Facetious Sarcastic Irony Or Maybe Not

One of my favourite German words is: Klugscheisser. Roughly translated (to #Americant English) it means smart-ass. I worst-say “roughly translated” on account, well, as far as I can tell (after all these years living abroad) my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant has lost touch with what it means to be a smart-ass. I mean. Then again. And I may be splitting hairs here. But it seems to me that most of the western world, lead by #Americant, of course, is kinda run by smart-asses. For Germany, though, there might be a bit more to it. So with that in mind, let’s split some hairs.

Something weird happened recently in my adopted country. Keep in mind, contrary to popular belief, Germans aren’t really all-that weird. Well. Let me rephrase that. Sexually they can be very weird. Culturally they can be weird, too. But usually where the weirdness stops is when it comes to things like science and engineering or politics. In most cases boring but somehow efficient seems to rule all-things German. Unless, of course, you expect a train to run on-time or a horse to sing you a lullaby while trapped inside a candy corn box. But let’s not go there, eh, dear worst-reader.

The weird thing that happened recently has to do with a bunch of well-known German actors having recorded short videos where they try to communicate some kind of message regarding Germany’s dealings with the COVID pandemic. As you may or may not know, z’Germans have recently passed some sweeping laws where they’re trying to finally get this fcuking disease under control. The coinciding problem, though, is that most Klugscheisser Germans don’t like being told what to do or how to live–by the fcuking government–even though being told what to do (and how much tax to pay) is all there is to being German these days. Sound familiar (#Americant)? Now. Keep in mind. Even though I’m a Ausländer, I’m pretty confident in claiming that worst-writer is fully functional in the German language. I’m not very good at writing it but I can speak it and I usually can understand all of it–as long as High-German is spoken and one doesn’t use a bunch of colloquialism, like my wife does sometimes–which drives me crazy, btw. Anywho.

After watching a few of these videos I had to turn to my (German born and raised and somewhat nationalistic) wife and ask her to tell me what’s so wrong (with them) and why are some circles in Germany (the press and politicians) freaking out. After a bit of yipping and yapping here and there from both sides, my wife concluded that I am incapable of understanding German irony.

German what, I asked. But Germans aren’t good at irony. To be ironic you also have to be funny, dear.

As usual my wife grinned, turned and walked away. We spoke again later that day at dinner (about something completely different, of course).

So here’s the thing. These videos were all published under the hashtag #Allesdichtmachen, which basically means close everything. Now. Germany is having a hard time with this pandemic. They can’t seem to stop the waves. In fact, I’m not sure if we’re on the third or fourth wave right now but according to the news, we’re definitely in a wave. Also. Vaccinations aren’t going well. The whole country is pretty much dependent on being able to import vaccines on account, even though the Pfizer vaccine was developed in Germany, the Germans don’t have the capacity to manufacture it (or something like that). Worst-writer’s conclusion as to why Germany’s having such a hard time dealing with COVID boils down to the same reason Germans just ain’t funny. For you see, dear worst-reader, Germans can see/taste/smell irony, they just can’t cook it up–just like humour, don’t you know. Now. As of the writing of this worst-post, I’m still not quite sure who/what started the whole #Allesdichtmachen thing. In fact, I don’t really care who/what started it on account, well, I’ve worked with a few actors here and there. Let me just tell you this about actors. Actors literally are not the brightest stars in the sky, hence the irony they’re referred to as stars. But on that note, I die-gress.

It turns out that many of the actors have pulled their videos regarding Germany’s pandemic fiasco. Reason? Well, get this. Would you believe German right-wing politicians agree with German actor irony–that is attempting to communicate a message about the pandemic? Which brings me back to the idear that Germans can’t really cook-up irony. But if they do cook-up something that they think is irony maybe it’s actually something else. Sarcasm? Facetious? I should also add that worst-writer probably can’t understand the irony either way even though I can understand what the actors are saying along side #Allesdichtmachen. On the other hand, even though much of what Heike Makatsch or Meret Becker say doesn’t really sound like irony (to worst-moi), I’m also finding it kinda hard to just throw out what they’re saying because, well, maybe German right wingers understand less of (German) irony than I do.

Confused yet? Don’t worry. It is this exact confusion that has lead to the (western) world being run by a bunch of Klugscheisser and/or actors not knowing when to draw their own curtains as the stars fade to black.

Rant on.

-T

Links:

The #Eurowasteland COVID $hitshow And Other Disaster Capitalism Krapp

Alternative worst-title: disaster capitalism in Tex-ass, Pratt & Whitney pulled the market share short stick, and why Germany Can’t Vaccinate faster

Well, here we go, dear worst-reader. Have I got $hits&giggles for you today. First, let’s start with Tex-ass. Has there ever been a better example of the fail-upward-ness of #Americant political conservatism run amok than what is going on during a 1 in 50 year freeze that is, btw, and somewhat ironically, running through the middle of all the red states, north to south? No, you say? You have no clue? Well, trust me when I worst-say, there are plenty of examples. But let’s focus on the best example. Or have you already forgotten Enron? What? Your collective amnesia too real, dear worst-reader?

Everything that is happening during this climate calamity ruckus between of the coasts was setup while one of #Americant’s greatest corporate con-jobs was in its heyday. The only good news out of the Enron debacle was that Ken Lay wasn’t able to do to California what it did to Tex-ass1. Hence(1), Tex-ass is its own earnergy grid, e.g. it doesn’t share its grid with other states and vice-versa. Which also means, it’s on its own in a crisis like the one it’s experiencing now. Hence(2), I’m trying not to laugh out loud out of respect for those less fortunate who have to suffer under this nonsense. Indeed. There is reaping what you sow.

Next issue to worst-giggle about has to do with planes breaking up in the middle of the air–or maybe not. First, though, let me get this worst-thought out of the way. The most amazing thing about the recent images and videos of an airplane experiencing engine failure mid-flight is that it made it safely to the ground. I mean. Come on, dear worst-reader. Don’t hold this situation up to luck. Someone did something right when designing those engines that such a… let’s call it anomaly… didn’t bring this plane down in pieces. But that’s not the reason I’m on about this issue.

The year 2020 is the first year in my expatriation journey that I did not travel to my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant–in over thirty-five years. I can’t tell you how sad that makes me, especially considering my mother is 78 (but she’s doing fine). With that in mind, you know what I’ve dreaded since last summer? Getting on a tarmac-mothballed airplane that has obviously not been maintained. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, while working as a pion researcher for a $hitbag but highly successful consulting company oh-so many years ago, one of my beats was to provide consultants in Europe with all-kinds of aviation information. You know, it was at the time when Airbus getting its mojo. Worst-long-story-short, the thing about airliners (as airplanes used to be called) is that their mechanical lifespan is dependent on two relatively mundane factors, which I’m sure most rational non-#MAGA morons can figure out for themselves. That’s right. Maintenance and use. That’s it. It is totally not good that an airliner be mothballed if it has not reached its designated retirement age–and then, suddenly, get back up in the air. If it is mothballed, it is paramount that it be maintained–so that it can safely get back up in the air. And so. Don’t know about you, dear worst-reader. But do you trust these airline companies while they are in a state of perpetual bankruptcy since forevermore, plus Covid, to actually maintain their aircraft while being prematurely mothballed?

With that in mind, let me unequivocally praise—NOT the airline, nor the plane manufacturer, but instead–the maker of an engine that under extreme circumstances did not reach a level of catastrophic destruction that would otherwise have brought down the entire plane by ripping apart the wing. Hats off to ya, Pratt & Whitney!

Now. For a bit of ranting about z’Germans. Get this, dear worst-reader. As my beloved & missed #Americant slowly but surely progresses in its war on COVID via country wide inoculation, the grand corporate state of Germania is lugging around like an old, confused rural Bavarian (#WernerTwertzog) that can’t find his way around a city. But all worst-analogies aside.

In a conversation the other day with Germans, I questioned the reason why Germany was so slow at vaccinating its people–including expat worst-writer–even though the country practically bankrolled the first approved vaccine. Of course, the Germans went on and on either about Tante Merkel’s successes so-far at keeping infections down or about how bad she’s handled it all along. But I said that Germany is making a mistakes by not vaccinating faster which means it also has another, much bigger problem. A problem that is, by-the-buy, two-fold above and beyond Tante Merkel.

Problem 1.

The German government is subsidising somewhere near 80-90% of the entire economic shutdown during Covid. Considering the vastness of the German economy, that’s an amount of money unheard of since… Well, I’m don’t think post WW2 Germany has ever spent that much money before.

Now, keep in mind, according to EU regulation, member states are still required to maintain their deficits to a preset amount2. Therefore it doesn’t take much to realise, compared to how the USA is currently mad-spending its way out of the Covid crises by being able to fund vaccinations with huge amounts of mad-dollars, Germany is kinda lollygaggling around as though, well, it were a old Bavarian (#WernerTwertzog) that can’t find his way around a city.

Problem 2.

Germany is the locomotive of #Eurowasteland. All other members not only look to where Germany is going but their attachment is more than just a hitch. That attachment, in fact, is an umbilical. I can’t remember the last time I heard anything in the German press about how other EU members are getting on with their vaccinations. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure the information is out there and I’ve just missed it. Still. This causes worst-writer to conclude the following.

