When All Else Fails Just Put Some Butter On It

the founder poster

Subtitle: Pseudo-Review Of .99€ Movie Rental The Founder

Almost didn’t make it, dear worst-reader. If it would have come to pass, this would have been the second movie I rented on iTunes but never watched. Luckily I had a few days left when I hit the play button last night. By-the-buy, iTunes (Germany) gives you around 30 days to watch a movie once you hit that rent-button. Once you hit the play-button, you have forty-eight hours to watch your movie. What the other movie was that I rented but didn’t watch I can’t remember. Apple got .99€ from me all the same. But that’s all butter under the bridge. And speaking of bridges…

How does a blah-blah movie about an a$$hole end up being a mediocre film about the invention of fast-food? Oh wait. This movie isn’t about fast-food. This movie is about a shinning star of #americant business acumen. Right? (Sarcasm off.) Well, the one thing to keep in mind about this Harvey Weinstein production is, like a severe burn on the inside of your fingers, all you gotta do to help things be less excruciating is to put some butter on it. Butter makes everything better. Except in the fast food industry on account butter is too expensive to work with–almost like real milk was too expensive for Milkshakes (for a while).

The Founder is the story of how Ray Kroc screwed two guys out of a really interesting idear about how to feed a hungry nation of automatons–most of whom are only interested in not having to cook a meal. Other than avoiding the reality of showing the world how much of an a$$hole Kroc was, this movie actually spends the first twenty minutes making one feel good about the invention of fast-food. Oh, and if you’re so inclined and only have a few months left in your MBA studies at the University of Cocksuckers, this is one great film to watch if you need a case study that is about nothingness.

Although there are moments of reality regarding the a$$holery of the pyramidal franchise business which Kroc sucked up to, this movie gets lost between showing the real founders of fast-food magic and the cut throat reality of making more than a buck on someone else’s dime. So I guess, in a righteous universe where wrongs are outed, this movie could be called Watch Out For A$$holes Because You’re Living In A World Of Them. And with that in mind, here is worst-writer’s take on this movie in-short: there is no redeeming value in either the movie or what Ray Kroc achieved in his life. And if you want to know how to make a buck off subject matter with no redeeming value, ask Harvey Weinstein.

Rant on.

-T

PS The performances of the actors in this movie is outstanding. The writing though sucks batballs and the only thing that could have saved it is if worst-writer had written it.

Winston’s Fear Is Not The Rat

Subtitle: What The Ancients Forgot In Their Writing Of The Dystopian Future We Live In Now.

Since we are in this place dear worst-reader, this dystopia place so well designed and executed (but by whom), let’s have a moment or thrice to worst-write about fear, i.e., that which rules (us). I’m not one to say I fear nothing. I am afeared aplenty. Snakes, for example. I can’t stand them. Small and tight spaces is something else I can’t stand (platzangst). And then there’s my fear of height. Actually I don’t really suffer from a fear of heights. Instead I have a fear of distance. Specifically, I fear distance between my feet and the ground–and, in some cases, I fear the distance between smart people and stupid people. (But that’s all another post.) And then there’s one last fear I shall not forget. Perhaps this is the most important fear of them all. That’s right, dear worst-reader, I fear The Female. Better put, I fear the wrath of woman scorned. Yea, baby. Now that’s something to run away from–unless, of course, you’re a fan of comb-overs. And while on the topic of fear (and comb-overs), have a look at this to begin the process of dealing with the dystopia you’ve been putting-up:

Nationally, Clinton picked up 54 percent of women voters compared with Trump’s mere 42 percent. But Trump outperformed Clinton among white women, winning 53 percent of voters in that demographic. Drilling down further, he beat Clinton among white women without college degrees by 27 points. In the three states that decided the election — Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, and Michigan — that margin was enough to send Trump to the White House.1

The best way I’ve always found to describe fear, other than worst-writing about my beloved #americant and/or free-to-be-stupid people, is to worst-write about those who are so much better than worst-moi at doing it, e.g.: George Orwell and his wonderfully appropriate novel Nineteen Eightyfour. Specifically, understanding fear is best done by considering the fear of Winston Smith. As the story goes, it is revealed, after Winston meets a girl, that he is afraid of rats. Now, obviously, in the real world, in a world of man-rule (and not patriarchy miss-rule2), no man would freak out in front of a fresh lover when a rat pokes its head of a hole in her wall3. In fact, to prove his worthiness and to get another good fcuk out of her, a real man would kill that fcuking rat toot-suite and immediately after washing his hands (of the mess), do the nasty-deed again and thereby impose upon his new lover his obsession with other useful orifices. But enough about worst-writer’s fantasies.

