After reading the linked article, worst-writer concluded that he has a gripe with what’s being said. That gripe, don’t you know, has to do with the claim that the tobacco industry created modern science denialism. Although it is a worthwhile claim, it’s totally inaccurate. For. Don’t you know, dear worst-reader. The origin of everything denialism in my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant goes much deeper–and much further back than the industrialisation of the tobacco leaf. Indeed.
Think in terms, dear worst-reader, of the Wizard of Oz. That’s right, I’m talking about the man behind the curtain that no one should pay attention to. Also, think about the tried & true elixir salesman, who, like The Wizard, traveled around #Americant in a horse drawn trailer selling sugared horse piss as a cure all. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not even blaming these industrious salesmen. Where would #Americant be without them? Would we even have a Steve Jobs without all the old conmen of yore?
My worst-point is this. I too quit tobacco years ago. For me, though, it was no big deal. In fact, I could puff at a cig here and there right now and it would not cause me to resort to wanting another one. Reason? There are more important habits. And so. Like most things in (this) life, I’d just laugh off habits (cause I can’t afford them anywho) and brush my teeth and… Now. Alcohol is a whole ‘nother thing. Yea. If only I could quit that one. But let’s move on.
Doctorow is obviously right in calling out the origin of science denialism. I just think that call should go a bit deeper and thereby call-out the idiots that buy-in to this $hit.But what does (could) worst-writer know.
Few and far between are these visits to my beloved & missed #Americant. When was the last time I was here prior to May 9th, 2021? Well, there was a short kinda emergency visit in November 2019. What a mess that was. Before that there was a short visit in March of the same year. Not so much of a mess but a mess all the same. And so goes the pattern, dear worst-reader. I usually try and come twice a year, sometimes three. Of course, the reason for the visits are to checkup on my ageing mother. Indeed. The prodigal son having a look at how Mom is getting on. Either that or I travel here or there to put out the fires, bandage the various wounds, beg my mothers church for forgiveness that I’ve left her alone in a rural #Americant beach town that is three months out of a year a hell traffic zone full of drunkards or whining brats and the other nine months (off season) it is a find your way around the bottle $hithole. Then again, there is also the chore to maintaining my citizenship, don’t you know. A citizenship that is waning, I should worst-say. How long have I been an expat? Thirty-five years or so? Again. Indeed.
But then, there are the other issues that I must address each time I travel to the LAND OF FREEDOM TO BE STUPID. For example, this time I renewed my driver’s license. Wait. Hold a sec. I didn’t have to renew my license. But the state issued these new-fangled licenses back in 2017-18 that is supposed to meet federal standards for I.D. cards which is also supposed to make it easier to travel if/when you do so without a passport. Although I wanted to do this in the spring of 2020, covid nipped that in the bud. And so. With this visit I went ahead and paid the twenty bucks to get it done–even though my license expires in 2023 and I’ll have to renew it again then. Also, and get this, after so many years of blowing it off, dear worst-reader, I went ahead and filed my friggin taxes. When was the last time I did that? Of course, since I don’t earn anything (for I am worst-writer, don’t you know), there’s no need for me to file taxes. Ever seen a 1040 tax form with nothing but zeros on it? Then again, with all the so-called stimulus money floating around, I thought, what the hell, why not see if I can get some of that. It’s still not clear if I’m gonna get the stimulus payment but I’ll be sure to let you know if I do. And then there’s the last reason for visiting my beloved & missed #Americant. That’s right. To be reminded of who I am, where I’m from, taste the water that bread me, eat a few blue crabs, admire the Atlantic form this side–say my final goodbye? Of course. There’s also the issue of having a look at what’s happened to my beloved & missed #Americant post president pee-pee-hair. Which begs the question: Does all this soothe my lost soul that is also losing touch with my… beloved… and missed…?
Btw, dear worst-reader, President Biden is only up the road from me today at his Rehoboth Beach house. Now wouldn’t that be cool to run into him on a bike ride and give him all-hell about how I’m just another #Americant on the verge of giving up my citizenship due to his lifelong politic? But I die-gress.
And there you have it, dear worst-reader. I’m here (in #Americant) to check on things. To clean things up. To organise an old shelf. To wipe the table. To cook a meal (for my ageing mother). Etc., etc. But then, also, there’s something else. There’s that thing that one cannot avoid while here. There is this place that is starting to look more and more like a foreign place. Even the crumbs on the table that I’m trying to wipe away that are magically replaced by the local ants, seems foreign to me now. Like something I no longer know. It’s as though I’m returning to that dream of America that I used to have–oh so long ago. It’s that dream where I got a chance to make sweet love to Farrah Fawcett. Oh! What a dream that was. And so. What has become of the America that gave me that dream? Oh yeah. Republicans happened to it. Greed happened to it. (Not that greed hasn’t always been there, don’t you know. But the greed post Reagan has grown a few more tentacles. Or?)
With that in worst-mind, let’s have a look at #Americant today and the things that perturb me like nothing else. Like words. Like the media. Like #Americants. And so. How ’bout the word: patriot. For it is a word flung around here and there as much as I fling around my Farrah Fawcett goo. But that’s not the only word. What about the word hero? Holly-molly, dear worst-reader. If I hear that word one more time, usually echoed when someone does something so banal that the it requires embarrassment banality–everyone cannot be a friggin hero. And so. Shall we (not) talk about diluting, deflecting, avoiding reality? This country is awash in it. And why? How? The media? Is it all the tv channels? The robocalls? Bumper sticker intellectualism? Faux-newz? All the above? Just call someone or something a patriot or a hero and then complain about the foreigners, Democrats and liberals, wearing masks. Should I even get on about the economy? You know that nebulous thing that happens to have a word associated with it and, of course, fits on a bumper sticker? Indeed. And so. Is it a wonder that I came up yesterday with a new word for my beloved & missed #Americant?
The whole country is but a scam. Which also means: who’s the best scammer? With that in mind…
There you have it. And now I should stop. Nuff worst-said.