Right now, vaccination is a taboo topic in Germany. Reason? Germany cannot vaccinate its Volk too fast on account other EU members would have more ammunition against the locomotive–not unlike the blank-ammunition #Brexit exploited to win their freedom from being the caboose of the Euro train. If, say, the Germans were to begin financing vaccinations like the USA is doing, all hell would break out in Brussels in the name of fairness, privilege and, of course, breaking deficit regulations. Does Germany really want to feed more #Brexit and/or #Euroexit nonsense? I mean. If Tante Merkel as done anything right it has been most certainly maintaining the status quo of German passivity. But on that worst-note, I die-gress.

And there you have it, dear worst-reader. Germany is fcuked #nomatter what it does on account it must never maintain a position of Wir #1. Which also means continued lockdowns and worst-moi continuing to question when can I return home.

Oh well. Such is this worst-life.

Rant on.

-T

Links:


  1. That’s only because California was probably trying to do its own version of Enron. You know, home grown version of it. But, as usual, if ain’t from Hollywood or military or Silicon Valley… ↩︎
  2. Deficit regulation in the EU is one of its great mistakes in worst-writer’s humble opinion. ↩︎

My Name Is Bonds, Eurobonds

About the pics. A screenshot of a German news program showing how it can turn something un-understandable into something less-understandable…? A screenshot from the same German news program of… wait for it… aghast… Peter Gauweiler.

The thing that intrigued me while getting a rare dose of German TV news yesterday, albeit via its website (and not by traditional TV reception), was when ARD (or was it ZDF? Not that it matters, as they’re both the same nationalist newz $hit!) reported on a recent Eurobond scam and subsequent lawsuit by a bunch of right-wing German politicians suing the ECB. The lawsuit made it to the German high court, which just recently provided its ruling. In short, the ruling goes something like this: a bunch of $hitbag, smart-arse bankers took a bit of politics into their own hands and thereby forced public monetary policy in the form of so-called quantitative easing on various indebted EU countries and by doing so have possibly acted, according to the German Constitution, unconstitutionally.

Way to go bankers plus right-wingers which can only equal fascism. Or?

But here’s my thing with yet another Eurobond scam as it makes its way through the fake (or real) newz that seems to always avoid what real, aka reality could actually be. As bad as it is that high-finance has replaced all other industry as a driver of life, liberty and the FREEDOM TO BE STUPID (or as the French may call it: égalité) in the western world, aka Neoliberalism, why is it that this behaviour (high-finance behaviour) is only called-out by right-wing politicians? I mean, as I was watching the newz on this issue, trying with all my worst-might to intellectual grasp what the fcuk a bond actually is, Peter Gauweiler appeared on the screen (see pic of white guy above). Gauweiler is an obvious bright-star in the modern German political scene that is getting shit done (sarcasm off). Or?

The court thus sided with several groups of plaintiffs including economist and former far-right AfD leader Bernd Lucke as well as Peter Gauweiler, a former senior member of Bavaria’s conservative CSU party. –Source

According to the above quote, the lawsuit was filed by right-wing politicians that are obviously against their beloved Germania financially propping up less fortunate EU countries because, well, Germania and its economic prowess shouldn’t be propping up less fortunate EU countries. I don’t know you about you, dear worst-reader, but this sounds a lot like that blowhard from the UK, Nigel Farage, and, perhaps not unlike what’s been going on in the EU anyway for sometime, is an indication of how other countries may or may not start their own version of Brexit-like political antics. I mean. Again. I’m not actually all that preoccupied with things like Brexit or EU quantitive easing, but when I do fall into it, as I did last night watching the newz with my better-half, somethings do get under my gander. For. Don’t you know. Keep in worst-mind, dear worst-reader. At best, high-finance is amusing (to me) because of how it elevates what otherwise would be very mediocre men to positions in life that can only resemble Icarus having found a way to subvert the sun melting wax wings1. At worst, this level of trickery, shenanigans and corpo-giggles, should scare people so much that, well, shouldn’t someone protest or something? But I die-gress.

And so. I’m torn, dear worst-reader. Where do I go with the diametric worst-thoughts this issue gives to my worst-brain? Worst thoughts such as: banks plus (right-wing) politicians equal fascism. So. Like. Or…

How come no left-wing organisation would sue the ECB for this krapp? Does this mean left-wingers are too stupid to grasp the ramifications of establishing a legal precedence and thereby, perhaps, hindering the EU’s ability to deal with so much financial chaos in the future? WTF, left-wingers!

The worst-thing about high-finance and a world run by compulsive behaviourists, is how the world they make and live in and thrive in is ultimately nothing but a $hitshow of greed. That worst-said, as bad as I am with all-things numbers, I’m even worse when it comes to understanding the world of high-finance. Nor am I all that interested in fully understanding what a Bond is. Then again, I would also never NEVER get lost in the slime, exotic world of gambling. And ain’t that actually what high-finance is these days? I mean, what the f is a bond? Isn’t it just money that someone prints and then lends out, someone else buys it and then spreads it out… like in a casino? And while I’m at it, what the f is a short or a put and why is that large breasted red-head woman staring at me just before I roll these dice down the craps-table while the dealer is winking at me?

Oh well.

Good luck German suckers as your right-wing politicians sue their way into power–or the hearts of your idiot voters while they’re being tickled at the craps table you’all call a country.

Or maybe not.

Rant on.

-T

Links:
https://www.dw.com/en/fight-over-ecb-bond-buying-returns-to-german-court/a-19050494
https://www.dw.com/en/top-german-court-says-ecb-bond-buying-scheme-partially-contravenes-the-law/a-53333374
https://www.jacobinmag.com/2020/05/eurobonds-austerity-coronavirus-covid-eurozone-eu
https://www.spiegel.de/wirtschaft/ezb-anleihekaeufen-urteil-die-seltsame-machtdemonstration-der-verfassungsrichter-a-43f7cba5-a465-4d17-adc3-f455aafbcf41


  1. Which means these men have only found a way to nullify an otherwise great ancient metaphor that provides wisdom to life, liberty and égalité. But die-gress. ↩︎

Verarschung

schreib dein buch

Alt title: worst-writer lessons in un-understanding Deutsch

There it is again, dear worst-reader (see pic above). Although it’s happening less than it happened, say, twenty years ago–on account there was a time I was, let’s say, more hopeful, wishful, dreamy, etc., it still happens now-n-then. Like a grain amongst a ton-bag of salt. I mean. Language is a bitch, dear worst-reader. Let me not even start on how my German better-half can sometimes forget that she’s not talking to a native. She certainly knows my facial gestures or body signals when she starts rambling on about this or that and I’m like… “Did you just make up your own German? Cause I don’t understand a fcuking word you just said.” Of course, she attributes my inability to understand her language to my ageing ears. And that may be the case. Although I think my hearing is better than hers and she does, sometimes, have the cutest but highly distracting lisp. #Nomatter. There’s still a whole bunch of German out there that I don’t get–which is the reason I’m currently re-reading Kafka’s Der Prozess. But one thing I do get is when a German is being sarcastic, facetious, teasing, low-down, or, as the Brits might put it, taking the piss out. The thing is, that sort of stuff ain’t really in the German mentality. You know. Order. Train schedules. Achtung! That may or may not be the reason Germans ain’t very funny. But. Again. #Nomatter. It might also be why so many Germans are simply incapable of smiling–unless they’re a blonde, blue-eye looking for a husband/wife. Again. #Nomatter. So here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. I passed by my local bus stop the other day and have long since trained myself to NOT pay much attention to its advertising, which is usually for cigarettes. But this time… Damn. It caught my attention. Why? Well, get this, baby. Could it be that the Germans are fcuking with me1? You know, that maybe, somehow, they know that I’m a failed writer that has long since giving up on being published, discovered or even paid a dime for my efforts. Yeah. They know that I have a few novels sitting around just waiting to be finished (or burnt). And considering the state of theatre in this country since it never accepted any of my plays…? So when I see an advert at a bus stop telling Germans to write your book, I’m like… Oh really! You mean. Just sit down and write, like hundreds of thousands of words, pages, and nonsense and then use some company to become Salmon Rushdie? Please.

Ich kann mich doch selber verarschen.

The German word Verarschung is tough to translate. But once you understand the language–as I do, even though some of the stuff my wife says doesn’t ring a bell, then you don’t bother translating at all. And so. To come across such an advert like this… as a failed writer… as worst-writer… well….

Rant on, baby.

-T


  1. My translation of the German word “Verarschung”. ↩︎

Things Corona

Not sure, dear worst-reader. But it’s everywhere. Here just a few examples. By-the-buy. The house is a rich-man’s house not far from where I live and where I have to pass every day with Beckett, the killer pug. To indicate what they’re doing about the current crisis, they hung up a page from a local newspaper to indicate they’re staying-in. The van is from a local heating, plumbing and solar company. Great name, eh. The guts–or that’s what I like to call it–is a misnomer to me. I wish I could see the animal that coughs this up. Perhaps it represents–to my worst-mind–what lungs look like when Covid-19 turn them to mush. Otherwise. As best I can tell. It’s the throw-up-rest of what was once a frog, probably from the bowels of a prehistoric rodent that lives along the Rhine River. Or maybe not.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.

