Tag: Corporate

What Scares More? Who Or How A $140m Was Won In Court?

When I was kid there were two things that scared me. One was the return of my father who abandoned me when he realised the petty jubilee of war-winner’s bounty in the form of young German girls–while fulfilling his commitment to the US military–and how that wasn’t quite what he thought it would be. And the other was the 1972 movie The Poseidon Adventure. Seriously. To this day I complain to my mother about having dragged me to that film. I even remember the filthy floor that I crawled on while hiding behind the backs of movie theatre seats to escape the portrayal of suspense and human suffering on the big, wide Hollywood screen with the aftermath of a capsized ocean liner. It was indeed a dirty, filthy, grimy disgusting floor. Nomatter. I count myself lucky to not have feared what other kids feared when they were young. You know, ghosts, monsters, priests, etc. Of course, fear is something we all must deal with in life–especially in times like these where everything, everyone, The All of Life, is about one thing and one thing only: money. So I guess, as an adult without any money, I’ve had to deal with fear anew. But you know what, dear worst-reader? It doesn’t stop with being a useless eater, one who was meant to be a ditch digger but instead told those with privilege and inheritance to go fcuk themselves thirty-three times over. And with that in mind, there is one other thing that scares the krapp out of me as I start down the path of getting older than I ever thought I’d get. The thing I fear most today is power run amok in the hands of the few. And if you think it hasn’t run amok, give a look at that weird court case a few years back between Hulk Hogan and Gawker. Even though I haven’t seen the documentary discussed in the video above, I’m really looking forward to seeing it asap–as soon as it’s available here in the old country. In the mean time, I’ll utilise the wait-time to psych myself up. For, dear worst-reader, the amount of power that is currently being consolidated into the grimy hands of wealthy assholes who can manipulate the judicial system (of any country) should raise red flags not only across the world but, indeed, #americant. But then again, if those flags were raised, it could cease to be #americant. Or? Oh my. I’m so afraid of the future of the western world having given in to political conservatism and thereby monetising the judiciary of democracy that I’m already looking for movie theatre seats to hide behind. Oh. Wait. I guess I’m also a little afraid of what grime is gonna be on the floor of those movie theatre seats I try to crawl under. Or maybe not.

Rant on.

-T

Links that motivated this post:

ford rhein barge naked guy on deck.jpg
Slowly learning the whims of smart phone technology. Or maybe not.

Almost didn’t get this pic, dear worst-reader. Had to struggle to pull my smartphone from my pocket where it always rests albeit connected to my ears by really bad audio-phonic cabling that enables me to listen to podcasts (mostly Anglo news) while walking Beckett the killer pug. Indeed #1. In the nick-of-time, I noticed yet another rhine barge full of Ford Fiestas on its way, probably, to Holland, and then on to other places on this planet. Indeed #2. All the little krapp cars that are made just down the river at Germania’s pseudo-socialised Ford manufacturing plant, will be loaded on to some other ocean-going vehicle and then, probably, transported to India, Africa, Mars (for all I care), where they then will be sold to willing suckers that think life begins with a car. Indeed end.

Rant on.

-T

PS The only thing left to do is eventually learn how to take pics with my damn smart phone. (Or is such a skill really not worth the effort?)

Consume To Survive vs. Amazilla

Screen Shot 2017-07-21 at 10.03.15.png
Get a load of that discount. 56%????

Update: May the heavens be blessed (if you believe in that sort of thing). To my worst-surprise, my consume-to-survive order that is supposed to help with cleaning my ageing teeth arrived today. Wow. If you can believe the original price posted (Euro299,99) then this was a pretty good deal. Yeah, baby.

Haven’t been posting much in July. Something about the Germania weather this time of year. Even though the weather (and everything else) sucks here, this time of year seems to be the worst. They call it Drucken. It’s as though you have to walk around in a thick, pressing atmosphere where the breath and stench of too many people crowded into too small a place doesn’t mix well with a grey sky that wants to annihilate you. But enough about the misery of too much health insurance and worst-moi.

Today dear worst reader it’s time to worst-blog about consumerism. You know, that thing we all have to do above and beyond surviving like our ancestors once did. Since I make no effort to hide my position in this world as a consumer–and what a lucky one at that–there are moments where even I get a bit perturbed with how The Man tries to control me and my consumption. For example. I decided recently to give in to the electric toothbrush craze. I’ve avoided it most of my adult life, even though my better-half has been using one most of her adult life. Since she needs to replaced her old one, because the battery doesn’t hold a charge anymore–and because it looks like it’s been used to clean things other than teeth–I broke down and started searching for a deal. And boy did I find one.

