What does it take to change the story(line), dear worst-reader? You know. Change the story so that it fits the/your narrative. As in. My beloved & missed #Americant can’t quite figure out what to do with the mischief of its toddler man-children in the here and now that has become a $hitshow of greed and deplorable-ism run amok. Since it’s already beaten the bee-jee-zees out of most its people in the past two centuries, what’s left to do in order to maintain a certain level of control of the mind–that, of course, only benefits the few? With that in worst-mind, am I starting to sympathise with the events of January 6, 2021?
No. I’m not. But if I were….
As much as I despise the misconstrued anger and bespoke bigotry of the idiot white men who stormed The Capitol–and I also hope they are all punished for their transgressions–something makes me wish that at least part of their voice(s) could be heard. For here’s the thing these men have never (will never) learn in their measly, deplorable, mendacious lives:
Violence begets….
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Even though no gun shots were fired from the storming deplorable masses, does the question need be asked as to why their other half was the only one to have fired a gun–and thereby needlessly kill a person? Indeed. Only one shot was fired–and it was from the pawn of the oppressor, i.e. the Capitol Police. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, if you lined all the people up from both sides of the January 6, 2021 $hitshow, and lined them up naked, don’t you know, would you be able to tell them apart? Ah. The wrath of ugly deplorable white people all looking the same, naked. Moving on.
Many of the participants of January 6 were, of course, wielding weaponry–even though the Shaman and his viking wannabe weaponry was more akin to elementary school show & tell. My worst-point is this: in a country where guns and mass shootings are commonplace, why wasn’t there more shooting from those who think they were so righteous? I mean. I don’t know about you. From what I’ve read about history, revolutions end up killing lots of people. Am I wrong? I mean. On January 6 only five people died. Could that be the ultimate fail/pass grade of #Americant politics culminating in #MAGA and president piss-hair? Or. Where have all the Patrick Henry testicles gone?
Better yet: WTF?
Which brings me to a worst-analogy that’s crossed my thoughts recently. When was the last time you watched One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest, dear worst-reader? I mean. For the past few weeks this movie has been on my mind–along with January 6. That is. Is there anything from this movie that reminds you of January 6? Murphy (Jack Nicholson) is Deplorable, is he not? Or. As sympathetic as Murphy is (in the movie version), can Deplorable be wrapped in sweet gold fun chocolate, aka take the inmates out for a fishing trip, get an inmate laid, and perhaps even become your drinking buddy? Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher), on the other hand, is the State. She was indeed recruited to run the asylum wing of said State. No? None of this analogising working for you, dear worst-reader? Well, how ’bout this? I recently (re)watched One Flew Over The Cuckoos nest and I did so because, well, I think a little voice told me it was/is totally comparable. Do you ever hear little voices, dear worst-reader? Sometimes all they do is giggle to me you know. But not this time. Moving on.
In worst-writer’s humble opinion there’s only three things one needs to know/remember/concern one’s self with… when trying to make a worst-comparison between #Americant’s newest form of idiocy-governance run amok and a film appropriately titled: One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest. Let’s list them, shall we.
The antagonist of the film is a woman with power.
All of the crazies in the partly voluntary asylum are white men.
All the conflict in the film lead only to a sub-character, the Indian, escaping.
And so. This latest viewing of the movie has re-channeled my POV regarding Nurse Ratched and January 6, 2021. Although it’s been probably ten or so years since I last watched Cuckoos Nest, for whatever worst-reason, this viewing has opened my mind to the idear that Ratched might not be so bad after all–and, perhaps, not all the morons of the January 6 pseudo-putsch, as dumb as they seem, are as bad either. Oh. Hold a sec. By-the-buy. Only after this third or fourth or fifth viewing of Cuckoos Nest (in early February 2021) did I hear that Ratched and her, let’s say, somewhat antagonising character, has been rejuvenated in a TV series. I haven’t seen the series as of the writing of this worst-post but be assured I intend to watch it as soon as it’s available (to me). So let’s put that aside, eh.
This most recent viewing of Cuckoos Nest has showed me that Nurse Ratched (Government and/or state authority) ain’t so bad. In fact, now more than ever, I believe that Nurse Ratched is a pretty sympathetic character, including her treatment of Murphy (Deplorables). Keep in mind, the reason Murphy is in the asylum is not because he’s trying to avoid prison but instead because he thinks:
He can outwit the system.
He is in control of inner demons that only know that violence begets….
In the novel there is much more insight to the origin of Murphy’s violence and the reason he has been incarcerated by the State. That worst-said, I still prefer the movie character, especially the brilliance of Jack Nicholson and the foresight of the director (Miloš Forman) to exclude any character development of Murphy. That said, Murphy is simply a vehicle to a much larger message which may or may not be the subtext of the movie. Namely, #Americant manhood is doomed to a life of subjugation–with or without a lobotomy.
Now. Getting back to January 6. Is it me or has anyone else noticed that the only person killed by the State during this amateur attempt at a revolution was a woman? In this worst-writer context does that then bare the question: what if Murphy actually killed Ratched? But on that must die-gress.
Indeed. The only person killed by the State on January 6 was an Air Force vet who tried to break through a window while inside the Capitol in order to get on the floor of the House of Representatives to show her hate of Nancy Pelosi. Now. Considering the idear, via the Rolling Stones, that there’s a fine line between being a cop and a criminal, do we really need to differentiate good and evil within the confines of Empire run amok, aka #Americant? You know, even though I hate the bothsideism thing in #Americant politics, the one time it is applicable is when comparing a mob of deplorable white people storming the Capitol with the poor souls tasked with protecting it.
Just as every cop is a criminal, And all the sinners saints, As heads is tails, Just call me Lucifer, ‘Cause I’m in need of some restraint, (Who who, who who) -Rolling Stones, Sympathy For The Devil
So. Like. I guess. I’m wondering if January 6 can contain the great missed message of the the film One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest? You know. Not only are criminals and madmen made (Murphy) but they are also convenient (Ratched)–especially in a State on the verge of wanton madness. The only question that remains, then, is: since #Americant has lobotomised most of its people via lack of education, religion, anti-intellectualism and consume-to-survive, who/what/where is the one sub-character to be set free?
Yes. Indeed. Things to worst-ponder.
Rant on.
-T
PS Here’s a thought I wasn’t able to work into this worst-text. For worst-posterity I’ll just jot it here. Who knows. Maybe it’ll stay in my head for a while and I’ll be able to use it again somewhere else. Or maybe not.
The moment the class-clown stops your laughter is the moment you realise your lobotomy.
It’s what I’m feeling sometimes, dear worst-reader. In these Covid times. Even though I try my worst-best not to live off my emotions–you know, like my #Americant rearing dictates–these times of restrictions galore tempt me. For example. The other day I screwed up real bad via unbridled temptation. I mean. Since I’m not a regular consumer of Germania media, either visually (TV) or text (newspaper), I quickly realised that I’m quite uninformed when it comes to dos and don’ts while out and about during quarantine. I mean. Of course I know there’s a special kinda lock-down going on, but I’m also quite unaware of exactly what that lock-down entails. With that in mind, let’s worst-write on.
While on a get some fresh air e-bike ride the other day I wondered into two places. The first was a motorcycle dealership where I had noticed through the front window the bike I’d buy if I could in order to get back into riding. Yeah, it’s been twenty years since I’ve ridden, don’t you know. After noticing that two people had exited the showroom, I locked up my e-bike, dawned my mask, read the rules on the front door–about social distancing and masks and whatnot–and entered. I immediately squirted some sanitiser on my hands and then proceeded to sign-in on the tracking register. But before I could enter my full contact details an employee entered out of nowhere and started berating me about how I was breaking the rules and that I couldn’t just enter the place. Shocked, I quickly realised that I was in the wrong–even though I didn’t quite know why or what deserved such vehemence. Also, with masks it’s difficult to see/read all of the emotional distress I was causing. Not being a native German, all I remember is hearing the native berate me in his guttural German–along with those German eyes. It was kinda horrifying. I tried to tell the guy that I was sorry and that I just saw two people walk out of the place but he insisted on berating me at the top of his teutonic lungs and that he didn’t feel like paying a fine for my stupidity which was somewhere around twenty-five hundred Euros and he said that I am a… but didn’t actually use the word… idiot . The whole time, of course, worst-writer is smiling and quivering under my mask and on my way out I manage to snap the following pic. She sure is pertty, ain’t she?
Actually I’d prefer it in black but if any worst-readers are willing, I’ll take the grey.
The good news is, when I got home I caught up on the details of German quarantine rules and also started to wonder if the Germans are gonna track me down for breaking those rules. Remember, I did sign the tracking form when I entered the dealership. Wow. Paranoia in the land of paranoia. The bad news is, while having ruined my e-bike ride for some fresh air, on my way home I stopped once again at one of my favourite places to find some soul solace: a cemetery. Keep in mind, dear worst-reader, other than lots of archaic and mind-bending human mis-history, there are only two things today that one needs to experience in #Eurowasteland. Conveniently these two things are related. Have you guessed what they are? Ok. Here’s a hint: Churches and cemeteries. Indeed. #Eurowasteland is awash in mysticism and deserved human rot. But on that note, I must die-gress.
Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. During some of my e-bike treks every once-a-once I like to stop to talk with the souls of the dead to hear what they have to say about the living. This particular cemetery, by-the-buy, is also one of the regions largest. And. With another by-the-buy. Since expatriating to Germania, I’ve attended three funerals at this particular cemetery. Two of those people I knew, one I didn’t. Yeah, I guess in these waning days of worst-life, it’s time for me to pull a Harold & Maude and start attending funerals–just for the hell of it. And so. While walking my e-bike around the graves I decided to see if I could find a new exit. Usually I just went from one end of the cemetery and exited out the other–as it was also a short cut even though, out of respect, I walked my e-bike through it. Yeah, that’s how big it is if you have to ride around it. But I’ve always wondered if it was such a large cemetery was there another exit? When I began to realise that there probably wasn’t, and while in a dank corner amongst misty gravestones, I happened across what is now my favourite grave of all-time. See the pic at the top of this worst-post.
I was truly taken aback by the caged grave I had discovered. I had never seen such a grave before. It’s like a grave prison, dear worst-reader. And that really befuddles me. At least I’ve not seen, in this region of Germany, a grave that makes such a profound statement. Yet, as I thought about statements, I got hung up on two possibilities as to what that statement is. The first possible statement from the grave is thus: what’s in here needs to stay in. The second statement is, and this one really gets my croissant boiling: no, you can’t come in and join me.
And now for a bit of back story regarding my desire to communicate with souls. While living in Darmstadt many years ago, which is a few hours south of Düsseldorf, one of my favourite places to go to talk to the souls of the dead, was Frankenstein’s Castle. For you know the story of Frankenstein, eh, dear worst-reader? I mean the book, not the movie(s). Indeed. The castle is a grand place, especially if you go there when there are no tourists or it’s not late October. For if you wish you can tease the souls of the dead about how they are the ones that have given us this $hit world, i.e. the future they made. Which is what I like to do. In fact. While talking with souls I used to tell them I would be seeing them soon–with a vengeance. For someone has to make the past pay for what it has done to the future. Or. If you prefer, dear worst-reader, you can just go to Frankenstein’s Castle and chill, smoke a joint and ponder Mary Shelly’s mindset that lead to The Modern Prometheus. But on that note, again, I must die-gress.
In short, so that one may make the connection, the legend of Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus was ALL about grave robbing. But Mary Shelly got a bit caught up in audience driven story telling before she could really jot all that down. In fact, grave robbing back then was so popular that the living conspired all the time about how to protect (their) graves. If you could afford such an elaborate cage, though, why not just pay for a tomb, which also had a certain level of protection? Indeed. Many just made sure that they were buried naked and with nothing to accompany them. Or could it be that the cage-grave is from someone who thought more like the Pharaohs? You know, bury your corpse with everything, even the key, so that when you (re)awaken, you still have it all. Who can know, eh.
So let’s ponder the statement of caged graves once more. Is the cage for keeping something in? An appropriate question as the minions and compulsive behaviourist of today go about their useless eating lives emulating so well the pitchfork morons of yore. Or is the grave statement about keeping something out? Considering how the world is currently devolving via capitalism and greed-mongering run amok which has turned so many into cannibal-like goons, is the time nigh when we have to start digging up the dead? I can’t shed the thought that it’s only a matter of time before we start once again what Mary Shelly was afraid to finish and/or write–so she covered it all up with evil pseudo-doctors and monsters. Instead I’ll just ponder the possibility of what the cage-grave is stating while studying the rules and regulations in Germania about quarantining and the idear that, even at almost sixty, I’d like to get back on a really, really cool bike and do a few laps of the Nürburgring.
One positive thing about COVID and 2021 is that I finally broke out my old typewriters and it’s now how I communicate with my mother. Can you believe it? Snail mail? Who’d a thunk it? Then again, if/when I do thunk of it, I’m curious if US Postal Services can actually deliver it. You know. Considering how $hitbag Neo-liberals have screwed up government services and whatnot. But on that worst-note, I die-gress.
This is the stage at CPAC 2021. I mean, dudes and dudets, could it be more obvious? Source of pic: see link below
Scenarios of things past that could only lead to things to come. Or. How I learned to see the future–of where my beloved & missed #Americant would go.
Scenario 1.
So. Like. It’s ca. 1984. I’m navigating my way around Washington DC trying to find an office building where I have a job interview. Remember, dear worst-reader, it was a time before mobile apps. And so. I run into two problems above and beyond my orientation (or is it navigation) ability. First. I made the mistake of asking an old man in rotted clothes if he could tell me where my street was. The man, obviously a homeless man run waaaaay down on his luck, didn’t feel like entertaining my question. Right in the middle of the sidewalk he started freaking out and calling me names. While yelling f-this and f-that and who the f do I think I am he even lunged towards me with his shopping cart and waved one of his many bags in the air as though it were a flail. I quickly ran down the wrong street to get away from him, which brings me to the second issue. As I turned a corner a jewellery store owner peered his head out of his front door and started yelling at me for disturbing the peace. He asked about how stupid I was and then added that they have to clean up every morning from the bums and why do people like me have to make things worse cause he knows the guy who just yelled at me and that he would probably take another shit in front his door, etc., etc. And then he added as I was just getting out of (his) ear-sight, why don’t they round up the bastards and put them out of their misery along with all you yuppie $hits!
I guess the stage symbolism is a bit obscure. Or? Source of pic: see link below
Scenario 2.
It would have been the late 70s. My misconstrued parents dragged me to a party. Of course, my sister was older than me which meant she could stay home alone. I obviously wasn’t in the best mood being dragged along to an adult stupid party. While there, I watched the adults get $hit-faced out of their minds while stuffing themselves with some fancy-pants catered dinner of chicken in cream sauce that I remember smelled the same as the stuff my mother was drinking (probably gin). Of course, I was forced by my drunk parents to finish my plate after which I could go into the hosts bedroom to be alone and watch a movie on their cable TV. When I asked my mother why I couldn’t have just stayed home to do that she smirked and threatened to slap me for being a smart-a$$. Oh well. Long story short, eh dear worst-reader. After watching at least two movies and noticing that it was getting pretty late, I stepped outside to see what the adults were doing. They were all still partying as though the world was coming to an end, their noise having disturbed my movie night more than thrice. But here’s the catcher. Obviously the adults had been playing some sort of betting game and when I entered the living room the bets were being paid. Remember, dear worst-reader. This was the 1970s USA. There are a few things always present at gatherings that were supposed to give off an air of pseudo-sophistication in certain middle-class environments in 70s. In the name of expediency I’ll only inform you, dear worst-reader, of the things the males brought along to such social gatherings. The first is a polyester neck tie the size of a pillow. The second is facial hair in the form of sideburns or a moustache. Of the males who lost their bets in the game, the were required to trim their moustaches in the form of the old fashioned toothbrush, i.e. the Hitler moustache. Why adults of the 70s thought this was funny I’ll never know.
Scenario 3.