-T

A Real World Leader, Almost

merkel oh natural

Don’t get me wrong, dear worst-reader. As usual, I’m not tooting my host country’s horn. (Or am I?) It’s just, well, I’ve been an expat in Germania, land of the Huns, where the there-where automatons live, where resistance is futile, etc., etc., for the better part of a quarter century. Would I rather live any place else? Sure. Is this my golden cage? You bet. Do I like making schnooki with The Borg? Yeah, baby. But I digress.

There are moments where even I, hater of all things bureaucratic, corporate, and country-sides and country-clubs without-smile, have to give credit where it’s due. Angela Merkel’s speech last night about the Coronavirus outbreak was pretty darn-tootin impressive. Even though she missed out on a chance to mention the EU or other countries, making her speech a bit nationalist IMHO, she did a pretty good job of… leading. Of course. As I was listening I couldn’t help but think of two things.

The first.

I shed tears for my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant. Not sure if you noticed, dear worst-reader, but #Americant is looking more and more like a lost country these days. A lost country where a bunch of un-achieving, privileged white people hang out and get their kicks by spitting between each others toes, calling it a game of life, and laughing at the down-trodden.

The second.

There are a few pockets of humanity in this world. That is, Angela Merkel sounded HUMAN in her warning to Germany to heed the seriousness of what’s going on right now. How often do we get that from a politician? Especially from a politician that leads what is probably the best managed corporate nation-state in the world. At the least, such warnings only come when telling us to maintain (our) poverty. Or so.

I suppose, if I had to compare Merkel and her speech to a politician’s speech of recent, it’d be to New Zealand’s PM after that country’s most recent mass shooting. Indeed. The cheap/cheat product that is most old white authoritarian politicians in the West, especially those with pee-pee hair, couldn’t lead a thistle through a whistle. Nor could the magnanimous imbecilism of #Americant conservatism, that can only be what it is because of all the voters that wear lapel flags both on their suits and their minds, lead a whistle through a pistol. Hence, live by/off the gun of stupid. Or something like.

Good luck, suckers.

Rant on.

-T

Links:

The Real Reason For Brexit, Baby

german vacation hell.jpg

Things not forgotten, dear worst-reader. Things that remind one. Like pictures found on the interwebnets. For example…

I’ll never forget my second vacation. It took many years, don’t you know, to get to a second vacation. It was cheap and coincided with one of the last times I would return to my beloved & missed #Americant with the idear that I might never return to the old country. In other worst-words, it was also part of that whole expat thing that had taking on a life of its own by the early 1990s.

I was hanging out, working, doing my thing among #Eurowastelanders as my job was coming to an end. It was late spring, early summer of 1990. I had just given up my apartment and was gonna stay with a work colleague a few days before my departure. Suddenly, on the next to last day of my job, my boss came up to me and made an offer I couldn’t refuse–that would also have a huge effect on my future. My boss, although a fairly decent guy, was a bit of wanker. Most successful corporatist are, don’t you know. First, he was a British-German citizen. Second, he spoke terrible English. Go figure, eh. I was something akin to being his personal transcriber. That is, I would not only translate his work into English but, since I was hired as a researcher for him, I also wrote most of everything he submitted to clients. Everything at the time was done in English, even though most of our clients were German, including Swiss and Austrian clients. But that’s neither here nor there.

The job I was doing was supposed to have ended at the start of summer where I would return to the States, hang-out for a bit, and then figure out what would come next. But my boss asked me nicely, including a special bonus, if I would stay for the rest of the summer. He had just procured another project–somewhere in Switzerland. I first told him no, but then he sweetened the deal. Not only would he increase my regular pay but he also offered an end-of-project special bonus. And then he sweetened it even more. Since he knew that I was on my way out of Europe, he told me I could have his loft in Köln, as he wasn’t gonna be there anyway, the entire time of the project… rent free. Whaaaaaa? Three months rent free while earning dough? I took the deal.

After about two and half months the job ended and my boss wired me the extra bonus he promised. It was a worthwhile amount. Not only could I afford a flight back home without skimping around on fares, but I had earned enough to be able to afford a short vacation on the island of Mallorca with a few colleagues. Even though it was short notice, I lucked out and was able to book a hotel and flight to the island. When I told my colleagues where I was staying they laughed and giggled and smirked and provided a few pieces of advice–that to this day I’ve never forgotten.

It turned out to be a rather relaxing stay except for one thing. I had booked a so-called German hotel, whereas my colleagues, all having booked well in advance, had other accommodations. Upon arrival on the island I went immediately to meet my colleagues for a few drinks, along with shits & giggles at bar. Afterwards I checked into my German hotel. We all made plans to meet the next day to lounge around on the beach. When I left that night they reminded me that if I wanted to utilise the pool at the hotel where I was staying, I should get up at 5am to reserve a spot. I had no idear what they were referring to. In fact, since they all knew that I am morning person, that is, I’m always the first one in the office in the morning, I thought they were making a little joke at my expense. Ah. corporate humour, eh.

After sleeping-in a bit I got up the next morning at around seven-thirty. I showered, shaved, had a few cups of instant hotel-room coffee, drank some bottled water, ate a banana and a piece of toast at the breakfast-bar, and then went out to do a bit of reading by the pool while enjoying the Mediterranean early sun. I then realised that my colleagues weren’t joking at my expense with their advice the previous night. Or were they?

I found the pic above the other day on the interwebnets, dear worst-reader. It could be the exact picture I saw that morning in the early 90s while on my second ever vacation–that I’ll never forget.

Weird, huh.

Rant on.

-T

PS The rest of the vacation was a blast.

Things Behind The Pleasure Palace

I live near Schloss Benrath, dear worst-reader. If you haven’t worst-read by now, I also live near the Rhine River. I live here because, well, the better-half, the dictator she is, has made it so. And it’s not so bad to live here, don’t you know. Especially considering it’s a great locality to walk Beckett, the killer pug. Although the town of Benrath is a borough of the city of Düsseldorf, its location gives it a kinda/almost rural atmosphere. This time of the year, though, it’s not so great during #Eurowasteland heatwaves. The humidity here is horrible. Then again. The weather during most of the year here sucks. But. According to the dictator, I guess, it’s great nevertheless–and I’m stuck.

Schloss Benrath is a so-called pleasure palace. What the hell that means, I have no idear. I walk by it or around it or through its grounds almost every day. Does it give me pleasure? At the least, I have no clue what a pleasure palace is. Of course, this is Germania. What the hell do you think these people do with themselves all day between over-engineering, over-managing, over-organising and always hung-up on their past/history? And yet the train system here is still never on-time. That worst-said, I don’t think pleasure palace means what a modern porn-ridden society thinks/wishes it could mean.

The pleasure place was built by some rich schmuck a few hundred years ago. Like all the #Eurowastelanders of the time–you know, those f’n feudalists-fcuks–they got their rocks off by shatting on others. That is, pleasure for them wasn’t just about gettin’ the knob suckled or whacked or jimmied by slaves and servants and underlings. Pleasure was mostly derived from controlling human beings through hereditary means, gifted privilege and God/Money sanctioned perversions. This, indeed, is #Eurowasteland’s greatest historical export. You know, white-supremacy and the hob-knob that is mostly embodied today in my beloved & missed #Americant–#MAGA–if not the dumbasses in Brexit-kingdom. With that in mind, thanks a whole fcukin‘ lot Europe for all the spiteful white people confusion!

Before I get too wrapped-up in my own uglies, like I said, the Pleasure Palace is where I walk Beckett, the killer pug, at least two or three times a day. Between all that, I worst-write something here and there, send it off to editors and publishers and the interwebnets, then return to marital un-bliss, and walk the fcukin‘ mutt a fourth or fifth time. The good news is: sometimes I see a thing or three that riles me. Hence the last pic in the series above.

The other morning I was walking along the Rhine via the rear entrance of the huge backyard of the Pleasure Palace and I happened across an odd scene. Now. You’ll have to forgive my lacklustre photography skills here. For a brief moment I thought–in the last pic in the series above–I was looking at a bodybag. I stood for a few moments staring at it. I even took off my glasses to adjust my eyes, rub them and then refocus after putting them back on and looking from the horizon back down to the object. Could that be a sleeping bag, I thought. Wait. I’ve seen bodybags before. They’re always some dark, dull colour either black, grey or green. I mean, it’s not uncommon to find corpses around here. In fact, it was a big deal a few years back when I lived in Düsseldorf’s nemesis city, Köln, which is just a tick further south on the river, that bodies were found here and there. Supposedly Köln has a bit of reputation for whatever faction of Euro mafia using it and its surrounding landscape for getting rid of bodies. I even thought: wow, should I call emergency services?