Orwell had to offer up something in his story to show how fear is used to control the automatons that enable the system. I guess rats were (are) a good place to start. What’s missing in the story, though, is the automatons. Lucky for us, dear worst-reader, we live in times where we don’t have to look any further to find the automatons that have caused our dystopia. They are among us, we among them. And so. The necessity of the state to inflict fear as a means of control has kinda shifted in the last few decades. Reason? Fear is now manifested in our inability to look under the comb-overs that rule us. And not just President Stupid’s comb-over. The reality is, the rat in the story means nothing. Winston’s face being eaten by that rat also means nothing. And another thing that means nothing is the love that Winston betrays–as though Orwell gives a hoot about love. Indeed. What Orwell is dealing with is how the world (and those in it) so willingly allow themselves to be ruled by what’s under their comb-overs.

But I’m almost off subject. This is supposed to be yet another worst-post about worst-writer’s fear(s). And you know what motivated that fear? The women in the pic above that voted for president comb-over and the pic of the spider. Which one afears me more? And keep this in mind. Of all of the things I fear, one of them will NEVER be the spider. The reason for that is because I know the people that have enabled, facilitated our dystopia. You know them, too, dear worst-reader. Just take a moment. Take a deep breath. Feel the world clog up the lungs of your mind. Take a deep look at the spiders and snakes and distances (between us) that cause all the fear. And say with me: I am not afraid of spiders. I am only afraid of what that spider looks like, what it carries on its back, the texture that makes it what it is. It reminds so much of the mind-set of a woman scorned, of president stupid and of what’s underneath that which should be covered–forevermore.

All hail THE COMB-OVER.

Rant on.

-T

PS While I’m on yet another rant about blaming the women-folk for electing president stupid, the third pic above I thought would be appropriate. Maybe it’s not. Whatever.

Wasteland Or Where A Little Boy Wants A Bike Instead Of A Smartphone

smartphone trash

The scene: The entire story is shot in black & white with maybe a little silver superimposed here or there. It’s also a time period where the earth’s atmosphere can no longer sustain atmospheric high pressure. This climate situation is caused by a perpetual state of atmospheric lows. This is referred to as climate status quo (as opposed to climate change1). Put another way, clouds have become the sky for at least two generations and although there’s not much rain, a blue sky is rare.

The protagonist of the story is a pirate-like character that wears a jalopy suit. A jalopy suit is a suit made of remnants of other suits. This would be something like a suit jacket that has been pieced together. The arms, the lapels, the pocket trimmings etc. don’t match. Of course, the pants do not match the jacket and are held to the protagonists waist by a string–a belt being a rare item. A vest would also go well with this outfit–something perhaps with a bit more colour than the jacket and pants. Our protagonist wears two different but very fancy patent leather shoes and he is often attempting to keep them clean or unscathed from the rough, almost moon-like dull silver terrain. He also wears non-matching socks, which can be seen due to two different legs of the pants that were sewn together.

Our protagonist is the head of a gang of young people that call themselves the Interfacers. Nobody knows anybody’s real name; each is addressed with a variety of pronouns. Pronouns include:

  • standard: his, her
  • new fangled: sie, hir, s/he, xe2.

Every once-a-once the protagonist is called Depp as he has somewhat of a Hollywood swagger and the others thought it reminiscent of a Pirates of the Caribbean movie poster they once saw.

The sole purpose of the gang is to salvage smartphone junk. Discarded, broke and junk smartphones serve as a form of currency on the black market that makes-up their eco-system. Most of the gang act subservient to Depp because he’s found a way to break down smartphones into its components and thereby extract the rare earth elements that are used to make them. This is a much more profitable form of smartphone scavenging. There are other gang members that aren’t so subservient and they are a threat to Depp.

The gang is pursued by other gangs not only in search of Depp’s cache of junk smartphones but also his secret to getting to the rare elements inside them, i.e. the metal used to make the innards of the phones. The gang has never seen his secret method. Instead he shares the wealth he’s acquired with them–as long as they find smartphones that he can use to breakdown. To keep his gang small and unique he turns away most stragglers even if they bring a good smartphone in exchange for getting into the gang.