I try, dear worst-reader. I really do. In fact, I might have broke my personal record when it comes to days watching at least fifteen to thirty minutes of faux newz. As revolting as that is, I’m glad I got through it–and it’s now over. And so. Indeed. It takes a day or two (or three/four) for me to purge the emotion-driven bat$hit political broadcaster from my (mothers) home–if not my own worst-mind (oh the poison of stupid). Of course, until she met her un-gentleman suitor a fews years back, she never even watched the network of lies and untruth. But that’s a whole ‘nother worst-post. Or?
Allow me this, dear worst-reader, about the un-gentleman suitor. My widowed mother has hooked up with a redneck. There! I said it. Don’t get me wrong. I’m only (obviously) a hop + skip away from being a redneck. Or? #Nomatter.
After my stepfather died I was hoping my mother would take the path of independence. But I suppose for her that was asking for a bit much. Of course, over the past two and half to three years, she’s obviously developed a fondness for an un-gentleman suitor. And. Again. I’ve got nothing against that, if it’s her choice. It’s just that. Well. There’s no other way to put it. He’s one of them… faux newz diehard blah-blahs. And that’s not all. He is also a member of one of them #Americant“clubs” (or is it “lodge”) that oh so emulates the clubs of #Eurowasteland history that gave way to the making of conspiracy-theory #Americant. I’m worst-writing, of course–and without getting into specifically which one–that he belongs to one of those organisations where like minded individuals… also freely wipe away their individualism. You know, the clubs/lodges that sew the seeds of convention, compulsion and the grand #Americant sickness that is: conformity. Of course. Let’s give credit where it’s due. As conspiracy-theories have become the new norm, I can imagine that historically like-minded persons of, say, Free Masonry, are laughing in their graves as to what has become of the once great idear that is now #Americant as it is propagated through the mills of never questioning anything or employing just a hunch of skepticism.
But before I get lost in all my family negativity. At least–if you’re not watching faux newz–there’s plenty of other stuff regarding former president pee-pee-hair and what will hopefully become the perfect ending to a life of grift—that can make worst-moi smile:
There are moments when advertising even works for me. Take for example this billboard. I mean. As worst-writer, it’s kinda obvious I’ve already failed but at least I answered that question long ago. Or?
Another dream worth transcribing, dear worst-reader? Not sure. But let’s go with it anywho.
I am a court jester, a janitor’s fool, some wife’s bathroom cleaner. But I am also a professional boxing referee stuck in a loop transaction of a match inside said ring. And here’s the thing that could make this interesting. No matter what I am in the ring, no matter what fight takes place, the ring always changes at the behest of the wife. That is. If the wife is fighting about my cleaning skills or lack thereof then the boxing ring is a bathroom. If the wife is complaining about my cooking then the boxing ring is a kitchen. Etc., etc. But here’s the other thing. While the situation plays out with the wife there is a real boxing match going on in the ring. So. Let’s say. I’m fighting with the wife while out on date-night. The boxing ring becomes a fancy-pants restaurant with waiters, cooking smells and candles, consumed bottles of wine–plus we are surrounded by large sweaty men throwing punches at each other which leads to bursting cheeks and slow-mo visions of flesh being crushed against bone. And while the wife is complaining and complaining and complaining I’m refereeing the match. All the while other boxers are, let’s say, somewhat perturbed with my referee skills as they too complain that the current match is taking too long. Just as one of the fighters falls to the matt after a hard right hook, he looks at me and complains, literally emulating the wife. As banal as this all may sound, dear worst-reader, there is a glitch in the matrix (excuse the pun) and we are all suddenly propelled to another boxing ring scenario. The glitch occurs when the wife takes on that I’d punch you in the face if I were man look when I turn around to find not just two but a dozen or so massive heavy weight fighters in the middle of a grocery store boxing ring. All of these fighters are fighting with each other thereby exchanging punch after punch. And note this, dear worst-reader, these aren’t trivial cartoon punches. These are, indeed, massive blows causing devastating damage to jaws, kidneys, ribs, etc. While blood and sweat spurts around the grocery store boxing ring I find myself standing at the entry way watching/listening to my wife who is in the middle of the battle. And guess what I see when I turn away to get some relief by looking outside? You know. That look every man has when he’s fed up, when he can take no more, when his Woyzeck kneels by his punched-out girlfriend, pulling the knife out from underneath his jacket. I see in the streets, outside the grocery store boxing ring, the town of this or that #Americant where really, really STUPID people are running on both sides of Politic Street. The one side is full of dumb-ass Republicans, don’t you know. The other side is full of smart-ass Dems. And both sides are wielding their weapons. I, the referee, am now watching it all from the middle of the street which has become my boxing ring. And as the two sides begin shooting–not unlike those who shoot and shoot and shoot from my previous post–I feel the bullets of #Americant go right threw me albeit filled with the yelling and screaming and angry voice of wives and girlfriends stabbed by the love they all think they’ve wasted on men. And then it all ends with a zap of the mind and risk of George Büchner’s lost pen and I’m no longer a boxing referee but instead a bystander in the war of life, liberty and the FREEDOM TO BE STUPID. The bullets flying from one side to the other go through me like the eyes of all loves lost. As I fall to the ground the dream ends and I wake up to… this.
Alternate worst-title: Back in the day you could play musical cars (as in: musical chairs) at a great drive-in movie.
Disclaimer: this worst-post contains spoiler alerts for an old movie and may (or may not) be NSFW.
Back in the day, dear worst-reader, when I was still tuned in to TV, as in, you know, when I actually watched network or cable TV or even went to the cinema, I remember watching, for the third or fourth time Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Not the original, don’t you know. I’ve always preferred the 1978 version–the best version. One of the things I remember about that particular viewing–other than I had to watch it in German–was that I had also re-seen a bunch of other–let’s call them–70s dystopian thrillers around the same time. I don’t know what the issue was that caused me to watch so many old movies that may or may not be about American dystopia but let’s rack it up to Germany finding ways to allocate nighttime TV programming to the masses and/or bodies not finding better ways to sleep through the night.