Luckily the dude that had obviously spent the night on the river-beach eventually twitched and moved but didn’t rear his head. To each his/her own, eh. And goodness forbid I wake someone up from blissful sleep. Relieved I continued my walk along the river and then entered the garden of the Pleasure Palace where I proceeded to take a few pictures of excavated tree trunks and an odd piece of equipment that I couldn’t identify. They’ve been doing a lot of work around the Palace’s grounds this year. Something about the soil rotting and getting rid of dead/dying trees, etc. Is that pic of equipment for logging? Nomatter.

The other pictures were taken at other times but perhaps can give any worst-reader an idear of how beautiful this place is–toads n’all. In fact, on any given weekend, year ’round, couples have their wedding photos done here. And. By-the-buy. I heard someone say once, something like twenty or so years ago, Michael Jackson had considered buying the palace. Obviously that didn’t happen. Not sure why. It’s not that celebrities haven’t bought castles n’shit in the old country before. Perhaps Düsseldorf just couldn’t give it up. Either that or someone already knew about all the stuff Jackson did with his young friends at Neverland. Yeah. Europeans are well versed in that sort of thing.

Rant on.

-T

Going Without Water?

It’s been a low-water year for the mighty Rhine River, dear worst-reader. FYI, the Rhine River has a special place in my heart. For most of my expat days in Germania, I have lived near the Rhine. Although I consider myself a water person–that is, landlocked places give me the creeps–the Rhine, even if it is just a river, has saved my sanity once or thrice by being a body of water for me. It is indeed a stunning waterway and both sides of it have lots of ugly and beautiful that is #Eurowasteland. The ugly, of course, is all the industry that is connected to it, hence the barges in the video above. The beautiful parts of it, though, e.g. Lorelei, will make any visitor gasp for joy at its nature. This river is also a tribute, IMHO, as to how #Eurowastelanders are able to maintain its utility but not at the cost of its beauty. But enough gaga and blah blah. The Rhine has been so low this year that I’ve had to change my e-bike route to Köln because the fairies that I normally take to cross it, have had to shut down. That combined with major bridge work in Leverkusen, that has closed its bike crossing while they repair it, means getting to The Dom is a bit of burden. The water has been so low that the fairies can’t connect to the ramps to allow cars, bikes or pedestrians to board. Exactly how low the Rhine is, though, no one I’ve asked knows. I’m assuming, after observing all the barges, that it must be at its deepest point around two meters. In the video above the front barge shows how industry is getting around not being able to have normal displacement. They’ve actually doubled the length of the front barge. That way they can still carry a load but not have to worry about running aground. Other barges that can’t hook up to a second platform have to just carry less cargo. I’ve not seen a full barge since early last spring. Fun stuff indeed. 

Rant on.

-T

A German, A Jew, And Tim Cook Walk Into A Bar

Screen Shot 2018-11-28 at 12.47.17.png
Don’t panic. It’s just a screenshot.

… The German, with a heavy accent, asks Tim in broken English, “wahn kahn ik pey myna bahr drink mit apple pey in Deutschland?”

The Jew, who is also the bartender getting ready to start his shift, turns to Tim, greets him by showing him the red dot on his new Apple Watch, and says, “don’t worry, Tim. We’ll let you know when you can.”

Now. Before any worst-reader gets all hot n’ bothered with my Semitic and stereotype joke, heed this: having lived among the Germans (the Huns) since the late 1980s, I think I can tell you why Germans hated Jews so much. It’s really very simple and not as complex as Hitler loving a$$holes the world over would have you otherwise think. The reason the Germans (back then) hated the Jews was because the Jews, of all the peoples of Europe that were integrating into tribes through out the (insert your favorite number of centuries here), the Jews were the ones that had the most success at life. That is, it was never about Jews running or owning banks, it was never about financing wars (with banks they either owned or didn’t own), and it certainly wasn’t about babies being devoured by long, pointy nosed werwolf type dudes or dudettes! No. The Jews simply had their shit together as a tight-nit group–that happened to be somewhat different than the onslaught of WASP/Christian-ism that was struggling so hard to find meaning (in anything) other than greed mongering as espoused by their own killing of the/their Christ/God. I mean, get this. As a family, Jews stayed together. As business owners, they stayed together there too. As achievers, they achieved like no other. (How easy it is to forget the achievements of artists, musicians, scientist of those days–who were all, thank God, Jews!) The Germans and many other Europeans, at the time, were nothing but a horde of ugly, disgusting, farting, fat-ass, knuckle dragging pseudo-religious $hitbags that couldn’t get by on their own wit because, well, they had no wit. And so, as  WASP/Christian-ism tried to deal with the self-perpetuating greed of feudalism turning to capitalism, Jews simply already had the/a right/correct formula for life. They believed in something other than just money, they believed in something other than just pseudo-wealth and/or patriarchal power that they could impose on others. And so… How admirable is that? In other words, the reason Germans and so many Europeans hated Jews (to the point of murdering six million of them FOR NO GODDAMN REASON) was because they were all jealous and spiteful and moronic and ugly and disgusting and knuckle dragging… and and and… Oh look. It’s Donald J. Trump. He’s the new best of the best in the knuckle dragging tradition of a fail-upwards European aristocratic Wasp/Christian-isms that can’t seem to die-off–when indeed they should. But I digress.

How the article below (and screenshot above) got me thinking about Jews, Germans and the fact that Apple Pay is still not available in Germany but is available in Kazakhstan…? Oh well. Maybe what I’m really thinking about is that Jewish girlfriend I once had. Boy was she sweet. And she had such a nice family, too. I really liked her dad. In fact, he was the first guy that introduced me to computers. I’ll never forget those floppy disks and the way they slid into slots at the front of that IBM behemoth and then he hit the start switch at the back of the machine and it made a loud click and immediately hummed to life. After him telling me all about operating systems, floppy disks and boot-ram, etc, Gwendolyn and I finally went out on our date. (Note: names have been changed to protect the innocent.) That night after we made love in a park and I shot my goo all over her three times, she asked me if I was done searching for her red dot.

“Your what,” I asked as I was recovering with the hopes of going at it again.

“I think it’s time you find my red dot or I won’t let you almost die of happiness a fourth time,” she said.

Boy, was she sweet.

Rant on.

-T

Link that motivated this post:

Feminism, Distorted Reality And Friedrich Schiller

Jungfrau von Orleans cover

Subtitle: Enamoured after reading Schiller’s Die Jungfrau von Orleans… In German!

Note about book cover above. This is my first read of a Reclam e-book. I bought this on iBooks (2,49€) and am very pleased with how the publisher has taken the time to produce it, align it, make a joy to read on a screen. I have to admit, dear worst-reader, there’s probably no turning back for me. Although I’ll enjoy my physical book collection for the rest of my life, by slowly  and surely re-reading from it, here, it doesn’t look like I’m gonna miss buying real books anytime soon.

Onward worst-ho.

It’s been a long time, dear worst-reader. Probably waaaay too long. So I finally broke down the other day after reading this quote from The Hitch (Christopher Hitchens) and jumped on the good foot and bought me the Reclam e-book version of (one of) Schiller’s Meisterwerks. The English title of this book is: The Maid of Orleans. Although I recall dabbling in it (for quotes) years ago in its original German, I was never able to get through much of Schiller’s writing. What a shame, eh? So let me just put this out there, dear worst-reader.

Toms reclams
Part of my book collection includes these Reclams. Love them.

Now that I’ve finally read it in its original German, I’m totally enamoured with this play. In fact, the other night it almost had me in tears. But it wasn’t what I was reading that caused the tears. It was the fact that I was reading Schiller’s German. Yeah, baby. I was getting it. I was understanding it. I was, in fact, enjoying it so much, emotion began to over-take me. Every sentence, every stage direction, every scene and every act put me in fifteenth century France–while reading poetic German. Yeah, baby. This story became a piece of work that I didn’t want to finish. That is, I didn’t want it to end. And so. I skipped the last sentence of the final scene. That’s how I do it, don’t you know. That’s how I stay in a piece work that I never want to end. Also, since I’m getting the hang of reading these ebooks, especially on my ageing iPad Air, I’m really loving how I can so easily access my notes or highlighted text. Wait. Did I mention how flabbergasted I am with this play?

Joan of Arc according to worst-writer.

I’ve always been fascinated with story of Joan of Arc. Reason? Of all the things the Universal (Catholic) Church can do, it’s really, really good at twisting ancient stories, sewing mystery into historic events, and just flat out making $hit up in order to propagate an agenda. The story of Joan of Arc, which I believe to have been a real person, was one of its best über-lies. The only problem is, if the Church is so good at lying or making $hit up, what should one believe if one is interested in the truth? The wiki link above does provide a great deal of info regarding the story of Joan of Arc, including links to revisionist theories. But for worst-moi, something is missing.