Depp has a price on his head set by local eco-system administrators.

One day while showing the gang around a newly discovered heap of smartphones, one of the gang makes an unusual discovery. An actual working smartphone is found in the heap. When this is given to Depp he promises everyone a bonus and a special evening meal and then goes on a tirade imitating Steve Jobs as though, using the found smartphone, he was giving the original iPhone introduction from the year 2007. During his tirade, though, his attention is drawn to the phone. On the phone a video of a little boy–assumed to be its owner–has made an old fashion video blog, i.e., a Vlog. In the Vlog the boy is doing a mock unboxing and review of a bicycle. Depp realises that the video is current. Then, suddenly, in a fit of desperation Depp struggles to turn off the smartphone. Not understanding what’s going on, the gang becomes restless. For some in the gang this is the first working device they’ve ever seen.

Depp has seen many functioning smartphones before but after struggling to turn this one off he realises he’s made a big blunder. Before he can deal with the situation he’s gotten himself in another group of young men appear in the wings. Moments later Rival appears. Rival is the leader of another gang. Depp deals with his blunder toot suite in an act of technical prowess that his gang has yet to witness. Even the other gang is in awe of what Depp is doing. (What is Depp doing?)

Rival explains that the phone was a setup, that he placed the phone to be found and he set it up with a tracer. The only problem is, Depp, knowing that he screwed up and should have known better, also realises that the smartphone was just a find by his rival and begins to question the video of the boy in search of a bicycle. Rival is confused by the video–because he never saw it which tells Depp that Rival is probably working for someone else. Depp finds a way out of this predicament (blunder) by resorting to an old trick that fools Rival and his gang. To the surprise of those around him, Depp smashes the phone on the ground and refuses to take it with him for salvage. Depp’s gang is shocked.

Keep in mind, dear worst-reader, Bicycles no longer exist in this eco-system because all available metal is used only for upper-class consumption. Since children are exposed to technology from birth there has been no interest in outdoor activity or actual playing outside. The video of the bicycle is more than a curiosity for all.

The trick Depp uses to get rid of his rival has two parts. First , as previously stated, he smashes the phone on the ground. This, of course, destroys the device but more importantly makes it no longer trackable. It’s also a gesture on the part of the current possessor that he forfeits his possession (of the device). This shocks his rival who subsequently falls on the phone with his whole body and Depp’s gang watch in wonder. This scene is an example of the fundamental rules governing this eco-system. This is a system where finder keepers, losers weepers or possession is nine-tenths of the law rules3.

Also shocked, but still loyal even though the gang assume an evening’s meal has been wasted, Depp’s gang anxiously follow him as he leaves the scene while Rival worships what remains of the device. The second part of Depp’s reversing his blunder is that he managed to copy the video from the phone he destroyed. And not just the video but also the contents of the phone that his rival used to track him. Here it is revealed that Depp has had a working smartphone on his person unknown to his gang. As Depp studies what his Rival did to track him, his gang watch in utter amazement.

Using that phone, he was able to copy the video of the boy mock-unboxing the bicycle. In a grand gesture, he actually gives the precious phone to his gang to watch the video as he’s seen enough, adding that the battery is about to run out, so they should enjoy it and remember it as best they can. There is no way to recharge batteries of phones in this eco-system.

Once the battery is drained, Depp wants to take it to break it down. The gang members, although appreciative and submissive want to 1) stop Depp from breaking down the device to get to its parts and 2) want to know more about bicycles. But Depp insists that in order for them to survive they must break down the phone. Having sacrificed the other phone to get the rival gang off their trail was a great cost. “Times are getting tougher,” Depp explains. “There are issues of consumables,” Depp says. Is this a moment of mutinous behaviour from a few gang members?

The moment of mutiny is broken up when a straggler comes along with a new boxed smartphone. The straggler, being so naive and unintelligent, doesn’t realise that the phone he carries is so special. He only wants something for it because the box is so pretty. The gang and Depp of course are skeptical, thinking that this too is another trap from their rival gang. Depp concludes that something else is going on. Two phones in one day–this one still in the original box! Depp tries to convince his gang that a functioning smartphone is not as valuable as the rare metals inside of it. Reason: 1) they have no means to charge the device and 2) there is no cellular network for calling. Or is there?

