It was a good press conference, I’m sure Trump would say. But then again, what else can he say? I mean, come on, dear worst-reader. Have you actually listened to him talk? He talks like…
a butthole from a rejected William Burroughs novel
Cousin ITT from The Munsters (after he finally got a hair cut)
a bored pumpkin waiting to be ejected from a failed cannon–if it could talk, etc., etc.
But allow me to move on.
The thing that world citizens should remember (in case you’ve forgotten or never considered) is that the person most interested in the press conference between #americant and the corpo neo-feudalistic Germanin state is Vladimir Putin. In fact, there is only one thing that Putin hates more than Hillary Clinton–which he most likely proved by helping Trump get elected. That’s right. He f’n hates Germany.
If nation states could pick a fight in a redneck pub to determine which form of corruption would rule the world, Putin would have beat the krapp out of Merkel by now. And do you know what’s stopped Putin from doing just that?
Russia (under Putin) is such an economic failure that it can barely tie its own shoes
Between Russia and Germany there is the old, fading but grand idear of #americant’s WW2 win even though the Soviet’s actually won the war.
That’s right, dear worst-reader, there is still a Soviet state (not a union) and Putin’s been running it since… (insert your favourite number here)
The only western country that has suffered the least from neoliberal globalisation (but by no means is it unaffected by it) is Germany. Putin and many in #americant hate that. The reason they hate it is because Germany…
has been able to maintain its manufacturing base (as opposed to decimating it like the US has done)
facilitates, supports and enables savings and therefore has an economy where people spend money–as opposed to spending credit
compared to other EU countries the Germans have not subjected themselves to the whims of corrupt world finance that I like to call The Anglo Way.
Indeed. Putin, oligarchs and certain banking figures around the world hate Germany for its collective nation state success which enables it to NOT choose The Anglo Way. Ironically Germany has built its own bulwark to fight off the whims of modern neoliberalism and thereby, maybe, perhaps, rivalling with The Germanin Way.
But don’t get me wrong. I’m not tooting Germany’s horn here–even though I’ve been living as an expat in the country since the summer of 1989. (Oh that wall fell hard on me.) I have my issues with Germany’s politics, with Merkel’s silly refugee policy and, even though I’ve been able to assimilate into German society by learning the language and drinking the Bier, the country’s automaton corporatists that live in and run the show have never accepted me fully. But that’s a whole other worst-post.
As mentioned in a previous worst-post, as a b’day gift I was forced to attend a cooking seminar last weekend. I say ‘forced’ without the intention of holding a grudge against my better-half’s gift choice. It’s just that I’m already a damn fine cook so my initial reaction to such a gift must be a bit apprehensive. The combination of being a skeptic, a cynic and a self-aggrandising cook means that I have to suck-it-up like a buttercup when my wife gives me a b’day present. Then there’s the issue that if you’re gonna attend a steak cooking “seminar” hosted by a company that specialises in selling premium meat, which includes a four course meal, well, how much was this gonna cost? With that in mind, dear worst-reader, I rarely go out to eat anymore because I’m not only stingy but:
Based on service and food quality, money paid to a restaurant is stupid money and I hate stupid money.
Since being able to afford fine dinning in this life, I can count on one hand how many restaurants have impressed me in the past ten years.
(Seriously. One of the best places I’ve ever eaten was on Phi-Phi Island, Thailand. It was literally a shack where three lady-boys cooked and served the best fusion asian food I’ve ever eaten and it all only costs a few bucks. But I digress.)
I told my better half that she’s not really giving me a gift but instead lining the pockets of guy who thinks he knows beef. And then I said, “Schnooki, the problem is the guy giving the seminar is German.” There was a long pause. Trust me, dear worst-reader, when I say Germans don’t know beef. It’s über true. Of course, it’s not that they don’t eat beef. They do. It’s that, until recently, they have been clueless about even the simplest form of bovine consumption. If you don’t believe me then the next time your in the old country and get tired of driving your rental car a gazillion miles per hour on the Autobahn, go into any grocery store. There you’ll find that Germans still offer two cuts of beef. One is called the Rumpsteak and the other is called Huftsteak. Unless you’re trained to tell the difference, there is no difference in these two cuts of meat. These “steaks” are then usually cooked in a pan with some kind of grease and then served with potatoes and, if you’re lucky, garlic butter. It’s no wonder that Germans have a certain reputation in the world–that doesn’t include culinary prowess. Luckily, even at my bitter-old-age, I’m open to moments of entertainment that potentially could include subpar cooking. What the hell.