The thing is. I had just moved to Germany and, even though I didn’t have a TV in my little flat, having often hooked up–you know, in that forever search for –what do girls call it?–love–everyone I met did have a TV. So. Between flirting, conjugating, waking up in the middle of the night to piss and/or continue with her, I watched whatever late night movie (on her cheap couch) that was available and when things were really good I even got some really great head until we both fell asleep, she in a warm cum soaked lap, and me with my head blown out the rear.
It took till my expatriation in Germania that I finally started to grasp the meaning of #Americant dystopian thrillers like Soylent Green, Logan’s Run, Planet of the Apes, Mickey Mouse Takes Paris, etc. No. Seriously. I saw these films while in a drunken stupor, high on fresh-flesh and within my first year of living in consume-to-survive #Eurowasteland. Of course, the one film that stood out, because I had already seen it a number of times, was Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Yeah. During my youth and college days Invasion of the Body Snatchers was shown on some channel late at night or at some cheap cinema here or there. And why not? What a great movie, eh, dear worst-reader! And as far as my experience with the movie goes, there is something aphrodisiac about sci-fi dystopian horror thrillers–and chicks on the run or, at the least, Looking for Mr. Goodbar. But on that note, I probably should (but won’t) die-gress.
Flash to now. That’s right. I re-watched Invasion of the Body Snatchers the other night for the first time in about thirty years. Keep in mind, even though I have a fairly large ripped movie library–which I try to populate with old movies when I come across second-hand DVDs–I do not have Invasion of the Body Snatchers. And so. While arguing with my little family about what movie to watch on Easter Sunday evening, I managed to win the fight. And get this. Just like so many times before, I was enamoured with this movie–as though I had seen it for the first time. I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. When everybody had to get up and take a pee or fill their wine glass–it is a two hour film–I remained silent and in awe, transfixed on the paused screen image of Donald Sutherland, Brooke Adams, the cinematography, Spock! I can’t say enough good things about this movie, dear worst-reader. I mean. Is it me or should this movie be up there with Citizen Kane, The Third Man, Casablanca, Austin Powers? Okay. Ok. Forget that with Austin Powers. Just kidding.
What is it about these old movies that makes them so good? Is it the lack of CGI? Is it the mix of brilliant acting, direction and editing? Or is it the times? You know. As in. Man-o-man am I sick of high budget comic book movies that I’ve had to watch over the past twenty or so years. Or. Didn’t all that bull$hit about conspiracy theory really get its mojo on during the 1970s and no one can deal with it today–in movies? Hence, all the comic book movies with über-huge budgets that don’t really have much to say. Am I wrong.
For those worst-reading this but also born on or around the millennium, the 1970s were the f’n bomb in #Americant when it comes to two things. First. Oil. Yeah. Oil was scarce–or at least they (THEY!) made it out to be scarce. And second. Movies–on the whole–kinda sucked. But let me not get too much on about sucky movies from the 1970s. Smokey and the Bandit anyone? On the other hand, one of the reasons some older movies are so much better than newer ones is because, well, the newer ones have nothing new to say. Again. Am I wrong.
While I’m on the subject…
Everything that is $hitty today, as in, Republicans, greed-mongering old people, über-stupid graduating from college and fail-upwards-ness being the new career mantra, that whole mess started in the 1970s. Seriously. It did. For. Don’t you know, dear worst-reader, the high and the party and the fun-fun of post WW2 was over by the 1970s. Indeed. The 1970s was about no-fun, the re-establishment of patriarchy (as men began their fight in earnest against feminism) and, of course, making $$$$ at any cost. It’s no coincidence that the 1970s lead to the election of a two-bit actor who’s best role was hiding all his personal hate and greed and racism and white supremacy, which he learned by-the-buy from his adopted state of California and the career that did not choose him: acting. Again. For those not in the know. If the 1970s weren’t as fcuked up as they were, there might not have been a Ronald dip$hit Reagan. But on that note I must die-gress.
Which brings me back to the topic at hand. I re-watched Invasion of the Body Snatchers the other night and was just as tickled as the first time I saw it. Well, almost just as tickled. Reason? Boy does this movie bring back memories. And I mean worst-writer memories, baby. Are you ready?
I was in my late teens when I first saw Invasion of the Body Snatchers, which was right around when it was released. And, although I was afeared more of suspense than of horror, this movie subverted all that on account, as I was to be told, it was more of a… And this was the first time I had ever heard such nomenclature before. This movie was not a horror movie. It was not a sci-fi invasion movie either. It was a… dystopian thriller.
Seventeen year old worst-moi said at the time:
Two things happened that coincided with the first time I saw Invasion of the Body Snatchers. First. It didn’t scare me. But it did thrill me. Second. I think this movie was a wake-up call. Indeed. It was my wake up call to digging the idear of the dystopia I was living in. At least that’s what she called it. It was also a movie that could be viewed in various states of mind without which you don’t have to shut off your brain. Get my drift, dear worst-reader? No? Wait. Cancel that. Let me move on.
Everyone called her Beka. That was short for Rebeka Tabatha Short. Beka was my first older woman. Although years later I kinda knew she was lying about her age, at the time she told me she was thirty four. (She was at least thirty-nine, eh.) Of course, I didn’t care how old she was. Reason? She could suck a golf ball through ten feet of garden hose–and she could do it ten times a day, no matter when, no matter where.
Beka was the assistant manager of a fitness club I worked at and she was also a licensed masseuse. For those not in the worst-know, I worked two jobs to save up money for college back then. The first was tending bar in Washington, DC. That was my night job. My second job was at a kinda uppity fitness club just south of the city where a lot of really, really, really expensive upper middle class women were trying to keep their product in order. But that’s not the reason I worked there. I worked there because it paid well above minimum wage–and all I had to do for that was dance around a room providing MILFs aerobic excercise. Anywho.
Becka lived in DC only a few blocks from the restaurant where I tended bar at night. Because I was all into saving money at the time, I would drive to the fitness club, park my car, work my shift, and if our schedules worked out, Becka would take me to my night time job saving me the gas money. When I finished there she allowed me to stay on her couch till the morning when she would drive me back to the fitness club. This relationship went on for about six months. Of course, only after a short initial period, I no longer stayed on her couch. Unless a late night movie caught us.