The deal of the day, dear worst-reader is encapsulated in the screenshot above. I found an offer on that internet shopping portal that I couldn’t refuse. Is it two for the price of one or is buy one get one free? To be honest, I’m not sure if I’ll ever find out. Ordered over a week ago, I still haven’t received my purchase. I did get an email the other day that said something about they were working on my order but I couldn’t make heads or tales out of whether or not they (or someone else) had just pulled the wool over my eyes. I mean, come on, more than half off the original price of a new-fangled tech-driven electric toothbrush?

As of the writing of this worst-post, I’ve not received my order. But then I did come across a tweet that opened up an eye or three. By-the-buy, this is the second time I’ve ordered something with such a large discount on Amazilla. The first time the order was cancelled for me. We’ll see how this one goes.

Rant on.

-T

Other links:

Glass Cliff, Glass Ceiling Or How Her Corporate Soul Is Made Of As Much Nothingness As His

glass shattered

I’ve always had a problem with motherhood being on a pedestal. Is it because I was hatched? Procreation is more of a disease than something worth a baby shower and the happy wonderland consequence that is the lie of family life. I suppose that could mean I’m only partly misogynistic or just General Schmuck. Anyone remember Schmuck? He was the undersecretary of the military that served in Patton’s underpants and it is said he was lost behind a tank that made a wrong turn while hunting Rommel in North Africa carrying both a victory flag and roll of red, white and blue toilet paper. Then again, I’ve got no prejudice in my life because loss and Victoria, a grand ole bitch I’ve been fcuking for years, won’t leave me till I’m dead. And you know what they say, eh, dear worst-reader? It takes two to blame one in this game of touch and feel and everything is ok. I mean, come on, would we (men) really go for the family thing if given a choice these days? Trust me. Hatching the future is definitely worth a try. Or would we rather run off to some war-of-choice with the booty of expensive gas to cruise our broken streets in our broken and never-paid-off cars? Oh, isn’t it obvious how we ( men?) have been tricked? Played? Jerked ’round? Obviously males did go for this back in the day. Back in the day when dragging multiple wives into caves by their hair and our knuckles was a worthwhile undertaking. An undertaking that is reflected so clearly in how the world works today for the corporate state. But I’m off subject. Or maybe not.

Oh yea–we were worst-discussing my prejudices.

And so #1a…

I simply hate everybody and almost everything. With that in mind, there’s no reason to feel special if I call you out for a having uterus–and a mind incapable of dealing with it–especially considering how the outer part of the feminine sells that uterus.

And so #1b…

I do not hate the perfect balance between man and the uterus machine–if it can be achieved–especially in that which is manifested in a perfectly tuned turbo-charged V–8 that when given the gas it presses uterus (Her) so completely to the back of the passenger seat that breasts poke out and beg the driver-male to play another game. Hence youthful if not teenage sexuality aloft in the sky full of your candy clouds. I also find perfection in pistachio ice cream slowly blended into Napoleon ice cream after fcuking the entire day while laying in a field of daffodils and quaker oats mixed in real maple syrup. Beyond that, I gladly and openly live the life of a humble and powerless cartoon-like monarch-god that is angry and bitter and ashamed–for the sake of shame. I only blame part of what I am on the other sex because of Her desire to lock males into the uselessness of romantic love run amok in a world where pornography earns more than (insert your industry of choice here). Pornography, btw, isn’t as profitable as it is just because men want to spank it all the time. Indeed #1.

And so #2…

At the behest of my better-half, the Vladimir Putin of my life, I am a man destined, like Russia, to be ruled by two-bit dictators with tits. For that, like many Russians, I am thankful because I have been endowed with

  1. a well-careered wife and
  2. a society that couldn’t save itself from itself–if it had to.

And so #3…

This life that has been chosen for me because society (or is it sobriety?) has no choices left. I consider this (life) as an endeavour that is not without career and corporatist leanings. Indeed #2. We are all a slave to something. I see first-hand the unjust behaviorisms that influences not only mine but my better-half’s life–and the life of so many around me that must or are so willingly employed by the man. But enough about alter egos, wishful thinking and the admiration I abhor of those who are have-mores in the corporate world of their have-choice. And so…

I came across a new piece of feminism v emancipation yesterday: Glass Cliff. Would you believe, dear worst-reader, I had never heard of the glass cliff–until yesterday? I’ve heard of the glass ceiling, thanks to you-know-who. But the glass cliff…

The glass cliff is a term that describes the phenomenon of women in leadership roles, such as executives in the corporate world and female political election candidates, being likelier than men to achieve leadership roles during periods of crisis or downturn, when the chance of failure is highest.