Here a short list of what I consider acceptable worst-writer story-lines that could contain the truth about Joan of Arc:

  • The standard, church version (see link above). This is the canonised version of Joan of Arc where she’s a farm girl, potentially from a rich farming father, perhaps even somehow connected to royal blood, but through contact with God, she heeds the call to not just save France from England but also to unite long warring French tribes. In the end she is burned at the stake.
  • The conspiracy-theory. Until reading Schiller this was my favourite Joan of Arc theory. But be warned, it’s kinda out there! In it Joan was part of what remained of the royal blood of the Cathars. The Universal Church committed genocide against the Cathars between the eleventh and fourteenth century. Very few Cathars remained by the end of the fourteenth century. Of those who remained, they gained power and wealth in the chaos of the Hundred Years’ War. In fact, this theory goes so far as to claim Joan was one of the last members of the bloodline of Jesus Christ. JC, btw, is one of the founders of the Cathars as he wasn’t crucified but instead made his way to the coast of France… With his wife and family! I kinda dig the whole idear of the JC bloodline-theory because it fits well with the evil and violence committed by the Church in order to propagate their sick, authoritarian, patriarchal agenda including krapp like the inquisition, crusades, Galileo, etc. But enough of my nonsense, eh.
  • I finally have a new favourite version of Joan of Arc? Way to bring it on Fred Schiller!

The thing that really threw me for a loop in Schiller’s Virgin of Orleans (literal translation of the German title), is its feminism. Not well read in literature of the era, I’m curious if there is any other work from that era where females play such a prominent role–especially when it’s all about war. And not just any war but a war that French men couldn’t win. Indeed. Bring on the Feminines, baby.

The three feminists in the story are Joan, Isabeau (mother of the king) and Sorel (the kings wife). These chicks do some serious conniving. And that’s kinda cool. Also. Unlike the canonised version of the story, where Joan is arrested and tried for witchcraft, cross-dressing, and/or back-talking stupid, ugly white men–all perfect accusations by church authoritarian patriarchal mongers–Schiller instead focuses on her abilities as a warrior and a leader of men. He also makes it pretty clear how men either follow her or fear her. She is also a stedfast believer in God that in no way contradicts the dogma of the time. This leads to her fighting off charges of heresy (by cross-dressing?) but then she dies in battle thereby freeing France from the Engelländer. (Ain’t that a cool way to write it? Schiller, you da man!)

But here’s the real question that Schiller has got me asking: why would he write/create this version of an already established, canonised story at the beginning of the nineteenth century? Would it not have been more dramatic to have Joan burned at the stake? Would it not have been more titillating to portray her as a cross-dresser? Yet in Schiller’s life-time, this was his most popular play. Did his audience like this version better than the Church’s version?

Yeah. The greatest creator/perpetrator of reality distortion fields has to be religion. So much truth is out there and so much of it distorted. Why is that? Nomatter. Schiller definitely helped me sift through it (distortion) a bit more.

-Rant on

T

Tyre vs Tire Or Summer vs Winter

Pics as follows:

  • 2017 Mini Clubman jacked-up for tyre change
  • Michelin CrossCountry all-weather tyres; the ones with the sticker on the top tire
  • Bridgestone “Run-Flats” with around 5000km on them after being removed and now in my basement on top of a flat/folded moving box ready for sale or whatever else their fate has in store (size 225/45/R17)

First, dear worst-reader, for worst-moi, after all these years living within the Germania  tribe of #Eurowasteland, it’s “tyre” and not “tire.” Coming from an American expat that may not sound like much to you but according to (expat) folklore it is an indication of having gone native. Thank you for letting me get that out of the way.

I can’t remember ever considering changing from summer tyres to winter tyres while living in my beloved & missed #Americant where I owned three cars (before expating). Usually the vehicle you consumed determined whether or not you had season oriented tyres. Keep in mind that I grew up on the mid-Atlantic coast, which has a fairly mild climate. Although we had snow once or twice a year and ice more than that, the costly idear of actually changing tyres for seasons…? Whaaaaaaa? I mean, get this. #Americant is a country that still allows krappy, cheap retreads. Ever wonder why #Americant highways are so polluted with exploded tyre rubber? Ever get caught on a motorcycle riding behind a tractor-trailer going sixty-five mph and one of its retreads explodes? Seriously. Retreads shouldn’t be allowed on public roads. Nomatter. I’m waaaaay off subject.

I’ve been tickled, don’t you know, with our new Mini Clubman. In fact, every time I get in it and take off, I can’t help but say to myself: wow, this is a great little car. We’ve put a bit more than three thousand kilometres on it so far (we bought it with two thousand kilometres). And although we’re pleased with it, there is still one major thing left to do. As the lawmaking goes in #Eurowasteland, winter tyres are mandatory now. And although it’s a bit early to worry about snow season, we’re about to embark on a trip to Croatia with our big-little Mini. That means we’ll be crossing the Alps in Austria in late September. I know. I know. I’m sure it won’t snow then, plus, the summer tyres will be fine in Croatia but… I’ve got to get winter tyres anyway. How ’bout doing so now and thereby killing two birds with one stone?

Did you know, dear worst-reader, Germans are brake-drivers. That’s is, they drive their fancy, leased, German engineered and sometimes über high-powered cars with their brakes. Unfortunately, with the current state of Autobahns, there isn’t much choice to drive fast anymore because you’re constantly driving through construction. The good news is, because of the enormous cost of driving a car here, people are going with smaller, less powerful, less heavy and less super fast vehicles. That means, people don’t need to change tyres all year round–if they go with so-called all-weather tyres–which are nothing more than detoxed (if you will) winter tyres. Hence the two birds I’m gonna get with one stone, don’t you know.

Keep in mind, this isn’t a review of tyre brands. Even though I picked the Michelin brand, I could have easily gone with Goodyear or Bridgestone or Continental, etc. The only thing that was important to me was to get a major branded tyre. There are a lot of tyres out there to choose from. But I will never forget changing from a cheap brand of tyres to a major brand a few years back and boy was there a difference. That said, the price difference between major brand to non-major brand isn’t enough to sway my prejudice to the cheaper tyre. So Michelin it is. But first a few thoughts on the run-flats.

The Mini came with Bridgestone “Turanza” summer run-flats (RF). Some years ago, I had a run-in with run-flats on a drive from Stuttgart to Munich. Half way through the drive the onboard computer of the Mercedes notified me I had a flat. At a rest top I checked the tyre. It didn’t look flat to me. At the time I had not idear what RF tyres were. So I got back in the car and drove the remaining distance to Munich. When I gave the car to the leasing company to deal with the “flat tyre” notification they asked how long I had driven on the flat. “What flat,” I said. The guy explained the RF concept to me–all the while holding back any (deserved?) ridicule of stupid American drivers. The only problem is, I was stuck with that car for a while and it needed a new tyre–NOW. The guy said it would take three weeks to get the same brand tyre. Whaaaaaa? I had to drive two days later from Munich to Köln–with that car. “No problem,” the guy said. So he replaced the tyre within twenty-four hours with another sub-brand RF tyre.

Go ahead, dear worst-reader. Call me a stickler. I’m spoiled. I want better. With that in mind, I don’t care what you think (of me). So get this: I can’t stand the idear of driving a four hundred horsepower Mercedes Benz on the fcuking German Autobahn for hour after hour and that vehicle not being in tip-top performance condition. Running three Continental branded RF tyres with one no-name RF tyre–that had a totally different tread profile, as well–just pissed me off. But of course I went with it. I was working for the man. I could only bitch (rant) at the world so much. Did the Mercedes drive differently? Of course it didn’t. Did it look different? Well, yeah, kinda, on account the profile of the one tyre was different. But I don’t care. In fact, I might even tolerate two different brands front and rear but… three brands to one? No. No. No. (Talk about provoking my tourettes.)

Anywho. RF tyres cannot be repaired if they’re punctured. They have to be replaced. That means, if I don’t have to, I don’t want to be in the predicament again where I have to wait (for weeks) for a tyre maker to deliver me the right tyre or have to then choose between buying a brand new tyre that doesn’t fit to the other three. But there’s one other thing.  RF tyres are extremely uncomfortable–even with the proper suspension. You see, RF tyres have something akin to metal lining in their walls. That’s how you can drive on them if they go “flat”. The metal lining prevents the tyre from buckling completely so you can continue (at limited speed, of course) without the wheel rims ruining everything. But then… Those metal walls, when filled with air, are as hard as rock.

The Mini Clubman is pretty bumpy and unnecessarily uncomfortable with the RF summer tyres it was delivered with. Also, the Mini is far from being a performance vehicle. The Bridgestone tyres are simply too much tyre for this car. With that in mind, the significance of “performance” only plays a role, IMHO, with vehicles that can also deliver that performance. By-the-buy, don’t get me wrong, I’ve since learned that the BMW 1.5litre, three cylinder turbo-charged power plant is a lot stronger than I thought it would be! But the Mini still does not perform in a way that requires anything more than solid, well built, good running tyres. Although I’ve only gone a few kilometres with the new Michelins, I have already noticed how much more comfortable the Mini is now. And. Since the tires are all-weather, I definitely killed those two birds.

-Rant on

T

PS Did you catch that last expat mis-spelling?

