Conspiratorial Death Of The Eurasian Magpie That Brought Down My Cessna

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No. Seriously. I had this wild pre-dawn dream. I was in PHL with my wife. We were working together on an American TV show that had a deadline. I had to take a Cessna plane to MD in order to solve a problem in the TV show’s script. On the trip back to PHL the Cessna got caught in some kind of whirlwind and we had to make an emergency landing on a road on the outskirts of the city. Before I started running back to the office with the solution from MD, I told the pilot of the Cessna to figure out what was the cause of our having to make a premature landing. I was vehement about knowing why, with so much technology–and the ability to fly–I still had to run back to the office to make a deadline. I then I complained to the pilot about the “pool of sweat” I’d be in when I arrived and how it wouldn’t match my suit. Back in the office, after having trouble finding my way through a maze of stairways in the building, I solve the TV show’s problem but have lost track of my better-half. Then, suddenly, the pilot of the Cessna enters and shows me a picture he took with his phone. It’s a picture of a dead Eurasian Magpie in the middle of the road. The pilot proceeds to explain that the small bird was the cause of our Cessna landing early.

Rant on.

-t

seed pod.jpg

Photographed on a street somewhere in India. I have no idear what it is. Could it be one of them seed pods from Body Snatchers? Or perhaps it’s a leather case that houses the ersatz medication of an attempt to eugenically enhance an Ogre.

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In Bangelore during our stint there last year I noticed two things. You can only find green grass where wealth lives. For some reason that green grass might be hostile to the natural order of things. Or. Maybe a cat got to this bird.

Rant on.

t

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

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

Having a bad day. This is a NSFW post.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Customs official: It’s illegal. Duh.

Moi: Yes. I understand that. But why?

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

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

Customers official: In Germany illegal…

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

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

(Gently close can of worms now.)

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

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

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

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

Oh sorry.

Now go buy another fucking Audi.

Rant on.

-t

mouse half.jpg

Not quite sure. But I am sure that this photo will join the rest of my collection of worst-photos. Should’ve taken better care with the photo. When I took the shot it was clearly the remaining half of a rodent that got the attention of Beckett, the killer pug, while we are on his morning walk. I assure, dear worst-reader, my dog didn’t cause this obscenity. Then again, now I’m not sure if it’s a mouse half anymore. Nomatter.

Rant on.

-t

Mother’s Footstool, Sad News And My Toes

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The Red Sea is the best place to scuba dive, the Adaman Sea is pretty good, too. When the weather works with you, Bali has some beautiful waters to swim in. Then there’s my initialisation to crystal, turquoise waters. I will never forget the first time I swam in the Indian Ocean off the shores of Mauritius. But you know what, dear worst-reader? Nomatter where I swim, nomatter where the seafood comes from, the best water in the world is the Chesapeake Bay. Grey and green obviously can’t compare to the crystal waters of exotic places. But that doesn’t matter. The best seafood in the world comes from Chesapeake. The best place to sail and fish is the Chesapeake. Heck, even the duck taste special after you shoot them out of the sky above the Chesapeake. Indeed. She and her water’s are always on my expat mind–especially when I’m cheating on her swimming in other waters. Having grown up with/in the fight to save the Chesapeake from the greed-mongers who exploit her, the recent news that #Americants new comb-over-n-chief is gonna rip funding–that was never enough anyway–is yet another tear in my bleeding heart. When will the psychotic, drug induced populace wake from its insane high and finally start doing the difficult right instead the easy wrong? This visit to my beloved #americant is proving more than ever that hope is gone.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.

-t