The Boxing Ring

The Boxing Ring

Another dream worth transcribing, dear worst-reader? Not sure. But let’s go with it anywho.

I am a court jester, a janitor’s fool, some wife’s bathroom cleaner. But I am also a professional boxing referee stuck in a loop transaction of a match inside said ring. And here’s the thing that could make this interesting. No matter what I am in the ring, no matter what fight takes place, the ring always changes at the behest of the wife. That is. If the wife is fighting about my cleaning skills or lack thereof then the boxing ring is a bathroom. If the wife is complaining about my cooking then the boxing ring is a kitchen. Etc., etc. But here’s the other thing. While the situation plays out with the wife there is a real boxing match going on in the ring. So. Let’s say. I’m fighting with the wife while out on date-night. The boxing ring becomes a fancy-pants restaurant with waiters, cooking smells and candles, consumed bottles of wine–plus we are surrounded by large sweaty men throwing punches at each other which leads to bursting cheeks and slow-mo visions of flesh being crushed against bone. And while the wife is complaining and complaining and complaining I’m refereeing the match. All the while other boxers are, let’s say, somewhat perturbed with my referee skills as they too complain that the current match is taking too long. Just as one of the fighters falls to the matt after a hard right hook, he looks at me and complains, literally emulating the wife. As banal as this all may sound, dear worst-reader, there is a glitch in the matrix (excuse the pun) and we are all suddenly propelled to another boxing ring scenario. The glitch occurs when the wife takes on that I’d punch you in the face if I were man look when I turn around to find not just two but a dozen or so massive heavy weight fighters in the middle of a grocery store boxing ring. All of these fighters are fighting with each other thereby exchanging punch after punch. And note this, dear worst-reader, these aren’t trivial cartoon punches. These are, indeed, massive blows causing devastating damage to jaws, kidneys, ribs, etc. While blood and sweat spurts around the grocery store boxing ring I find myself standing at the entry way watching/listening to my wife who is in the middle of the battle. And guess what I see when I turn away to get some relief by looking outside? You know. That look every man has when he’s fed up, when he can take no more, when his Woyzeck kneels by his punched-out girlfriend, pulling the knife out from underneath his jacket. I see in the streets, outside the grocery store boxing ring, the town of this or that #Americant where really, really STUPID people are running on both sides of Politic Street. The one side is full of dumb-ass Republicans, don’t you know. The other side is full of smart-ass Dems. And both sides are wielding their weapons. I, the referee, am now watching it all from the middle of the street which has become my boxing ring. And as the two sides begin shooting–not unlike those who shoot and shoot and shoot from my previous post–I feel the bullets of #Americant go right threw me albeit filled with the yelling and screaming and angry voice of wives and girlfriends stabbed by the love they all think they’ve wasted on men. And then it all ends with a zap of the mind and risk of George Büchner’s lost pen and I’m no longer a boxing referee but instead a bystander in the war of life, liberty and the FREEDOM TO BE STUPID. The bullets flying from one side to the other go through me like the eyes of all loves lost. As I fall to the ground the dream ends and I wake up to… this.

Rant on.


Dreams: Funny Faces, Kiss Peeing On Me, Guns

the madness gun

Dreams can be a bitch, dear worst-reader. Especially those dreams that confuse beyond trying to figure them out. I mean, don’t you know, I’m not into figuring them ALL out. Some of them I just let go. Others linger with me for days–even as I try to let go. That means, I suppose, I have to give them a thought or three. Like this one, which I’ll try to worst-write while being soothed by Karajan’s 1963 Beethoven Symphonies.

First, most of the dreams I retain seem to be early morning dreams. That is–in what I like to refer to as my second night’s sleep–where I fall into a deep sleep after waking in the wee hours, usually around 4am–a dream ensues that takes me to deeper places than those hypnotic places Dr. Shit4Brains prescribed oh so long ago which get me to fall asleep in the first place, where a first dream happens but I usually repress. Nomatter.

This particular dream/place was a large cavernous valley with a few shinny houses in the middle of its nadir. The sky and atmosphere are lit with fluorescent, crayon coloured dim light but I can also see a sun just above one of the surrounding cliffs. Hues and shades abound from flowers and trees and perfectly manicured gardens. The vibrant reds and blues in the sky don’t match the sun or the cliffs that surround me, though. Stymied with awe, I feel something touch my left hand. I quickly turn to my left but then realise that a person is passing me on my right. As she passes me, she gallantly turns around and continues to pass but doing so while walking backwards, where I can clearly make out her face.