We watched a lot of late night movies. The movies we watched were the really old ones, too. Most were also black & white movies. You know, Frankenstein, Dracula, Creature From The Black Lagoon, etc. But then, one day, after a Sunday shift we worked together but I wasn’t scheduled to work that night at the bar, she asked if I’d like to join her and some friends and go to a drive-in. She even added that it was her treat. I agreed but made it clear that she would still need to bring me back to my car in the morning. She smiled and winked. I then joined her and a few other people/couples in various cars and we went to a drive-in cinema to watch the recently released Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
That evening I learned three things. Beka was a divorcee and her former husband was a great guy and he loved movies and he was there with a new date. The second thing I learned was that I could come four times in two hours at the behest of three different women, who went from car to car, and all I had to do was stay in the back seat of one car. The third thing I learned is that after a movie, when smart people think about it, they can come up with some pretty interesting words to label it. As in. Everyone from the group that I was with that night agreed that Invasion of the Body Snatchers is not a horror movie, nor is it a sci-fi movie, but it is a criticism of where America is going: it is a movie about (our) dystopia.
But enough about worst-writer’s history of cheap love affairs and/or (intellectual) seeds that would lead to the tree of my expatriation. Or. Am I wrong.
Since, dear worst-reader, you’re obviously here for whatever else I learned from my various viewings of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, here are a few issues that stand out for me, even after this most recent viewing:
How can anyone sympathise with Americans being turned by alien gel-icky into automatons when a city bureaucrat opens the movie (Matthew Bennell/Donald Sutherland) with a nasty control/authoritarian schtick saying it’s not a caper it’s a rat turd and thereby terrorising a San Francisco French restaurant?
How is it that Elizabeth Driscoll/Brooke Adams is able to bring home an alien flower that ONLY infects her fiancé when they both sleep at the same time, in the same bed?
Why is it that the only malfunction of the pods came when the so-called hero of the movie kicked the pod that was next to the homeless guy who played the banjo and had a nice boxer (dog) as a pet, i.e. the dog with the human face?
Was it really necessary to have Robert Duvall play a Catholic priest on a swing at a playground full of kids? Oh wait. It was the 70s. They could get away with it back then!
At the end of the movie, the moment where Donald Sutherland is shown to be one of them, is it possible that he isn’t but is acting like one in order to save his own skin?
Leonard Nimoy is a great actor.
Finally. Did Donald Sutherland wear the same sweater in two movies? I mean, he did film Animal House around the same time. (See pics above.)
Actually. The (other) truth is. And I don’t mean this to toot my own horn any louder than I already do in this worst-blog, but on the/my first viewing of this movie I ended up that night with my first older girlfriend coming a fourth time after her former husband dropped us off at her place. That’s also when I first learned the word insatiable, swinging and there’s no such thing as jealously if there need not be. Oh. And if you’re ever at a drive-in and you see girls moving from one car to the other, you now know why.
It’s what I’m feeling sometimes, dear worst-reader. In these Covid times. Even though I try my worst-best not to live off my emotions–you know, like my #Americant rearing dictates–these times of restrictions galore tempt me. For example. The other day I screwed up real bad via unbridled temptation. I mean. Since I’m not a regular consumer of Germania media, either visually (TV) or text (newspaper), I quickly realised that I’m quite uninformed when it comes to dos and don’ts while out and about during quarantine. I mean. Of course I know there’s a special kinda lock-down going on, but I’m also quite unaware of exactly what that lock-down entails. With that in mind, let’s worst-write on.
While on a get some fresh air e-bike ride the other day I wondered into two places. The first was a motorcycle dealership where I had noticed through the front window the bike I’d buy if I could in order to get back into riding. Yeah, it’s been twenty years since I’ve ridden, don’t you know. After noticing that two people had exited the showroom, I locked up my e-bike, dawned my mask, read the rules on the front door–about social distancing and masks and whatnot–and entered. I immediately squirted some sanitiser on my hands and then proceeded to sign-in on the tracking register. But before I could enter my full contact details an employee entered out of nowhere and started berating me about how I was breaking the rules and that I couldn’t just enter the place. Shocked, I quickly realised that I was in the wrong–even though I didn’t quite know why or what deserved such vehemence. Also, with masks it’s difficult to see/read all of the emotional distress I was causing. Not being a native German, all I remember is hearing the native berate me in his guttural German–along with those German eyes. It was kinda horrifying. I tried to tell the guy that I was sorry and that I just saw two people walk out of the place but he insisted on berating me at the top of his teutonic lungs and that he didn’t feel like paying a fine for my stupidity which was somewhere around twenty-five hundred Euros and he said that I am a… but didn’t actually use the word… idiot . The whole time, of course, worst-writer is smiling and quivering under my mask and on my way out I manage to snap the following pic. She sure is pertty, ain’t she?
The good news is, when I got home I caught up on the details of German quarantine rules and also started to wonder if the Germans are gonna track me down for breaking those rules. Remember, I did sign the tracking form when I entered the dealership. Wow. Paranoia in the land of paranoia. The bad news is, while having ruined my e-bike ride for some fresh air, on my way home I stopped once again at one of my favourite places to find some soul solace: a cemetery. Keep in mind, dear worst-reader, other than lots of archaic and mind-bending human mis-history, there are only two things today that one needs to experience in #Eurowasteland. Conveniently these two things are related. Have you guessed what they are? Ok. Here’s a hint: Churches and cemeteries. Indeed. #Eurowasteland is awash in mysticism and deserved human rot. But on that note, I must die-gress.
Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. During some of my e-bike treks every once-a-once I like to stop to talk with the souls of the dead to hear what they have to say about the living. This particular cemetery, by-the-buy, is also one of the regions largest. And. With another by-the-buy. Since expatriating to Germania, I’ve attended three funerals at this particular cemetery. Two of those people I knew, one I didn’t. Yeah, I guess in these waning days of worst-life, it’s time for me to pull a Harold & Maude and start attending funerals–just for the hell of it. And so. While walking my e-bike around the graves I decided to see if I could find a new exit. Usually I just went from one end of the cemetery and exited out the other–as it was also a short cut even though, out of respect, I walked my e-bike through it. Yeah, that’s how big it is if you have to ride around it. But I’ve always wondered if it was such a large cemetery was there another exit? When I began to realise that there probably wasn’t, and while in a dank corner amongst misty gravestones, I happened across what is now my favourite grave of all-time. See the pic at the top of this worst-post.
I was truly taken aback by the caged grave I had discovered. I had never seen such a grave before. It’s like a grave prison, dear worst-reader. And that really befuddles me. At least I’ve not seen, in this region of Germany, a grave that makes such a profound statement. Yet, as I thought about statements, I got hung up on two possibilities as to what that statement is. The first possible statement from the grave is thus: what’s in here needs to stay in. The second statement is, and this one really gets my croissant boiling: no, you can’t come in and join me.
And now for a bit of back story regarding my desire to communicate with souls. While living in Darmstadt many years ago, which is a few hours south of Düsseldorf, one of my favourite places to go to talk to the souls of the dead, was Frankenstein’s Castle. For you know the story of Frankenstein, eh, dear worst-reader? I mean the book, not the movie(s). Indeed. The castle is a grand place, especially if you go there when there are no tourists or it’s not late October. For if you wish you can tease the souls of the dead about how they are the ones that have given us this $hit world, i.e. the future they made. Which is what I like to do. In fact. While talking with souls I used to tell them I would be seeing them soon–with a vengeance. For someone has to make the past pay for what it has done to the future. Or. If you prefer, dear worst-reader, you can just go to Frankenstein’s Castle and chill, smoke a joint and ponder Mary Shelly’s mindset that lead to The Modern Prometheus. But on that note, again, I must die-gress.
In short, so that one may make the connection, the legend of Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus was ALL about grave robbing. But Mary Shelly got a bit caught up in audience driven story telling before she could really jot all that down. In fact, grave robbing back then was so popular that the living conspired all the time about how to protect (their) graves. If you could afford such an elaborate cage, though, why not just pay for a tomb, which also had a certain level of protection? Indeed. Many just made sure that they were buried naked and with nothing to accompany them. Or could it be that the cage-grave is from someone who thought more like the Pharaohs? You know, bury your corpse with everything, even the key, so that when you (re)awaken, you still have it all. Who can know, eh.
So let’s ponder the statement of caged graves once more. Is the cage for keeping something in? An appropriate question as the minions and compulsive behaviourist of today go about their useless eating lives emulating so well the pitchfork morons of yore. Or is the grave statement about keeping something out? Considering how the world is currently devolving via capitalism and greed-mongering run amok which has turned so many into cannibal-like goons, is the time nigh when we have to start digging up the dead? I can’t shed the thought that it’s only a matter of time before we start once again what Mary Shelly was afraid to finish and/or write–so she covered it all up with evil pseudo-doctors and monsters. Instead I’ll just ponder the possibility of what the cage-grave is stating while studying the rules and regulations in Germania about quarantining and the idear that, even at almost sixty, I’d like to get back on a really, really cool bike and do a few laps of the Nürburgring.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest– For Brutus is an honourable man; So are they all, all honourable men– Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And, sure, he is an honourable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause: What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him? O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason. Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me.
-Marc Antony, Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare
Yes, dear worst-reader, these are the moments where things read cause a thought or three while cleaning my weber über-grill this morn. Oh how it needed a cleaning, don’t you know. So much oily stuff accumulating underneath the flames after month upon month of use–since our oven is broke. It only takes a piece of fatty steak to drip at the right moment to ignite the oily undergrowth. So it was a few days back. The whole grill and the steaks bellowed a black smoke as the grime lit up into dull, orange flames. And as I age, admiring the gluttony of the couch during these days waiting for the clock to strike “it’s drink time”, I gathered myself and said: Clean the fcuking grill you lazy biatch of man, earn your afternoon drink. And so I did. But then. While my power washer was acting up, I got to thinking about Marc Antony’s speech from Julius Caesar. Oh, how I’ve battled with this speech, perhaps not unlike I’m battling with my power washer. Even though I’ve only directed this play twice in my dream-mind, both times I fought with this speech the most. You know, what does it mean? Where is it going. Where has it been? Heaven forbid you’re stuck with an actor who thinks this play is about power. Hence the varied right-wing bend this speech can take, as though it were a crowd pleaser or crowd controller. Being the liberal I am, of course, means I can only allow Marc Antony to be the sarcastic prick that too few know he really is. And so, while power washing the grill plates and flame diffusers and heat deflectors of my grill, the parts that catch all the flammable grime waiting to light if not properly cared for–not unlike California these days, eh–I allowed my dream-mind to imagine, even for a brief amount of time, that I would play Marc Antony in my third directorial attempt at Shakespeare. And I would give the speech as I see fit, don’t you know.
PS After my grill caught fire the other day, indicating it was time for a cleaning, the steaks that caused the fire weren’t all that bad. Indeed. They were tasty.
Originally from Maryland, dear worst-reader. But don’t fault me for that. Don’t fault me on account, don’t you know, Maryland has given the world Kavanaugh. But I die-gress. After living in the golden cage of Germania for all these years, sometimes I need reminding of where I’m from. With a little help from my better-half, of course, she comes home here or there with just such a reminder. Indeed. Every once-a-once she brings something home that is supposed to remind me of who I am, where I’m from, what reared me. Little does she know the horrors that surge around my worst-mind. But that’s for another worst-blog, perhaps. Or. Are these little things supposed to do something else? #Nomatter. I allow the entertainment–especially in these times of covid and other pig capitalist misdeeds that have turned the world into a cesspool of shitfilth and other happy whatnot of demise. Yet here’s the thing. When I’m reminded of where I’m from I usually just give off a wink and thumb-up and then go about my merry bidness. Then, usually a day or two (or maybe more) later, I take another look at the reminder and realise: the world has my Maryland all wrong. But is that any wonder? I mean. Have you ever been to Maryland? It can be a nice place to visit but like so many other places… it’s just another shithole where one group of people can poop on another group of people and no one thinks once or thrice about any of it. Still. Some stuff irks me. Take a close look at the pics above. The “blue crab” isn’t quite right, don’t you know. In fact, to the best of my crab knowledge, that’s the image of a mud crab. Although the Schooner is a fine sailing vessel and deserves to have its image on a mini-bucket of oddly flavoured nuts, Maryland is not known for Schnooners. Maryland, especially the Chesapeake Bay, is known for its Skipjacks. But. Again. I die-gress.