Last but not least for today’s worst-post, dear worst-reader. This scenario will be a short one. While growing up in rural and suburban-hell of wannabe WASP-ville galore, I can’t count how many Jew smirks and innuendo and conspiracies I’ve heard over the years. And now that we have a congresswoman who believes that lasers in space are run by Jews…
Just when you think the direction a country takes couldn’t get more obvious, one of the two major political parties throws a shindig and can’t even hide the prejudices of a once defeated ideology. Or. I suppose. If you must. You could think that maybe, just maybe, all the white supremacists of the #Americant Republican Party just really, kinda, dig the symbols of Norse mythology.
Worst-title 2: Limbaugh gone, Limbaugh&Co alive and well. Or?
Just another judgemental worst-post here, dear worst-reader. I’ve been abiding the obligatory three days and three nights thing to see if any rednecks have uncovered the tomb to let out the ghost so that it may rise in a flash of white-trash light to save the world as their messiah ascends to the father-god of white privilege… or whatever that Biblical nonsense is when/if applied to my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant.
Rush Limbaugh is dead, dear worst-reader. May he remain dead forevermore. Of course, being worst-writer, I can’t help but see the negative (un-optimistic) side of his passing–as opposed to the positive side of his passing that other wannabe worst-hippies lavish. As I’ve noted through out this worst-blog, Limbaugh&Co is a force to be reckoned with perhaps not unlike Messiahs, demigods and whoever else can stir the emptiness of minds hinged on privilege, supremacy and redneck, trailer trash über-whiteness.
For those not in the worst-know, Rush Limbaugh equals mass hysterical bigotry run amok that is the culmination of white-trash #Americant in the 20th century. Period. Oh sure, there is more to being a piece of $hit that represents the voice of lots more pieces of $hit. But like the rest of my beloved & missed united mistakes, who’s counting? Which brings us to this worst-question: who/what the fcuk is Limbaugh&Co?
Let’s get-on with origins, dear worst-reader.
After a wasted and useless life that is/was predetermined by previous bigots and authoritarians, I’ve concluded that the quintessence which gave rise to all this mental hate-driven menace is twofold. First, there’s flower power. Second there’s sexual repression. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, what is it that right-wingers hate most? It’s not socialism. It’s not welfare-queens. It’s not taxes, big government, immigrants. No. Those are all the gaslights, the labels, the talking-points and the emotional sparks that keep the flame of hate and anger and bigotry alive and kicking in a minority of bloated, privileged white men. With that in mind, the following life-scenario ensues.
Late High-school through college, while pursing the rules set by misconstrued parenting, you struggle to become a cog in the wheel of #Americant but while doing so there are others out there smoking dope, being judgemental, bad-mouthing your/their country and and and, most importantly, getting laid. I mean. Come on, dear worst-reader. What gets under the skin of young conservatives, compulsive behaviourist and all-around, $hit-kicking #Americant males the most? That’s right. That which they think they were born to deserve. For you see, young conservative judaeo-christian males think they are privileged because they behaved according to the rules of social, systematic, sexual repression. And all the while, the good looking dudes, garnering a bit of sympathy from the ladies, just fcuked their way through life. Could a guy like Rush Limbaugh have been perturbed by anything else? Ok. There’s also greed. But let’s not get too worst-complicated here.
Short pause. Breath.
Did you get that? No? Let’s continue.
What is the result of misconstrued parenting that can never know how wrong it is (has been)? Indeed. A bag of worst-worms has been opened, eh dear worst-reader? Or has it been obvious to you all along? You know. There is a simple answer to EVERYTHING that is political and social conservatism which Rush Limbaugh best exemplified. These males simply can’t deal with the fact that the females actually dig it–and all they ultimately want is a relative good male to give it (to them). And they don’t want to be controlled by it. For don’t you know, again, dear worst-reader, where there is little to no consequence, as has been the case since mid-20th century feminist #Americant, (most) females really, really, really dig getting fcuked–or as they put it: romanced and made love to. As long, of course, as they think they have a say in it. But enough about worst-writer’s confusion regarding the female obsession with loving love1.
The origin of bigoted and oppressive rhetoric in white anglo Saxon males is best represented in EVERYTHING Limbaugh&Co says and does. Of course, there is also the females that support and enable these/their males… Well, I’ve kinda gotten into that here–but you have to admit that the footnote below is kinda good, too, when it comes to worst-splaining everything. Or?
Moving on.
What little is there to do when, at last count (Nov 2020 election), 74m of these (direct and indirect) sexually repressed bigots practically run the $hitshow through what can be only be considered political mischief-ism-galore, allowing fail-upwards #Americant to continue its slow train-wreck on the backs of everyone else–even though old-man Biden was elected? Nothing. All you can do is sit back like me. Perhaps even expatriate like me. Or just sit around and wait for a somewhat easier passing into the nevermore (death) where, hopefully, nobody will wish so much horror and suffering upon your soul that I wish upon Limbaugh&Co.
With that last bit of worst-evil in mind, the only problem is worst-writer doesn’t actually believe in heaven or hell. There is only what you leave behind when the light of life finally leaves us all. And on that note, looks like Limbaugh&Co are the winners–as his corpse finally, finally, finally… rots.
Good luck suckers.
Rant on.
-T
As in: for females love is noun; for males it’s a verb. Or something like that ↩︎
Title two: Review of the LG Cinebeam 1400 Lumen Wonder
As you may or may not know, dear worst-reader, I’m a typing nut. That’s right. Even though I’m not all-that interested in what’s been typed (by worst-moi), as long as I’m doing it, life’s almost good. The only other thing that’s better in life than typing… Wait for it. Wait for it. Are you guessing what I’m gonna say? Well, you’re wrong. It ain’t xes (spelled backwards). Only riding a motorcycle is better than typing, which I haven’t done for twenty years. Wow. Life can suck, eh! Anywho. What am I on about today?
Last summer as the COVID b.s. was hitting the $hit-fan here in good old Germania, my better half came up with the idear, even though we’re not allowed to have a TV in our living, that she was now willing to entertain a beamer–as long as it’s not hooked up to cable. For that’s the thing, dear worst-reader, we don’t watch TV. Wait. That’s ain’t quite right. Here, let me try that again.
Since the get-go in this relationship, we both decided that we don’t want any sort of TV connection and we especially don’t want a TV in our living room. As time has past, though, we have become more and more accustomed to all-things #Interwebnets. Meaning, of course, we watch movies and TV shows, we just don’t want to watch them via something that would/could be installed in our living room–that takes up space, kills time and uglyfies life. And so. That’s right. Our living room is a place where most of our reading and music listening takes place. At least it did, to my worst-surprise, until COVID and my better-half came up with the idear that it’s time to “entertain” a beamer.
Beamer of choice from the get-go has been one from LG. Reason? The bulb. The main mechanism of a beamer (projector) is how it produces the necessary light beam. This particular series of beamers uses a lighting source that is supposed to last for thirty-thousand hours. Other sources of lighting for these projectors have only hundreds of hours of capacity before the bulb has to be changed. An expense that sometimes nears the cost of the device itself. According to the limited research I did, including price shopping, that pretty much sealed the deal for the brand we ended up buying. But then I had to learn about the whole “lumen” thing. My better-half set a budget for such a device at about a thousand Euros. That may sound like a lot but I can assure it’s not. Also. Being el-cheap-o, I kinda knew I could get one for cheaper than that because I also knew that we didn’t need 4k video and 1080p would suffice. What to buy, what to buy, what to buy.
Our first-try was the pico beamer from LG that produced 600 Lumens and cost about 500€. I used it for about two weeks and although it wasn’t very bright, I was impressed with what it could do. Also, it was about the size of a Mac Mini which meant I could easily hang it from my bookshelf. But I ended up sending it back because of the limitations of wife-approval and wall space (we have flat, white walls so there is no need for a screen). The biggest problem I had with the pico beamer was that it couldn’t properly “keystone” the image it was projecting. Also. In the end my better-half was kinda peeved that I didn’t spend more money. Can you believe that?
Of the 1080p beamers being offered in the product range, I bought the next one up which just happened to be on sale from 1000 to 750€. It is a 1400 Lumen projector the size of a child’s shoebox and, of course, weighs a bit more than the pico device. As you can see from the pics above, though, the jimmied photography equipment I use to attach it to our bookshelf works just fine supporting it. Although it offers limited up-down, right-left keystone-ing, it is enough to project quite a large image on a perpendicular wall that is about ten feet away, which is another thing the pico couldn’t do. The difference between 600 and 1400 Lumens is also significant, which means, unlike the pico device, this one we can use in daylight. Meaning, unless we have bright sunny weather, we don’t have to pull down any shades to see the image. Evening movie watching with this thing is pretty impressive too when you consider the five figure cost of a hundred inch flat screen TV.
After just over a half year of use, I’m still very impressed with this beamer. Connected to an AppleTV4, where my better-half can access her German TV news and shows via apps, it works great. That means it’s also connected to our home network so we can project lots and lots of movies from our media server. But more important, when it’s not in use, we don’t have an empty black screen on a table top or attached to a wall that always begs to be turned on and thereby kill beautiful empty, minimalist space. Oh, and if you’re curious about all the trickery LG offers in this device, you’ll have to go else where. I’ve not messed with any of it. It’s literally only a screen for the AppleTV. As long as that works, I don’t give a hoot about the rest.
The pic above, dear worst-reader, is the latest and greatest desktop setup of my tech world. As you may or may not note from any of my SBC and tech posts (https://worstwriter.com/tag/sbc/), I’m a cheap-o when it comes to tech stupid-money. That said, myself and my better-half are Apple fan-boys. To maintain a bit of perspective, our Apple world consists of iPhones, iPads and a 2015 and 2017 MacBook. That’s right. I’m a fan of the 12″ MacBooks that are supposed to have the terrible butterfly keyboards–and IMHO the 12″ form factor is the bomb. Although mine is a workhorse, my better-half’s MacBook is barely used on account she’s a real iPad user both personally and professionally. If it’s a contradiction to say I’m a tech cheap-o after we buy so much Apple stuff, well, maybe in this one area we do splurge somewhat–even though most Apple purchase for me are refurbished products.
Continue on the cheap-o tech theme. My better-half gets a new iPhone and iPad every few years and I then get her hand-me-down iPad, which is also used around our little townhouse as a media controller and music player for the various SBCs for both audio and video. I try to make my iPhones last for at least four years, which I was able to do with my previous iPhone 7s. My iPhone 11 is about to turn two years old and my wife’s iPhone 10 is pushing three and half years–and if it weren’t for COVID, where she works from home full-time, she would have replaced it already. Back to my desktop rig.
My 2017 12″ MacBook is my favourite Mac of all-time. I absolutely love this thing. It took me a while to get used to dongle hell but that quickly faded the more and more I used it. Considering the new–and for the first time in my Mac-life fairly priced M1 Macs–I’m still hoping that this Intel Mac will hold-out a while longer, especially considering Apple doesn’t seem to have another 12″ MacBook in the works. Anywho. As I first started using the MacBook it never occurred to me that I might want a second monitor connected along with the one I’m already using while it’s in clamshell mode. But then I discovered something kinda cool.
Again. As a cheap-o, I refuse to replace perfectly good devices simply because their I/O changes with the times. Take for example my monitors. On the left is a 10+ year old 22″ Dell monitor. It doesn’t even have HDMI. Using an adapter cable, it’s been a second monitor for this MacBook and my previous 2010 13″ MacBook Pro.
But what about the monitor on the right, dear worst-writer? A 2017 12″ MacBook can’t drive two external monitors.
Good question dear worst-reader. And how worst-right you are. Or?
The monitor on the right is actually a 22″ Samsung TV. It’s gotta be at least twelve years old now. For years I’ve mainly used it as a monitor for AppleTVs. You know, one in the kitchen or in a spare room for $hits&giggles. But I finally replaced my ageing AppleTV3 with an AppleTV4 (refurbished) last summer and connected it to a fancy-pants beamer. It took a few months to figure out what to do with this old little TV but lo and behold… I’m using the old AppleTV3 (also purchased ten years ago refurbished), which is attached to the back, so I can stream (or is the nomenclature in this case “cast?) from my MacBook directly to it. Obviously it’s not a second monitor per se, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s perfect for streaming audio/video while working–and my little MacBook handles it all with ease. I’ve been using this setup for a few months now and I’m sorry I hadn’t thought of it much earlier. But perhaps that’s a whole other worst post.
The beamer and ATV4 are on the bookshelf.
And while on the subject of cheap-o and neat-o tech discoveries. Get this. The one main problem with using AppleTV and, say, a beamer, especially when watching movies, is that Apple and the tech world still don’t quite have it right when it comes to wireless audio. This is the main reason I refuse to go anywhere near those fancy (and stupid-money expensive) HomePods. I’ve read that they also have issues when it comes to streaming audio from from a video source. That said, I’m using an open-source version of Apple’s Airport technology called Shairport for audio streaming. Shairport is what all my audio/video SBCs use to mimic Apple’s airport technology, which allows me to circumvent Apple’s stupid and greedy eco-system politics. With only audio it works fine and if anyone is a cheap-o like me, but you still want good audio in your home, look into this stuff. Needless to say, I’m often disappointed when watching a movie and the audio constantly goes haywire. Until the other day. I realised (yeah, I’m a slow learner), hey, why not try your AirPods when watching a movie. So I did. I put them in, fired up the AppleTV and beamer and clicked around in the AppleTV OS to add another audio device. My AirPods were immediately recognised. And guess what? It doesn’t only work great when watching a movie, it’s actually some of the best audio I’ve heard in years when watching something via AppleTV. Who’d a thunk it, dear worst-reader!
And there you have it as only worst-writer can present it. Cheap-o tech world from a young #OKBoomer that found a way out of the $hithole that is #Americant but never thought he’d land in #Eurowasteland along with so many $hits&giggles.
Rant (and cheap-o tech) on, baby.
-T
PS Oh yeah. I still use a manual typewriter to write my mother letters.
How ’bout a bit of a worst-update regarding worst-writer’s tech krapp? Yes. No. Well, then… buckle up butter cup cause I haven’t typed anything all day and I am seriously itchy. Or maybe not.
As of late 2020 there’s nothing left to be (technically) done, changed, updated, booted (into the bin) or saved in my humble abode of tech krapp galore. In fact, everything in my reduce & simplify tech world works great right now. Reduce & simplify means nothing more than getting rid of truck-like tech devices, an effort I consider complete as of 2018 which is also reflected in the fact that I have a half dozen (or so) SBCs doing things such as: stereo systems, media players, bluetooth audio end-points, servers, etc. Cool, eh. More worst-writer posts about the journey is here (tag link).
By-the-buy, worst-writer’s SBC journey includes not only Raspberry Pi but also Pine64. So let me discard a few worst-words about that. At this point I’m pretty much done with Pine64. It’s not that I don’t like their boards. It’s just that getting them to work is above my pay-grade. That worst-said, I’ve still got a RockPro64 running as a samba server and as a Jellyfin media server. Reason for Jellyfin? My linux distro of choice for both the the RockPro64 and a lingering Rock64, i.e. that which fits my pay-grade, is DietPi. It’s the only Linux distro I’ve been able to manage on both the RockPro64 and the Rock64 with only minor headaches. Even though I’ve tried distros that include OMV (Open Media Vault), I’ve always found myself resorting back to DietPi–on account I couldn’t get the others to work. In fact, my Rock64 (the little brother of the RockPro64) is connected to an external 4-bay HDD enclosure which I use to back up my RockPro64. It’s also serving as a PiHole anti-ad server—which I kinda love. The problem is, I’m starting to feel as though these two devices are at their end—at least in my worst-world. And get this. The RockPro64 feels like it has a bit more life left in it, the Rock64 is pretty much maxed out. I think. Pause. Drink. Gulp. I should move on.
Thank goodness last summer (or fall), as I was losing my $hit over Plex (hating it) and looking for a replacement (within my pay-grade), DietPi began offering Jellyfin in their repository. Since Jellyfin is an open source fork (I think) of Kodi (or is it Emby), which I’ve used on Raspberry Pi, I quickly felt at home with it. My only question has been: how long will it work–before all else fails (which seems to be a result of my low-pay-grade Linux capabilities)? The good news: So far so good–and even my better-half is getting used to using Jellyfin. My better-half, btw, hated Plex more than me and she totally refused to use it. I’m sorry to get on Plex so much. But, as the saying goes, never go full retard, which Plex has done with its microsoft-like, big bloated-ness. But on that note, I die-gress.