This new phone amazes Depp. Reason: it is actually a new phone. He questions where the man found it. The man points off and says like: …there, over there, near a pile of wall remnants. Although it does have a few scratches and some other wear & tear, it is the most beautiful phone Depp has ever seen. But before becoming obsessed with it, Depp also realises that there is something even more special about it. It not only has a full battery but it is also showing a connection to a cellular network. Depp has lots of experience with these devices but has never made a call with one.

Depp begins to investigate how the guy came across this phone. He wants to know everything about where and how he found it. The guy says it was just lying on the side of a road, near a wall. What does the boy/man mean by “wall”? “A wall? What wall,” Depp asked. “Was there a car?” The boys start rambling on about the cars they love that they’ve only seen in pictures and posters.

Depp has two great fears. One is facing up to the untruths he’s told his gang. The other is the upperclass. He’s faced them before when he was a child. And so, like new-fangled Robin Hood Depp goes on a quest to find a bike. The problem is, there are no more bikes because humanity reset its priorities and gave up on the simplest inventions when the smartphone boom took over humanities mind.

All known resources are now only used for smartphone production.

The irony of the smartphone name. As the devices got better the ones using them got dumber.

Or something like that.

-end of idea-

Rant on.

-T


  1. Find the opposite of climate-change or make it up? ↩︎
  2. https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/Appendix:List_of_protologisms/third_person_singular_gender_neutral_pronouns ↩︎
  3. There is a codec of sorts in this eco-system where bartering and trading are considered best behaviour activity. The consequence of cheating has harsh punishment dealt out by sanctioned vigilante justice ↩︎

That Day Great White Apes Unlearned A$$ Whipping And Replaced It With Learned A$$ Kissing–Plus My Translation of Rammstein’s Bück Dich

girls_sexscene9-300x200

Wake up, dear worst-reader. I’ve got some worst-newz for ya. Did you know that there was one of the worst outbreaks of hepatitis-a in the greatest country in the universe last year? Whaaaaa? Repeat: hepatitis-a broke out in southern California! You didn’t know that? Did you not know it because, well, you’re one of the automatons that actually directly contributed to there being such an outbreak? The problems of the world today is mostly due to the passive yet indirect contributory activity of the automaton masses. Even though that mass has been systematically culled over the past two or three decades. Perhaps that’s the reason automatons are so damn nasty these days. And by-the-buy, did you also know that hepatitis-a is one of the easiest diseases to prevent? That’s right, all you gotta do is clean up after yourself and make sure everything else is clean around you. And when I worst-write about clean I’m not talking about clean sneakers or picking up after yourself when you finish your fast-food. I reckon in the land of the free-to-be-stupid taking cleanliness to higher levels–and keeping them there–is asking for a bit much. Of course, my beloved #americant isn’t alone among the so-called first world nations that’s having trouble getting rid of the one thing humanity knows how to make without exploiting others to do it. Even though the two situations I’m referencing here (links below) are quite different, one thing remains the same. You can trace the automaton worship of greed as being the point of entry to the poverty of the soul we all live for now. And the fact that the poor–I’m worst writing about the real poor here–the people that can’t even afford to wipe their a$$es–are soon gonna join the zombies (automatons) as the fastest growing population segment–without proper sanitation and/or sewage. Indeed. Until then, not only do automatons need a place to $hit in the filthy and dilapidated office buildings but the wannabe automatons who couldn’t make it (yes, I’m pretty much one of the later) are leading the way of having to $hit in the streets again (but I’m not quite there yet). Wow. Not unlike feudalism from the good old days, eh?

For what ever strange reason, worst-writing about all this unnecessary poverty in this world got me thinking about Rammstein. I mean, of course, the band and not the rundown town in southwestern Germany. There’s always been something about the song Bück Dich that has bothered me over the years. I remember struggling with the text when I first heard it. Words like Antlitz and Passgang drove me to the brink of coping with having learned this gross language. Yet these words were somehow poetic islands in the sea of wanna-cry devastation that the world has brought upon itself simply because there is so much inherent greed and hate for brothers, sisters and all the freak show inhabitants in-between. Which brings me to this new translation retry of Rammstein’s Bück Dich1:

Bück dich befehl ich dir
(I order you, bend over (and get on all fours))
Wende dein Antlitz ab von mir
(Keep your (facial) expressions to yourself (because of what I’m doing to you)
Dein Gesicht ist mir egal
(Your face doesn’t matter (which is not unlike a whore fcuking her John)
Bück dich
(Get on all fours)

Ein Zweibeiner auf allen Vieren
(Two-Legs is on all fours)
Ich führe ihn spazieren
(I take him for a walk)
Im Passgang den Flur entlang
(Amble along the hallway)
Ich bin enttäuscht
(I’m disappointed)

Jetzt kommt er rückwarts mir entgegen
(Two-Legs passes by me going backwards (but what he really means is that his subject is starting to want it))
Honig bleibt am Strumpfband kleben
(The/my honey sticks to his stockings)
Ich bin enttauscht total enttauscht
(I’m disappointed, really disappointed)

Bück Dich…
Das Gesicht interessiert mich nicht
(Faces don’t interest me)

Der Zweibeiner hat sich gebückt
(Two-Legs bends over)
In ein gutes Licht geruckt
(Finding favour in the light (where I can hone my aim))
Zeig ich ihm was man machen kann
(I show him what a man can do (to another man))
Und ich fang zu weinen an
(Which brings me to tears (of joy or maybe not))

Der Zweifuss stammelt ein Gebet
(Two-Legs screws-up his prayers)
Aus Angst weil es mir schlechter geht
(He is afraid because I’m not pleased (with his performance))
Versucht er tief sich noch zu bücken
(So he tries harder to bend over more)
Tranen laufen hoch den Rucken
(My tears flow up his back)

-end translation-

So I guess, in a way, dear worst-reader, Rammstein has written a homage to humanity and its ability to subject itself to Bück Dick or, putting it in a less Germanic way, bent over and wantonly penetrated so you can have a life where/while someone else can’t. That is, indeed, the only reason you have a life, isn’t it? Because someone else doesn’t? Or are we still on the great white ape thing and how humanity achieved so much coming out of the stone age? But I digress.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.

-T

Links that motivated this post:


  1. Note dear worst-reader: I’m taking extreme liberties with this translation. In fact, I am stretching bigly here in an attempt to capture some essence. For example, although I’m using a simple and direct translation of Bück Dich above, there are other translations that would be just as good, e.g. bend over bitch, bow (as in before me), submit (your ass to me), know your place (in this world or in this corporation), I know your place (in this world or in this corporation and will lead you to it you fcuking simpleton automaton that has never had an original thought). ↩︎

Pyongyang’s Train Driver (A Dream)

kim jong un portrait

The man I was sent to replace was named Charlie. His full name: Christofer Littleton. He was born in Liverpool, England, but hadn’t been back there since he was a kid. After his mother abruptly died on his twelve birthday, his father, who was an engineer for the British army, packed up everything and the two went to India. Charlie finished growing up in Bangelore where his father was a consultant to the Indian Government. After completing compulsory school and utilising contacts from his father, Charlie took a job as a tool-man in Hong Kong. When he departed India, it was two days before his eighteenth birthday. It was 1953.

A “Tool-Man” is another name for a train engineer.

His idea was to work in China and help that country develop its metro system. To start, though, Charlie worked with the digging crews that would eventually lay the first rails of the Hong Kong MTR. During his second year, right after his contract was renewed, Charlie met Marry. Marry was from Korea. Marry moved to HK just after North Korea tried to invade South Korea. Marry and Charlie never had a family. One day Marry went to Charlie and told him she was unhappy with their lives in Hong Kong and that her unhappiness had nothing to do with being barren. She then said that she had a big family back in Korea and she was ready to go home. Charlie had worked ten years. The HK MTR was flourishing.

Charlie quit his job at Hong Kong MTR. With in a few months he and Marry took a boat to South Korea. Once there Marry revealed that her family wasn’t in the South but instead in the North. This revelation had little impact. Charlie joined his wife and the two entered North Korea. It was 1965.

I met Charlie in 1989 in a small office in the south-east corner basement of The Pyongyang Great Hall. The door to Charlie’s office was labelled “Tool-Man” and below that was the Korean translation. After greetings and other formalities, Charlie immediately took me to the train station that was directly at the rear entrance of The Great Hall. It was during this walk through the building that I realised my situation. I was living a dream. Yes, dear worst-reader. Some live dreams through the physical universe, some do not.

