Finally broke down, dear worst-reader. I splurged the 4,99-€ to rent Snowden last night. Do I regret it? In German the answer is: Jein. It’s a cross between ja (yes) and nein (no). I suppose the more significant question is: would I do it again–as in maybe even buy this movie so that I can play it when I want, how I want, if I want? F’n no! Luckily there’s not much to say about the movie other than… Well, it sucked. In that vein…
During the movie my better half was sick of me turning to her and sticking a finger down my throat. Barf! Especially the various lovey-dovey scenes between Snowden and his pole dancing girlfriend. My guess is Oliver Stone doesn’t really care at this point if his dialogue sucks. He obviously thinks there is a bigger story to be told. Yes, indeed, he thinks that.
I did perk up a few times, though. The scene where the NSA guy lies in front of Congress was pretty good. I even cracked a joke about how the NSA can lie to Congress and get away with it but when Clinton lied about a White House back room blowjob… Then there was the scene where Glenn Greenwald gets pissed at The Guardian and he threatens to go rogue. In fact, during this scene I paused the movie to explain to those watching what really happened–which is a mystery to me why Stone didn’t put this in the movie.
Glenn Greenwald did leave The Guardian and with the help of a mega-rich dotcom funder started the most expensive blog in history: The Intercept. As I’ve posted here, my biggest gripe with the whole Snowden ordeal is the fact that people like Greenwald, to this day, are sitting on all the data. It’s fine if Snowden thinks he was being strategic by giving his data to “responsible” journalists and that they should decide what/when to publish. I just disagree with having to leave it up to profiteering journalists to make that judgement. But I digress.
All in all, this film is horrible. The cinematography sucks. The editing sucks. The screenplay sucks. Etc., etc. Also. I learned nothing new about Snowden–which is the main reason I decided to watch it. Questions are still un-answered and/or un-addressed that I think are important and would have helped people better understand what is really going on with not only Edward Snowden but the entire US government apparatus that reared him. For example:
How did Snowden get on that flight to Moscow from Hong Kong? I mean, who let him on that flight? If THEY wouldn’t let him board a plane to South American, how was he able to get to Russia? If the people that were with him in Hong Kong arranged his flight, why wasn’t that in the film?
Why is it that The Guardian no longer publishes any of the material that it shared wth Greenwald and Ewen MacAskill? Is The Intercept the sole publisher of the Snowden material now? Where is the rest of that material?
Where does Snowden come from? What are his beliefs? Considering the batshittery of #americant politics these days, I think it’s very important to know what these batshitters think, how they were raised, where they come from. For instance. Who is Edward Snowden’s father? I recall a few times in the news, early on, Snowden’s father was featured in reports with words like “libertarianism” and “freedom”. These words are thrown around like badmintion birdies at a drunk family picnic–especially when used by tea-party families. Again: Batshit radical right wing #americant is what got us into the mess we’re in. The scariest thing about Snowden is NOT is data-dump but how he thinks. The way he throws around the word Constitution, as though it’s a veil of sorts, is also a redflag. Indeed. The country is in quagmire of irrational exuberant misplaced patriotism, rightousness and all that jazz. A Mess. Mess. Mess.
The demonising of the CIA and the NSA, as Stone does it, is probably warranted but unnecessary for this story. I’m a big fan of Oliver Stone. I consider him a teacher. The way Stone portrays them here, though, is nothing more than opening a can of worms and then leaving the rest of us to sort it out. What a drag.
Beckett the killer pug was taking me for a walk the other day while I listened to a podcast or three. After a few hours of peeing on trees and licking the dew from morning grass and counting the barges that traverse the Rhein, I decided enough was enough and told the old mutt to take me home. He did. He then fed me a late morning breakfast and proceeded to find a place on the couch to take a late morning nap. Motivated from a podcast and after consuming too much post nap coffee I decided to re-watch the movie Wag The Dog. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw it. But I’ve seen it at least once before going back to the early 2000s. I think I might have tried to watch it a second time after that but gave up on the film. I remember when the movie came out around 1997/8. It was somewhat of a hit within the stretched minds of German intellectuals–who always get a kick out of laughing at my beloved #americant. For the life of me, though, I couldn’t remember what the film was about. But I vividly remember that other 90s political film Primary Colors. Um.
Something obviously motivated me to re-watch Wag The Dog. Damn podcasts! So I purchased a rental verison of it via Apple’s krappy streaming system and by 5pm had consumed it. Then I realised something.
Say, this would be a good movie to watch with my über intellectual better-half.
I was sure she hadn’t seen it and since we’ve been going back and forth about Trump and #americant politics lately, this would be a good show starter for an evening of dilemma or love. Indeed. Since I was late at preparing dinner, I jumped to the task and whipped up something delicious (as usual). After feeding my better-half, I surprised her with…
Hey, baby. How ’bout a film?
Being the stoic German female she’s always been, I had to first inform her a bit about the movie, which I proceeded to do. Her skepticism aside, I poured her a glass of Spanish red wine, put the cheese and cracker plate on the table next to her couch and then hit the play button on the really, really stupid little aluminium Apple remote control device. Within the first twenty minutes she was bitten. By the time it was over she had loved both my cheese plate, the wine and was asking:
Why hadn’t I seen it before?
Why hadn’t I told her about it?
