The Darnedest Things Around

Brisk walk this morning… No. This afternoon. Yeah, had brisk walk this afternoon. Nomatter. Get a load of that elbow, dear worst-reader. The left elbow of the dude with the fancy pig head. I’ve been passing by that Baroque building and statue for almost three years now. Never noticed the strange position of the elbow, though. Ever seen such a thing? Luckily, when I consulted Claudia, a former sculptress, and now a highly praised dancer in the art of vertical pole-ology, she told me that she even knows the local artist that made it.

“Yeah,” she said. “He ran out of time and money, as usual. So for shits&giggles he threw an arm on it that was laying around. He saved some money, don’t you know.”

Well, go figure, I thought. But it does (the arm, elbow) look kinda out of joint. Or?

Then I found a teddy-bear from Vulcan (yeah, Spock Vulcan). Found green blood n’all. I’m sure he was a cute little fellow at one time. But he smelled kinda funny when I took the shot. (And, yes, I buried him out of respect.)

The kicker in this post, though, dear worst-reader, is the Anti-Monopoly game I found on a park bench along the Rhine River after a welcome rain storm. You know, we’ve been having a heatwave here. My only question was, did the storm come along and scare the players away? Cause they left the whole game.

-Rant on.

T

Wishful Roadkill On Your Dashboard And Other Worst Pics

Cute as a button how someone could put tiny animal-dolls on their Mercedes dashboard. I only wonder what they are thinking as they drive. I even went around the car to see if there was anything else to photograph. No rotting animal carcasses anywhere. Also, no USB cables or smartphone holders. Whaaaaa? I then headed to the Rhine, which is terribly shallow right now on account of one of #Eurowasteland’s worst heatwaves in years. But perhaps the desertification of the Rhine region might hold out a bit. Then again, shipping German made tractors can’t displace all the much water. Or? Then Beckett, the killer pug, discovered a pumpkin patch right on the corner of a drive-way. Cool, I thought. Now if only Cinderella can find it when she needs it. Say, ever herd of “Gang – Joker Crew”? Me neither. But I think I’ve seen this graffiti before. Nomatter. Final pic is of some German miscalculation when tearing down an old house. Or do you think they hit it right?

-Rant on

T

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

The Anatomy Of Corn, Puffy Nipples And The One That Got Away

What are the things you miss most as an unwilling expat? It used to be blue crabs. But I’ve indeed had more than my share of them. (May the God of the Chesapeake, you lovely Bitch, have mercy on my soul for all my sins!) There was also a time when I missed the #Americant highway–especially when traversed on a motorbike. Oh how things have changed throughout the years. Yet there are things I still miss, still yearn for as this going-native journey has become something quite unexpected. For example. Soon in my beloved & missed United Mistakes, especially in the mid-Atlantic area where the headquarters, Washington DC, land of free to be stupid suburbia, it’ll be corn–as in on-the-cob–season. Of all my memories, the fishing and crabbing, the hunting, the untrimmed putang of the early 1980s, etc., etc., and the puffy nipples of THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY, the thing I’m thinking about most, especially this time of year, is the corn. Those ten to twelve inch cobs that are anywhere between two and three inches in diameter, with light-green, almost transparent husk-leaves…. Yeah. My mouth is watering already. And then there’s the experience, once perfectly cooked, you bite into the small, stiff, snow-white kernels of the super-sweet kind and there is literally an explosion between your teeth and gums of juice filling your mouth with a sweetness unmatched by even honey droplets delivered by THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY and her luscious puffy-nipples. And so. In the mean-time, considering that I probably won’t make it there till October, I’ll just have to have some puffy candy to stare at. Indeed. I won’t eat that krapp. But it is a great image to fill the mind’s eye of dreaming about puffy nipples during corn season while growing up.

-Rant on

T

Unusual Heatwave Bringing Out Nature’s Best And Miele Makes Best Washing Machines

Pulled this nasty guy off my dog, Beckett the Killa pug, this morning. It’s the second one in a month. Indeed. An unusually long heatwave is doing its job on nature here. Bugs are flying around I’ve never seen before. The Rhine river is extremely low and somewhat more toxic than usual. Last week while out and about I noticed a fairly large group of seagulls on the other side of the Rhine. They were there eating all the dead fish probably caused by either temperature or low water levels. Temperatures in excess of thirty degrees for weeks on end with little rain is tough in a place that doesn’t have air conditioning. But that’s neither here nor there.

Yesterday while walking my dog I came across a nice old lady with her nice old Irish Setter. The Setter was stuck in a low water canal that encircles a large park nearby. It had gotten away from her and jumped in to cool off. She said the dog was struggling and couldn’t make it up the high bank. She asked me if she should call the fire department or something.

“Heck no,” I said to her. “This is a job for neighbourhood nice-guy!”

I jumped in the canal to do my good deed for the week. What was unexpected from my little rescue mission was a nice and nasty dip in two feet of water and three feet of mud. The woman offered to wash my clothes when I finally got her dog out.

“No thanks,” I said. “I have a Miele.”

Of course the German worst-joke here is: I actually have a Bosch washing machine, which is half the price of a Miele and it’s been going strong for almost ten years now. (Knock on wood.) Which means I’ve been among the Germans long enough to know their dry humour (if you can call it that) which can only reference consuming-to-survive.

-Rant on

T

 

And Now: #Eurowasteland At Its Finest Or How I Learned To Aim It Right

So. Like. About a year ago I was out and about on my beloved E-Bike and, as usual (at my age), I had to take a piss. Usually I find a secluded place among the urban trees but for reasons owned by men of my age bracket… when you gotta go you gotta fcuking go! And so. I found a relative off-street spot but it was aligned with a über-steel fence that enclosed the local water-works facility of D’dorf. Indeed. I knew that I might not be relieving myself in the best place, but like I worst-said… I had to go. Long story short. Some guy caught me at my business and while my (#Americant) Johnson was hanging out he decided to confront me and, only as a German can, give me the once-over regarding my choice of piss station. My first reaction was…

Dude! Is you fcuking out of your fcuking mind? Never. Never. Never confront a comrade while his Johnson is dangling. Can’t you at least wait till I’m done? You fcuking cocksucking German piece of mother fcuking…

And here, dear worst-reader, we enter the world of differences between the Germans and… and those who don’t want to be fcuking German. I think. Anywho. The guy was vehement about the fact that I probably broke a few German laws that afternoon. I indeed had pissed on a fence that housed the local water-works facility. My bad. Yeah. My bad.

By-the-Buy, that’s NOT me in the pics above. It’s a pic I took this afternoon of some dude having his way with a local tree. When I came around the corner while walking Beckett, the killer Pug, I saw this guy pissing in the middle of… fcuking everything. Behind him is the Rhein; in front of him a fcuking restaurant. I walk along this path where he’s doing his bidness almost every fcuking day. When I take this pic (the second one is a blow-up) I’m standing at the exit of a park which is next to a restaurant and local hotel overlooking the Rhein. Should I have tried to photograph those on the terrace of the restaurant enjoying their meals… with this view?

Ok. Ok. None of that matters. I would never be in this or any such situation in my beloved and missed #Americant. Reason? Well, there’s room to piss galore in land of free to be stupid–that gives way to the like of #Trump with with is piss woven hair.

And on that note, I fcuking digress.

-Rant on

T