Heatwave, #Eurowasteland And How I Learned To Love Electric Shades

If you haven’t heard, dear worst-reader, #Eurowasteland is experiencing a pretty severe heatwave. Indeed. In all my years living among the Germans as a lost and useless-eating #Americant, I’ve never experienced it this hot for this long. Yesterday I measured 37.5°C (that’s almost a 100°F). That may not sound like much to you but considering the humidity in this area combined with a bit too much green through out the year… Seriously. I’ve been to dry heat areas. I can take 40° plus in India. I can even hang in summer-time Arizona. Northern Europe is different than all that–when climate goes nuts. The worst part about is that it’s been in and out of  30°C–plus or minus–since early July. Oh, how this reminds me of my youth on the eastern shore of Maryland and the grand and luscious Chesapeake Bay (that I miss dearly). July and August and September (and sometimes June and October) were unbearable with heat and humidity back then. But there was always something to fall back on. That’s right, dear worst-reader. We could at least get out of the heat and even sleep in modern air conditioning. Here, though, there ain’t no A/C. Instead, there are concrete walls, wood floors and lots and lots of electric shades. In fact, during the day, for the past few weeks, these shades are down all the time. Not until about 7pm can we open them. As you can see in the pics above, we live in a rather rectangular, three level flat. These pics are of the ground floor. Separating our relatively small but comfortable living room and the kitchen is an open, outdoor atrium with eight glass doors. It’s where we do all our out-door cooking (grilling) and fresh air patio-ing; it’s connected directly to the kitchen (not pictured). It’s kind of a nice layout once you get used to it–except when the sun becomes a barrel full of heat. And so. During mid-morning hours we lower the shades. It’s at that time I begin worst-writing and hoping that the devil-heat doesn’t overwhelm me.

-Rant on

T

PS I’m fully aware that my use and abuse of air conditioning in my youth is part of my suffering today. For that I am sorry. And although my neighbours are all buying plug-in A/C units, we’ve decided to just keep our shades lowered.

Exploding Shrooms Or How To Razor Wire Your Paranoia?

Sites seen while walking Beckett, The Killer Pug. The mushroom is at least 12-14 inches in diameter. When it ejaculated its spores there might have been a slight wind from the South West. There is a metallic greyness, an almost mechanical shade around the base of the fungus. I never before thought I could see a smell, especially one that must, if a taste for it could be acquired, that has a look that smells so hideous. Perhaps I should document how the fungus will end up once it’s completely dried out. For indeed, dear worst-reader, there are hardened, if not fossilised fungi in the forest-park that Beckett and I traverse. And so. Yes. Two things I need to do in life (before it ends). One is to photograph all (ALL!) the churches in Köln and the other, perhaps, is to take majestic pictures of all the fungi inherent to the Germanin Boden (ground). And worst-speaking of Germania. Once I left the forest-park and began the trek home–for my pug has a difficult time right now dealing with the extreme weather situation caused by a world of greed mongers galore and their hate of climate–I finally took a snapshot of one of the houses on Rich-Inheritor Street that I walk by almost daily (on account it’s between where I live and the forest-park). Don’t you know, there are a few of these streets in every major village of Germania. (For those not in the know: there really are no cities in Germania; only villages.) They are the streets where no one earns a thing but their parents and grandparents did. And so. The lap of luxury in almost ancient, if not old #Eurowasteland villas, that all say fcuk-you in caps to people who would like to have a chance at upward mobility, where grand-children of Nazi conspirators and/or corporate fascists bought their way through the game of life. These places (villas) when listed for sale on real-estate sites go for millions of €uros. Yet there is something sinister about them–about them all that is above and beyond their fiat value. I’ve spoken to a few occupiers of these old-money places (villas) as I can’t help but pass their servants who walk the watch dogs. “What’s with the military grade razor wire,” I inquired of a MILF walking a mut hound-dog that has the longest droopy ears I’ve ever seen. Before she could answer I glanced at an open button on her thin blouse, gazing at the lace of the brassiere underneath as it pressed and smooshed her ageing teat. I could see sweat in her sweet place and I think the hound could smell it, too. “So, baby. Is the razor wire because of the neighbour-hate that you Germans have for one another,” I added. For a second I thought she was gonna point two fingers from her breast to my eyes and then to her eyes. But she is not a German servant. Instead her hound growled and she went on a short tirade complaining about Merkel and the immigrant problem that Germans shouldn’t be having at this time. I kept my rude eyes fixated and showed sympathy to her dog. Once she got on about the increase of break-ins in the area I got bored. I then asked her if she wanted to fcuk in the forest-park. “I know of a soft stump you can use to bend over. Will your hound mind or will I just have to push his nose away all the time. Such a thing is very distracting, don’t you know.” But she had moved on down the street, somehow proud of telling an immigrant how she hated immigrants. Nomatter. I’m keeping an eye on that one. I know where she lives. I know that there is no military grade razor wire on one of her accessible ground floor windows.

-Rant on

T

Blut Und Boden Or If You’re A Good Boy You Can Have All The Pu$$y You Want

Screen Shot 2018-06-20 at 06.52.37
Source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8402204; FYI I did edit the pic a bit removing the disgusting swastika and nazi stuff. You’re welcome.

Well, dear worst-reader. I got five years. It’s been a long time since my expat host country offered me five. For the past ten or twelve years (about half my total stay so far), it’s always been a two year visa. “Two years and let’s see how things go,” some automaton sitting behind an ugly office government desk would say. Indeed. Of course there was a time when I was offered a ten year visa. And then there was the time I was offered citizenship. But I laughed when they offered citizenship. Reason? Because of the unrein  (impure) nature of my existence, i.e. born of a half-breed American male serving in the US Navy and a German fräulein, I don’t have the right Blood and Soil (Blut und Boden) combination and therefore am punished (for something I never had control over) by not being allowed to have duel citizenship. Hence I can have citizenship but only if I give up my American citizenship. “Is you stupid,” I said to the automaton working behind the ugly government desk that made the ridiculous offer. “Why the fcuk-you would I want to give up citizenship from the greatest country in the world to have citizenship from some two-bit #Eurowasteland country that is still stuck in the 18th century–even though you guys make great cars?”

Fcuk you, Germany!

Anywho. As far as the ten year visa offer went, they saw that my home country passport was expiring and told me that I’d have to get a new visa anyway if/when my passport expired within their ten year visa period. So whenever they ask I usually just say: make it for two years you cock $ucking mutterficker–and while you’re at it don’t forget how I assimilated in this $hithole country long before #Trump & Co called out all $hithole countries. You’re fcuking welcome, biatch. And then I added a final remark about how they don’t deserve me anyway. If the automaton had a bit of pre-school English then we both giggled and continued looking away from each other. If he (or she) understood me fully, then he (or she) closed up, we remained silent for the rest of the process until he (or she) dished out… my fcuking papers.

But hey! Have no fear, dear worst-reader. The other morning, the stars were aligned. The moon is in the eye of Jupiter and my passport has another ten years till expiration. And so. I have been granted a five year visa.

Fcuk you, Germany!

Pause. Breath.

“Would you like a permanent residence visa,” I was asked.

“Why,” I retorted.

“No. That won’t work either,” the automaton said, correcting himself. Then he added after looking in my passport and pointing it out to me, “But I see you’re passport expires in 2025. There is no time for ten year visa. Basta, ja.”

“Dude, just make it two years. I really don’t give a flying rats-a$$ fcuk.”

“Yes. Ok, then. We’ll make it five,” he said. And we didn’t giggle.

Whoppp-dee-fcuking-do!

And so was my Monday morning this week. I had pranced up to the hideous bureaucrat facilities behind the train station and waddled my way through a crowd of refugees galore. Although I thought I had prepared myself with all the required paperwork–which amounts to nothing more than proving I have the financial means to not be dependent on The State–along with my US passport, of course, I did forget one thing. A new biometric photo.

worstwriter angry or not
Say, Germany, do I look like a give a fcuk?

So I trekked across the campus behind the D’dorf train station to a pastry shop nearby where I bought a cup of black coffee. I only did this because no one would/could provide me the proper change for a 50,-€ bill. Usually I never carry bills under €100. The biometric photo machine only takes exact change, or 7,-€, and the nearby change-machine doesn’t take bills higher than 20,-€. The line to use one of the two photo machines was long but it looked like it was moving.

Yeah. Bureaucracy and the poor, baby.

Once I got the proper change–and the coffee–I headed back to the refugee facility to see what bureaucracy awaited me next. Of course, I realised I don’t drink cheap coffee so when I passed a security guard in a bright yellow jacket–of which there were many–I asked him if he’d like a cup of coffee and handed him the fresh cup. I told him it was untouched and I only got it to get change. He spoke a broken form of Bulgarian German (or something like that) and thanked me, accepting the coffee as though someone was doing something nice for him. I assure you, dear worst-reader, that someone wasn’t/isn’t me.

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Yellow mark-down is what I mis-read. Actually, the truth is, I never read this shit in this first place. Still, it does say I have to provide a current photo–which I eventually did after buying a security guard protecting Germans from a horde of refugees in the direct vicinity.

Since I usually don’t pay much attention to German bureaucracy, I missed the part in the instructions I was sent that required me to bring a new photo. Hell, check out that list of krapp they want me to bring along. Look at all that stuff! Are the refugees Germany is taking in from #Americant middle-eastern war zones required to bring that much stuff, too? Oh wait. I wonder where all those people struggling on boats in the middle of the Mediterranean are able to get a “Schulbescheinigung” (proof of education) or “Mietvertrag” (rental contract). Oh wait (again). Most of the stuff I’m required to show has to do with money–not with wars of choice that Germany and, of course, #Eurowasteland has profited from over the past twenty (or so) years.