The first thing I see is Crouzon syndrome. The second thing I see is that the girl is a version of an old girlfriend of mine–who did not have Crouzon syndrome. She’s the same age as when I remembered banging her desperately and thereby hoping she remembered her birth control. What a gal she was, eh! But why Crouzon now? Nomatter.

She waves me along and eventually takes my right hand then leads me to one of the houses in the middle of the valley. She pulls me into the house and gives me a dry peck on the cheek and asks, whispering in my ear, if I’m missing her yet. She then reveals one breast and I yearn to fondle the puffy nipple but she moves off, stage left.

The inside of the house is a large loft, the back of which being nothing more than a large window overseeing the cliffs beyond. In the middle of the house is stage with a lone drum set with… the KIϟϟ emblem on the bass drum. After a long pause filled with contemplation about why I would dream of an ex who has Crouzon syndrome, Gene Simmons enters from a stage right (without makeup) and sits on the stool behind the drum set. He and I get into some heated discussion, he speaking yiddish and I the highest form of German I was never able to learn, until he finally stands atop the bass drum, whips out his Wiener, which, by-the-buy, is as big as his infamous tongue, and pees all over me.

I wake up to a down pour that is sneaking in through the terrace door I left open all night due the #Eurowasteland summer heat wave. I worry for a second or three about the wood floor that is now soaked, thereby feeling a few hard and heavy rain drops splatter on my morning face. I then shut the door. I go to the bathroom and have a morning piss, taking careful aim, of course, so as to not have so much to clean when cleaning is due at the end of the week. I then wash my hands and face and head downstairs to make my first espresso of the day. And so a worst-writer day begins and a dream ends, eh, dear worst-reader.

After a few days I finally figured out what Gene Simmons and I were arguing about and why he pissed on me. The conversation started with me praising him and his business acumen, thereby turning a half-witted rock band into an international sensation–that I loved when I was a kid. But then I started quoting some of the bands lyrics and probably said something about how their music relates so endearingly to the rest of #Americant and THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID and that there are consequences to turning the greatest, most powerful, ingenious nation-state experiment into a cesspool of greed, demagoguery, religious bat$hittery and, of course, guns. I then added something about how I was able to grow up and out of the three-grade entertainment that not only KIϟϟ panders and squawks but that which lead to the likes of #Trump who is the true face of not just republicans but #Americant greed-mongering, political conservatism and guns-galore–as a means of problem enhancement that only benefits the rich thereby keeping the riff-raff and lumpenproletariat in-check.

Indeed. And to think there is anyone surprised or shocked how the third-grade can become the nadir of the valley of death where guns give the blind and stupid the same feeling of success as a half-witted rock-band making a gazillion bucks or more–just so many others and others and others and money and money and money….

Keep failing upwards, baby.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.


Links that motivated this post (if only I could post a link to the dream, eh, baby):
Don’t worry, in a land where Money = God, there is nothing to be done about it | Crooks&Liars
Guess who won’t talk about it | DailyKos
Too late do something about it | NPR
Crouzon syndrome | Wiki

Not In The Know Of All-Things Worst And Other Dream-Dreams

Scream no fear all worst

Disclaimer: NSFW material towards the end of this worst-post.

I dreamt of waking in a cold sweat. But then quickly fell asleep again only to dream of a place from twenty years ago where a large blonde woman stands behind me while I sit at a desk attempting to research the hell out of finding the cost of everything so that our client can cheat his way to profits. Yeah. I worked for a $hitbag management consulting company once or twice. It still grinds my conscience. You know, those organisations that never actually do anything but suck the life out of people convincing them that cutting costs for clients is an achievement. Sometimes I’m still shocked at how naive I was. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, even well into my thirties I took the krapp-work laid out for me in stride as I wasted my best years on the two ills of life: working for The Man and, of course, his bitch, marriage. But at least, in this end, I did learn that both (work & marriage) are nothing but a transaction. And transactions can and should end or be left behind us as one learns new strides on the way to his or her end. Indeed. They should all end especially when it’s realised that you’ve lived your life for someone else, for something else, for the nothingness that is consume-to-survive. But I suppose I’m off subject.