I tried to question Charlie about his decision to live in The North. Other than the following, Charlie withheld elaborating about his life decisions. He said, “Do your job.” His other remark was: Not unlike where you come from, everything here is not a dream.

We exited the rear of The Great Hall and I found myself standing directly on the train departure platform. Something was waaaaay out of whack. I couldn’t place it, though. My watch read nine forty-six. The morning air was fresh and crisp, unlike the air in Seoul–which I had no recollection of traveling to. The grey sky dimmed my view somewhat of the train grounds behind The Grat Hall but below the platform was a single narrow gauge track. The track was just as out-of-whack as the departure platform. In fact, according to my limited knowledge of trains, the gauge of the track meant that the train could not be a real train. But none of that mattered because, regardless of train here or there, I would command it the rest of my life… in North Korea.

During the first few moments of this passing of the baton, Charlie voiced soliloquies about his endeavours and when he was done he continued with songs of glory-interludes, adding tales of privilege while driving Dear Leader around the grounds behind The Great Hall. There was also a small buffet of goose-shrimp, tackle-butter and confused-gender bread but only attendees with a special badge could take from it. I did not have the special badge.

I kept one eye on Charlie and the other on the people gathering around us. As each person recognised Charlie and then me, the reason for my presence became clearer. Oh, dear worst-dreamer, I was indeed there for a reason. The reason goes beyond the metaphysical of my never having laid one foot in either South or North Korea. As best as I can surmise, the only reason I was there–in reality or not–was to relay Charlie’s message. For I am, in fact, a chronicler of a dream’s dream.

Being a tool-man wasn’t Charlie’s only purpose in life. His life was the two sides of all coins. First there was Marry. Second there was his message. Together these two purposes served a power higher than even the most giving and willing humans have ever attempted. I speak, of course, of the great messengers Jesus, Mohammad and, perhaps, #Trump. (I use the word “perhaps” because purpose remains to be determined. Or?)

Upon my arrival Charlie had already surpassed his time on earth. His extension or continuance, if you will, was granted by Dear Leader. The cause of this grant was a mistake in life and was not unlike mistakes from other infamous messengers: He failed to get the message out.

I’m wondering if the whole idea of message-delivery is that which brings me to my greatest fear: Not having enough time to debate the error and misfortune of the only son-of-God, born to this foul-able coil, like so many others, of mortality, and thereby stuck with the impossible. But I’m off subject–perhaps.

No matter where Charlie stood during the ceremony there was a descending sun-glow around his head. He had no remorse in saying goodbye to the facility that had him trapped for so many years. Is his face just like that of Jesus? Was his a face of disappointment? A face of misguided rage? Forgive me father for we have sinned?

By-the-buy, asking The Father for forgiveness of your sins was once a translators interpretation of pre canonical text. The reason it is still used today, even though it has nothing to do with biblical forgiveness-seeking, is because it’s what JC said either before or after “Father why hast thou forsaken me.” In fact, JC mumbled no-nonsense for hours before his final light went out.

But Charlie’s remorse was something else. In fact, I’d go so far as to claim that he knew all along that I would get the baton. He might not have known my face but he knew someone would be there. He might have even known all along that he wouldn’t be able to get his message out. So I also wondered if he was enjoying the suffering in my face. Yes, I think he was enjoying it.

After elegantly praising his time as Tool-Man and extolling the joy of marriage, he turned to me and put a hand in a coat pocket. Out of his pocket he pulled a lone key attached to a six inch diameter stainless steel ring. He handed me the ring and key and told me to be gentle but also firm… with her. Then he added: she will determine your time. He stood at attention as the small gauge train rolled around the small gauge track and came to halt before us–on the small departure platform. It was the first time I had seen the down-scaled train.

The underlings of the train exited from one of the three cars attached and they all shook hands with Charlie first. Charlie responded in Korean to their gestures and when all was done, the underlings turned to me and offered salutations anew. As I began to shake hands and reciprocate, Charlie entered the last train car and the train drove off towards the west corner of The Great Hall and I would never see him again.

Just then I woke up.

-end-

Rant on.

-T

Yet Another Example Of Fixing Stupid With Stupider

IMG_3235
That’s right. The red text is from worst-writer.