In order to protect the innocent I’m gonna refer to the company behind our recent steak cooking seminar as White Man Steak & Co.’s Evening of Red & Juicy or WSCERJ. The seminar itself takes place in the fancy foyer of an old, converted textile warehouse. This foyer can be changed into a kitchen by moving modular ovens, grills, stove-tops, etc. Because of the size of the foyer, though, the number of participants is limited to about twenty people. The seminar is already fully booked through most of 2017. So it was nice to find out that my better-half actually started planning my b’day present almost a half year in advance. This place is definitely fancy-fancy.
A small company, WSCERJ has about thirty or so employees that handle all the typical corporate krapp and a small staff of culinary experts that include two chefs, a sous chef, two butchers and a “food designer”. According to the owner, though, they were short staffed for this particular evening. That meant that the owner and his young daughter were our servers for the four course meal that integrated with the seminar. Later we learned that two of the people attending were also from a German industry magazine and were there to do a review. Needless to say, the owner was at the top of this game.
After a short tour of the facility that included offices, backrooms full of supplies and industrial refrigerators full of hanging beef, pork and chicken (see pic above), the owner of the company continued with a long-winded monologue about the greatness of product that only he is able to offer the German meat market. The key to his success, he claims, is the fact that he personally knows all his meat suppliers. Of the seven cuts of meat that were being featured and were also strewn out in front of us, four came from Germany and three from God-knows-where Nebraska. The absurdity of a sales-pitch combined with the frivolity of overpriced ingredients that were about to be cooked up in front of us was only matched by bullsh*t galore. Luckily the BS was quickly accompanied by food and plenty of drink.
The four courses meal was:
Beef Short Rib
A typical creamy dessert not worth mentioning.
Beyond the fact that tartar shouldn’t be made from a bull’s rump, the first course was ruined by too much sauce and too much salad accompaniment. The only thing that saved it was the canned caviar that topped it off. In fact, I ate all the fish eggs but left most of the tartar and rest behind. I also kept it to myself that I could make better tartar by buying some half decent hamburger meat at the grocery store and throwing a raw egg yolk on it accompanied by some white pepper. It’s just wrong, nomatter who the bull is, to use rump for tartar. The second course was sous vide pork belly that was briefly grilled just before serving which made the upper layer of fat nice and crispy. Not a bad dish but, to me, it isn’t the right thing to follow tartar. The beef short rib was ok, but that’s about it. Forget the dessert. Seriously. Forget it.
Which brings me to the reason for this post. Or have I succeeded in fooling you that I’m trying to write a review? Nomatter. It was between the 2nd and 3rd course of the meal that the real seminar took place. As I said, there were seven different cuts of meat on the counter when we arrived. The rump was cut into large pieces by the two chefs and then given to those who volunteered to turn it into tartar with knives and cutting boards. What a mistake, eh! The tartar sucked. Two other “aged” steaks were then cooked and served as appetiser finger food in a glass of beef broth and butter. It was awful. A third cut of meat was not actually beef but instead two pork steaks. The owner went into an extended diatribe about how pork is the new steak–as long as you buy it from him and his supplier. The owner then added that he wanted to offer capon chicken (see pic) in the mix but none of his birds were ready yet. The remaining four cuts of meat, all of which were from Rex and his über ranch in God-knows-where Nebraska, were the crème de la crème of the evening. There were two lean cuts of Bison, one thick Wagyu t-bone and one thick Kobe. All of these meats were cooked in pans on a stove using fat and butter and then sliced up and given to the seminar participants for taste testing. The pork was awful and should accompany the dessert in the bin. I didn’t get any of the Wagyu t-bone, but I assume it was good. The Bison was fantastic–and it is the only meat I plan on ordering from this company. And, just before the sous chef started cooking the Kobe, I asked if he would cut me a thin, sashimi style slice so that I could try it raw. He did and I consumed it and it was good.