Last night’s/this morning’s dream-in-a-dream has been haunting me lately having had it several times in the past few weeks. I think I’ve finally gotten it out of my system. I mean, I don’t think I’ll be having it again. Reason? I’ve discovered the thing that’s motivated it. In other worst-words, it’s the lying and the cheating that’s catching up to my conscience. It’s slowly being laid out in front of me–as I watch The West deteriorate further and further into blissful-ignorance galore. Or is it laid out in front of my therapist? Nomatter.

The thing is, I’m starting to be good with it all (my past) now because, well, I was able to see through it and then realise it’s time to move on. Yes. It took a while. But it’s happened. Unlike so many other things.

What the big blonde woman is actually doing in my dream-dreams is not watching over me like a corporate sage watching over a minion, thereby protecting someone’s profits, position or stature. No. She’s instead watching over me as I cheat. Again. Keep in mind. She is a minion above my minion-hood. And so. The research I’m doing in the dream-dreams isn’t about finding our clients competition’s cost structure. No. It’s about finding ways to lie. But lie to whom? Which brings us, dear worst-reader, to the links below.

Today’s newz links are about the two biggest lies that seem to never lead to truth. I mean, isn’t that what lies are about? In other worst-words, lying isn’t about the lie. No. It’s about the truth. The two lies that make up the duality of life and death are simple enough. One is nature (climate) and the other is corporatism (run amok). But let’s get back to the dream-dreams, blondes in corporate pants suits and and and, shall we.

When I read articles like the two linked below, I can’t help but associate them with my dreams within dreams (dream-dreams) that I’m either having or may eventually have. Perhaps that has something to do with all the lying I did in my short-stinted career as a corporate stooge. What lie, you ask. Well, my lies were always quite simple really. Once when I applied for a new albeit internal job at one of the many jobs I jumped, I asked a higher ranking colleague if she would have a look at my resume and then give any advice. The problem for me back then was, I did the work of PHDs. It was easy, don’t you know. For you see, back then, the globalisation greed-$hitshow was just getting under way. Corporate leadership hadn’t weened enough of the under-educated workforce yet to coerce real PHDs to lower their expectations, i.e their value. In other worst-words, PHDs were still too expensive. Corporate leaders therefore salivated all over people like me. Obviously without the proper credentials I couldn’t demand PHD wages but I must admit that I got pretty close once. Obviously things have changed as I write this twenty or so years later. Now PHDs are indeed a dime-a-dozen–and I even giggle at them every once-a-once on account, although they have their credentials, none of them have ever been able to realise what they’ve done. But on that note I should digress.

By the time I was forty years old, I had written more words than any PHD in the history of the world. It’s true. Just check my closet for manuscripts, ghost-writing and old corporate presentations. And don’t even think twice about all the consulting reports I’ve written that are locked in vaults at various clients. Yet, as the globalisation advantage for shareholders was just starting to take hold, I confused my ability to write–or my ability to write a shit load of bullshit–with actually achieving something. In fact, I was doing nothing. But let me ask you, dear worst-reader, should we minions question the fruit of our labour? Again. Nomatter.

My problem was, although I was writing stuff for others to publish, I still wasn’t published. Back to internal job seeking and, hopefully, blondes in corporate pants suits.

The blonde standing over my shoulder in my dream-dreams was actually coaching me on how to lie on my resume so that I could get a better job. That sort of thing is always cloaked in something else in the corporate world, don’t you know. As in finding cost structures of your competitors, which was just one of my many PHD-non-PHD tasks. Nowadays I’m not quite sure what they’re all up to on account, well, obviously, there ain’t much competition out there. Monopolised, monolithic organisations don’t have to worry much about competitors costs. There’s no competition. But they do need to cheat on other things. So there’s that. I guess.

When I questioned Blondie about what she was suggesting I put on my resume she simply said it is what everybody does and then added: it’s called tweaking. And so. I think of all the wasted college credits that run free through the world never realising their owners incapabilities, incompetence, mendacity, etc. Such is college in this new & improved century, eh? But they HAVE played somebody’s game well. Isn’t that obvious? The corporatists. They’ve played it, in fact, much better than I have. Perhaps that is a catalyst to all my dream-dreams. Am I jealous of all the fruit they’ve acquired for their labour? And that’s the ticket, ain’t it, dear worst-reader? All the college grads running the $hitshow, especially in my beloved & missed #Americant, are, at best, tweakers–not achievers. In the olden days, I guess, they were just cheaters. Weird how what goes around comes around, eh? Hence #Trump is such an obvious achiever… (giggle, smirk, fart, puke)

That’s one of the reasons I haven’t worked for the last twenty years–and then have odd but relevant dreams about dreams. Or is it dreams within dreams? Anywho.