As far as media servers go… With Plex on my $hitlist, do I even need a media server? There was actually a short stint there where I thought I’d just give up completely on a media server and use the various Raspberry Pi’s as media players that simply access files via samba. And they worked.The problem with that, though, is, it seems, my iPhone and iPads couldn’t handle the (direct) file access using VLC. I’m not sure if that has to do with my home network setup or VLC on iOS. It doesn’t really matter because, no matter what I tried, I couldn’t get seamless playback using any iOS device via samba. Once I started using Jellyfin the iOS devices worked toot-sweet. I suppose that has something to do with transcoding. And so. Back on to SBCs.
After a few years of use, worst-writer is questioning how long will the RockPro64 last and/or when will I replace it with, say, a Raspberry Pi compute module 4? At this juncture, after using an RPi4-4gb for the past few months as a desktop PC, where I mostly watched YouTube videos, streamed movies or TV (from my media server) or used the Terminal app to manage my Linux devices, I’m tickled to death about how well it actually works. In fact, I was really tickled by how well the newest 64bit version of Ubuntu worked on it. I can’t praise Raspberry Pi enough for such an achievement with these little devices. And, by-the-buy, to my worst-mind, Raspberry Pi’s achievements is only rivalled by what Apple did with the first Mac and later the iPhone. And so.
The Raspberry Pi is nothing short of phenomenal. Not only has it rocked my low pay-grade world but it’s obviously gonna be even more valuable in the near future for my everything networked household. That you can get an RPi for less than a hundred bucks with only a few bucks more to turn it into (what I consider) a high-end audio player (HifiBerry!), it’s no longer a question of if but when these little things will completely over-take the PC world–let alone the fact that I have never regretted selling all my old standard high-voltage stereos and A/V receivers. Add to that the new RPi compute module, which should eventually replaced my RockPro64, I’m tickled to death that my choice to start fiddling with these things in the first place so many years ago was the right choice.
But. As usual. I’m probably off worst-subject. As I’ve said with a whole lot of nothingness here and there, what’s the deal about non-nas-nas and my daily rig (the title fo this worst-post)? Well, since the/my non-nas-nas is based on an SBC, albeit the RockPro64, which, as stated above, I’m not sure how long it’s gonna be around, I can’t complain all that much. It does work–as a samba server. And samba is all about file sharing. And as far as I can tell, I’ve lost no data after fiddling and fiddling. But I have gone through quite a bit of headache and troubleshooting. I’ve also concluded after all this time and effort, Pines64/RockPro64 is not a NAS replacement–unless you’re interested in a lot of troubleshooting and Linux headaches. But it does look good in that Pine64 case (see pic above). Or?
Since I refuse to buy a NAS (aka Synology or Drobo), beggars can’t be choosy. I’ve had to fiddle quit a bit to the point where I’ve (pretty much) given up on having a home NAS as a file storage device. Since my wife and I are Apple fans and we use Macs and iOS devices, I simply maintain a TimeMachine drive that is connected to an old AirPort Extreme which backs up our Macs. It works and works and works. Other than that, we use 200gb of iCloud space for important files and photos on both Mac and iOS. So I guess. If I wanted to. I could provide a half decent worst-argument that average tech users don’t even need a nas. I mean. I’m using the RockPro64 as a media server only on account my pay-grade can’t really get it to do anything else. But. Again. I die-gress.
As far as I my home rig goes. Get this, dear worst-reader. Like I said above, I’m really, really, seriously impressed with the RPi4-4gb as a desktop PC. In fact, I’m so impressed with it, that I’m probably gonna buy the RPi4-8gb this spring, relegating the 4gb device to some media player service and then, when it’s available, getting the RPi compute module 4 so I can get rid of the headache that is the RockPro64–and then, finally, begin the process of getting into some kind of truly functional non-nas-nas configuration. OMV, as far as I can remember, works great on RPi (and terrible on Pine64)–it’s just been a matter of waiting for RPi to provide some kind of SATA interface. If/when Raspberry ups the RPi4 to an RPi5, though… well, heck, don’t you know. I’m already re-thinking weather or not I’m gonna replace my MacBook with a new M1 device in 2021. And even though the new Macs with M1s are rockin’ good, the thought of actually getting a M1 MacMini just ain’t in the cards on account how well RPi’s are working these days. As far as my 2017 Intel MacBook goes, slow or no-slow, avoiding Big Sur (and Apple’s stupid update policies), etc., etc., I’m still kind of good so I’ll probably keep it a while longer. And so.
Worst-title #2: Why it should be called the rich white trash Putsch and not #Americant Coup d’etat.
Which do you prefer, dear worst-reader? Do you prefer Coup, as in Coup d’etat, as the proper nomenclature of #MAGA’s newest and greatest achievement–other than electing president piss-hair in the first place? Or do you prefer Putsch? I mean, come on. A coup is a much more common happening, especially when one considers how my beloved & missed #Americant has sponsored so many of them in, say, South America, Southeast Asia, Africa, etc. Again. I mean. Come on. Could this whole thing have been just a simple-minded Putsch? Indeed. Now that’s something new, don’t you know. So let’s summarise as only worst-writer can as we try to worst define things in the name of worst-clarity.
January 6, 2021, is not a day that will go down in infamy in my beloved & missed #Americant. Reason? Well, I’m not sure #Americant is really seeing what happened as a couple thousand bat$hit white people tried to storm the Capitol, where they even defecated inside the building, spreading their faeces around as though it were graffiti paint, as a really big deal. I mean. Sure. Five people died. A few Representatives are gonna have to deal with PTSD. And no one will probably be able to get close enough to the building anymore to take a half-decent selfie. And so. What does one do when you live by the gun? Where do you go when war and government intervention is all you know? What comes after the trauma of being born in a world that fills you with blind optimism only to quickly realise that the only way to get ahead is by joining up as the ship of fail-upwards sails on the backs of every one else?
As I worst-write this ca. 74m minions either directly or indirectly supported the January 6, 2021, event that was the culmination of electing and trying to re-elect President Orang-utan. But what I want to focus on for a sec are those who inderectly supported him. These people(s) are The Good Germans, don’t you know. You know, all those Germans right before, during and after who said $hit like: ah, don’t worry, he’s not so bad. And then they went on their merry way–those Good Germans–even as their Jewish neighbours were being rounded up and shoved into gas chambers. Indeed. Indifference is a grand sailing vessel named biatch and it ingeniously fails-upward, eh. Not to mention those who ride in it with their funny hair-does and dubious bank accounts.
It was called the Beer Hall Putsch, dear worst-reader. Two thousand brown shirt German speaking thugs–drunk on German beer, of course–gathered together in an attempt to free Germany and Germans from the political and economic confines, post French Revolution Europe, of the Weimar Republic. These thugs were lead by you-know-who. Once the Putsch attempt failed, though, you-know-who was jailed for his antics where he then dictated his book Mein Kampf. As we all know, $hit-bag Hitler was eventually released from jail. He immediately became a best selling author (of a reality-TV-like book) and then proceeded to take on the image of a wannabe dictator. He changed his hair and moustache accordingly so as to appeal to his–let’s call them–fans, which has to include those who were indifferent. Does any of this sound familiar, dear worst-reader? No. Of course it doesn’t. Reason? Well, Adolf Hitler was able to go from wannabe, cheap, funky hair-styled political trouble-maker to actual dictator and all in less than a decade. Now. I don’t know about you. But until #Trump, I thought Hitler was a huuuuge underachiever (sarcasm off).
That’s the reason worst-writer is having trouble calling January 6, 2021, a Coup. For, you see, don’t you know, a Coup usually has the military behind it. Hitler had no such thing. There is also clarity in who the Coup is trying to dethrone–or replace. Once again, Hitler was trying to replace a (bad) idear, not a person. And then there’s the idear that a coup, if successful, usually has support from… That’s right. You guessed it. #Americant. I mean. In case you’re unaware, most Coup d’etats that have taken place in the past hundred years were all somehow supported by US empire–either directly or indirectly. Or do you believe that the US would have partaken in WW2 after the debacle that was/is WW1 if Hitler hadn’t declared war on the US and, of course, been so cruel to… Her f’n Majesty the Queen? Am I wrong? But let’s move on before that bit of worst-history bogs us down.
And so. Worst-writer say, January 6, 2021, can’t be a Coup. And worst-writer’s reasoning behind that may be a way to (re)define the difference between Coup and Putsch. A Putsch, contrary to a Coup, doesn’t really fulfil any of the above mentioned criteria. And if that’s the case, there’s more reason than ever to be worried–severely worried–that January 6, 2021, was a Putsch. Again. Even after Adolf Hitler’s amateuristic Putsch failed, he did end up becoming dictator of the Third Reich and most German speaking peoples–within a friggin decade.
And while we’re on the subject of under-achievement galore, let’s not forget the rich white trash thingy in worst-title #2 from above. Here’s how things connect.
In Worst-writer’s pseudo attempt at (re)defining Coup vs Putsch, here’s the one thing you need to remember. Not unlike Hitler, as I may or may not have said in this post, Trump , despite his claims of wealth, belongs to white trash. Indeed. There is white trash even on fifth avenue. What we’ve seen with his rise is how this trashy element has a way with taking advantage of both direct and indirect frustration in all things government and society–thanks to forty plus years of right-wing media. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, the trash of society, whether rich or poor, has a very strong thread that ties it all together. There is the hate of culture and cultivation. It despises creativity. It hates science and intellect. And it cannot cope with thoughts of a future in which it knows it will be erased–and not only because most of the children of the rich end up being dunces. Trump children come to mind?
Oh how strong the threat is, especially its voice. In #Americant white trash has a voice through the likes of faux-newz, Limbaugh, #Trump, and now fake-news, long-winded conspiracy theories, reality-TV, etc. Add to that the fact that white trash has absolutely no means of being funny… That’s the reason, btw, reality TV is so successful. Although the shows are NOT funny, because they show human banalities in a hyper display of whimsy and callousness, the viewers actually believe that they are laughing at someone or something else–when in fact they are laughing at themselves either with or without their emperor clothing or the painted industry arse of Kardashians. Indeed. Whether a hundred or so years ago or the 2016 #Americant election, the ingredients and fat arses for a Putsch have been stirred. Which means there are a few questions that need be worst-answered.
Is #MAGA smart enough to stay on message as Hitler was before and after his Munich Putsch? I mean, #Trump is going on trial (again) next week.
If so, is former president piss-hair capable of leading his sh*tshow further down the road which could culminate in a dictatorship within a decade? According to those Republicans elected in November when he was not, maybe.
Since indifference seems to be the best way to deal with politics, what will wake up humanity so that it can rise above and beyond what the history of #Eurowasteland has given mankind? Or do you think the Neo-feudal system that is #Americant today is really any different than 16th, 17th, 18th (pick your century) Europe?
Indeed, dear worst-reader. Rich white #Americant trash is basting in the gravy of indifference right now. Picture that next time you see #Trump’s kids try to articulate anything. Even though I voted Democrat (especially Bernie in the primary), I’m not sure any significant action from old-man Biden will be enough to avoid the inevitable. And that’s the ticket, ain’t it, dear worst-reader? Nothing should really change. That’s what Biden & Co. is. That’s the whole point of the US Constitution, as well. NO CHANGE. Perhaps that was #Trump’s real burden–that has turned him into the worst president ever even though he was gifted something by Democrats in 2016. On the other worst-hand, is indifference the secret sauce that pushed Hitler over the edge where he almost ruled the world?
Yeah. Considering what has happened among rich white people on Wall Street recently, see my previous post, #Americant is most certainly deep into being ruled by rich white trash from the past, from the now and from the future, Putsch or no Coup.
“The game is rigged,” they’re saying, dear worst-reader. But worst-writer say: if it’s rigged, especially on such a grand scale, how will/can you ever know it? In other worst-words: part of the rigging is making sure that those who are (being) rigged can never know that they are (being) rigged–or, at best, always made to think that they know the game is rigged–when they don’t/can’t know anything on account, well, they’re f’n stupider than rocks. Also. If you’re just now coming to terms with the reality of the system is rigged, how come you only notice it when/if your stock valuations are on the jimmy?
Yeah. As far as stock valuations go… you been jimmy-dicked, morons.
And then there’s another worst-question. If, for whatever reason, you notice (think/imagine) the system is rigged, and, you suddenly wake up to a world where a guy like #Trump can become president, wouldn’t it make more sense to perhaps look a little further back in time to see if/where/how the rigging started? You know, as in, your whole life has been one giant rigging session that you’ve been too stupid to wake up to. Yeah. That’s the ticket, biatch.
Or maybe not.
Did you get a load of the recent Wall Street GameStop thingy, dear worst-reader? You know, the thingy where, perhaps, hopefully, a bunch of hedge fund managers are losing their shirts on account other non-connected younger stock traders out-witted them to the hilt. I mean. Wow! I love this story so much I’ve actually had a moment or three where I thought: Hey! Maybe there is some hope for 2021 being a turnaround year on account, I mean, at least #Americants got rid of president stupid, eh. On the other hand, what do my beloved & missed #Americants have instead (of president stupid)? That’s right. Now they have president old-man. I mean. Biden doesn’t only look old. Depending on how the cameras catch him, he looks like a friggin corpse. But on that worst-note, I probably should die-gress.
Oh yeah. We were gettin’ on about GameStop and Wall Street…. But before I do that, let’s get on about terminology. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, terminology is especially important to peoples who are incapable of intellectualising their world. Just listen to any/most republican politicians in my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant. I mean. Say what you will about the arsehole, elitist Democrats–but there’s one thing you can’t say about them. Democrats don’t vomit up the likes of Alex Jones, Limbaugh, tea-party and #MAGA. Hence the silly madness of #Americant conspiracy theories, fake newz, the media, etc. Would all of that be around if Republicans could intellectualise? Heck, just have a look/listen at all the new republican $hitbags that got voted into the Congress recently, all on account Democrats are too dippy to figure out how to actually fight for taking away the label #Americant. But on that note, I once again die-gress. And. Back to terminology.
You know, dear worst-reader, I’ve heard some folk compare the goings-on at Wall Street, including the GameStop thingy, with something akin to a casino. You know. They’re comparing their life to gambling houses where men wilfully continue on with the delusion of being men in a world that is probably run by women–or at least it’s not being run by the fantasy of their manhood. Then again I can see why some folk consider manipulated stocks as gambling–or as a casino. But here’s worst-writer’s thing about calling Wall Street a casino. It just ain’t right. I mean. As you may or may not know, the system is not only rigged but it is also kaputt. That’s it. It’s called #Americant for a reason, don’t you know. Yet the comparison to a casino…? Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. Even if you tried, even if you stealthily, with hundreds of millions worth of tools and trickery, if you go into a casino and cheat… What do you think is going to happen? And I don’t mean cheating like they did in that Rain Man movie or, perhaps, one of them stupid, mindless, Oceans Eleven movies. You go into a casino and try to cheat–someone will come along pretty quick and cut your friggin fingers off. You know, so you can’t deal cards anymore. Or so you can’t throw dice anymore. Or pull a slot machine lever. Or. Or. Or. So you get what I’m sayin’, eh dear worst-reader? Of course, what we all know by now is that you can walk into Wall Street and cheat your arse off–if you’re friggin privileged and already rich. You can cheat till the cows come running, baby. In fact, in kaputt #Americant, cheating is about the only way to get on with life–unless you want to starve. Or have you already forgotten that you elected #Trump–the born cheater–as president? So. Stop calling Wall Street a casino. The terminology just doesn’t work.
And while I’m on the issue of terminology #Americant-style, I’m not even sure the David v Goliath analogy works either. Perhaps a better way to animate what’s going on with GameStop and Wall Street and, of course, #Americant, is to try this: as the lemmings are lead to the edge of the cliff a few lemmings manage to $hit on a few other lemmings–you know, as they did during the January 6, 2021 pseudo-putsch on the US Congress–just before their final leap which causes all the lemmings to laugh their arses off as they fall to their doom–all laden with $hit. Or something like that.
