a really, really cool bike and do a few laps of the Nürburgring.
One positive thing about COVID and 2021 is that I finally broke out my old typewriters and it’s now how I communicate with my mother. Can you believe it? Snail mail? Who’d a thunk it? Then again, if/when I do thunk of it, I’m curious if US Postal Services can actually deliver it. You know. Considering how $hitbag Neo-liberals have screwed up government services and whatnot. But on that worst-note, I die-gress.
Letter to Mother.