Another heatwave is coming dear worst-reader. Or should I say: worst-rider? Indeed. For I was on a short e-bike ride this morning when I happened across this. Obviously it takes a bit more than über-hot #Eurowasteland weather to melt a public trash can. Children will be boys, eh, when they play around with matches and the like. Yet as I rode past this piece of art, I immediately thought of the Wicked Witch melting in The Wizard of Oz. I suppose, if I had it with me, I would/should have put that witch hat atop it. Then it would be just like the dream I’m always having where the likes of witches, #Trump and all the abused must rattle around in cages of galore, confused n’all, while waiting for someone to finally help them/us–on account there is no helping those who got themselves into this mess. Just like that friggin trash can, I reckon. Nomatter.
Disclaimer: NSFW material towards the end of this worst-post.
I dreamt of waking in a cold sweat. But then quickly fell asleep again only to dream of a place from twenty years ago where a large blonde woman stands behind me while I sit at a desk attempting to research the hell out of finding the cost of everything so that our client can cheat his way to profits. Yeah. I worked for a $hitbag management consulting company once or twice. It still grinds my conscience. You know, those organisations that never actually do anything but suck the life out of people convincing them that cutting costs for clients is an achievement. Sometimes I’m still shocked at how naive I was. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, even well into my thirties I took the krapp-work laid out for me in stride as I wasted my best years on the two ills of life: working for The Man and, of course, his bitch, marriage. But at least, in this end, I did learn that both (work & marriage) are nothing but a transaction. And transactions can and should end or be left behind us as one learns new strides on the way to his or her end. Indeed. They should all end especially when it’s realised that you’ve lived your life for someone else, for something else, for the nothingness that is consume-to-survive. But I suppose I’m off subject.
Last night’s/this morning’s dream-in-a-dream has been haunting me lately having had it several times in the past few weeks. I think I’ve finally gotten it out of my system. I mean, I don’t think I’ll be having it again. Reason? I’ve discovered the thing that’s motivated it. In other worst-words, it’s the lying and the cheating that’s catching up to my conscience. It’s slowly being laid out in front of me–as I watch The West deteriorate further and further into blissful-ignorance galore. Or is it laid out in front of my therapist? Nomatter.
The thing is, I’m starting to be good with it all (my past) now because, well, I was able to see through it and then realise it’s time to move on. Yes. It took a while. But it’s happened. Unlike so many other things.
What the big blonde woman is actually doing in my dream-dreams is not watching over me like a corporate sage watching over a minion, thereby protecting someone’s profits, position or stature. No. She’s instead watching over me as I cheat. Again. Keep in mind. She is a minion above my minion-hood. And so. The research I’m doing in the dream-dreams isn’t about finding our clients competition’s cost structure. No. It’s about finding ways to lie. But lie to whom? Which brings us, dear worst-reader, to the links below.
Today’s newz links are about the two biggest lies that seem to never lead to truth. I mean, isn’t that what lies are about? In other worst-words, lying isn’t about the lie. No. It’s about the truth. The two lies that make up the duality of life and death are simple enough. One is nature (climate) and the other is corporatism (run amok). But let’s get back to the dream-dreams, blondes in corporate pants suits and and and, shall we.
When I read articles like the two linked below, I can’t help but associate them with my dreams within dreams (dream-dreams) that I’m either having or may eventually have. Perhaps that has something to do with all the lying I did in my short-stinted career as a corporate stooge. What lie, you ask. Well, my lies were always quite simple really. Once when I applied for a new albeit internal job at one of the many jobs I jumped, I asked a higher ranking colleague if she would have a look at my resume and then give any advice. The problem for me back then was, I did the work of PHDs. It was easy, don’t you know. For you see, back then, the globalisation greed-$hitshow was just getting under way. Corporate leadership hadn’t weened enough of the under-educated workforce yet to coerce real PHDs to lower their expectations, i.e their value. In other worst-words, PHDs were still too expensive. Corporate leaders therefore salivated all over people like me. Obviously without the proper credentials I couldn’t demand PHD wages but I must admit that I got pretty close once. Obviously things have changed as I write this twenty or so years later. Now PHDs are indeed a dime-a-dozen–and I even giggle at them every once-a-once on account, although they have their credentials, none of them have ever been able to realise what they’ve done. But on that note I should digress.
By the time I was forty years old, I had written more words than any PHD in the history of the world. It’s true. Just check my closet for manuscripts, ghost-writing and old corporate presentations. And don’t even think twice about all the consulting reports I’ve written that are locked in vaults at various clients. Yet, as the globalisation advantage for shareholders was just starting to take hold, I confused my ability to write–or my ability to write a shit load of bullshit–with actually achieving something. In fact, I was doing nothing. But let me ask you, dear worst-reader, should we minions question the fruit of our labour? Again. Nomatter.
My problem was, although I was writing stuff for others to publish, I still wasn’t published. Back to internal job seeking and, hopefully, blondes in corporate pants suits.
The blonde standing over my shoulder in my dream-dreams was actually coaching me on how to lie on my resume so that I could get a better job. That sort of thing is always cloaked in something else in the corporate world, don’t you know. As in finding cost structures of your competitors, which was just one of my many PHD-non-PHD tasks. Nowadays I’m not quite sure what they’re all up to on account, well, obviously, there ain’t much competition out there. Monopolised, monolithic organisations don’t have to worry much about competitors costs. There’s no competition. But they do need to cheat on other things. So there’s that. I guess.