It was that last resume that I ever formulated and the last time I would let someone watch over my shoulder, tweaking not just me but all of corporatism. Indeed. I realised: I can’t do this anymore. Of course, eventually, the blonde had her way with worst-moi. Yeah, that sort of thing happened a lot in my youth. Even though she wasn’t a looker, she had the right shade of pale and smooth skin. She was fifteen pounds over weight, too. That said, I kinda like ’em big. As far as romping goes, one nipple was larger than the other and both sat high on her bosom, which were quite large and extruding with heavy, gleaming under-boob. That always gave me more wood. She also didn’t mind ejaculate on her face and even told me to finish in her mouth after each romp. Even though we used protection, I assumed that such a request was so that she would be sure to not endanger her current career path with unwanted procreation via my sketchy supply of prophylactic. Or maybe not. She even blew me in her office early one morning where I failed to tell her that she still had me in her hair–twelve or so hours later. I guess a few colleagues assumed she had chunky dandruff. And so. While my marriage was ending and the realisation that I was a bad choice-maker (in life) was hitting me as hard as I was fcuking her, going back for seconds and fourths, there was one consolation within me. I was yet to be fully corrupted by it all. Again: I can’t do this anymore. Luckily, eventually, inevitably, she told me that I was boring and that I’ll regret not having taken her resume advice–but I was welcome to call if ever in town again–which is corporate code for “good luck with your career”. She giggled as best as anyone who had nothing to lose and then went about her corporatism. And so. We both said goodbye amicably. Just like the way I said goodbye to my marriage and my ill-fated corporate career. So many goodbyes well worth it.

The dream-dreams are alive and well, dear worst-reader. They are with everyone that can’t see through the rigamarole of things like what’s presented in the articles below. Even though the articles do tell a truth about something very specific, the larger lie that we all live in–or should I say you’all live in–on account I found a way out of the lie–and that makes me better than you–something is missing. So I’m wondering if the lies have become so abundant, so large, so catastrophic, there is no room for truth anymore. There are only the dream-dreams and the corporate blondes worth a fcuk or three. Wow. Life’s a hoot, eh.

Or maybe not.

Rant on.



Soccer Coach Dreams, Industry And Manufacturing Not Dead, A WW2 Story

Quick ride to clear my head the other day, dear worst-reader. Didn’t work, though. In fact, I was so perturbed by the trek I’m sure it caused me a strange dream the night after. In short, the dream was thus: along with another male adult, I’m on a grassy knoll coaching four boys who are playing soccer. Oddly, I’ve never played soccer. In fact, when I was kid and when I played, it would have never come to mind to play a sport that was/is easily labelled a communist sport. I mean, come on. You can’t use your friggin’ hands? Whaaaa? Ok. Back to the grassy knoll.

The grassy knoll is next to the German A3 Autobahn on route to either Köln or Frankfurt and there’s no barrier between the grass where the boys are playing and the Germanic über-roadway. Myself and the other adult male are trying our best to keep the boys from playing their sport into the on-coming traffic. So much for coaching, eh. And so…

The boys are constantly kicking the ball onto the Autobahn and thereby stopping traffic. Let me repeat that for the worst-hearing or the unimpaired (intellects) who’ve never left the confines of not having a passport: no one stops on-coming Autobahn traffic in the land of Huns. Or? On the other side of the grassy knoll, by-the-buy, is a dense forest and with every pause from having to watch the boys, I’m looking to that forest. And while doing so, eventually, somehow, an opening in the forest appears and I suggest that we seek another place to practice. The other male adult agrees with me but the four boys do not. The boys want to keep playing/practicing where they are–and it’s obvious they will have their way.

In a rebellious fit mixed with a bit of pseudo-rage, one of the boys kicks the ball onto the Autobahn and then all four boys command that I fetch it. And guess what? I did NOT fetch it. That’s right. Fcuk that! I ran off to the opening in the forest and then woke up in a cold, blurred sweat. Awake from my rebellious dream, I immediately ran downstairs to my Jura espresso machine, which was already on and warmed-up on account I over-slept and my better-half was awake and I clicked the button for a double espresso. I drank it and then my wife commanded that I take the dog out. But get this: my dog, Beckett the killer pug, runs over to me all excited and perturbed and in his mouth is a deflated and dilapidated old soccer ball.