The thing that doesn’t really work by calling GameStop David and Wall StreetGoliath is the fact that even though the enabler and facilitator of GameStop’s stock is the ranting and ramblings of various Reddit users–an online message board system with the not so uniquely titled subject: WallStreetBets–and those users ain’t exactly small in numbers. In fact, as the whole GameStop thingy started to surge in late January, 2021, it’s impossible to know exactly who all the buyers that created the squeeze are. Put another worst-way. Even though there may be thousands of Reddit users that bought up thousands of available GameStop shares–hence the squeeze–there has to be some other form of buyer or buyers out there to cause such a sudden surge in a single stock. Oh my. All this terminology combined with the pseudo-complexity of the US stock market is mind-boggling–if you can’t intellectualise it, don’t you know.
There’s one more #Americant terminology thingy that need be addressed. Another player in the $hitshow greed-game is a company called… Wait for it. That’s right. Where there’s David and Goliath, where there’s casino capitalism, where there’s… There must also be a Robinhood. You know. As in Robinhood.com. And what a misplaced (or is it misspelled) euphemism we have to intellectualise now. And so. Just as confusing as calling Wall Street a casino, let’s call a greed-mongering website that enables the buying and selling of stocks without any fees…
Seriously. One of the culprits in one of the funniest, most hilarious stock thingies in decades, is called Robinhood.com. Intellectualise that, dear worst-reader.
Indeed. Leave it up to #Americants to confuse the name of a free from fees stock trading service/app with the fiction of old British aristocratic story telling that enabled another kind of nation-statehood idiocy, i.e. that of Great Britain, to get caught up in story telling as opposed to facing the truth about the utter ridiculousness of monarchies… And so. What the creators of Robinhood.com really mean by giving their company such a name is more like: robbing the hood. Get it? I mean. A few letters here or there are no-never-mind to #Americants who are all drifting around in the ignorance of still trying to fathom #MAGA and/or taking a dump while pseudo-invading the US Capitol building (Jan. 6, 2021). And so. How do you get a bunch of suckers in the right place at the right time in order to rip them off because they are intellectually incapable of understanding that their lives are rigged and it’s just a casino and they’ve played it all their lives–and now they’re just bored out of their minds? And. And. And.
Again. Indeed. For those who think fee-less stock trading is a real thing, then perhaps you should apply some face-bag (facebooK) reality here or there. Namely, FB’s only product on which and/or with-which it makes money is stupid users, i.e. YOU. That is. The way FB makes money is by collecting information about how you use the Internetwebs. And just like FB, Robinhood’s product is NOT free stock trading but instead gathering data of what you do (with your credit-card money) and selling that data to the highest bidder. Hence, it was a no-brainer that when Wall Street came calling to suspend trading of a stock that was bankrupting a few hedge funds, the guys at Robinhood obliged.
The only question remaining, dear worst-reader, is how/when/what will the government that is a/the reflection of its people step in and finally do something about how rigged casinos, the inversion of Davids and Goliaths and the whole shebang of #Americant greed-mongering–which is, by-the-buy, the single greatest social experiment in human history that has culminated in: THE LAND OF THE FREE TO BE STUPID–be regulated.
Where to go with all the toxicity, dear worst-reader? Hence a country is awash in poison, filth, dreck–including #Trump’s hair–and whatever drug concoction of the day fits into the nose or arm of the lower and middle classes that are subsumed in the aftermath of political conservatism run amok that is the end of the 20th century. Or. Did you see something other than all-things disgusting the other day at the US Capitol in my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant? And I’m not even concerned about the crowd. I mean. Get this. For the first time in history, the confederate flag was totted around the Capitol. Grown men were heisting office material, especially the speaker of the house’s podium, and then dancing around with it as though they just won a prize on the price-is-right–and thereby giggling while posing for said photographs. A half naked tattooed man with his face painted red, white and blue mockingly wore a hat made of fur with two horns attached–looking as though he were in a drug induced state ready to invade Sweden or Denmark or wherever else his sophomoric mind could fathom that vikings still exist. Yes. 2021 #Americant is where the whole world can see what happens when you can’t pull yourself up by the mental bootstraps, have no dreams to pursue, or simply can’t tell the difference between stupid and stupider–even if it came up to your face and said… Hi. I’m Martha. Wanna join me and George in a three way?
Quick question. Is it at all possible that human history’s first and best form of collective governance could actually enable people instead of disabling them in the name of greed, greed and more greed?
But I die-gress.
As of the writing of this worst-post, dear worst-reader, five people have died in #Americant’s first (internal) coup d´etat. Two of those people were killed through direct violence and three others died due to circumstances that may or may not have had to do with… #AmeriCANT. As in, the country simply CAN’T dig its way out of the pit of poop it has dug itself into. And by the buy, that chick that was shot while disobeying the-man and trying to break into the US Capitol building the other day, shouldn’t be dead right now? I mean. Where does all this mental toxicity come from? Could it have anything to do with covid-19 and being locked up in your own four walls since ever-more—because your government is so inept at dealing with the reality that viruses exist and exist and exist? And what about that alien, DNA rendered (sarcasm off) vaccine that they’ve got in the works? Were any of these rally-goers inoculated–which has obviously (sarcasm on) activated their zombie-ness? Indeed. Zombies. They’ve been zombies ever since their $hitkicker trailer-park ways took over their already empty-space minds and they finally discovered shits&giggles by enabling the election of president piss-hair. Or have you witnessed an ounce of political smarts–before or after #Americants first coup d’etat?
Am I wrong. -Walter, The Big Lebowski
Hold a sec, dear worst-reader. That woman who was shot and killed was a veteran of the US Airforce. In fact, according to various reports, there were numerous veterans at that “rally”. And there you have it, eh, dear worst-reader. The makings of a coup? You know. The makings that include… Gee. Let’s see. Lust for authoritarianism. Lots of stupid–on account everyone was obviously educated in #Americant. Guns. Idolatry (MAGA hats). And the fact that the only way to make a living in a country that has completely decimated its manufacturing base (since Ronald Reagan) is to join the military and be taught that you’re the only hammer in a world of nails. Etc. Etc.
Or was it just a political rally stirred on by president piss-hair all on account he might be (finally) facing financial ruin and jail because he is unable to rise up, like most (74m most) of his generation, and do the job. I mean. How do you expect white men to respond to facing the reality of imminent fail upward recognition? And so. Veterans, trailer-trash and #Americant united in one big WWE kumbaya that did nothing but solidify a new kind of wall thereby relinquishing any chance whatsoever of political this or that. And do you know what that act was? That’s right. It wasn’t protesting a valid election. It wasn’t even a coup. It was thirty, forty, or fifty years of republican bat$hittery drilled year after year, generation after generation into the mind’s of… #Americants.
That’s your opinion man… -The Dude, The Big Lebowski
And that’s not all, dear worst-reader. Just when you thought the #Americant fail-upward coup d’etat was over, it turns out that the MAGA protestors left one last thing. That’s right. The political act that will forever be associated with January 6, 2021, in worst-writer’s opinion, that included the ransacking of what could have been humanities greatest government…
Someone actually took a sh*t in the open, right in the middle of the building.
Joseph Beuys at the beach. Source: screenshot from the Interwebnets
Worst-title #2: Thoughts stirred by Werk Ohne Autor
Worst-title #3: Stop old money making all the films so that someone else can have a shot at it.
“My salad days, when I was green in judgement…” -Cleopatra, Shakespeare
Disclaimer: spoiler alert.
This worst-post, like so many other worst-posts, contains spoilers. Not a lot of spoilers, mind you. But a few. These spoilers, by-the-buy, are from the film Werk ohne Autor (Never Look Away), which premiered in 2018 (or so) and I just happened to finally watch the other night on German compulsive-tax-paid TV received through my cord-cut digital world (which means I streamed it). With that in mind, as you like, this is a worst-post with a bit of NSFW worstness that may or may not include incredibly beautiful tits and ass galore wrapped in the historically confused megalomania of… What the hell do we do with them frickin Germans now that they’ve gone and lost two frickin world wars and pacified the Wirtschaftswunder like never before? Or something like that.
FYI, watching this movie the other night was something akin to “Date Night”. And even though we only do this a couple times a year–on account she always falls asleep during movies but not necessarily date night–I have to put this (worst-thought) out there: we didn’t just watch any film on post Xmas/New Years date night, don’t you know. No. We watched a frickin three hour long film that went right through the heart of who/what we are not unlike a love-hate dagger lost and found in a sock-pile from the Middle Ages. I mean, come on. Did you get that, dear worst-reader (above and beyond the sock pile)? This film is three hours long. I mean. Again. Come on! I get it when Hollywood makes three hour long comic book movies that fascinate child-minds with everything except tits–that I have to watch with my millennial son. But when a German dude that’s, like, eight frickin feet tall… and he makes a movie that is as long as he is tall… What the hell could go wrong on a date night where the chances of wifey falling asleep and thereby occupying the couch as though it were the Germans invading Sudentland…?
Anywho.
Let me try to put the beginning of this worst-post another worst-way. I finally broke down and watched Werk ohne Autor the other night on account I’ve been meaning to watch it ever since I found out it was made by the same dude that made Das Leben Der Anderen. Of course, I failed to find out how long this movie actually is. Still. Also. I failed to do any preliminary study about the film which could have warned me how stunningly beautiful tits and ass on digital celluloid can be. In fact. Praise be to the #Eurowasteland lore of artsy-fartsy films and their ease of showing skin. Lots and lots of beautiful, gorgeous, luscious, juicy, scrumptious, appetite wetting… skin.
But all worst-gesture aside.
As we traverse this $hithole of life together, dear worst-reader, let us give thanks to the privileged few that can entertain (and enlighten) us because, well, they’re rich enough to be able to finance the development and creation of… artsy-fartsy stuff. As opposed, of course, to comic book films that not only bore the $hit out of wanton minds but also prohibit the necessary jerk-off content that so many young males require in order to not turn into fascist rapists. But. Again. I die-gress. But. Again-again. Wait. Before I die-gress. Let me say this. The movie Werk ohne Autor really fcuked with my head. Hence, I should worst-write something about it before things explode into the nothingness that is my mind.
By-the-buy, before I worst-continue, if you want a film review that includes a half-decent summary or explanation of this movie, use the google-machine and then trust in the capacity of the Interwebnets. At the least there’s enough promotion material and various interviews with the makers and players of this movie to hold ones attention for hours. If, on the other hand, you want to know how this film fcuked with worst-writer’s mind, and you’re also open to a bunch of anger, bitterness, spite and a worst-post that will include the least amount of worst-writing about my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant that is reaching the crescent moon nadir of its demise, stick around. Otherwise. Again. This movie has me in the mood of: Fcuk off baby because there is some serious gorgeous naked skin that I haven’t seen since Eva Green in The Dreamers. And so…
Dresden with a bunch of Nazi $hitbags.
As with all German stories that need be told before and/or after The Brother’s Grimm and/or Napoleon, this story starts with the Austrian Adolf Dipshit Hitler and the spiteful bombing–and good use of surplus bombs–of Dresden in 1945 after Hitler failed just a tick worse than Donald Dip$hit #Trump failed (since 2016) as president Stupid. Oh wait. Hold a sec. I said I wasn’t gonna get-on about my beloved & missed #Americant. So let’s take a breather. Ok. Gulp. There. Gulp.
Moving on.
Werk ohne Autor starts a bit before the fire bombing of Dresden which was/is covered in-full by Vonnegut’s Slaughter House 5 so I certainly won’t get into that here. Which means, the creator(s) of Werk ohne Autor need to prep the audience with some form of conduit to make this fcuk-over cinematic art $hitshow with hapless yet fantastical acting palpable on account… Who the fcuk doesn’t know everything there need be known about the fire-bombing of Dresden? And so. Let’s f’n move on.
Enter… Wait for it. Here comes the name of the director…
Hold a sec. Werk ohne Autor is written and directed and produced and and and by… Here it comes… What’s in a name, eh.
Florian Henkle von Donnersmarck.
And what a name it is, huh? Is it worst-moi or do you also get this strange anti-aristocratic, monarch-hating, loathing of all-things hereditary chill through your whole body when you hear/read a name like that? (Or is it just worst-moi?) And did I mention that the director with the douchebag name is like… thirty-five feet tall? I mean, dear worst-reader, you have to search the Interwebnets a bit to see how frickin tall this guy is. I mean. Again. A German, his name, a dude standing something like seven feet tall… what else do you want in a artsy-fartsy film maker that’s making film about…? Or?
But. Again. I die-gress.
The first too-many minutes of this movie is about Dresden and some gorgeous aunt and her nephew viewing art that is declared Entartete Kunst or: degenerate art. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, back in the day art is called degenerate by Nazi douchebags that claim it doesn’t represent national socialist virtues. And who better to bring this up in a film than a guy who totally does not look like some seven foot tall family connected goober that reminds worst-writer of what Butthead (yes, of Beavis and Butthead fame) would look like if he were real–and seven feet tall. Oh. Wait. Did I mention Florian Henkle von Donnersmarck’s hair style might be as weird as he is tall? Again. But I die-gress.
The aunt and her nephew are this hot little couple that get royally screwed by the Nazis, don’t you know. In fact, they are so screwed that the aunt gets gassed because, well, she’s suddenly schizophrenic after handing The Führer (that’s #Trump English for dear-leader, aka Adolf Hitler, don’t you know) a bouquet of flowers during a small town drive-by visit. Immediately after handing Hitler the flowers–and being taught/shown/told that any form of “art” that is NOT national-socialist is degenerate–hot Aunt goes nutso and is then turned over to the Nazis by her family. The Nazis proceed to sterilise her and, as previously mentioned, kill her in a gas chamber made to look like group showers for half-chromosome deprived girl-scouts. Did you get all that, dear worst-reader? No. Well it’s a complicated if not intricate artsy-fartsy movie, don’t you know.
This/the long winded initiation into this movie culminates in the nephew learning that in order to see the truth he can/should Never Look Away, hence the English title of the film*. Never looking away is also, somehow, the subtext of this film. The problem with never looking away, though, is that it’s no different than putting a cookie jar in front of a child and telling him no touchy-touchy. The cookie jar, btw, is filled with the actresses Paula Beer and Saskia Rosendahl. They are both so stunningly beautiful that without them I would not have gotten past the Dresden bombing–or the first hour of this movie. And since I’m on the subject of hot actresses, my better half also helped me get over the trauma of watching yet another film that gives just a tick too much humanism to Nazis. And so… it’s hard to never-look-away when so much beauty may or may not be distorted by the ugliness of trying to tell Nazi stories. But. Again…
Moving on.
Now we move on to Dresden after the most devastating bombing in all of human history–even when compared to Hiroshima. The film goes to post Nazi waw-waw gibberish in the dreamland of Marx & Co., aka DDR subpar pseudo-bourgeois nobody get rich eastern Germany. That’s right. Our nephew is now a young man after the war and he’s learning NOT to use the word I (Ich) as he embarks on a life of artistry–by drawing pictures of pre-#Trump #Americants with sickle and hammers in one hand and Vladimir Putin as saviour in the other hand–or was it Marx, Lenin and Trotsky and the New York stock exchange? #Nomatter.
Our nephew has to draw pictures of/for DDR Germany which, in a way, is kinda exactly like how one might draw #Trump and my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant today as it too delves into the Mein Kampf confusion of political circumstance dictated by greed, greed and more greed albeit in a nation of mindless nationalism run amok. And… Ok. Wait. Stop the worst presses. I know I get-on a bit too much here and there with #Trump & Co and #Americant. So forgive me. Let me take a swig of post Xmas drink and I’ll try to move on.
Gulp. Gulp.
While dabbling in DDR waw-waw, studying, smoking, drinking communist beer, our cold-war artist/Nephew falls for a chick (Paula Beer) that looks perfectly NOT unlike his gassed aunt (Saski Rosendahl). This young couple now get it on in wondrous ways that the porn industry probably doesn’t want anybody to see–on account these actors loved each other on screen so well that it even gave me hope that love is real. Their post-nazi love, of course, leads to a pregnancy which in turn leads to the girls father–who I have purposefully left out up to now even though he plays a major role from the beginning to end of this film. I have left him out of this worst-post because I think he’s stupid. That’s right. I said it: stupid. In fact, I think the character of the Nazi/doctor/father is so stupid that this will be my last mention of him. If you want/need to know more about him, watch the movie. Otherwise, fcuk you and all Nazi/doctor/fathers.
Moving on.