Disclaimer: The pic above is not an ad. Also, I wish no ill-will to the winery. And in all fairness, the wine wasn’t all that bad (as I eventually did try it–but never drank a glass of it). But I do wish to be critical–on behalf of all humanity that has not allowed itself to be distorted by wilful ignorance.

The pic above, dear worst-reader, is from a recent visit to The Homeland. And that’s where everything starts, doesn’t it? I mean. Come on. A once great nation can now be referred to as The Homeland. If Orwell were to turn in his grave, he also most certainly would be cynically laughing his a$$ off right now. What Aldus Huxley would be doing is whole ‘nother question–so let’s not go there (yet). Instead. Consider The Homeland and what lead to The Homeland for the rest of this worst-post. And now… let’s continue with a blossoming feminine flower that is in a perpetual state of menstruation but eventually finds it way to all-things cognitive.

The wine in the bottle in the pic above is called “Reconciliation”. As bad as the name The Homeland is, Reconciliation can be no worse. Or? When I first saw this bottle and recognised what someone was offering me to drink and what some wine maker decided to call it, I fcuking freaked out. After a few minutes, though, when my steamy, rocket-ship feet once again found solidity with this earth, images and audio of George Carlin and Bill Hicks began to scatter through the innards of my skull. It’s at that moment I turned to the person attempting to serve me.

“I’m not drinking anything from that bottle. Thank you all the same,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Have you lost all since of reality,” I asked my gracious but somewhat politically naive host.

“What do you mean, it’s good wine. I buy it by the case. It was a great catch last summer.”

“My friend…,” I tried to continue but was having trouble pushing my chin upwards in attempt to close-off my dropped jaw.

Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. There has never been and, perhaps, there should never be Reconciliation. Reason? When a war is won, there is a loser and there is a winner. The dip$hit southern states of the United Mistakes of #americant lost the Civil War. And the cock-sucking traitors didn’t JUST lose. They lost big time. And not only did they lose, but they should have also lost the right to even be part of the United Mistakes. Every fcuking person in the fcuking south should have been put on a ship and sent to Africa where they and their great grand children should spend eternity trying to find forgiveness where forgiveness isn’t deserved. With that in mind, Abraham Lincoln deserves a big… Fcuk You Abe! For letting so many of THEM off the hook.

Considering the (political) state of the US today, I suppose it’s no wonder that a bottle of wine named after a lie can be sold to certain clientele. Obviously, according to worst-writer, this clientele is part of the TV nation, better known as The DumbDown aka The Homeland. Even I–a harbinger of wanton intolerance that began with Ronald Reagan–know that rational thinking can only go so far–and so: a bottle of wine named after a systematically perpetuated lie is at the end of my (tolerance) rope. Obviously, there is a place/need for The DumbDown in a society. But the problem now is that The DumbDown have practically taken over as they serve a higher monetary power. But I digress.

Indeed. Let the Phoenix rise. Let the motherfcuker burn (down).

Rant on.

-T

Typing On The New MacBook, The Joy Of Butterfly

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I can’t feel a thing. Well, actually I feel a small click. Yes. It’s a click where there should be movement. And I’m not talking about the trackpad? Yet, so similar are these new input and control gadgets on Apple’s new MacBook. Comparatively, there is much more movement of the keys and the trackpad of my MacBook Air (MBA). And, btw, I’ve always hated chicklet keyboards. And so, Apple came up with a software solution to enhance the typing environment–just for me.

Get this.

You can, in preferences, actually turn on a clicking sound for the trackpad. Ain’t that a hoot! Of course, I don’t know if that’s cool or stupid. But I don’t really care. The software click of the trackpad corresponds perfectly to the precise click of the keyboard and its oh-so limited butterfly key travel. In fact, I’d say this new keyboard is actually louder than the old keyboard. And so, I’m thinking about the keys of the Apple USB keyboard connected to my Mac Pro 5,1. Those keys move more than the ones on my MBA. And as stated: I’m not a fan of chicklets. Yet, in my pseudo review of this MacBook, something isn’t right… when I’m not typing on it.

Here’s the confiscation run-down.

I’m not sure my wife’s 100% behind me taking her MacBook. On the other hand, I can’t stand seeing the thing just lie around. She bought this 2nd gen MacBook in the late summer of 2016 but never really used it. Why she bought it in the first place is another story. In short, it had something to do with her job and BYOD (bring your own device). It turns out that her iPad was more than enough to be her daily driver–even at work. After about six or eight months lugging both the MacBook and the iPad to work she started leaving the MacBook home. That’s when I started fiddling with it in the name of empirical study. I was curious about the device since its debut. It turns out that the performance of the M3 processor is every bit as good as the performance of the i7 processor of my 2015 MBA. Let me tell you, dear worst-reader, that was the first sign that my MBA’s days were numbered.