But here’s the thing.
While explaining the ins and outs of the best beef in the world coming from a supplier in God-knows-where Nebraska (probably) named Rex, that he obviously enjoys visiting and fraternising with, the owner of WSCERJ seems to have gotten naively mixed up with some American style white-supremacy BS a’la Faux Newz. How do I know this? Well, for starters, the American Indians that died because of the greed European mentality that was conquering North America (at the time) didn’t die from starvation.
That’s right, dear worst-reader. During a seminar about how to consume beef, most of which comes from my beloved (and missed) grand united mistakes of #americant, a full grown family man who is running a vibrant and flourishing business in Germany, actually believes–because of what he has been told–that American Indians died from starvation and not from genocide. It was at this point I raised my hand, put down my drink, and interrupted the host of his seminar. I gayly told him and the audience that I was more than happy to eventually purchase some of his product but he should refrain from making comments about things he heard from some white guy in God-knows-where Nebraska. There was a brief silence in the room. Then the owner of WSCERJ commented about the movie Dances With Wolves and I marched off to the bathroom to gather myself.
Upon returning to the foyer and the seminar, I was met at the entry by the sous chef. He was a young bull of a man from what used to be the former East Germany. I joked with him during the evening that he should be a linebacker and play American football. He smiled and obviously approved of my flattery. But before I could re-enter the seminar we had the following discourse:
Sous-chef: Tell me, do you like Donald Trump?
Moi: He’s ok. A bit over-rated both in the good and the bad. But ok.
Sous-chef: I think he’s much better than Hillary. You know Germany has a female president…
Moi: Chancellor, you mean.
Sous-chef: Yes. Whatever. You see how she let in so many migrants? Not good. That’s why I like Trump. He’s right, you know.
Moi: Ah, yeah, sure. As long as he doesn’t go on some crazy war path like George W. Bush, he might be alright.
Sous-chef: Exactly. Trump good. (He drags his knuckles returning to his place in the foyer-kitchen.)
And so. Dear worst-reader. There you have it. The world is amassing and mobilising knuckle draggers from all over and in all corners. I’m faced with them in the heart of prosperous middle Germania and God-knows-where… else.
As my beloved #americant waddles in the ease and comfort of blissful ignorance and the gayety of dysfunction, I’ve spent most of this day continuing my research as an expatriate in finding methodologies of distraction and systems of self medication. For example, tonight I’m due with my better half to visit a place that is gonna teach me about cooking steak. When I questioned Fräulein Betterhalf if she was trying to tell me something, aka trying to say that she didn’t like the way I cooked her steaks, she replied: no, silly, this is your birthday present. Oh, I thought, unhappily. Nomatter. While walking Beckett the Killer Pug this afternoon I came across the concept of The Overton Window while watching barges fight for position in the over crowded Rhine River. How I got to that deserves a few worst-words. A few days ago I was thinking about the idear of Eugenics. This coincided with a conversation I got caught up in with knuckle draggers aka neo-nazis a few days prior to that. When one of the neo-nazis found out I was American he turned to me and asked if I ever slept with an American black girl. Why American, I asked him. Because I think I could go for one of them, he replied. How so, du Arsch, one of his comrades said. Because they’re all mostly white anyways. It’s only a matter of time before we get the black out of them. Have you seen that Beyonce Weib! Nomatter. Beyond the reality of how some neo-nazis make fun of me, one thought entered my mind after that encounter. Of all human races only the white race still contains the gene of the extinct Neanderthal. Hence the knuckle dragging syndrome we all must live with in this day of corporatism, cronyism and government run amok. This could be the reason, I fashioned, that the western world is so batsh*t right now. White people are simply incapable of getting rid of the nasty gene that nature deemed unsuitable. Yet somehow it’s hung on. Nomatter. Ultimately, river barges, stupid white people and dog walking got me thinking whether or not Eugenics and the Overton Window have something in common. Guess what? They do. Both of these idears fit perfectly into the batsh*t that is the reason why humanity is so fcuked. That is, they both are social science constructs that are born out of political agendas. As humanity had to face the reality of enlightenment, i.e. people