Now. Before I continue worst-summarising. This is a movie where the director (remember his name?) seems to think he can somehow work through Germany’s past in about three hours. And while working through that past, he thinks/assumes all will be well. Or? For it is a dilemma, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, that Germans and oh-so many German speaking old white men of #Eurowasteland have to rehash their Nazi past even more than their money has paid for WW2 reparations. That’s kind of the essence in this movie. I think. Either that or rehashing the past is a new past-time for Germans born of Wirtschaftswunder parents. But don’t worry. If you’re unattainably confused about what worst-writer is trying (and failing) to say about this movie… Get this. It’s creator/director has a really really really (sarcasm on) important name and the artistry of his movie is naked… I mean stunning… I mean the actresses in this movie are gorgeous and… that… Well. Hint. I’m not sure anymore about what I’m trying to say. So maybe I should just move on–and at the same time try and stop summarising this movie. Indeed.
Joseph Beuys.
Our beloved nephew and his luscious wife end up leaving DDR waw-waw-land and make it to The West. Once in The West our nephew pursues his art career along side a bunch of other post WW2 guys who somehow find a way through life via art school at the behest of the infamous Joseph Beuys–in the town of Düsseldorf–which is also worst-writer’s golden cage… Blah. Blah. Blah. Stop. Pause.
This is where I should definitely break from my attempt at worst-writing about this film and get into a long-winded rant about the artist Joseph Beuys who died a few years prior to worst-writer arriving in D’dorf which also turned out to be the beginning of my expatration. But I won’t do that. Instead. Allow me this.
Once I got over the waw-waw of Florian Henkle von Donnersmarck’s (what a name, eh) attempt at rehashing Germany’s recent past with lots of Nazi drama which, for him, seems to have begun in Dresden and then ended in my beloved D’dorf, I realised: Hey! This film ain’t so bad after all. I mean. Beyond the spectacular cinematography of actresses, actresses and more naked actresses, there’s actually a highly confused story that reminds me of an ugly but extremely useful quilt. But. And here’s a big but. If it weren’t for the post WW2 art school in D’dorf and the love story of a couple who deserve love, I might not have made it to the end of this film. That’s not to say that it’s bad. But it is to say that it’s long. Way too long. It’s also a rehashing of the past that I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to get a grip on–as though it were my calling on account of my mother and her war-torn Prussian father who was born in 1918 and died in 2001. With that in mind, I think it’s time to get on about Joseph Beuys.
The thing is this, dear worst-reader. This film could be condensed to an hour and a half and all the Dresden stuff could still be included as flashbacks (except the naked scenes, of course; they need to be seen in full) and then the movie could focus on what kept me watching it: namely a movie about Joseph Beuys. For here’s the kicker, dear worst-reader. In 1992 I spent three days in Kassel, Germany, at Documenta 9 staring at various Beuys’ exhibits that did nothing less than blow my weak #Americant pseudo-intellectual mind. I was so enamoured with Beuys that for a few years after that I never passed up a chance to visit a museum just to see his work.
So let me be as clear as only worst-writer can about this movie. It’s an ok movie. It’s a artsy-fartsy film. It has some good cinematography and some of the dialogue is really good–except for the scene where Ben Becker, as a DDR sign-maker foreman, spouts Shakespearean, if not Goethe-like text that was/is completely misplaced telling the protagonist (nephew) that he’s not making art but instead making posters that promote communism. And so… The only problem I have with this film is that it is miraculously indulgent. It is a film about exuberant film making–and those who can afford to make it. It is long winded and at times a bit boring. But it’s also a film that a lot of people should see. They should see it even if it’s not as good as Florian, Count Henckel von Donnersmarck’s (can you believe I’ve forgotten to include the “count” this whole time?) previous artsy-fartsy film Das Leben Der Anderen. This movie should be seen because it has something in it about the 20th century’s greatest artist, if not best German rehasher of Nazis: Joseph Beuys.
Which brings me to one last worst-thought about Werk ohne Autor. This should have been a movie about how one makes art, which may or may not include a love story. From the beginning to end, a movie about wielding a paint brush, as the nephew of this film does, or wielding the idear of art as life, as Joseph Beuys did, would have made this film a bit less banal, a bit less mediocre, a bit less mendacious. For those who have said wondrous things about this movie. That’s cool. I too recommend it. But for those who say something critical about it–take heed. In the end there’s three hours of quilt parts in this film to have fun with or without the directors stupid name.
And so…
Fcuk aristocracy, old money, the past in all its forms–even film making. It’s time to change your name, dude–because, in case you don’t know, names like yours are what gave the world (Germans) Nazis in the first place–and obviously set the example of how fascism wins wars even when Nazis lose. Instead make a film about Joseph Beuys. Stop revealing how painters paint–on account you take the fun out of it. Or go the way of worst-writer’s salad days, where/when worst-writer’s cock could cum ten times a day on Cleopatra’s face because she smiled the only way a scorned woman can–and that’s hotter than hot. And that’s what happiness is to those of us who can’t make it as an artist because, well, I guess, some of us just don’t have the right name–or all the old (name) money.
Or something like that.
Rant on.
-T
*The translation of the German title is just as fun, dear worst-reader. It goes something like this: work without (an) author or an author without work or, maybe, art without an artist or or or, etc. WTF.
Well, don’t you know, dear worst-reader. The silly-show has begun regarding the/our privileged greed mongering galore in the name of survival, life, and the pursuit of more purchasing power. But this time it’s not just the privilege of proximity-birth and who’s at the head of the corporate mobbing council that determines who and what you can buy. No. This time it’s about something almost completely different. Different as in miserable-life and a gruelling almost unnatural death by the sheer destruction of human lung capacity in the name of Covid191. Or let’s just call it covid, our new poor-people disease. Eh.
Now that the first vaccine has been approved for use and the second and third vaccine is at the door of approval, what’s there to do about who gets it first? You know, as in, who’s standing at the syringe saying, well: “I should get it first because I’m more productive in this society than that guy.” Or. “Here, I’ll pay whatever you want, I’ve got money coming out of my guzoo, which also means I’m more privileged than the average useless-eater, so I should get the vaccine first.” Or. Or. “That life raft is for me and my wife because we have first-class tickets on the/this Titanic, baby.”
I mean, don’t get me wrong, dear worst-reader. I too am one to worst-say that front-line workers and old people and those particularly susceptible to the disease should get the vaccine toot-sweet. But then again, should they? Since it’s quite obvious that President Piss-Hair is part of that click of humanity that has no problem with masses of people dying–as it fits a certain eugenics if not pseudo Darwinian survival of the fittest agenda… Or do you not believe elites love-loathe #Trump–not for his smarts to get elected president but for his susceptibility to be a push-over by those who are privileged enough to have contact with him once he is elected and there agenda is the antithesis of governing for the people by the people and, and, and… Indeed. Cull the heard, baby. Weed-out the riff-raff. Do at least something about over-population that seems to bug the privileged! (Sarcasm off.)
But. Like I’ve worst-said here and there in this worst-blog, covid is nothing new. In one form or other it’s been around for years. For it is but another strain, another version, if not manifestation, of an ailment that’s been afflicting the poor and downtrodden for the better part of my worst-life. It’s no coincidence that covid, SARS, MARS, swine-flu, etc., all, somehow, got there start in the abundance of poverty where human beings are relegated to eating on top of or underneath batshit, hoof-shit or human… You get the picture. Which begs the worst-question: why hasn’t there been a vaccine already? Oh wait. Maybe for those that control the sheep, culling of the heard is a godsend. Or? And that godsend has finally arrived. But. Maybe. I’ve already worst-said that.
So let’s get back on subject about the vaccine. Or were we worst-writing about something else? #Nomatter.
One of the most curious things I’ve noticed about the vaccine so far is how my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant can’t talk about who actually… done it. I mean. Obviously there were/are plenty of greed $hit$how pharmaceutical companies working on a vaccine. But only one seems to have received first approval. And yet, there is barely mention of the company that actually did it. I mean. The distributor of the vaccine is all over the newz. Reason? Pfizer is also the infamous distributor of… That’s right. You guessed it. The blue pills, baby. Oh wait. I’m sorry. This isn’t about the blue pill or the red pill, as in, The Matrix. No. Indeed. This is solely about the blue pill that was invented so that women don’t have to suck a… Sorry. I’m off worst-subject again.
Pfizer’s claim to fame is that it is the largest distributor of dick-pills. You know. Stiffy drugs. Wood for woman pills. The pills that mean women-folk CAN just lay there. Etc., etc. Indeed. Viagra. And don’t you know, Pfizer had nothing to do with the actual development of viagra and–that’s right!–they’ve had nothing to do with the covid vaccine. Indeed. Some corporate $hitbag, working at a desk who sometimes gets to fly business class around the world, made a deal with a company that actually made the covid vaccine. Yet where is that company? If you’re reading this worst-blog-post from North America, have you heard anything about BioNTech?
Oh wait. Since #Americant can’t (hasn’t been able to) make anything since… Gee… I don’t know… It has completely decimated its manufacturing capabilities since the 1980s because a bunch of submissive college grads were never taught to think for themselves… And bean-counting pseudo intellectuals in the form of so-called management consultants, aka McKinsey, Booz Allen, etc., as outsourced corporate automatons, have been literally making actual production productivity scarcer than a fifty year old virgin mother who hates the man/men that impregnated her in the first place and now they want to do it more but with even less consequence and all in the name of the blue pill… Anywho. #Americant probably couldn’t have made the first Covid vaccine even if it wanted to. Or am I being too harsh with my hate for post Ronald Reagan LAND OF THE FREE TO BE STUPID?
For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, I’m sure there’s reason enough the privileged, Neo-feudalist #Americants need not mention BioNTech. Let’s cover a few of those reasons, shall we?
It’s a small German company based in Mainz
It is a company founded by Turkish immigrants–to Germany
BioNTech was funded by government, German government. Oh my!
And so. What does #Americant talk about instead of where the first covid vaccine comes from? That’s right. It talks about… full distortion-fields of greed-galore packed in unsold Xmas wrapping paper lined with fake-it-till-you-make-it #Trump gold2. Faux newz-mode. Fake it till you make mode, baby. And so. Talk about MAGA–which is code for reality avoidance abundance. Talk about libs, which is code for racism and bigotry and never having to visit a multi-racial playground. Indeed. For #Americant is good at this sort of thing, don’t you know. Reason? It’s about more than just changing the subject. It’s about controlling the narrative. The TV narrative that is the #Americant mind. So what does #Americant do to stop all talk about who created the first approved vaccine–which may or mayn’t make people question #Americant republican/conservative bat$hittery? That’s right. It talks about the big-wig distributor of dick-pills. And when that’s not enough it talks about an American immigrant from Hungary who discovered major breakthroughs in gene technology that is the precursor to the covid vaccine–because she’s an American now. Which begs this worst-question: Will the founders of BioNTech get the Nobel prize next year? Or will #Americants continue avoiding giving credit where it’s due because of bat$hit tribalism run amok?
But I die-gress.
This should always be a story about how immigrants are leading the way and not about corporations who simply buy-up opportunity. And so. Enjoy your next dick-pill, baby.
And don’t even get me started on the idear that something similar actually killed off the dinosaurs and not the fabled belief in asteroids. For. Don’t you know, dear worst-reader. That which killed the dinosaurs was a lung ailment not unlike our covid. But for the dinosaurs, the cause of their ailment wasn’t a permanent establishment of the poor versus the working poor and how they were all forced to live in $hit. No. The thing that killed the dinosaurs was much simpler. It was all about O2, i.e. oxygen. That’s right. The reason, according to worst-writer, that dinosaurs got so big and were so fruitful was because the earth’s atmosphere was much richer in oxygen back then. Where we now have an atmosphere of just below twenty-percent O2, back then, it was something around or above thirty-percent. That’s a lot of juice for a fruitful biosphere, eh. But on that note, I really should die-gress. ↩︎
That’s right. The same #Trump gold covering his toilets. Which means. That’s right. He shat on it at one time or other. ↩︎
Indeed. Dear worst-reader. There you have it. The four C’s. Or. Better worst-put: how worst-writer finds better and better ways to describe, if not transcribe, what my beloved & missed #Americant– land of THE FREE TO BE STUPID–has actually given the world and/or humanity since it turned the birth/day of Xhrist from July to December and thereby enabled Coca-Cola to become a rival to the bitter-sweetness of Disney and what gets in the mind of bullshit or batshit–that can only give-way to President pee-pee-hair. And so. Ever smell batshit, dear worst-reader? It is the rotten, metallic, repugnant odour of failing upward. Which means it’s hard to smell (anything) when you live (in) *shit. But I die-gress.
Today, dear worst-reader, we worst-blog about yet another pending issue from #Americantnewz. Or did you not hear about the managerial worker-bees from that Tyson’s food plant who were fired because they were betting in a betting-pool who would get Covid. Did you get that? Let me worst-repeat: managers running a food processing plant in the middle of bumfcuk#Americant were betting on who would get the covid–and die? Any idear what that means? No? Let’s break it down, shall we.
First. As I’ve worst-written before, most (a huuuuuuge majority) #Americants have never worked a day in their lives. That is, they’ve never actually do anything of substance, nor do they actually produce anything. What #Americants do when they go to work is they behave compulsively and get paid to do so–and the machine in which they were born treks on. In other worst-words: #Americants, more than members of any other greed-mongering nation-state, do what they are told. Indeed. What is told is done–to the letter, don’t you know. In fact. All generations of #Americants have had their DNA altered since WW2 (give or take a war) to encompass the mantra: what more of #Americant god-of-money can you tell me to do because I am oh-so ready to do it. The do-telling comes first and foremost from parents, but it also includes elders and, of course, the/their environment. Compulsive behaviourism is a sickness, dear worst-reader. But on that note, again, let us die-gress.
Oh wait. Let’s suspend that die-gression for a second. If you’re wondering how it is that so many #Americants get ahead, make a living, have money, etc.? Well. The answer to that is easy. Compulsive behaviourism, like so many human traits, can be mastered. It is indeed a skill. And so. Those that nail it–not unlike a nation of submissive wives who oh-so enjoy being the nailed of matrimony in a post-feminist world–make money. As far as the really, really rich money makers? Compulsive behaviourism works for them just as well. In fact, I can’t think of a more successful compulsive behaviourist then Jeff Bezos–who, by-the-buy, was a finance guy before he realised how much Wall Street sucks and then trekked across the country to Seattle to finally figure out how Windows95 works. I mean. Come on. Amazon is nothing but an old economy distribution centre… that runs on Windows 95 interwebnets and postal service(s). Am I wrong.
But. Again. I die-gress.
Understanding compulsive behaviourism (CB) is key to understanding #Americant. There are a number of ways to recognise CB. At the top of list would have to be conformity. In fact. It’s hard to tell the difference between diseases in #Americant. Conformity disease or CB disease. Take your worst-pick, eh. And. Although some might consider conformity to be on a higher plain as CB, I tend not to think that worst-way. For example. Just go to any Walmart. If you ever want to see the slop and goop where the conformity disease manifests, hold your breath when you walk in. If you can wear some goggles do so. And, if at all possible, don’t touch anything from underneath your body condom. And then have a look at what walks around #Americant’s favourite buy-krapp-store. Same shoes. Same sweat-shirt or hoody. Same hat and same bonnet and same pseudo-english slang that sounds as though it could yank the dong off a rattlesnake pissing on #Trump’s hair as it yells and screams the frustrations of having believed in The Dream that has relegated it to shopping at… Walmart.
You’re all a bunch of snakes, ain’t ya.
But. As usual, dear worst-reader, I’m off worst-subject. For today the worst-issue is: what is it that one does in life when compulsion rules and behaving ain’t enough? Indeed. One seeks a break for the mind. Such a simple task, don’t you know. Some may call it entertainment. Some call it addiction-personality. Others call it sadism. I, of course, prefer the latter. And so. The thing about compulsive behaviourism as both a sickness and national quest, not unlike going to the moon oh so many years ago only to reach the unprofitable point of never returning, is that it’s hard to see all the moments of death by a thousand cuts. You swim in bullshit/batshit long enough you can never know anything different. Or. More important. There is no return to anything that could have possibly been normal. And so.