Ok. Based on that last worst-remark about Germany profiting from mid-east wars, let me say this: I stand by it. In fact, the whole of #Eurowasteland has had numerous chances to stand up for the weak and oppressed of this world–that’s right, even by calling-out the US for it’s wars of choice–but it has done NOTHING accept promote a world of consuming to survive hidden behind the hideous filter of its past. The Continent is once again preoccupied with the greed $hitshow of nativism, tribalism and its reawakening of old-time aristocracies reminiscent of pre-WWI. That’s why I have no issue–like so many Germans do–with all the refugees being taken in. In a way, I’m one of them. And please don’t mistake that last sentence for me equating my situation whole heartily with theirs. And so goes the $hitshow of first, second and third world refugees all coming together in a country of automatons and corporatists that, in the event it’s required, couldn’t find their way out of a wet paper bag.

On the other hand, taking in millions of refugees is the only thing Euro greed-mongers can do in answer to #Americant’s wars-of-choice. This is of course how Europe supports those wars! And no matter how you view it, it is a sad state of affairs, especially in Germany right now. I really feel awful for all those naive refugees that the pseudo-rich Germans are taking in. The facility that processed me as a foreigner the other day was packed to the hilt with people who are clueless to what awaits them–and their children. And let me tell you, it ain’t pretty. Even though they have made it out of extreme poverty, war-zones-galore or the humiliation of dictators, by coming to Europe they will be regulated to a state of 2nd or 3rd class citizenry that they will NEVER be able to overcome. The Germans, and other Europeans, will never accept the influx of these people who, sad to say, look quite different than the average (especially northern) European. For if I’ve learned anything after twenty-plus years of living in a part of the world where collective greed was invented, it’s this: Blut und Boden is all that’s left. Unless, of course, you can get a bank to finance a fancy car or afford regular trips to Mallorca for a get-away. Yeah, that’s what refugees are after. (Sarcasm off.)

As usual, I’m off subject. This was supposed to be a post about worst-writer, aka Tom Stough, acquiring permission to live legally five more years in the old country–that he can’t get out of. And although I should be happy about it (I guess), I am instead furious. And the only thing that comes to my worst-mind right now is… Blut und Boden and how Germans, French, and yes, even the British, are obsessed with it. Btw, anyone out there in worst-writer land remember Blut und Boden? It was used vividly (in English) during the Charlottsville, VA, antics where #Americants tried to promote their greed mongering ignorance only, in the end, to slip and slide down that fun-game of racism #Trump & Co. have made dinner table talk once again. Welcome back to 1968, my beloved #Americant.

I wish all those refugees that I was in the middle of the other day a better life than what they left to get to $hithole Germany. Heck, I even wish them better and more luck than I had. They’re gonna need it.

-Rant on

-T

PS The second part of the title of this worst-post kinda reflects that only thing the Germans really have to offer. But I digress.

Sunny Place In Germania, 5KM Long Luxury Beach Front Property, A Deep Diver

The Prora complex is both fascinating and scary. “Kraft durch Freude.” Strength through enjoyment? Something like that. This building was first built at the end of the 1930s and when Germany started to lose the war all work was shut down. It was supposed to be play land and funville for up to 20k national socialists, I guess. Of course, the DDR never did much with it so it stood in waiting along the Baltic coast of Rügen. Waiting for what? Enter the capitalist pigs and their ability to turn something grey, banal and fascinating into something utterly dystopian and wondrous. It is indeed the perfect abode for automatons of success. If you can afford one of the flats in this place, you’ll have an absolutely breathtaking view of the Baltic Sea. When weather allows, you’ll be able to exit your apartment and go for a swim in clear, crystalline waters. Heck, even when weather doesn’t allow you can swim here. I’ve seen dudes swimming in these waters already–and it’s early May. Yeah. Kraft durch Freude.

Rant on.

-T

Pseudo-Review #5: R&M Charger GX 4000km

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Trees falling like crazy ’round here. Storms, über-wet ground, and, perhaps, top heavy Germans.

Pseudo-Reviews begin here.

It’s been a long cold wet winter, dear worst-rider. No. Seriously. The weather has been so dismal the past few months here in the Germania tribe of #eurowasteland that I’ve barely ridden the R&M. Although I’ve been living in the old country for well over twenty-five years now, this past winter season has been extreme when it comes to all things wet and cold. That in and of itself is worth worst-writing about (or am I already doing that on this worst-blog?) Nomatter. Speaking of weather…

I was in The Homeland recently… Can you believe you can call it that now? But perhaps they shouldn’t stop there. Perhaps they should/could call it Orwell’s Homeland. But I digress.

I was in The Homeland last October for a wonderful visit. Spent some beautiful days in Baltimore. That’s right, dear worst-rider. When the police aren’t shooting people and when the automatons aren’t walking around like Zombies, and when the f’n sun shines like there’s no tomorrow, Baltimore is actually a great little city to hang around for a few days. This particular visit left me with the impression that October weather in Baltimore is the best weather in the world. Add to that the fact that once I stepped foot back in the old country, about two weeks after my Homeland visit, it started to rain and didn’t stop until yesterday. I kid you not!

I’ve experienced wet and cold weather living in this part of #eurowasteland. But in my twenty-five years I can’t remember it being this bad. I’m kinda ashamed I didn’t do more worst-riding for the past few months. But I’ve set my riding weather limits to seven degrees celsius and trees being uprooted due to flooding ground water. Yea, limits. (See pic above.)

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Shelf space for bike stuff. I’m actually regretting have bought two knob tires (tyres); I’m probably gonna go with more street oriented tires after current set wears out.

On the other hand, I can’t help but think this break from the R&M has done me some good. It’s aloud me to readjust my e-bike senses. That is, getting back on the bike after only sporadic use during the past three or four months has allowed me to re-orient myself with it. Not only that but while it’s been in my basement turning a year old I’ve finally started fiddling with its parts. For example, for the first time I adjusted the air shocks–even though I’m not quit sure how-to do it. I also re-adjusted my thud buster seat going back to the middle rubber mount from the highest (hardest) setting. I also have a new rear tire, although that wasn’t my fiddling. And the Bosch system was updated. So let’s go there first, shall we.

Just after returning to the old country last October–in fact, the day I arrived–I was also scheduled to bring my R&M in for a check-up and frame replacement. As pointed out in this pseudo-review, the dealer delivered my R&M with paint damage on the frame.  If I hadn’t insisted on having the damage repaired I’m sure that the dealer–and perhaps R&M???–would have gladly let the damage slide at my cost. I say that because, 1) I had to wait something like eight months for the frame and 2) after the dealer finally replaced it and I picked up the bike, they said/claimed the following:

“You know, we replaced that frame, which would normally have cost around five hundred or so in labour, for nothing.”

My response: Whaaaaaaaaa?

I don’t know about your experience with customer service, dear worst-rider, but such a comment is common-place here in #eurowasteland, especially in certain parts of Germany where people really do believe they $hit roses. But enough of my worst-writing vulgarities and limited intellect as a somewhat disappointed high-end e-bike consumer.

So. During this money grubbing check-up my frame was replaced. They also replaced both rear brake pads, which I questioned (more on that in a sec). I also had them install a new rear tire even though it could have probably gone a few hundred kilometres more–but that was my choice. I was thinking at the time that I’d kill two birds (with one stone) and  bought a second tire (see pic above where said tire is neatly folded and waiting). I’m now thinking that was an error on account I’m almost sure I want to go with more street oriented tires in the future. Maybe more on that later. They also updated my Bosch system with the new eMTB riding mode. Let me say this about eMTB:

Whoop-di-fcuking do!

In fact, I might even ask the dealer (it’ll be a new dealer by then) if I can return my Bosch system back to the old riding modes. With four modes of riding, I really don’t see the reasoning behind eMTB, which seems to only combine the top three levels of riding. In fact, the other day while going up a short but very steep hill using eMTB the motor kicked a bit too hard and caused a wheelie. To prevent a backward flip I had to jump off the pedals. Indeed. Unwanted wheelies during steep ascensions… I’m gettin’ too old for that $hit.

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There’s an owner’s manual for a lot of Suntour forks here, just not for mine.

As far as the brake pad replacement goes, there is a problem with the rear brake calliper on my R&M. In my opinion, the frame mounts are not properly aligned for this calliper setup. The brake pad that is on the outside of the disk is always rubbing. I know this because the rear wheel never spins freely. Although there is a way to adjust the position of the calliper on the frame mounts, it can’t be moved enough to one side to prevent the rubbing on one of the pads. Once I get a new dealer, I’ll be addressing this issue. Otherwise I’ll be replacing pads mostly because of this unnecessary rubbing.

Actually I don’t have anything more to say about the tires on this bike. I love them. So I might just go one more set and then go to street tires. I don’t know. I’m confused about tires.

The front forks have no manual.