When I questioned Blondie about what she was suggesting I put on my resume she simply said it is what everybody does and then added: it’s called tweaking. And so. I think of all the wasted college credits that run free through the world never realising their owners incapabilities, incompetence, mendacity, etc. Such is college in this new & improved century, eh? But they HAVE played somebody’s game well. Isn’t that obvious? The corporatists. They’ve played it, in fact, much better than I have. Perhaps that is a catalyst to all my dream-dreams. Am I jealous of all the fruit they’ve acquired for their labour? And that’s the ticket, ain’t it, dear worst-reader? All the college grads running the $hitshow, especially in my beloved & missed #Americant, are, at best, tweakers–not achievers. In the olden days, I guess, they were just cheaters. Weird how what goes around comes around, eh? Hence #Trump is such an obvious achiever… (giggle, smirk, fart, puke)
That’s one of the reasons I haven’t worked for the last twenty years–and then have odd but relevant dreams about dreams. Or is it dreams within dreams? Anywho.
It was that last resume that I ever formulated and the last time I would let someone watch over my shoulder, tweaking not just me but all of corporatism. Indeed. I realised: I can’t do this anymore. Of course, eventually, the blonde had her way with worst-moi. Yeah, that sort of thing happened a lot in my youth. Even though she wasn’t a looker, she had the right shade of pale and smooth skin. She was fifteen pounds over weight, too. That said, I kinda like ’em big. As far as romping goes, one nipple was larger than the other and both sat high on her bosom, which were quite large and extruding with heavy, gleaming under-boob. That always gave me more wood. She also didn’t mind ejaculate on her face and even told me to finish in her mouth after each romp. Even though we used protection, I assumed that such a request was so that she would be sure to not endanger her current career path with unwanted procreation via my sketchy supply of prophylactic. Or maybe not. She even blew me in her office early one morning where I failed to tell her that she still had me in her hair–twelve or so hours later. I guess a few colleagues assumed she had chunky dandruff. And so. While my marriage was ending and the realisation that I was a bad choice-maker (in life) was hitting me as hard as I was fcuking her, going back for seconds and fourths, there was one consolation within me. I was yet to be fully corrupted by it all. Again: I can’t do this anymore. Luckily, eventually, inevitably, she told me that I was boring and that I’ll regret not having taken her resume advice–but I was welcome to call if ever in town again–which is corporate code for “good luck with your career”. She giggled as best as anyone who had nothing to lose and then went about her corporatism. And so. We both said goodbye amicably. Just like the way I said goodbye to my marriage and my ill-fated corporate career. So many goodbyes well worth it.
The dream-dreams are alive and well, dear worst-reader. They are with everyone that can’t see through the rigamarole of things like what’s presented in the articles below. Even though the articles do tell a truth about something very specific, the larger lie that we all live in–or should I say you’all live in–on account I found a way out of the lie–and that makes me better than you–something is missing. So I’m wondering if the lies have become so abundant, so large, so catastrophic, there is no room for truth anymore. There are only the dream-dreams and the corporate blondes worth a fcuk or three. Wow. Life’s a hoot, eh.
Woke up with a speck of Stones clinging in my heart this morning. Did I think it was a heart attack? No. But my heart hums every now and then–in the wrong musical direction. Also. The stirring had something to do with the wrong angle (of attack) from that last glass of wine last night. I have to stop drinking from the corner of the left side of my face. But that’s all neither here nor there–cause the pills don’t help either. And so. I took a bike ride after coffee this morning and when I returned my heart told me once again to nap. The problem is, I’m not listening to my heart enough these days. Either that or its speaking the wrong language. It wasn’t telling me to nap but instead to listen to this Stones song. So I did. And then I listened to the whole album and drank two glasses of oat-milk latte. Now there.
Quick ride to clear my head the other day, dear worst-reader. Didn’t work, though. In fact, I was so perturbed by the trek I’m sure it caused me a strange dream the night after. In short, the dream was thus: along with another male adult, I’m on a grassy knoll coaching four boys who are playing soccer. Oddly, I’ve never played soccer. In fact, when I was kid and when I played, it would have never come to mind to play a sport that was/is easily labelled a communist sport. I mean, come on. You can’t use your friggin’ hands? Whaaaa? Ok. Back to the grassy knoll.
The grassy knoll is next to the German A3 Autobahn on route to either Köln or Frankfurt and there’s no barrier between the grass where the boys are playing and the Germanic über-roadway. Myself and the other adult male are trying our best to keep the boys from playing their sport into the on-coming traffic. So much for coaching, eh. And so…
The boys are constantly kicking the ball onto the Autobahn and thereby stopping traffic. Let me repeat that for the worst-hearing or the unimpaired (intellects) who’ve never left the confines of not having a passport: no one stops on-coming Autobahn traffic in the land of Huns. Or? On the other side of the grassy knoll, by-the-buy, is a dense forest and with every pause from having to watch the boys, I’m looking to that forest. And while doing so, eventually, somehow, an opening in the forest appears and I suggest that we seek another place to practice. The other male adult agrees with me but the four boys do not. The boys want to keep playing/practicing where they are–and it’s obvious they will have their way.
In a rebellious fit mixed with a bit of pseudo-rage, one of the boys kicks the ball onto the Autobahn and then all four boys command that I fetch it. And guess what? I did NOT fetch it. That’s right. Fcuk that! I ran off to the opening in the forest and then woke up in a cold, blurred sweat. Awake from my rebellious dream, I immediately ran downstairs to my Jura espresso machine, which was already on and warmed-up on account I over-slept and my better-half was awake and I clicked the button for a double espresso. I drank it and then my wife commanded that I take the dog out. But get this: my dog, Beckett the killer pug, runs over to me all excited and perturbed and in his mouth is a deflated and dilapidated old soccer ball.
Confused, I look out the front window of our house while contemplating and sipping espresso and soccer and see four boys on the street staring at me, waiting for me, gesturing: where’s the fcuking ball you a$$hole! And so.