acquiring the ability to think for themselves, those who had, for whatever reason, i.e. monarchies, cronies, pawns, etc., reached positions in society that put them above others, had also to come to terms with humanity not wanting to drag its knuckles anymore. Perhaps some of this was clarified in the 18th, 19th and 20th century with the owners of the world being forced to move their politics to the left of the political spectrum and thereby allowing people to live their own lives. As hard as it is for me to take the bullsh*t of Eugenics seriously, it pains me even more to think that there are those out there who still do. In fact, Richard Dawkins is kinda pushing for it to return to the public domain because, he seems to think, the Nazis aren’t around anymore to misuse it. My problem is, idears like Eugenics and the Overton Window are nothing more than ways & means whereby those in the Above are able to control those in the Below. In other words, science and method are used as weapons of oppression and control. Nothing new there, eh! A world of Haves and Have-Mores, it seems, can only resort to repeating history because, well, knuckle draggers seem to like the neanderthal gene that the powers-that-be can wield at will. How else can one explain Faux Newz, the republican party, etc.? Nomatter. The Overton Window is supposed to be a way to understand the viability of political idears. Yet, when I look at the pic above I can’t help but see a pattern. It is a pattern of self-doom. And I can’t think of a more deserving species. We are starting to look like roadkill just under the bus. Or maybe not.
Well, dear worst-reader, did you think it couldn’t get any worst? Surprise! You thought just because He won your hearts, your TV screens and your presidency that the batsh*t show of electoral politics was (all) over? You thought it was time to sit back, like you always do, visit the mall and consume things you don’t need, and that’s that? In a way, you’re right. The fun, nostalgia, entertainment factor and advertisement earnings of electoral politics is over. It’s just that something else has happened of late. Do you feel it? Indeed. Something above and beyond a measly consume-to-survive life is before us all. Your problem now is how to deal with that. Or is it?
Oh boy, what elation is ours at this moment in time & space?
But first, let’s cover a few things. To begin with, just for a moment, go with me here and give a thought or three to Dubya Dipsh*t Bush. I suppose there is some consolation in having had the nicest, hippest, coolest POTUS after Dipsh*t Dubya. Indeed, that’s what you can think about when you think about Dubya. For there is no forgetting/avoiding that Barry-O was/is also the lamest duck POTUS ever–and he’s also the only president to ever serve two whole terms while being at war during both. Thank you, Dubya.
(Note: Please keep in mind, dear worst-reader, that worst-writer doesn’t actually consider the use of US military power since 9/11 to be in a state of “war”. War takes place between armies of countries and/or nation-states. What we are doing in the middle east is better categorised as imperialism and/or empire. But let’s not split hairs in this post, eh.)
While I’m on the subject of who gave us the best POTUS ever, I suppose there’s no avoiding everybody’s favourite über-feminist: Hillary. And what did Hillary give us? Can you say: Mister Pee-on-me? That’s right, dear worst-reader. Now we not only have a slime-ball, comb-over n’chief that is stuck in his gold laced 1970s egocentricities, but we also have (finally?) a president that likes to be peed on. Thank you, Hillary.
Within the first few seconds of opening his anus-like mouth, I cringed and almost went into convulsions. But then something caught my attention. One good piece of information came from Mr. Pee-on-me and his news denial conference. The source of the pee-on-me story was revealed. For you see, dear worst-reader, I was all kinda confused with the whole thing as the sh*tshow of #goldenshowergate happened on twitter. Up to that point I wasn’t sure where all this krapp was coming from. I mean, come on. But now that the smoke screen has dissolved, it’s easy to see how political conservatism has permanently adopted #fakenews as a new channel for its (dis)information. Of course, those of us with half a brain know that #fakenews is nothing if only really bad journalism. The fact is, #fakenews has been going on for years. The difference now is that political conservatism has managed to take ownership of it. Hence, President Pee-on-me called out CNN during his press conference by making one of their reporters go to the back of the room and put on a dunce, i.e. #fakenews cap. Although CNN is a terrible news organisation, calling it out as the source of #fakenews shows how delusional our new pee-on-me-combover-n-chief is.