The pic above is a screenshot of the CD that was delivered with this bike that is supposed to contain an owner’s manual for my forks. The only problem is, there is no manual. The good news is that my bike was delivered with a cute little air pump specific to these forks. This is helpful because they are springless air forks. If, by accident, you let out all the air–which I did–you’ll need this pump to get going again. Either that or you’ll have to ride home with useless, impotent front forks. (Sounds worst-rider erotic, eh!) And there is one other problem. Because there is no user manual for the forks, how much pressure can I put in them? Since I fiddled around with air forks back in the day when I was a real-man motorcyclist–as opposed to a wuss on an e-bike–I figured I could fill the forks till they don’t move anymore, which I think was around 150psi. Right now I’m running something like a 100psi and they’re still a bit hard. Or is it 10psi? Who the fcuk cares. And you know what they say about hard (forks) and men in their fifties, right? Ok. Enough.

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R&M heaven or how they look after turning a year old.

Btw, my better-half’s R&M Mixte is definitely gonna skip the eMTB Bosch update. The main reason is because the update seems to be just another gouging mechanism for dealers. You see, Bosch doesn’t charge for the update. But dealers do. Go figure. Also. The Mixte is mostly used on roads, so it really doesn’t need eMTB.

In the last few days I’ve been able to go on longer rides with my GX, even though off-road is still very very wet–in fact so wet that even my extra wide tires sink a bit much for my taste. We’re planning a new tour up on the Baltic Sea at the end of May, though. We’re looking at about ten days of riding and maybe 1500km along the German north coast not far from Poland. Looking forward to it.

Oh. As far as battery life goes… I’m gonna have to worst-write something about that (again) soon. Reason? During the first 2000km I could go 30km before the first notch on the battery gauge would disappear. Now I can barely go 15km. After questioning a dealer about this he said that as soon as it gets warmer I should have all the power back. I’m skeptical. Even though the Bosch e-bike motor is great and I trust the Germans engineered it well and Hungarians put it together well, the battery–or the batteries–is a different story. Indeed. Batteries are the weak link here. But I digress.

Good riding, baby.

Rant on.

-T

To The Right Of The Noodles The Cute Left Rear Door Of The Mini (And That’s What She Said)

It’s been another busy worst-day, dear worst-reader. It started with early day chores having something to do with goodies for evening grub consumption. The joke is always on me, though. Reason? I’m the one that has to prepare the evening grub. And I’m no good at getting the grub. But at least I can cook it. Nonetheless. Let’s go there, shall we? The pic (above) with the noodles fails to contain the broth of my bi-montthly Japanese soup night. Nomatter. The other pic is of a Mini I checked out and test drove today. Although I’m no advocate for cars in this f’d-up world, I’m not anti-auto. They are quite useful. The thing is, I’ve been living with leased corpo cars for the better part of twenty years. You know what? Corpo cars suck. (But that’s a whole ‘nother post.) I haven’t owned a car since… way back when. But I have been driving lots. And not just driving. I’ve been driven on German f’n Autobahns. And you know what? German Autobahns… suck. You want to know why? They suck because, well, these f’n Germans just started building them. Seriously. They just started building them, like, yesterday. And you know what that means? It means traffic traffic traffic traffic traffic, etc. Of course, leasing corpo cars in Germania is an industry für sich. With that in mind, I’m tired of leasing these damn redundant things so I can get stuck in traffic. And so. Since we want to be able to travel around Europe on e-bike vacations and we’ve long since realised that we can’t do this with trains, we’ve decided to go the route of actually buying/owning an f’n car. Hence we had Japanese soup tonight and I test drove a 2017 Mini Clubman. The trick with this particular vehicle is that it has a AHK (Anhängerkupplung). You know, one of those tow-bars installed. That way we can take our f’n e-bikes with us when we buy one of them/those things that attach to the tow-bar and we can put the bikes on it. And before you consider barking at me (us) for traveling with e-bikes with a car, we would rather do it with the train but that just ain’t possible on account the f’n German trains are a bitch bitch bitch–and the f’n things never run on-time anymore anyway. But I digress.

Rant on.

-T

Storms & Tech In Germania

 

Struggling, dear worst-reader. Struggling. It is so wet here–here in worst-writer country–that one can feel it in the bone(s). In fact, one of the warnings from all the extreme weather has been to watch out for falling trees. Parks have been closed, don’t you know. The ground is so wet from so much rain that trees tear out easily from gusting winds galore. But let that not stop us, eh. For our path is set, the journey we must make, or maybe not. And so…

  • Headless Mac Pro (fiddling with it due to indoor out-of-weather preoccupation)
  • That is a tree branch that broke off in a storm gust last week (and I just missed it falling)
  • That is how Germans close park gates (to prevent people from being hit by trees)
  • Those are the cables that lead to the Matrix (or they power the German train system that has shut down because of heavy winds)

Rant on.

-T

When Your Creek Finally Becomes A River Paint Your Car Ridiculous Or Dig It Out

The Rhine is swelling, dear worst-reader. Even though we’re not having the bomb-cyclon winter storm that my beloved east coast #americant is having, the weather in old Germania plays strange all the same. Check out how close the river is to the tree top and the dike in the pic above. The vehicle almost buried in snow is from my home town where a bit of crazy weather is happening, too. And the odd painted BMW is yet another example of Germans failing miserably at just trying to be funny with the only thing they can really do (make cars).

Rant on.

-T

Sous-Vide Goose With Asian Rub Will Be Served In 22 Hours With Chinese Dumplings And Red Cabbage

Nine month old Goose vacuum packed and in bath water of 65 degrees celsius (ca 150f). Also known as Sous-Vide. Before dig-in will place bird on the Weber grill for about 20-30 minutes to get it crispy. The Chinese dumplings to go with it are supposed to have a filling made out of the innards but I’ve never been a fan of organs. Although we did prepare the innards according to the recipe, the flavour is just too… liver. Will probably substitute innards with mushrooms and/or maybe oats. Not sure yet. We’ll figure it out.

Merry f’n xmas.

Rant on.

-T

Roadkill And Other Forms Of Scaring Ausländer Out Of Germania

The horse in the pic above literally asked me, albeit in German, to leave his country. The fish in the moat around some #eurowasteland baroque castle said nothing. The flying rat reminded me of the story I’m about to tell. And the headless mouse reminded me of all those in my beloved #americant that got a once great country to where it is today.

But I digress.

On the grave of someone’s mother, I swear this happened. I was walking around some Germanic uppity village one day many years ago. In fact, it was one of them uppity über-villages. You know the type. The type where the past still lives in the form of protected inherited wealth. Indeed. In my beloved #americant this type of village is called an old money town. In America, if you look at these towns closely, you can still see the slaves. In Germania, on the other hand, these towns are about something else. In fact, you could put street signs up around these towns that read: they kicked our a$$ in a war but our kids got to inherit the loot. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Anywho.

I’m walking down a sidewalk with Beckett, the killer pug,  in this über-village and I hear this strange muzzled explosive sound. Within seconds of the sound a flying rat falls out of the sky and lands right in front of me. My useless dog begins to sniff at it. For those not in the know, flying rats are pigeons and useless dogs are pugs.

Moving on.

This flying rat had a huge hole in the middle of its chest. It was at that moment I associated the muzzled sound with a powerful air rifle. I proceeded to look around the old money neighbourhood but all I saw were rows and rows, streets and more streets of #eurowasteland über-villas that looked like they were part of a well fortified ghost town–with too much money at Deutsche Bank. Taking a closer look at the dead pigeon, I noticed that there was no blood around its rather large chest wound. That meant the shooter had executed a clean shot, instantly stopping the heart of the animal as the projectile concurrently emptied out all its inner organs. I looked around to see if those organs had fallen somewhere near by. But I couldn’t triangulate the dead flying rats course. Still. Its inner organs had to be somewhere. If only I had something other than a useless pug as a pet. Have you ever seen, looked closely at, the nose of a pug, dear worst-reader? It is a useless pet for a reason. But let’s not dwindle on that.

“Find the organs, Beckett!” I yelled. But he just stood there on all fours looking between me and the flying rat and, perhaps, considering, if he was next (to be shot).

Before I could contemplate further this worthless life situation, a man came running down the sidewalk of the street. Aghast! It was an old German. In fact, he was old enough to be one of the enemy. Or maybe not. Indeed. Most likely he was born during or directly after the great war. Nomatter. According to how was running, he was in great shape.

“I say old, boy. Do you remember me,” the old man asked me in English.

It was then I remembered him. We had met twice before while I walked my dog and I only recognised him because of the earring he wore on his right ear.

“How do you like my old dungarees,” he asked. “I got them from an American Navy boy stationed in Kiel when I was there as a student. “Can you believe it, after fifty years I still fit in them.”

He waved his hands in the air gesticulating how proud he was of his figure.

“And don’t worry about that, old boy. I’ll take it.”

He bent over and grabbed the dead flying rat, cupping its carcass in his hands.

“I have to be off now, old boy. My oven is reaching temperature and it takes forever to get rid of all the feathers.”

I watched him run back the way he came. He entered a gated villa down the street and I could hear the metal gates clanging as he locked the door behind him. I looked back down the sidewalk and once again was astonished the dead flying rat left not one speck of blood. I wondered what kind of air rifle could do such destruction.

-end-

Rant on.

-T