As far as the origin of this nonsense?

While reading an article about the demise of Uber the other day, i.e. a corporate tech entity that is nothing if not a smart-ass corporation to join all smart-ass corporations. It’s being said that a female might be picked to help them turn things around. Seriously? Hasn’t the industry learned by now? What? Marissa Mayer not enough? What about Carly Fiorina? Should I even go down the list of female superheroes that save the world and the men around them? No. Defiantly not. So here’s the thing.

Uber should be about connecting people with immediate mobility and thereby utilising the simplicity of modern technology. Instead it is a platform–a middleman, if you will–that tries to take advantage–or as corporate smart-asses like to put it: disrupt–the taxi industry. The platform on which this money is exchanged is the genius of Uber. Yet, like most who make money on a platform, they have forgotten that the platform must also have a purpose–other then their own greed. And I’m really rambling now.

When I discovered the term glass cliff my heart lost two more beats. I’m so sorry that the feminine not only has to deal with my bull$hit but also that of others–who are so much more than worst-moi.

Good luck, ladies.

Rant on.

-T

Links that motivated this post:

This post was created w/ writing software that utilises markdown and then uploaded to this blog; what the hell that means I have no idear. Good luck.

Random Moments Of Consumption Galore Or How To Get Your Kicks While On Route To 666

route us 666

Moments I recall that are all–must be?–part of today’s #americant opioid problem galore (see links below). The funny thing about this little list of recollections is that all the parties involved had something to do with Vegas. …I think.

Moment #1

While drinking a beer and waiting for an international flight at PHL a few years back I’m sitting between Cutie and Young Gun at a pub. Cutie asks if I’ve got any Speed because she doesn’t want to fall asleep on the plane before she arrives in Vegas.

“Speed?” I ask. “The last time I heard someone your age use that term I was working post production on the movie Vanishing Point?”

There is a pregnant pause while Young Gun on my other side rummages around in his shoulder bag and Cutie frivolously contemplates my response by turning her head to the side like a pug.

Cutie can’t be more than thirty-five and is dressed in expensive clothes that look as though they might come from Über-GAP. She’s thin, tight and probably walks on heels as though they are tennis shoes. She’s got a beautiful leather shoulder bag and one of those small Tumi rolling suitcases that’s glossy black. Since I’m on an evening flight to Europe I’m wondering why, with a five hour flight to Vegas, that will put her there in the early evening, she needs to be awake. Nomatter.

The pause is over and so is my mix with Cutie. Young Gun answers her question.

“I’ve got some Ritalin,” Young Gun says.

Cutie smiles and, as if I’m not even there, reaches across my face, the hair of her forearm is thicker than mine, and takes two pills out of Young Guns right palm. The pills have a dove engraving on one side and a sideways 8 on the other.

Moment #2

While visiting family in rural Virginia I’m out grocery shopping for the family dinner. I’m having a hard time finding wet mozzarella cheese in the huuuuugeness of the store. I make my over to the deli counter and stand in front of the glass next to a few people hoping I could get some answers and/or directions to what I’m looking for. Three clerks are desperately slicing and packing deli stuff behind the counter when I over hear two people waiting in line next to me, who obviously haven’t seen each other in quite a while, chit-chat.

Pseudo-Friend 1: It’s good you’ve been well. You look great.

Pseudo-Friend 2: Yeah, not always the case. But thanks.

Pseudo-Friend 1: Say, do you still have any of that… (I can’t make out what she says).

Pseudo-Friend 2: Sure. Got some right here. You want?

Pseudo-Friend 1: Oh. You’re a doll-baby. This is my day!

One of the clerks is talking to a customer she just gave sliced honeyed ham and mentions how she, unlike most people in the store that she is obviously referring to, isn’t gonna inherit anything like everybody else is. I can’t help but catch a glimpse of the clerks rotting teeth as she talks to much making other customers wait. I think to myself, this is 2015 America! Who has teeth here like our dentally challenged inbred cousins in Engaland? Deli clerks do. Obviously. Oh my. Should rotten teeth be in/around deli meats?

It’s Pseudo-Friend 2’s time to order. While rummaging through her purse she belts out the ounces for honeyed-ham, spiced turkey, salami and a few others. When she’s done ordering and the rotten teeth clerk goes about gathering it all, she finds what she’s looking for in her purse but before she takes it out she turns to me.