Confused, I look out the front window of our house while contemplating and sipping espresso and soccer and see four boys on the street staring at me, waiting for me, gesturing: where’s the fcuking ball you a$$hole! And so.

A dream within a dream very unlike Hamlet. Or? Perhaps a better question is: what does it all mean?


The good newz is, there’s an east-west spectrum of riding terrain along the Rhein. If I go east, within about half an hour, I’m in a mountainous-forest area that is pure joy to ride. When going west, but adhering to the Rhein River, there are numerous spectacles of industrialisation worth riding through–and not because they are to some an eye soar, which also means that while riding there will be less pedestrian and/or bike traffic. Yesterday I rode through the town of Neuss, for example. It’s a quick twenty kilometre north-westerly ride where one must cross the Rhein via Düsseldorf’s most southerly bridge. Once across there is a short jaunt on a bike pathway that is between the river and a bunch of fancy-pants houses that all have a spectacular view. Indeed. Some of the housing that overlooks the Rhein is a sight to see. The old-money wealth that purchased its way into such a view of the river must be very proud of itself. Yes. We’re all proud of old-money, eh? I mean, not that I’m bitchin’ & moanin’ too much on account I can’t have such a view. Old money is an issue these days, eh? But I die-gress.

The moment I trekked my way through Neuss town centre and began to navigate through the industrial harbour, I felt better. Suddenly there were no more cars, no more pedestrians, no more bicyclist. And then I saw a young maiden sitting on a bench next to what looked like a contra-bass. Obviously she was waiting to be picked up and my little knowledge of Neuss told me there must be a music school nearby. Yeah, the Huns still have lots of music schools all over the place. Anywho.

After passing the harbour area and getting a good close up of some of those barges that dock at loading stations, I had to resort to some fancy-pants GPS to help me find the quickest way to lunch. I was getting hungry.


I rode through the industrial, port area of Neuss and then re-crossed the Rhein via the Rheinkniebrücke which is only a few twisty kilometres north of the previous bridge I crossed. I then rode to the Düsseldorf Altstadt and reminded myself that I would have NO Bier with lunch. I then splurged on a bowl of lentil soup at a cool little out-door soup & stew stand. While eating lunch I conversed with an old German couple, she from D’dorf but her husband was from Nurenberg. The husband was almost blind and kept asking his better-half to help him find a piece of sausage in his soup. The better-half sparked up a conversation with me after her husband mistook my bowl of stew for his own. Here’s a translation of the conservation that ensued:

“We’re biking, too,” the old lady said.

“Good for you,” I added.

“But my husband’s almost blind. Here darling, have another piece of sausage with your stew.”

“With traffic as bad as it is, biking is really the only way to get around these days, wouldn’t you agree,” I asked.

The wife shovelled another piece of sausage onto her husband’s spoon. He was eating cabbage and carrot stew with pieces of bratwurst in it. I couldn’t help but stare at the man’s thick, bottle glasses. For a moment it looked like he was so blind that he might not find his mouth with the spoon. But then he blurted out something about Hitler. That’s right. That’s how easy it happens here. I looked to his wife and she nodded and I then assumed that the old man was probably dement. But then he turned to me while chewing a thick spoonful of stew and meat.

“You have an accent,” he said.

“Yes, sir, I do,” I agreed.

“You are American,” he said. “I will never forget the Americans. It was two weeks after I turned seven years old. It was late 1945. The Americans began to occupy Nuremberg. We were still wondering if my father would return from the war. It was just my grandfather and my mother. My mother kept herself barricaded in the basement of our house most of the time. My grandfather was still in charge of the city’s electrical grid. My grandfather took me to work with him back then. The G-I’s were fixing the electric grid of the city. When the first G-I’s came to greet my grandfather at the electric station I stood at attention and yelled at the top of my lungs… Heil Hitler! But then I saw for the first time a Neger1. And this big black G-I came over to me and gave me a Hershey bar. After that I yelled Heil Hitler to every G-I. I got a Hershey bar every time. It was wonderful. My father never came home.”

Rant and ride on.


  1. Yes, old Germans still refer to Africans as “Neger” and while I’ve questioned the use of the word, most Germans then just inform me how stupid Americans are if they don’t know the difference to the slave-trade, bigoted pejorative use of nomenclature ↩︎