By-the-by. What is and what is NOT #fakenews? According to worst-writer:
it is that which is made up and unsubstantiated, usually from a blog or an angry ranter that posts krapp on the internet that ultimately has no meaning (see worstwriter.com)
it is NOT the krappy journalism that we’ve all been dealing with ever since the fourth estate became a corporate revenue stream.
And while I’m on a roll, allow me to move on with another worst-definition. What, for goodness sake, is a golden shower? Well, according to Frank Zappa’s song “Bobby Brown” it is an act of soul cleansing. Is it possible that Trump, since his humbling election, wants to clean his soul? (Sarcasm off.) I’ve always associated the concept of golden showers with Zappa because, well, the song Bobby Brown, since I can remember, always reminded me of Donald Trump. I wonder if that has anything to do with having seen Zappa in concert and not long after that having read Trump’s first book. A mind boggling association, eh? Yeah, the 80s were a trip.
Twitter was so awash with #goldenshowergate that I didn’t bother trying to figure out where the story came from–although that’s one of the first things I usually do when news catches my interest. I mean, come on, the 45th president of the united mistakes of #americant is already a batsh*t nutcase who’s been swinging it (yes, swinging that) since the 80s. Is it necessary to deal with his über-creepiness that is, literally, unmatched? I mean, it’s the creepiness that the electoral college voted for, right? Is anyone surprised that a guy like Donald Trump likes urine?
Step back a sec.
According to Buzzfeed–and the dossier that I only glanced over–while in Moscow on a business trip, Trump hired a few women to pee on the same bed that Barry-O and his wife slept on when they visited Moscow. Trump had the bed peed on because, well, obviously, he hates Barry-O so much. Are you kidding me! What a great way to cover up (the) truth. I mean, extravagant story telling is what all closeted people do. Or? Wow. I guess, at this point, all I can say is: Thank you Buzzfeed–this is gonna be fun.
I also want to thank Buzzfeed for showing the world that the word Germaphobe has nothing to do with hating Germans. Now we can get on with the whole Mr. Pee-on-me thing. For example…
How did Howard Huges die? He died in a pile of his own shit. Seriously. And do you know what he was before he liked to swim around in his own shit? He was a germaphobe. The natural path of someone that goes batsh*t, i.e. delusional because of their wealth, stature, popularity, etc., is to continue either hiding or avoiding the reality of their deprived personality and/or massive character deficits. America is a country that has bred generation after generation of sexually repressed knuckle dragging grunts who are both rich and poor. The only way for most of these grunts to cope with the life they couldn’t choose is to live in it in fear. One way they deal with their fear, their phobias and paranoia is to stop shaking hands, avoid bodily contact (which makes their already repressed sexuality even worse) and, eventually, they even fear their own bodily functions. The effect this has on the mind–already weakened minds–is horrific. I suppose, for some, being a germaphobe and American in the 20th century (and beyond) is akin to waking up in Sodom & Gomorra version 2.0. But get this. Once a Germaphobe goes completely overboard, he is also capable of realigning his fears. In fact, some of these nut cases learn to like and/or obsess over what they once feared. Hence… pee on me becomes sexual. But to hide the shame that society’s stigmas have they also learn crazy story telling. How many generations of men did this? Indeed. The salacious and lewd nature of #goldenshowergate is too much for even Sodom & Gomorra v 2.0. So the story telling, to cover up the disgusting truth, rewrites the part about who or what is actually peed on.
Your president likes to be peed on.
(I’m laughing so hard right now that I might have to see a doctor soon.)