When there’s nothing left to be made. When all cookies have been distributed. When all that’s left is seeing others on TV humiliate themselves–aka President Piss-Hair and his dipshit#MAGA hat wearing pissers–where do you turn? That’s right. You turn to betting pools in the confines of the corporate structures that house what’s left of your mind. You literally bet on the death of others for your personal entertainment–because, well, where else can you get meaning? Which can only raise yet another worst-question: since it’s no longer about how far and wide the depths of fail-upward #Americant can go… It’s now about how to first begin the trek of getting out of this mess. Or?
Na. Go buy something instead. And so.
Bet on everything till there’s nothing left? Or. Aren’t you already there? #Nomatter.
Sub (or worst) title (2): Making über fun of conservatism because… well…
it can’t understand Kubrick’s monolith
it’s fun making fun of stupid
First. Conservatism ain’t and never was about workers. You know, workers being the same as the-working-poor. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, there’s no such thing as a poor conservative. Or? I mean. There are plenty of stupid people. There are also plenty of poor poeple. And so. Put stupid and poor together, add in a bit of faux-newz plus Limbaugh & co., and there you have it. Never before have stupid poor people joined the ranks of their own demise until the late twentieth century rise of post Ronald Reagan #Americant. Indeed. But let’s not get too tied-up high-n-dry in the never-more of #Americant politics. Or?
Second. It’s been a while, eh dear worst-reader? I mean. For a while there, recently, I thought I was gonna give up worst-blogging. Then I got to thinking: there have been times before that I wasted a thought or three about quitting this nonsense. And by quitting I don’t just mean worst-blogging. For in these times of greed and stupidity there is so much to quit. And so. Let’s just call the last two months of nothingness… a hiatus (see previous post)? Yeah. Whatever.
Worst-subject of the day? Well, don’t you just know it. Somewhere hidden deep in your bones–or is it the amygdala part of the brain–there lies a worst-writer issue worth addressing–and, perhaps, worth bringing worst-writer out of hiatus semi-pseudo-retirement. And so. The worst subject of the day is all about STUPID. As in: LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID. Which means: your question, dear worst-reader, can only be: oh, worst-writer, but how STUPID is #Americant? Good question. Yeah, let’s go there.
It all worst-begins with a helicopter flying around the good looking wasteland canyons of Utah in search of bighorn sheep. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, helicopters are needed by the state to look after sheep–as in: don’t let the flock run amok. Shame the same doesn’t work for sheeple, right? Also. Here’s another idear and/or worst-thought about what this is/could be about: them bighorns gotta live large, don’t you know. For they are a protected species. And. Once again. Sheep do need protection. Gee! I’m now wondering if these protected sheep wear red hats with something really, really, really stupid written on them? You know. Like: MAKE AMERICA EVEN STUPIDER! #Nomatter.
While this helicopter is flying around and looking out for bighorn sheep, the pilot is distracted by something in them-thar canyons. You know, something bright, something shinny, something like a boob but probably a bit more distracting. Indeed. Something that may or mayn’t make the dog in your head go: squirrel! And so. Worst-writer can only guess that the pilot is distracted by a glow caused by natural or unnatural phenomena under the hooves of bighorn sheep. Keep in mind, since the area is protected land, any and all observable anomalies have to be recorded in the name of… you guessed it: protecting the environment. Yeah, we know how rural bumfcuk#Americant loves a good investigation into the suspiciousness of inspecting the environment. And so.
Thanks to the wonders of GPS tracking and a few too many loudmouths here and there within the confines of conformist government agencies, soon a monolith–i.e. the glow that stirred our pilot, derelict mentioned previously–is the centre of Utah nowhereland along side a bit too much television-interwebnet for-stupid-people. And so. If you want to know more about the monolith that made it to the newz, see the links below. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, such a ornament, work of art, sign from the heavens, actually interests me very little. Reason? I’m all in on monoliths. I understand how they can be interpreted by some (#MAGA hat wearing morons) as something that they are not. For. Indeed. I get what Kubrick was up to in 2001 Space Odyssey. Yet if it weren’t for the reaction by certain #Americant reactionaries (#MAGA hat wearing morons), the likes of which have, for all practical purposes, long since overtaken my beloved & missed united mistakes, I would have just let this thing go.
But we are here to worst-write about STUPID–of which there is so much to wort-write about. Am I wrong.
The worst-thing that caught worst-writer’s interest about this monolith thing is this: will/can those interested in this phenomenon react to it not unlike Stanley Kubrick predicted? That is. Here’s the thing. The reaction to this phenomenon is two fold: The monolith…
was planted by aliens
is a golden (biblical) calf, i.e. false god and in the confines of #MAGA hat wearing #Americant must be destroyed at all costs, even if that cost entails missing out on your next ice cream with sparkles
Either way, dear worst-reader, those who have picked up on this newz report are trying to turn it into yet another proverbial match that could/should be thrown into the gaslight of #Americant politics lead by right-wing batshittery. Again. Am I wrong.
But before I worst-continue with calling-out my republican, conservative brethren (for all their STUPID), allow me to provide a bit of context. If you haven’t seen Kubrick’s 2001 Space Odyssey, here’s a quick worst-writer summary. First. 2001 Space Odyssey is a three-part movie from the mindset of the 1950s to the end of the 1960s. That mindset, of course, is driven by comic-book sci-fi but is also a stream of consciousness if not picturesque cinematic novel.
In reverse order, part three of the movie is a 1960’s drug induced fantasy sci-fi without beginning and end–which may or may not be the end of ALL stream of consciousness antics post Ronald Reagan (hence Kubrick’s vision). Part two is a sci-fi wonder that is, like so many other Kubrik movies, unfinished but still worth watching (I’m thinking of the movie AI). Part one of the movie is the crutch of the film and depicts what is simply titled: The Dawn of Man. It is part one of this movie that #Americant conservatism can’t understand or grasp or comprehend but is somehow pushed to the forefront by those who embody so much STUPID all on account they can’t interpret anything unless it’s portrayed on a bumper sticker or a t-shirt.
In part one of Kubrick’s masterpiece a monolith plays a pivotal role along side prehistoric man. Or should I say: along side the precursor of man? #Nomatter. It is the monolith that depicts man’s awakening (at man’s evolutionary dawn). In fact, this monolith is so powerful that the movie suddenly breaks from prehistoric but upright evolved man to space flight as it continues directly into part two. What an achievement eh. But could Kubrick have known–back then–that his monolith would eventually be over-taken by #MAGA hat wearing morons in the name of #Trump and THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID because the grand teapot in the sky says so? For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, this monolith thingy that has been in the newz of late is being seen as exactly that which it is not. It is not a false god that must be torn down. It is instead a request (to humanity) to cut out all the STUPID.
But I die-gress.
As you’ll note in the links below, especially the video link of the #MAGA-religious idiots tearing down a subsequent monolith that was put up in California and thereby claiming that #Americant is a christian nation… I mean… Come on! How far does #Americant religious batshittery have to go before a second enlightenment need come? Am I wrong, dear worst-reader? Do you get what the enlightenment was really about? What it was for? What purpose it served? Or are you too waiting for a second enlightenment–so that we can finally move on from what obviously made #Americant so f’n STUPID post Ronald f’n Reagan to president pee-pee-hair? I mean. Seriously. Fake monoliths, somehow installed on government land, make the eyes pop out of people because somehow, somewhere, they are reminded of the fact that Stanley Kubrick took certain liberties with an Isaac Asimov story and thereby turned an object of something or another (a monolith) into a religious symbol that ultimately brought mankind out of the intellectual darkness only so that it could eventually devolve back to that same darkness in the form of president piss-hair and his money-grubbing, fail-upwards followers. Or maybe not. Anywho.
Let the devolution continue. That way at least worst-writer can still be entertained.
Video = Russell Brand vs Matthew McConaughey lampshade-actor-stupid and I’m including this link/video only because it appeals to my sense of how stupid will always prevail against smart–or something like that
Worst-writer’s thoughts on 2020s first non-presidential presidential debate.
Trainwreck $hitshow forever.
-worstwriter
How afeared are you, dear worst-reader? Whaaaaa? No fear? How ’bout embarrassed? Is there such a thing as dying from embarrassment? If not, how was President Stupid’s debate performance? And don’t worry. You really don’t have to answer the question. All you have to do is show up with your red hat, which we all know is nothing more than the new and improved KKK hood. Am I wrong?
There you have it, dear worst-reader. The fearless are about to once again perform the other reality-tv show: #Americant democracy in (in)action. (What a tv show title, eh?) Its premier will take place on Nov. 3, so they say. Then again, one can’t really call last nights $hitshow performance a debate that may or mayn’t influence how the dumb-down vote. Or? I mean, these things have been sinking and sinking ever since Kennedy saw fit to do with TV what FDR did with radio. The only difference is, FDR didn’t have a bunch of dumb-downed morons sulking on WWE and whatever reality-tv show on account they can’t figure out on their own why their country has become a slow motion $hitshow train wreck. Or. For all their troubles (#Americants), at least they’ve got the Libtards to blame. Thanks Joe Biden.
To be honest, I’m not able to watch the whole debate at one going. I have to watch it in chunks–otherwise I’ll blow chunks. Even the few spots I’ve seen so-far reassure me that the end is not nigh but instead long surpassed. I predicted that this would be a $hitshow but it’s hard to predict how deep in the $hit it can go. Or do you think there is a bottom to president pee-pee-hair’s fall? With that in mind, president-stupid certainly did deliver what his supporters expected. And by-the-buy, this is beyond lunacy. Indeed. The dumb-downed do have expectations. If only their lust for minority-rule and protecting (inherited and unearned) privilege would finally reach it’s moneyshot–so that the country can start cleaning itself of all the messy masturbatory residue that was initiated by Ronald Reagan’s tickle. Or maybe not.
In a way, I kinda feel bad for Joe Biden. Even though I sent out my absentee ballot the other day–which may or mayn’t make it to rural $hitcountry… I mean. Who can ever know if the/your ballots are really counted? But that’s neither here nor there. The thing is this: Of course I voted for Biden. But this is in no way a worst-post to promote him. I’ve disliked Biden ever since he ganged up on Anita Hill for telling the truth about Clarence Thomas. It’s just that, who knew that elite and privileged #Americants, like Biden and his generation, would let things get so fascist-ically out of hand? For Biden is, don’t you know, nothing if not an enabler of both-sides-do-it, the status-quo, conservatism, etc., that is, btw, codified in the Constitution. As in. Protect the rich. Secure rule by money. Get in line. Conform. Etc. Or. Am I going to far down the worst-writer rabbit hole of naiveté regarding what’s in the Constitution? If not, I’m the only one to see the damage of the corpse that suffered its death by a thousand conservative, GOP, republican and, yes, Neo-liberal (Biden and Hillary Democrats) cuts. Or maybe not.
As we all may or may not know, dear worst-reader, the debate the other night was NO debate. It was TV programming for sure. But was it good TV? Since I tend more towards the cord-cutting aspect of media consumption, I can’t really judge whether the gods of advertisement pulled off their latest attempt at appealing to the mindlessness of a nation of dimwits–all raised on TV. But there is this worst-idear. Of the clips I’ve seen of the debate, I think it’s pretty much game-over for the experiment that was/is America. Indeed. #Americant has sealed its fate and will be in place for years to come with or without Biden. What else could be the result of allowing/enabling the true rotten soul-character of a nation, in the form of President Piss-Hair, to be enshrined in history–via a fake-it-till-you-make-it “debate”? And so. All those that made it this far can be assured that the ride will continue. It will continue just as the Roman Empire became Italy or the British Empire became a bunch of old white dudes in the House of Lords. Or something like that.
So many things need to be said, eh dear-worst-reader? Especially with the death of a so-called jurist icon. And what about this jurist icon–that I haven’t already tried to worst-convey? Well, here’s the thing. As great as #RBG was, did any of her greatness lead to anything worthwhile? You know, something worthwhile in the big-picture of things? Or was all that she did, achieved, taught, nothing more than a side-show that enabled real, raw political power to find its natural state by 2020 (2016?) #Americant? Sure. She’s got that feminist thing going–which may or may not still be trapped in the 1970s. Then there’s her stance on equal rights. Has that stance helped or harmed all those people resisting authority and then being shot in the back by weekend warrior cops? And let’s not forget her ability to charm even the cruelest beast of men with a law-wit only comparable to a dancing scene in Beauty and the Beast as it’s re-run on reality TV? But. As I’ve said. Or perhaps not. It’s time to get rid of all these icons who are so obviously stuck in the past. Or is it some kind of time-warp loop of… Of…?
Yes. Icons do what they do. They are (t)here. They stand tall. Their stone is edged in the time of our rock quarries. And what do those of us do as we stare into the abyss that built such icons? That’s right. We don’t question them. We don’t demand anything of them. We don’t fight them to be more. Indeed. We conform. It’s all that’s left for those who live in the past or are too afraid of the/a future.
What is my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant if not THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID that can only culminate in electing to its highest office a man who has hair that looks as though it came out of a cotton candy machine working with orang-utan urine? And that’s not all. Because #Americant is also the land of supreme conformity, does it actually have the capability to reform–as it conformed? You can see it everywhere, don’t you know. Go to an event. A bar. A sport arena. Walmart. Church. Everyone–and I mean everyone–is a conformist. It’s surely, I suspect, the greatest achievement of #RBG’s generation–the silent generation, if not the so-called greatest generation. It’s all been passed onto #OKBoomer and beyond. Don’t question anything. Don’t think critically. Think not originally. Live in and for that past. All you need is… money. And. Now. #RBG is done. There you have it: President Pee-Pee-Hair. Or #AOC? And while I’m throwing the boomerang of #AOC in the lick bucket, check this out. Have a look at how even the nicest conformists slide down the slippery slope of a freak-out society that can’t comprehend (its) conformity. And then watch the ricochet bullets and bombs of conservative, liberal $hit flinging. Yeah. This is brutal. I’m laughing my arse off?
And so. Let’s go a bit deeper. For whatever worst-reason, since the news of #RBG passing hit my computer screen yesterday early morning Central European time, I have been struggling with the following comparison-contrast. So I hope you’re sitting down, dear worst-reader.
I couldn’t help but think of Nurse Ratched. Anyone remember Nurse Ratched? She’s the hell nurse from the movie One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. What a study in conformity, eh, dear worst-reader? I’m gonna compare conformity in a famous #SCOTUS overseer with that of Nurse Ratched–a character in a movie that terrorised my mind for years and years and years. Ratched is so convincing to worst-moi as not only a nurse in a mental ward but also as a matriarch–so clever connected to patriarch. She is the overseer of those few men who question things. Or. Better worst-put. Men who question all the conformity they’ve never been able to cope with (in this life) must be subjected to the wrath of Ratched. She (and most conformist females of the submissive type) is the archetypal architect of the family if not social unit that is my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant. And so. Do what you’re told. Or else. Nurse Ratched is waiting while #RBG is passing on to being an idol in statue form. Remember that. Nurse Ratched will always be with us. #RBG’s fight, whatever it was/is, is now just an idol. Or will something whip Ratched’s arse out of the way–and turn her into a statue idol? Conformity says not.
Or did you think One Flew Over A Cuckoo’s Nest is a movie about the goings and comings of a mental ward? #Nomatter.
Even though it’s very hard for me to watch this movie, as it hit my soul hard when I first saw it forty or so years ago, whenever I question the same comings and goings of my beloved & missed #Americant, I can’t help but think of Ratched and now #RBG. The things is this, dear worst-reader. While #RBG solidifies her idol statue, how is it that all her so-called achievements may or may not have resulted in America becoming #Americant? What? Am I stretching things too far with such a comparison? I mean, obviously #RBG’s achievement as a fcuking lawyer or #SCOTUS over-seer is impeccable. Yet I can’t help but wonder while thinking about her… What the fcuk was the point of her generation fighting against Hitler, Communism, labour, and then fighting for consumerism, superficiality and nothingness-galore, etc.? Were #RBG’s achievements so great that it turned us into mystified fcuk cretans of capitalist big cocks and our only relief is to find an idol–or golden piss-hair calf?