Pseudo-Friend 2: Bit nosey today, eh mister good-lookin.

Smiling at me she pulls a small plastic pouch out of her purse that is sealed with a twist tie. The pouch is filled with what looks like white crumbs mixed with powder. She then notices her error.

Pseudo-Friend 2: Oh wait. Wrong one.

She returns to rummaging in her purse but then pauses and puts one hand on the shoulder of Pseudo-Friend 1.

Pseudo-Friend 2: Don’t worry, I’ve got it. By the way, when were you last in Vegas?

Pseudo-Friend 1: Funny you should ask. I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. I’m just buying my kids some supplies for the weekend. They just love the ham from this deli.

I notice Pseudo-Friend 1’s shopping cart is full of chips, frozen hamburger patties, paper plates, hotdog buns, relish, frozen pizzas, pickles, plastic containers full of potato salad, ketchup, mustard, mayo, etc., etc. Her cart alone is a fourteen year old’s dream. I guess.

Pseudo-Friend 2 removes another plastic pouch with a different colour twist tie. The pouch is full of at least twenty or so green pills. She hands the pouch to her pseudo-friend and then turns to me again.

Pseudo-Friend 2: What’s the matter, good-lookin, never seen the white rabbit before.

Pseudo-Friend 1 holds up the pouch for a few seconds so that I could inspect it. The pills all have the indentation of a rabbit.

Moment #3

Friends of my mother are having a family crisis. Because of an illness their son has been transferred to a hospital in Baltimore. When I hear them say that they are afraid to make the drive (they are very old) I volunteer to drive them. They are grateful. After I drop them off the hospital I park the car and proceed to take a walk around the city. I eventually find a coffee shop (yea, you know which one) and order a double espresso, a bottle of fizzy water and an oatmeal cookie. I find a window seat where I hope to take in the scenery of my beloved #americant and the vibrance I’ve been missing since becoming an expat a quarter century ago.

Within moments of sitting down, just after my first sip of espresso, two young people (mid-twenties maybe) sit at a table near me. They both have über large paper cups of what I guess are lattés. One of them has brought the sugar dispenser from the condiments table with him, including three or four wooden stirrers. One guy grabs the sugar dispenser and begins to fill his über-cup as though there is no tomorrow. The other takes one of the stirrers and stirs his latté with the same vehemance. The guy with the sugar has filled his cup so much that the frothy milk begins to overflow, dripping onto the table. I’m waiting for the other guy to grab the sugar dispenser but he doesn’t. He just stirs and stirs and stirs.

Sugar: You need to be there for brunch on Sunday.

Stirrer: I told you. There are no more flights. I’m on standby but you know how it is with Vegas on the weekends.

Sugar: Why didn’t you book earlier?

Stirrer: Come on. I’ll get there. I’m leaving for Miami tonight. I should get there Saturday evening. Worse case, I’ll arrive Sunday morning and rush to the hotel.

Sugar: Yea, right.

Stirrer: By the way, how’d it go the other night. You like the new mix?

Sugar: It was good. I’m not sure I noticed much of a difference to last time. But it was good. You got anymore?

Stirrer puts a small pink envelope in front of Sugar. Sugar looks in it. Sugar smiles.

Rant on.

-T

Links that motivated this post:

It’s A Good Thing I’m Not Draining The Swamp Because I’d Start With Those T-Shirts that Say: FBI – Female Body Investigator

t-shirt fbi female body investigator

No. Seriously. I bet if you did some kind of whacked-out empirical study–you know the stuff college grads can’t do anymore–because if they could they wouldn’t have gotten the world into the neo-liberal krapp-shoot it’s become–then you would know for sure what purpose a government organisation like the FBI really serves. It’s funny too how a former and recently fired FBI director is going up against the president of the united mistakes of (my beloved) #americant so that someway, somehow, a royally dumb-downed society can know the difference between this lie or that lie. Indeed. Drain the swamp? I’d start by getting rid of the FBI. I mean. Come on. Other than extortion and hunting the communist nightmares of those who can’t think for themselves, i.e. conservatives hunting communists, what purpose does the FBI serve? And not only that, if the FBI was worth a hoot when it comes to crime (criminology) then why would the US government need to create a completely new money sucking organisation known as The Homeland? (Or is it Homeland Security?) Whatever. What a shame that all these stupid white men in suits and ties appear before government committees and no one watching can see the difference between bullshit and a nightmare.

Or maybe not.

trump comey

Rant on.