Btw. There is another example of this type of batsh*t behaviour in stupid rich white men. Ever heard of John McAfee? He’s the numbnuts that put all that anti-virus software on the windows computer you bought in the 90s. He made a mint on that krapp! And while fighting his delusions (inner demons?) he might have been part of a conspiracy where his neighbour in Belize was killed. Would you believe that this guy was almost the libertarian candidate for president? While investigating who and what McAfee is, a documentarian found out that one of the his obsessions was to have women defecate in his mouth.
Welcome, fellow dipsh*t citizenry, to your Donald Trump America.
The thing I remember most from Steve Jobs presentation of the iPhone ten years ago wasn’t the device itself. No. The thing I remember most were three words that he said: “Internet Communication Device.” Nothing else in that iconic corporate presentation remains with me. I don’t care how the thing looks, what colours it comes in, how the edges are designed or how they put the on/off switch exactly opposite of the volume switch (on the iPhone 6s) which means every time you try to adjust volume with one hand you also turn it off.
The concept of an internet communication device is as profound now as it was then. The difference being, Apple missed the boat on making it. With that in mind, I’m still waiting for an Internet Communication Device. I’m still yearning for it, too. I’m still dreaming, like in Star Trek, all I gotta do is tap my chest and I can place a call to anyone simply by saying their name. Put another way: building an internet communication device is as far off now as it was ten years ago. Put yet another way: we should be over and done with words like cellphone, phone network, AT&T, Verizon, GSM, signal strength, etc., etc. Yet we’re not. Instead we’re still stuck and hung out to dry by the old economy that has won the battle. The iPhone is the device that proves: old beats new. The new bows its head in submission. Old farts rule the world. Gee. Turning over in your grave, yet, Steve? No. Of course you’re not. You didn’t really know what you were doing when you claimed that the iPhone was something more than just an old economy toy. Or?
Was Jobs and his über arrogant company fully aware of the significance of the third denominator they/he had put into their gadget but have long since abandoned? It was a phone, it was an iPod–or a music player–and it was an internet communication device. The phone meant nothing to me. Since the advent of carry-around phones only one thing stands out about them (all). The cellular networks that they depend on are shit because they are ALL run by dinosaur companies that should die. Talk about a chain only being as strong as it weakest link!
As far as carry-around music players go, even though I have an extensive digital music library at home, the idear of lugging thousands of songs around with me is just stupid. Alone the misery of music through headphones–an extra frivolous cost to an already frivolously priced gadget–should motivate people to curb their music listening habits. Music, like wine, shouldn’t be consumed in a plastic cup at a baseball game in order to wash down a krappy hotdog. (Or should it?)
At the least, the phone and the iPod aspect of the iPhone should not be celebrated after an initial decade of extravagant nothingness. Like everything else in the tech industry iPhones are nothing more than widgets in the vastness of monopolies and corporate do-nothing humdrum of an old economy that won’t die. So little is innovation in a world where screens get smaller, cameras get fantastic-er and computing capabilities in handheld devices get super-er. Seriously. What is there to celebrate when, even after all the pageantry of gadgetry, we’re still stuck like a crumb in an old man’s beard that is being eyed by a distant seagull?
I got my first iPhone at the end of 2012. Even though I admired the look and design of the device from afar, the cost of it is just stupid. How much does stamped-out, glued components, made by slave hands in Asia cost! As far as cellphone usage goes, I used to buy cheap, regular cell phones (where the f’n battery lasted a week) and even today my new iPhone isn’t any better. And with that same iPhone I still use prepaid phone service–because of how much I hate cell phone providers. The contracts one has to sign with old economy corporations in order to afford a new-fangled, fancy smart phone is at best a cruel joke. Why do people put up with this shit? But that’s neither here nor there. My wife likes iPhones. When she gets one, she’s nice enough to buy one for me, too. Who am I deny her that pleasure?