So. Like. What’s the difference between being blind and being blindfolded? One means you can’t see and the other means you don’t want to see, or someone else doesn’t want you to see. With that in worst-mind, I’ve never been a fan of Lady Justice. Don’t get me wrong. She’s a gotta body that gives (me) wood. And that sword looks like it could do a number on anyone’s arse. And who doesn’t like to be blindfolded when s/he is being, hopefully, royally shagged by a woman in Roman garb? But on that note, I die-gress.
Once again, during morn coffee, jazz and news, anger ripped through me, dear worst-reader. I even belted out…
I HATE YOU RUTH BADER…
Then I drank more soothing dragon pearl jasmine tee so as to calm my über-espresso throat while listening to Miles Davis’ Oleo playing through bookshelf speakers galore and thereby letting that inner worst-dialogue run its course.
Worst-Moi: You don’t really hate RBG. Moi: Of course not. I love her. She’s a giant. She’s an inspiration. Worst-Moi: But her statue should not replace Lady Justice, correct? Moi: That’s right, old friend. Enough with all the idolatry. Worst-Moi: But you’re still bothered? Moi: Indeed, I am. We’re fcuked. Let me explain.
I was so angry when Barry-O tried to fill Scalia’s seat in 2016 which ended up giving us the fiasco known as #McConnellRule. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, for most of my adult life, a life plagued by ignorance abating (through) self-teaching, I’ve always idealised the idear that is/was #SCOTUS. Until, of course, I learned how republican $hitbags and their pseudo-nazi-faith (ideology) could so easily turn the court and the country into a/the protectorate of…
THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID.
Indeed. The Law is inherently fallible and when in the hands of generation after generation of ineptitude combined with greed… In fact, I’d go so worst-far as to worst-claim, there can never be justice because The Law is about injustice. But enough my worst-writer cynicism, eh.
The thing is this: #RBG should have retired a long time ago. She should have been smart enough to know that she could have done more good by allowing a youthful, healthy replacement–as she’s been battling cancer for how long?–during times when GOP/Republican $hitbaggery wouldn’t be so blatant. She should have helped secure #SCOTUS from being turned into a a mirror of Republican slime. She should have seen the damage already done long before she was even appointed, i.e. going as far back as Ronald $hitbag Reagan and even Dick Nixon. But. Just like so many of her generation and the #OKBoomer generation that followed, the first rule of generational greed-mongering where commodified achievement can only lead to a meritless society: don’t make way for something new. Keep everything old and rotting and decrepit. That’s how you get to President Pee-Pee-Hair and an #Americant that already appointed the scariest Justice ever IMHO. And now the next scariest justice is surely on his/her way in.
And so, to replace not only #RBG but also Lady Justice, this is/should be the new face of #Americant (in)justice:
And don’t #Americants deserve it.
Good luck suckers.
Rant on.
-T
Links:
Example 1 of how conservatives and $hitbags can abuse so-called justice
Example 2 of how a $hitbag uses the law to prove he’s a smart arse
Example 3 – a brilliant video take down of law abuse that so many have to use to show the world how small their dicks really are
This (worst)post was updated March, 2021. (Strike throughs.)
Title 2: No such thing as Hifiberry overkill. Or?
Gotta say a few worst-words about my Hifiberry collection, dear worst-reader. Not sure if you can tell, but I’m a Raspberry Pi fan. I love these these little SBCs (single board computers) and when combined with DACs, IMHO, there’s no better way to enjoy audio without breaking the bank. Speaking of which, this equipment allows me to avoid krapp like Apple’s HomePod or whatever branded ridiculously priced streaming device, sound bar, etc. Also. As far as I’m concerned, Bluetooth ain’t quite there yet when it comes to quality audio streaming. On the other hand, I am an Apple fanboy. That means, I always have to compromise something when it comes to compatibility. I also have some legacy audio equipment that includes active and passive speakers, plenty of cables, connectors, and few really cheap Chinese DACs (smsl, etc.) The thing is, even though these devices are cheap and require a bit of maintenance, they do not lack in audio quality. But let’s move on.
As you can see from the pics above I currently have four RPi’s with HifiBerry DAC hats. I use them mainly as media players or streaming endpoints. If you can do some basic linux stuff, you’re in the green with these babies. Although there is a swath of audio DACs from other makers for Raspberry Pi, I’ve never bothered with any of them, so this is obviously a one-sided pseudo-review. With that in worst-mind, let’s run down my use cases.
Let’s start with the old and weak, shall we. In order to make use of my oldest RPi3 (from 2014), which was collecting dust in a drawer, I ordered the HifiBerry analog DAC with the 3.5mm headphone jack. It’s running HifiberryOS, which makes it a streaming endpoint (if I’ve got the tech vernacular correct). I use it mainly as the audio output for my AppleTV4k via shairport. The AppleTV drives a 1080p Beamer. Connected to the phone jack of the HifiBerry DAC–because the onboard headphone jack of the RPi really, really does suck–is a pair of Bose Companion 20 powered speakers. These are my trusty play-anywhere, use-anytime speakers for the past fifteen or so years. These old Bose’s are perfect for TV (instead of a stupid soundbar) or desktop PC use. Heck they even suffice for outdoor use if a party or a cook-out needs tunes. Also. Keep in mind. I live in a very rectangular townhouse with an inner loft-like atrium that is surround by kitchen, dinning area and living room. The living room and dinning room merge at a corner of the atrium. The main wall at the end of my living room, with bookshelves, is where I have what I consider my music speakers. Hence, I have a room with two disparate sound systems. More on that in a sec. The beamer projects on a perpendicular wall. As you can see in the pic below, the Bose speakers are on a high wall table and they project whatever audio comes out of my AppleTV, which is also hidden away atop my bookshelves.
A second RPi3 has a HifiBerry AMP2 DAC hat also running HifiberryOS and functions as a streaming endpoint that I feed with iPhone, Mac or iPad. It’s currently my only remaining Volumio device hidden away behind books at the top of my bookshelves (see pic below). It provides my living room with… you guessed it: music only. Even though I love the old Bose Companion speakers, they are nothing compared to the AudioEngine P4s that resonate beautifully in the most expensive bookshelves I’ve ever owned. The reason this is my only Volumio device is because 1) my wife’s not ready to learn new player software and 2) it works better than HifiBerryOS when it comes to accessing SMB shares. More on that in a sec. The RPi and AMP2 drives the AudioEngine P4 speakers with enough quality to make me grin ear to ear every morning while drinking earl grey and waking up to jazz.
Btw. Morning jazz is a worst-writer ritual.
My third RPi3 has a Hifiberry DAC+Pro and is a Plex media player OSMC player. It’s attached to a flatscreen 40″ TV in my work room (not pictured). For audio it is connected to a TEAC (ice powered) integrated amp via RCA cables and powers Pioneer BS22LR speakers. I think it’s my second oldest Raspberry Pi (from 2015 or 2016). When I started using Plex back in the day, btw, I thought it would be my streamer and player of choice. Turns out better players software abounds. And, if you ask worst-moi, Plex has become too complex. (Pun intended.) Plus I hate subscription software. Anywho. I mainly use Plex OSMC with RPi and with AppleTV for for viewing my ripped movie and TV collection. When playing music I simply stream to it via OSMC shairport. Btw. All my media is stored on a simple samba server The Plex server is on a Pine64 RockPro64 which is in my basement. This is my minimalist, go-to, as audiophile-as-it-gets, setup. I absolutely love it.
The last RPi in my collection is an RPi4. I’ve been using it mostly as a testbed and/or fiddle device. It has the HifiBerry DAC+Pro and is currently connected to my TEAC’s second RCA inputs. It’s currently running HifiBerryOS and I’m really digging how it functions as a streaming endpoint. The RPi4 is the most powerful device here and it shows–especially when loading SMB shares or fiddling with operating systems. I’ve been switching between HifiBerryOS and Volumio with it trying to figure out which player I prefer–and HifiberryOS is winning on account Volumio seems to be going down a path of greed-mongering. More on that in a sec. What’s become very clear to me while fiddling around with all this stuff is that the day is nigh when these little things will easily replace modern desktop PCs. As far as media players go… they’re already the bomb.
HiFiBerryOS vs Volumio?
My only gripe with with RPi + HifiBerry is the software. I’m still, kinda, in the experimental stage of how to setup all these devices. Although I would like something similar to what iTunes used to be, I stopped using iTunes years ago because of proprietary issues, including the fact that Apple doesn’t support FLAC. Currently I’m pretty happy with webradio and direct streaming via shairport. The only thing missing is to be able to do it all with one software. But which one? I’ve got HifiBerry OS on two devices, Volumio on one device and Plex on the others (including my basement Pine64 server). Anywho…
I’m starting to dig HifiBerryOS more and more. Even though HifiBerryOS on the older RPi3 seems to have fewer capabilities than when on the RPi4 The OS works so well with shairport (open source version of Apple’s Airport streaming software) that I’m actually streaming more and more music from my Mac and/or iPad–as opposed to accessing music via SMB shares and Volumio, which I can’t getting running on HifiberryOS anyway. Update: using info provided here, I managed to get HifiBerryOS connected to my SMB shares. It works like a charm! Hopefully they’ll fix the bugs soon. Right now I’m streaming The True Loves Live Performance from KEXP (YouTube) and it is rocking’ cool!
It’s time to admit the obvious. I’m becoming more and more disappointed with Volumio, which has been my go-to music player for a few years now. Also, since Volumio has decided to go down the cost-path of subscription fees in order to monetise, plus it thinks it’s OK to charge for Bluetooth access…. Come on Volumio, subscription fees suck. And how is it that HifiBerry doesn’t charge for its Bluetooth access?! Just charge a flat fee for your software. Or not! But heed this: as a streaming endpoint, I’m really digging HifiBerryOS.
IMHO. Raspberry Pi and Hifiberry have really done a number on an industry that is obsessed with cheating consumers. Am I referring to the so-called audiophile industry? Or just the Denon and NAD makers? Yeah. Something like that. What’s important is that if you don’t want to be owned or miss out on modern music consumption and have a bit of tech knowledge plus you are willing to fiddle around with opensource software…?
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest– For Brutus is an honourable man; So are they all, all honourable men– Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And, sure, he is an honourable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause: What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him? O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason. Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me.
-Marc Antony, Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare
Yes, dear worst-reader, these are the moments where things read cause a thought or three while cleaning my weber über-grill this morn. Oh how it needed a cleaning, don’t you know. So much oily stuff accumulating underneath the flames after month upon month of use–since our oven is broke. It only takes a piece of fatty steak to drip at the right moment to ignite the oily undergrowth. So it was a few days back. The whole grill and the steaks bellowed a black smoke as the grime lit up into dull, orange flames. And as I age, admiring the gluttony of the couch during these days waiting for the clock to strike “it’s drink time”, I gathered myself and said: Clean the fcuking grill you lazy biatch of man, earn your afternoon drink. And so I did. But then. While my power washer was acting up, I got to thinking about Marc Antony’s speech from Julius Caesar. Oh, how I’ve battled with this speech, perhaps not unlike I’m battling with my power washer. Even though I’ve only directed this play twice in my dream-mind, both times I fought with this speech the most. You know, what does it mean? Where is it going. Where has it been? Heaven forbid you’re stuck with an actor who thinks this play is about power. Hence the varied right-wing bend this speech can take, as though it were a crowd pleaser or crowd controller. Being the liberal I am, of course, means I can only allow Marc Antony to be the sarcastic prick that too few know he really is. And so, while power washing the grill plates and flame diffusers and heat deflectors of my grill, the parts that catch all the flammable grime waiting to light if not properly cared for–not unlike California these days, eh–I allowed my dream-mind to imagine, even for a brief amount of time, that I would play Marc Antony in my third directorial attempt at Shakespeare. And I would give the speech as I see fit, don’t you know.
There is a hint of sarcasm in there, or?
Rant on.
-T
PS After my grill caught fire the other day, indicating it was time for a cleaning, the steaks that caused the fire weren’t all that bad. Indeed. They were tasty.
Originally from Maryland, dear worst-reader. But don’t fault me for that. Don’t fault me on account, don’t you know, Maryland has given the world Kavanaugh. But I die-gress. After living in the golden cage of Germania for all these years, sometimes I need reminding of where I’m from. With a little help from my better-half, of course, she comes home here or there with just such a reminder. Indeed. Every once-a-once she brings something home that is supposed to remind me of who I am, where I’m from, what reared me. Little does she know the horrors that surge around my worst-mind. But that’s for another worst-blog, perhaps. Or. Are these little things supposed to do something else? #Nomatter. I allow the entertainment–especially in these times of covid and other pig capitalist misdeeds that have turned the world into a cesspool of shitfilth and other happy whatnot of demise. Yet here’s the thing. When I’m reminded of where I’m from I usually just give off a wink and thumb-up and then go about my merry bidness. Then, usually a day or two (or maybe more) later, I take another look at the reminder and realise: the world has my Maryland all wrong. But is that any wonder? I mean. Have you ever been to Maryland? It can be a nice place to visit but like so many other places… it’s just another shithole where one group of people can poop on another group of people and no one thinks once or thrice about any of it. Still. Some stuff irks me. Take a close look at the pics above. The “blue crab” isn’t quite right, don’t you know. In fact, to the best of my crab knowledge, that’s the image of a mud crab. Although the Schooner is a fine sailing vessel and deserves to have its image on a mini-bucket of oddly flavoured nuts, Maryland is not known for Schnooners. Maryland, especially the Chesapeake Bay, is known for its Skipjacks. But. Again. I die-gress.
To avoid all my worst-writing and get straight to the pseudo-review, just scroll down a bit. Otherwise, good luck.
This consume-to-survive world/life is gettin’ to me, covid n’all. You too, dear worst-reader? I mean. Just the other day, after purchasing another one of them fancy-pants robot vacuum cleaners, after my previous über-expensive robot vacuum cleaner stopped working, I thought: what will be the last thing I ever buy? I mean. You know. Before I die, what will be my last purchase of this life? Which begs the worst-question: should it be something big and exuberant and gaudy? Even though the thought of buying a sailing yacht as a last purchase has crossed my mind, I’m starting to reconsider. For you see. Don’t you know. The dream-purchase of a yacht is two fold. First, it would be used to sail out to the middle of the Atlantic, once and for all. Once there I would hang out for a few days dancing and prancing in a state of glorious inebriation. After that I would pull the plug. You know, the plug at the bottom of every boat’s hull. And while the boat is filling with water, I will dawn my scuba gear and jump over board. While still on the surface, I’ll watch my last life-purchase sink and shed my last tears. Just as the hull breaches the water’s surface I commence to join it by grabbing the mast but continue breathing with my scuba gear as we go down. Now. Get this, dear worst-reader. This is my death fantasy combined with my last consume-to-survive purchase. And so. I commence a rapid descent along side my yacht and thereby watch my depth gauge. Once I surpass forty-five or so meters I then give way to my fate and submit to nitrogen narcosis, which, in my case, as I learned during a fifty meter dive in the Red Sea in 2010, sends me into a hissy-fit of giggling. Of course, since I enjoyed all those dreams of yachting across oceans for so long, it’s my hope that those same dreams will accompany me as my body submits to rapture of the deep. Without struggle or stress, the chemical imbalance of oxygen in my blood stream, at depth, sees to it that the lights finally go out and time stops and the misery that is a life that can give way to the likes of #Trump and #MAGA and the demise of my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant… to fascism… is finally over. Good night sweet prince.
All kidding aside. Since I ain’t never gonna afford no yacht, how ’bout we make my last purchase something akin to a last meal. But would mine include ice cream? Certainly not. It would be all about blue popcorn and watching the tale of a salamander as it wiggles (and giggles) hanging out of the beak of a horned rabbit… with Monty Python pointy teeth.
Pseudo-Review
Today, dear worst-reader, we pseudo-review our new robot vacuum cleaner, the Neato D7. It is replacing our old iRobot 866 which we purchased in early 2016–or was it late 2015? Needless to say, I was very disappointed that our iRobot died. I’ve since ticked it away via that online auction service as “defect”, don’t you know. Good riddance. In fact, after a few years of use and being a device that I thought would hold up for a few more years, I can gladly admit that iRobot is on my shit-list. Indeed. The one good thing about being able to afford consume-to-survive purchase like this, is that I can also express my deep, deep disappointment in the corporate misnomer that some stuff that you think is quality ain’t really so. More on that in a sec.