-T

Who You Pay When The Customs Agent Comes With Rhino Horn Powder

Dead Rat.jpg
Rat. Not an endangered species. Ever wonder why? They’re so much like humans.

Having a bad day. This is a NSFW post.

No. Seriously, dear worst-reader. Just a few moments ago I almost got into a fist fight with a German customs agent. Ok, well, maybe not a fist fight. So let me set this up.

Taking Beckett, the killer pug, for his afternoon waste-my-time walk, we come across a few street tents. As we got closer we could slowly see what was under those street tents. Whoopi! It was be-green day, save the world day. There were tents for the prevention of wearing fur, cruelty against animals and my favourite: German customs agents were informing the riffraff, i.e. the public, about what NOT to bring in the country after they go on their get up earlier than anybody to preserve your beach chair collective-state vacations.

On the tables under the customs agents tent were examples of the various contraband that has been confiscated at Düsseldorf Airport. There was a crocodile Dundee hat. That’s right. A real croc hat made out of real croc leather–lined with croc teeth. There were sea horses in a glass casing–that looked as though someone might have painted over them to make them look like toys. In a glass vodka bottle was a preserved (I’m assuming it was formaldehyde) cobra. Could there once have been vodka in that bottle and it was owned by a Russian oligarch who was flying through Germany after visiting Botswana? Then there was my favourite. Smack dab in the middle of one of the tables was a rhinoceros horn. Wait. rhinoceros horns. Plural. I think. And I don’t mean just the tip of the horn(s). It was a horn from one of them rhinos that has two horns. The whole of the skull of the rhino was still attached to the horn(s). It was fucking gross. And that’s when everything started to get queazy for me. There were hundreds of examples of once live animals that the riffraff tried to import into Germany–illegally. Boo-fuckin’-who, eh! Barf!

But here’s the thing. I fucking hate these pretentious motherfuckers who go out on the streets and try to convince people to join their little bandwagon of nitwits–and thereby never actually making it clear as to the reality behind nation-state customs officiality. (That’s just another worst-word that almost combines reality-tv with official. Or maybe not.) So I turned to one of the customs officials and proceeded to attempt (at having) a provocative conversation about officiality. All the while I was on the verge of throwing up my guts and slapping someone silly.

Moi: Why is it illegal to bring this stuff into the country? Most of these animals are already dead when the vacationing riffraff buy them. They are, in effect, trinkets sold by very, very, very poor people who would otherwise have nothing else–except what all poor people have–namely the inability to feed their idiotic offspring. What’s the harm in that?

Customs official: (narrowly translated to English for the hearing impaired) It’s illegal.

Moi: Oh really, Opa! What an ingenious answer. Did you hear my fucking question?

Customs official: It’s illegal. Duh.

Moi: Yes. I understand that. But why?

Custom official: Germany make law. Illegal. Ugh, ugh, ugh.

Moi: Yes, my Germanish ape friend. I get that. But have you ever thought about the reason for such a law? Who does it really serve?

Customers official: In Germany illegal…

I gave up on the conversation not because I was talking to an ape but because Germans were starting to stand around me, they were starting to hone in on the foreigner who might in some way disrespect the(ir) collective. Run for the hills indeed, the pitch forks are being dusted off.

And that fucking set of rhino horns was ringing dollar signs in the back of my head. It was the only thing preventing me from throwing up all over the place. If only I could get my hands on them horns. I could sell them, you know. I would make enough to get the fuck out of collective land, out of #eurowasteland, out of my gold cage. And then I would go to fucking Thailand and eat baby seahorses while strangling fucking whales the Japanese are not longer allowed to hunt (in open oceans).

(Gently close can of worms now.)

Don’t get me wrong, dear worst-reader. I’m fucking with you. And. I know that there is exploitation in the world. I know that there are endangered species out there that need protection. But here’s what gets under my gander with all these pretentious wannabe fucks that think they are saving this fucking rathole that we call earth by protesting something that does nothing but help feed really, really poor people–and, of course, keep them poor, as well.

Customs officiliaty today should serve to protect the poor of other countries as much as it protects the rich of its own country. Bingo!

If the German corporate state wouldn’t pump so much cash into China so that a few fucking perverts who own all that cheap labour can build Audis that make German stockholders more money, then maybe they wouldn’t have enough cash to buy fucking rhinoceros horns for their perverted sex activities after they grind them up into powder and snort that shit away as though camels shit roses and and and…

Oh wait. You didn’t know that rich Chinese fucks grind down rhino horns into powder and then snort the powder before having sex with slave girls?

Oh sorry.

Now go buy another fucking Audi.

Rant on.

-t