Short story long. It was a nice marital bonding evening. I guess. And so…
By the next morning the movie had triggered something in my mind. It took me back to the 90s when the world had learned the specificities of things like blowjobs and protein stains on blue dresses. In the film the president allegedly had an affaire with an underage girl. Technology in the form of network connected gadgets was gonna take us into the future. At the beginning of the movie there is a Palm Pilot device. And in order to be famous you should make a sextape with your gadgets that features blowjobs because in the future those sextapes, morally and ethically, will pale in comparison to what a broken society can be made to do after it’s been so thoroughly manipulated. Even though the sextapes have nothing to do with Wag The Dog, thinking of the 90s just brought that out of me. Indeed. While watching a film I was re-living a past worth forgetting and there were these titillating images of Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian and a few stupid white people haunting humanity.
Why does the dog wag its tail?
Because a dog is smarter than its tail.
If the tail were smarter, it would wag the dog. (-BS from the beginning of the movie)
Back to the present.
How is it that a movie like Wag The Dog can be so misinterpreted so many years after its inception? Easy. It’s the same as with The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Comedy is ok as long as it stays funny. Go beyond funny…. That show was about one thing and one thing only. Make fun of politics. I’m sure its audience thought it was funny, too. You know, people thought that the show was actually political–or about politics and those stupid white men who are in it. But consider this, dear worst-reader. Making fun of something is no different than dismissing it. Dismissing something also means that you run from it. The grave error of Wag The Dog–or the error of people putting such a film on any kind of pedestal–is that in the end all one does is avoid reality. Another by-product of reality avoidance, btw, is conspiracy theorising.
In the podcast that motivated me to re-watch Wag The Dog, the film is lauded as a work of genius that fortold the future about how the #americant public can be easily manipulated. This fortelling, of course, is embodied in Robert DeNiro’s character who plays a kind of political spin-doctor for the president but actually looks like a professor that lost tenor. The podcast also mentioned how DeNiro & Co, in order to manipulate further, come up with things like The B-3 Bomber and a military special unit called The 303. The podcast was comparing all the krapp from the movie with what Trump is doing and, of course, how conspiratorial it all is. Oh my. This use of the number three, btw, is supposed to have some kind of conspiracy theory significance about the fate of the world–and more importantly the fate of #americants that both can’t pay their mortgage because they can’t afford the rest of their gluttonous credit card consumption or their God fearing sex practices that linger in their minds while being sexually repressed to the hilt. Oh my.
But before I get too off subject. The movie Primary Colors left a bit more of an impression on me because it didn’t have to use so much innuendo and conspiracy theorising to tell its story. It was basically the same movie but it got a bit closer to the self inflicted misery of a greed society run amok and how that society elects its politicians. It’s also a bit clearer about how those politicians actually behave in a game facilitated by an inept and ignorant society. Indeed. John Travolta deserved more recognition as President than Dustin Hoffman got as Producer. But then again, what do I know about movies?
And here’s the catcher that worst-writer should have been worst-writing about the whole time in this post.
David Mamet was in a bit of a feud over who should get screen writing credits for Wag The Dog. That about says everything about this film. Well, that and the fact that Primary Colors was pretty much being made at the same time says something, too. Mamet is without a doubt a brilliant writer but he also a money grubbing shitbag that thinks just like a faux newz old white man that never really found a place to put his cock or his misery so he puts it on others in the name of some kind of political ideology that, according to California, treads on me. Or maybe not.
Nomatter. I think I’m gonna re-watch Primary Colors in the hope that it will purge the nonsense of Wag The Dog from my system.
One last thought before heading back to the old country where rational thought (still) prevails in the confines of political discourse. I spent a lot of time joining my mother this visit to her various church gatherings. Whether it’s mass on Sunday morning or happy-hour at a local lodge, I’m there watching her, witnessing, taking in the carnage that is my beloved #americant–and its old people. The only problem I have with hanging out with mom and her “friends” are the staunch republicans that occupy not only her church but the entire community where she lives. Which is kind of odd because, well, at least at the church, the pastor is an obvious liberal type–liberal as in he’s a hippy. That combined with an open door policy towards minorities, gays and, goodness forbid, immigrants (there is a sign in front of the church that reads: “immigrants are welcome”), it’s a bit of a wonder that so many church goers are atypical republican followers. Or maybe not. Nonetheless.
I was sitting at a happy-hour gathering of Mom’s church goers the other day and an elderly couple started complaining about Nancy Pelosi. It was right out of the blue. They were chomping down on their tuna salad sandwiches and chips and sodas when suddenly the doors of TV propaganda hell opened up and Pelosi was the wrath occupying their mind’s eye. I assumed that since they had gotten rid of Hillary in the last election, Pelosi was next in line–which I guess, for them, made sense. But then I popped a question to the patriarch that lead the anti-Pelosi wrath.
“Why are you concerned about a Senator that represents California? Aren’t there more important things for a Marylander to be worried about?”
“She’s the worst. She’s gotta go. Trump’s gonna take care of her, too.”
Keep in mind, dear worst-reader, this conversation was right in the middle of Trump’s attempt at getting rid of Obamacare–which, btw, was on the brink of failure.
“Let me ask you a question, sir,” I said. “I’m fifty-three years old, can you name me a liberal policy in the last thirty years that has negatively effected your life?”
“Obamacare!” he said.
“But sir, Obamacare is Mitt Romney’s health care plan for the state of Massachusetts, when he was that states republican governor.”
“Oh, then I guess you know everything,” the old, wrinkled, spoiled rotten American said.
“So you can’t answer my question, then,” I asked.
Both he and his wife got up with their paper plates full of processed food and walked to the other side of the room. They sat with other old people and continued eating.
It was a disgusting moment as I watched all those old people, born around the end of WW2, filled with rage because, well, they weren’t able to take even more than they already owned to the grave with them. Shame. Shame. Shame.
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.