The Neato D7 cleans better than the iRobot. It’s also quieter and is easier to maintain. The most important thing, though, is the Neato is much, much smarter than the iRobot. Although the Neato software sucks buckyballs, I’m slowly adapting to its inadequacies. That’s what software is all about, or? It’s never about what software can do. No. It’s always about the compromises made when using it. Am I wrong, Microsoft, Apple, etc.? Anywho. As of the writing of this worst-post Neato’s software cannot be used by multiple devices, i.e. two separate iPhones. Also. The iPhone app crashes here and there. The app interface reminds me of lost Windows 95 sys admins who may or may not have jumped ship. But before I get too far off subject. The first downer I noticed about the inadequate software is that it doesn’t run on two different iPhones. Well, it does. But then it breaks things. That is, when my wife tries to control the robot with her iPhone and then I try to access it later with my iPhone, the device becomes disoriented and is unable find its home base. Another downer about the software is that room mapping on multiple floors only works if you have multiple home bases, i.e. charging stations on each floor. WTF!
Price
Oh yeah. The price. The Neato was on a special end of summer offer for 370,-€. Compared to the dumb-device cost of the iRobot from 2015 @ 699,-… that kinda makes the Neato a frickin‘ steal. Another notch in the hate-gun of iRobot? Nevermind.
Back to software krapp.
Although initial setup of the Neato’s room mapping was a bit cumbersome, requiring two hard resets, where the ground floor of our house had to be mapped twice, I eventually reached the point of… fcuk-it. If all else fails, I’ll forget the room mapping and just let it clean without it. That’s what the iRobot did. The biggest difference to the iRobot was that the Neato works as though it can see where it’s going. And that’s a big deal. Considering iRobot’s latest product that can also see costs triple that of the Neato…? I can live with krappy software as long as it cleans and doesn’t just bang into stuff.
And clean it does, baby.
After a few weeks of use, just letting it do it’s thing, I’m not convinced that Neato’s mapping algorithm is fool proof. But I did get it working. Things like “no-go-lines” are a good idear, don’t you know. “No-go lines”, btw, you can set in the app, which has a virtual map of your house, and they’re supposed to prevent the device from slamming into, say, the dog’s water and food bowls or any other complicated floor areas, e.g. cables, floor lamp bases, etc. The only problem with “no-go-lines” is that you have to make sure that what’s ever in the lines is always in the same and/or original place. A bit of a cumbersome thing considering a real world floor doesn’t contain “no-go-lines”. Even though our older iRobot could see walls but couldn’t see furniture, the Neato seems to be able to see everything–with or without mapping. Which brings me to…
I was very disappointed when our iRobot stopped working. After searching and researching, I found out that the iRobot didn’t wear as well as I thought it would. That is, the build of the iRobot is better, more solid than the Neato, that’s for sure. On the other hand, the iRobot seems to be more complex. For example, before its demise, the iRobot kept indicating “Error 11”. I since learned that depending on the model, “Error 11” either meant bad battery or bad waste bin. I eventually bought a new (albeit third-party) battery for it. After one cleaning session “Error 11” returned and I was pissed that I might have just wasted my time replacing the battery. Turns out that the waste bin was also faulty. That’s when I found out (realised) that iRobot builds the suction fan into the waste bin. IMHO, after a few weeks with a new robot vacuum, iRobot might be stuck in that industrial mindset of not just over-pricing but also (aghast!) OVER-ENGINEERING.
Anywho. The Neato has a much bigger waste bin, cleans waaaaay more efficiently, is quieter and after (finally) getting the mapping thing going, allows me to clean room by room with a few taps of the app. If/when I want to clean the second floor of our house, though, I do so by just taking it up stairs and hitting the clean button. After that I have to take it back downstairs and manually put it on its home-base. Oh yeah. That damn home-base. Hold a sec. That’s another thing.
If you interrupt the Neato’s cleaning session by picking it up or moving it, it gets confused. That wouldn’t be so bad if I could just tell it to find its base. The problem is, removing it from its mapping seems to make it forget where the base is. The only way to get it back to the base is to manually put it there. Again: krappy software! I hope Neato will improve it with future updates. If not, compared to the 2015 iRobot, I’d still buy Neato. Reason? The most significant difference between these two robots is I no longer have to deal with one of them just banging into stuff.
As far as cleaning goes. The Neato wins hands down. Our hard wood floors are much freer of dirt and tiny particles now. For the price and compared to equivalent smart devices from iRobot, I’m throwing the Neato in with any great deal I’ve made lately. Even though the software kinda sucks, it does a good job of cleaning. Add to that it doesn’t get stuck…
Indeed, dear worst-reader. The hiatus began sometime ago. And so. Stay safe. Mask up. Avoid humanity and its inherent stupidity. Send good thoughts to my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant and its lust for anti-science, religiosity, and it fighting for the freedom to be stupid.
Check out the vid above, dear worst-reader. Get a’load of how the spineless albeit well-dressed (surely #MAGA morons) exchanged this & that about the fail-upwards life they’ve been living–and forcing the rest of us to live–but/and have never been able to recognise/comprehend? You know, comprehend as a life choice? Alone how the interviewee is complaining about his rent not being paid… LMAO!
Don’t know about you but this might just be one of the better examples out there of how weak-minded pawn-capitalists1 show they’re really nothing but über-wankers unwilling to accept the result of the seeds they’ve sewn. I mean. Why the fcuk should the bottom pay rent to the top in times of a pandemic that has shut down the so-called economy because, literally, said pandemic was caused by globalised greed-mongering the likes of which humanity, in all its moronic-genius glory, has never seen.
Obviously I hear something else when I listen to these $hitbags spew their brain-vomit about business business business–and, in this particular situation, only talk about being paid rent. For. Don’t you know. What’s the difference between rent and rentier? Why not call it what it also is: paying (your) feudal lords? How about just going down your street and yelling/singing bring out your dead? I mean. Anywho. As long as you talk about big numbers of dollars here & there, and thereby project yourself to being among the wealthy and privileged, all must be well in Oz, eh? And we all know who Oz is. Or? But before I get on about the social and political meaning (literary trickery) of L. Frank Baum’s The Wizard Of Oz.
Say. Get this, dear worst-reader. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed–on account you may or may not be bleeding from your lungs with COVID-19 right now–but the dollars these $hitbags are talking about do not exist and, probably, those same dollars have never existed, especially when considering the age the men in the video. With that in worst-mind, it all irrevocably makes me cringe. Their speech-vomit is so vile, so decadent, especially considering the innate conflicts and contradictions in all that the interviewee says, it took me three hours to get to the end of this seven minute video. Indeed. So many times did I have to pause it, stop it, take a bike ride, drink some Grauburgunder, etc. Heck, I almost hacked down a tree near the Rhine River with my pinky-finger because I couldn’t get all this blatant banality and ignorance that I sometimes have to watch on the #Interwebnets out of my head. And to add high-test gas to the eternal flames of my fail-upwardness that is burning in the combustion chamber of my worst-mind, guys like the ones in the video (above) are–obviously–winners. Winners are indeed pariah manifest, eh, dear worst-reader? I mean, is there a better example of capitalism run amok? (Of course there is.) Yet. And get this. The capitalist pig, fail-upward interviewee, early in the video, pretty much sounds like a Marxist as he demands rent payment from those who, crisis or no crisis, don’t sound like they’re paying. Wow. Giggle. Giggle.
And so. Here’s something from a totally different perspective but, perhaps, for some, is somewhat relatable. In the movie [Network](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Network_(1976_film), Ned Beatty gives this wonderful speech that pretty much sums up where we’re at in these times of greed-galore and where the cup may or may not spillith over with its long-since diseased froth as we laugh and dance through the virtual shopping malls of our minds just before dropping dead with coughs of lucid blood spurting from our COVID-19 lungs. But enough about worst-moi.
Scene from the Movie Network: Arthur Jensen (Ned Beatty), a CEO-type, leads Mr. Beal (Peter Finch), a TV newscaster, into a boardroom claiming that he wants to sell him something. Arthur Jensen: You have meddled with the primal forces of nature, Mr. Beale, and I won’t have it! Is that clear?! Do you think you’ve merely stopped a business deal? That is not the case. The Arabs have taken billions of dollars out of this country, and now they must put it back! It is ebb and flow, tidal gravity! It is ecological balance! You are an old man who thinks in terms of nations and peoples. There are no nations. There are no peoples. There are no Russians. There are no Arabs. There are no third worlds. There is no West. There is only one holistic system of systems, one vast and immane, interwoven, interacting, multi-variate, multi-national dominion of dollars. Petrol-dollars, electro-dollars, multi-dollars, reichmarks, rins, rubles, pounds, and shekels. It is the international system of currency which determines the totality of life on this planet. That is the natural order of things today. That is the atomic and sub-atomic and galactic structure of things today! And you have meddled with the primal forces of nature, and you will atone!
Am I getting through to you, Mr. Beale? You get up on your little twenty-one inch screen and howl about America and democracy. There is no America. There is no democracy. There is only IBM and ITT and AT&T and DuPont, Dow, Union Carbide, and Exxon. Those are the nations of the world today. What do you think the Russians talk about in their councils of state – Karl Marx? They get out their linear programming charts, statistical decision theories, minimax solutions, and compute the price-cost probabilities of their transactions and investments, just like we do. We no longer live in a world of nations and ideologies, Mr. Beale. The world is a college of corporations, inexorably determined by the immutable by-laws of business. The world is a business, Mr. Beale. It has been since man crawled out of the slime. And our children will live, Mr. Beale, to see that perfect world in which there’s no war or famine, oppression or brutality. One vast and ecumenical holding company, for whom all men will work to serve a common profit, in which all men will hold a share of stock, all necessities provided, all anxieties tranquillised, all boredom amused. And I have chosen you, Mr. Beale, to preach this evangel. Mr. Beale: Why me? Arthur Jensen: Because you’re on television, dummy. Sixty million people2 watch you every night of the week, Monday through Friday. Beale: I have seen the face of God. Arthur Jensen: You just might be right, Mr. Beale.
-end trascribe-
Good luck suckers–collecting your rent.
Rant on.
-T
Let it be clear, dear worst-reader, I’m not against capitalism as a social tool to better the greater good. I am against capitalism if/when it becomes the political system that subverts the greater good. ↩︎
Remember, dear worst-reader, sixty-two million voted for President Piss-Hair! ↩︎
Pros: this is a somewhat informative–if you’re uninformed–documentary with a well branded name connected to it.
Cons: #OKBoomer white men1 who are so bored with life that they somehow find a way to make half-decent documentary movies but what they really need to do is step aside and help young people (make those movies) instead.
I’ve never seen Roger & Me in its entirety. I’ve seen a few of Michael Moore’s other films, though. Roger & Me came out the year I was expatriating–you know, running away from the greed $hitshow of my beloved & missed #Americant. The thing about Moore and his movies is that he has most certainly raised the bar when it comes to 1) explaining or 2) complaining. And trust me, dear worst-reader, I know a lot about complaining (ranting).
Here’s the problem with Moore’s movies (complaining)–and probably the thing #Americants will never be able to comprehend after watching them. In all of the troubles of the world–especially the #Americant world–there is nothing, not one single thing, that binds, that ties, that unites the whole shitshow, except, of course, complaining, which is all #Americants know. Well, that and money (of course). But. Hold a sec. Let me worst-elaborate.
Whether Moore is ranting & raving about corporation A or B (Roger & Me), guns here or there (Bowling For Columbine) or the ills of for-profit health care (Sicko), like so many other so-called rational thinking peoples, he ALWAYS fails to mention what makes the entire $hitshow possible. And get this, dear worst-reader. If pressed to provide a worst-example of a peoples (a country) that can actually collectively do something about the ills of the world (or at least the ills of a country), then you’ll have to use a language other than #Americant accented English.
Par-lay vu Fran-say, motherfcuker.
The details are vague in my worst-memory, dear worst-reader. But I remember hearing lots of protesting voices as the 1980s came to an end. Sure. The Berlin Wall was falling. The Soviet Union was dying. And there was a lot going on with all that. But you know what impressed me the most? French farmers dumping whatever they farmed en masse in the middle of Paris. I think, at the time, apple farmers were dumping apples all over the Arch de Triomph. And they were doing so in protest. I had taken my second or third train ride to Paris that year–just for shits & giggles, don’t you know–on account it was so close via a quick train ride from Köln–and once I got a taste of Paris there was no tasting anything else. How fun is that, eh, for a redneck tobacco chewer walking and dreaming on cobblestone streets? #Nomatter.
The thing I quickly realised back then was how the French, if they wanted to, could actually have a voice and thereby use that voice for political and social gain (or demise). And when I say peoples and voice, I mean regular people with big stick voices. Indeed. Real people. Saying real things. It was all quite the opposite of what would eventually lead to the #MAGA hat wearing morons of my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant? Or the singularity and repetitiveness of Michael Moore movies–and whatever it is #Americants call the political left. And get this, dear worst-reader. The voices and the peoples outside the world of documentary movie making, outside #Americant, had some (not all) real political power. Now that’s truly different than what I grew up with. You know, money or no-money. Eat or starve. Indeed. Submit yourself to the God of money, minion. And then self-medicate, bitches.
It was an astonishing thing to witness back then, dear worst-reader. #Eurowasteland, especially France and Germany, but sometimes Spain and Italy, were awash in protests. Even though the protestors didn’t get their way in exactly the way they wanted, they most certainly made inroads toward that way. That is, politics listened. Also. They literally chipped away at capitalist greed, the cult of old-money, that hoped it could rule–like its cousins in #Americant and Britain were ruling–and are still ruling. But let me not get on about the ills & uglies of the Anglo-driven (mindset) world compared to that of other worlds.
The thing to keep in mind, dear worst-reader, when it comes to protests, (protest) voices, fighting the good-fight, is that there are peoples out there (in the world) that refuse to have their voices dumbed-down. And so. Unlike #Americants, there are voices in the world that aren’t guided by money alone. Hence, Michael Moore’s movies complain in a big way about the ills of #Americant but nothing in any of his movies will make #Americant apple farmers dump all their apples on the steps of the US Capital. #Americants will never protest how government bails out banks and hedge funds and old-money corporations that should have died ages ago. Could #Americants don yellow-vests in earnest? What happened to the occupy movement? Indeed. #Americant perverted John Wayne individualism will always #Trump (yes, pun intended) #Americant collectivism. Hence #Americant can have no voice, no say, no-nothing in the fight between right and wrong, between greed and starvation, between moneyed-fairness and judicial greed-mongering. Thanks a lot Michael Moore.
And so.
Michael Moore is the executive producer of The Planet Of The Humans, which you can watch for free via the ultimate dumb-down device, the #interwebnets. It’s a pretty hardcore movie, dear worst-reader. The end of the movie is especially hardcore because it shows the brutal demise of an Orangutan after its forrest is burnt down–as though animal cruelty is any different than human abuse–which is nothing more than humans not only doing what they are told (compulsion) but also doing it all without question (behaviourism). Either that or it’s as brutal as a video showing white policemen gunning down African Americans day-in, day-out. The thing about this movie, though, is that it’s voice is a bit different compared to other Moore documentaries, and perhaps that’s due to Moore ONLY being its executive producer. And so. The Planet Of The Humans complains about the complainers. It literally tries to bore advocates of the Green New Deal a new arsehole by complaining about how solar panels are made or how alternatives to fossil fuel require too much fossil fuel. And so.
Has you been woken you up yet, dear worst-reader?
Unlike Roger & Me, I watched this movie to the end. Reason? It’s free. Does that mean I won’t buy another Michael Moore movie? Probably. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. Heck, I’m even listening to Moore’s podcast here and there. And I’ll always love him for those words spoken at his Oscar win–oh so long ago! But his movie making… This movie…? The Michael Moore voice would be better served if spewed from the mouth or movie making prowess of something more youthful. Indeed. Enough #OKBoomer complaining already.
Good luck suckers.
Rant on.
-T
The scariest part of this movie is the obvious and perhaps subconscious reveal that privileged white men, #nomatter their class, are still stuck on/in late nineteenth and early twentieth century Malthusian doctrine and/or social darwinism less the mass grave killing via Black Sabbath’s War Pigs. Or something like that. ↩︎
worstwriter 