But get this. Even though I can afford to pay around seven hundred dollars for a phone every few years, I still think they are frivolous, extremely overpriced, and have yet to meet my expectations of what/how technology should be. Indeed. There should be no celebration of the iPhone because its invention has only lead to convention. Fcuk Steve Jobs! Fcuk the iPhone! Fcuk closed eco-systems. Fcuk iTunes. Fcuk app developers. Fcuk all you well paid useless corporate minions that keep dinosaurs alive.
As usual, I’m off subject. My point of this post is to simply state that Apple has missed the boat when it comes to technology. We see this in 2016 and how the company is regressing with its products. The new MacBook Pro line of laptops is a joke. The AppleTV, probably the first product they’ve ever made where it got bigger instead of smaller, is also a joke. iPad sales are down because the iPad Pro creates an unnecessary product line in an already overpriced product line. The Apple Watch… Oh, the Apple Watch. You’ve got to be kidding me. Should I even mention the headphone jack issue in a device that was initially brought to market as a music device? Apple is not a technology company as much as it is a smart-ass, sell shit to suckers, fashion-marketing company–designed in superficial California. Btw, when is that earthquake gonna finally sink California?
What is an internet communication device? Simply put, it is a device that is not the iPhone, Apple and an eco-system that locks one into nothingness. At the time Jobs said those words while introducing the world to his new gadget, he was deep inside his distortion field. Either that or he was tripping on acid. Wait. Are they both the same thing? Nomatter. Obviously I can’t criticise the iPhone too much. It is part of the gazillions of dollars that Apple has in offshore accounts and lots of people use the device for crazy things like making films and taking pictures and and and. And that’s the only thing that matters anymore. I guess. But then again, like the Swedish pop band Abba once said: money money money in a rich man’s world.
See those little air bubbles? Well, I’ve finally managed to get a pic of this rare oyster species. It’s called the Rhine River Jumping Oyster. No. Seriously. It’s an oyster that jumps. When the oyster is, for whatever reason, out of water those little air bubbles grow and expand and can be used to move it around in very ingenious ways. When you find the oysters on the shores of the Rhine it’s usually because of two reasons.
One: the Rhine is exceptionally low (as it is now).
Two: to avoid being attacked by prey it propels itself out of the way of danger (not unlike German women–even when they’re not prey).
Indeed. This oyster’s prey avoidance trajectory has gone haywire. I followed this particular oysters around for a few moments while walking Becket The Killer Pug along the Rhine the other day. It was batting itself all around the shore till, suddenly, like a bullet out of Sig Sauer, it shot up into the sky and while in the sky it let out another burst of propulsion, albeit in a totally wrong direction, and landed on the sidewalk on top of the Rhein dike. Everything happened so fast I was unable to film it. (Actually that’s not true. I’m such a dunce with my phone camera that, although I did try to film it, I had the camera lens set to selfie mode. I managed to fix my hair at the same time I was chasing this thing around.) But I did get the pic above. Neat, eh? Of course, obviously, there’s one issue this creature must deal with when it uses propulsion. Sometimes, it propels itself right out of its shell. In this case, losing its shell in midair meant that the shell landed in the Rhine but its innards on the road. Luckily I was able to snap this quick pick before a bird came along and snapped up its delicacy.
Like a previous post, the digitalisation of (worst-moi’s) life continues. As usual, though, at this time of year, the mystical holiday season threw me for a loop.
But what could throw worst-writer for a loop, you ask.
How about the physics (the E=MC2 stuff) of Santa being able to actually deliver all those presents to the world in one night. If he was able to do it, would he survive? Which rings another question: does mystery require survival? Nomatter.
Although I was able to finish scanning a bunch of old notebooks before the big day, I haven’t been able to scan anything sense. I guess the time off of my better-half means that she gets first dibs on the new scanner during her seasonal and obligatory end of year use of remaining vacation time. With that in mind, the pic above is the end of my black & white collection of old school notebooks. That’s right, dear worst-reader. I literally ripped twenty year old notebooks apart trying to get scannable pages out from under the confines of those heavy covers and knitted bindings. At the least, my hat is off to Fujitsu for making a very useable scanner. With only a few adjustments to the software it scanned every old page front and back. Now to get it all in this blog.