The complaints.

The Interwebnet is full of MacBook keyboard sucks complainers. Reviewers and users alike all have something negative to say about this new design. Complaints usually start with the price, then comes the keyboard and it all seems to culminate with the single USB-C port. To me, considering Apple’s product trajectory, which is obviously iOS centric, this MacBook only makes sense. I for one am not ready to go iOS–but I see the inevitability of the future. Trust me, I tried i0S. I had a iPad 4 for about a year. And I honestly tried to supplant my 2013 13″ MacBook Pro with it. I did not succeed. I dumped the iPad 4 for an Apple refurbished MacBook Air. (By-the-buy, that’s the only way I buy Apple hardware now.) Apple’s pro machines are too high-priced and also a bit of tech overkill for my needs. And so, my best guess is the only reason Apple still has the Air model is so they can offer it to guys like me in the $999 bracket–or even cheaper refurbished. Anywho. The new-fangled MacBook starts at three hundred bucks more than an Air–and for the life of me I don’t really know why. Despite the new design features, it feels as though you are paying way more for way less by going with the new device. A hefty hunk of change indeed.

And now for some worst-writer honesty.

If I were at an Apple Store right now I wouldn’t even look at a MacBook. That pink colour is just too f’n scary. I would go straight to the Pro line. I’m not sure how long it would take, but after a few milliseconds of witnessing the price of “pro” models, I’d be out of the store and once again walking home where I would try and catch a great deal buying from Apple’s refurbish program. There is no doubt that Apple Macs are waaaaaaay over priced. Yet, I’m stuck in the eco-system. I’m only glad that I have a choice other than full retail consumption of this krapp.  That said, here I am–by means of marital confiscation–absolutely loving the new design, including the keyboard, the single port and f’n everything else. Is it faster than my three year old Air (with i7 cpu): no. Is the screen better: yes. Is the build better: yes. Is the keyboard better: it’s definitely not worse than any chicklet keyboard. Which brings me to…

The only thing I ever learned in #americant public school was the ability to all finger type.

I probably haven’t typed anything on a mechanical typewriter in about two years. I think I might have used my Hermes Baby last year when I needed to address some envelopes. That’s right, dear worst-reader. I addressed snail mail envelopes using a typewriter instead of printing from a laser printer. The reason for that, other than romance and nostalgia mixed with bit of boredom, is not worth addressing here. What’s important is that I don’t miss typing on typewriters. It was/is time to give them up–and not because I too am becoming outdated. I have long since embraced the glorified-typewriters aka computers of today for all my writing. In fact, I was thinking about buying one of them glass cabinets and putting it in a room and filling it with Hermes, Olivetti, Olympia, Princess and Groma Kolibri–all of which are retired in a few boxes in my basement.

glass cabinet for typwriter collection

Oh yeah. The MacBook keyboard.

For the life of me I can’t understand why people complain about this keyboard. Considering that I’ve always found chicklet keyboards a bad idear, this so-called butterfly keyboard made me curious from the get-go. I can see why finger-picking typists would have a hard time with it. The keys have very little travel and even less tactile feel. For finger-pickers it must be like tapping on a glass plate–or worse: typing on an iPad (aghast). When I focus with all nine fingers*, when I soften my strokes, when I get going, I love this keyboard. The butterfly mechanism alleviates having to find the sweet spot of, say, chicklet keys–which is often the biggest problem I’ve had when using my ring finger and little finger on those keyboards. No matter what part of the key you touch on the new MacBook keyboard, it activates. It also makes it easier to find/reach shift-keys and all the other non letter keys with ring and little fingers.

Worst-Writer conclusion: the only other laptop keyboard that has ever been worth a hoot is that of the older Thinkpads. But from what I understand Lenovo, since taking over from IBM, has resorted to chicklet keys, too. As far as I can tell, getting rid of the chicklet keyboard was one of the best things Apple could do. With that in mind, you finger typists should finally learn to type.

Rant on.

-T

*Nine fingers because I use only my right thumb when typing.