A dream within a dream very unlike Hamlet. Or? Perhaps a better question is: what does it all mean?
The good newz is, there’s an east-west spectrum of riding terrain along the Rhein. If I go east, within about half an hour, I’m in a mountainous-forest area that is pure joy to ride. When going west, but adhering to the Rhein River, there are numerous spectacles of industrialisation worth riding through–and not because they are to some an eye soar, which also means that while riding there will be less pedestrian and/or bike traffic. Yesterday I rode through the town of Neuss, for example. It’s a quick twenty kilometre north-westerly ride where one must cross the Rhein via Düsseldorf’s most southerly bridge. Once across there is a short jaunt on a bike pathway that is between the river and a bunch of fancy-pants houses that all have a spectacular view. Indeed. Some of the housing that overlooks the Rhein is a sight to see. The old-money wealth that purchased its way into such a view of the river must be very proud of itself. Yes. We’re all proud of old-money, eh? I mean, not that I’m bitchin’ & moanin’ too much on account I can’t have such a view. Old money is an issue these days, eh? But I die-gress.
The moment I trekked my way through Neuss town centre and began to navigate through the industrial harbour, I felt better. Suddenly there were no more cars, no more pedestrians, no more bicyclist. And then I saw a young maiden sitting on a bench next to what looked like a contra-bass. Obviously she was waiting to be picked up and my little knowledge of Neuss told me there must be a music school nearby. Yeah, the Huns still have lots of music schools all over the place. Anywho.
After passing the harbour area and getting a good close up of some of those barges that dock at loading stations, I had to resort to some fancy-pants GPS to help me find the quickest way to lunch. I was getting hungry.
I rode through the industrial, port area of Neuss and then re-crossed the Rhein via the Rheinkniebrücke which is only a few twisty kilometres north of the previous bridge I crossed. I then rode to the Düsseldorf Altstadt and reminded myself that I would have NO Bier with lunch. I then splurged on a bowl of lentil soup at a cool little out-door soup & stew stand. While eating lunch I conversed with an old German couple, she from D’dorf but her husband was from Nurenberg. The husband was almost blind and kept asking his better-half to help him find a piece of sausage in his soup. The better-half sparked up a conversation with me after her husband mistook my bowl of stew for his own. Here’s a translation of the conservation that ensued:
“We’re biking, too,” the old lady said.
“Good for you,” I added.
“But my husband’s almost blind. Here darling, have another piece of sausage with your stew.”
“With traffic as bad as it is, biking is really the only way to get around these days, wouldn’t you agree,” I asked.
The wife shovelled another piece of sausage onto her husband’s spoon. He was eating cabbage and carrot stew with pieces of bratwurst in it. I couldn’t help but stare at the man’s thick, bottle glasses. For a moment it looked like he was so blind that he might not find his mouth with the spoon. But then he blurted out something about Hitler. That’s right. That’s how easy it happens here. I looked to his wife and she nodded and I then assumed that the old man was probably dement. But then he turned to me while chewing a thick spoonful of stew and meat.
“You have an accent,” he said.
“Yes, sir, I do,” I agreed.
“You are American,” he said. “I will never forget the Americans. It was two weeks after I turned seven years old. It was late 1945. The Americans began to occupy Nuremberg. We were still wondering if my father would return from the war. It was just my grandfather and my mother. My mother kept herself barricaded in the basement of our house most of the time. My grandfather was still in charge of the city’s electrical grid. My grandfather took me to work with him back then. The G-I’s were fixing the electric grid of the city. When the first G-I’s came to greet my grandfather at the electric station I stood at attention and yelled at the top of my lungs… Heil Hitler! But then I saw for the first time a Neger1. And this big black G-I came over to me and gave me a Hershey bar. After that I yelled Heil Hitler to every G-I. I got a Hershey bar every time. It was wonderful. My father never came home.”
Rant and ride on.
Yes, old Germans still refer to Africans as “Neger” and while I’ve questioned the use of the word, most Germans then just inform me how stupid Americans are if they don’t know the difference to the slave-trade, bigoted pejorative use of nomenclature ↩︎
Not sure where it begins, dear worst-reader. Is it their schooling? Peer pressure? Reading too much Winnetou and Old Shatterhand? For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, Karl May, the writer/creator of old west stories of my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant, never once set foot on what he wrote so much about. And even though I’ve never read a word from May, something about the way so many Das Volk in Germania speak English. Or is it how they write it? Nomatter. It’s all pseudo-soup and graffiti to me. And it’s better that way.
Can’t remember exactly when it was. Definitely a few years back. I was shopping around, you know, consuming-to-survive, and there was this DVD set priced real cheap of House of Cards. The original, btw, not the #Americant rip-off. I bought it and ripped it to my home server and never watched one show. A few days later, also while consuming-to-survive, I happened across another DVD set but this time, kinda throwing me for a loop, it was of the #Americant version of House of Cards. What the heck, I thought. Like the original British version, the #Americant version was cheap and I had plenty of space on my server for more ripped nonsense and, of course, plenty of spendable income. So I consumed it and the cashier smiled at me and I swear the old bat tried to flash me cleavage as I finished my electronic payment and she obviously admired my finger tips pressing those little keys on the the POS card reading device. Nomatter.
Of the two season of the #Americant version of House of Cards, I binge-watched the first season, albeit reluctantly. But get this: after S01E01 and the first time Frank Underwood, aka Kevin Spacey, broke the fourth wall, I was turned off. I only continued to watch the show because of all the support characters that seemed so much cooler/better but also unsupported–probably because of Spacey. And that’s what worst-writing is all about, right? The underdog? The less talented? Being an underling? But that’s neither here nor there.
Spacey not only broke the fourth wall but also, IMHO, broke the role. Or are you impressed with a regurgitated and unoriginal Southern version of Richard “Dick” Nixon? But don’t worry–if you’re a Spacey fan that probably means nothing to you. Kevin Spacey is but one of many hollywood-ers that bears the mantle of ACTOR–but in reality is nothing more than a character stereo-type of his/her self. That is, he’s the kind of actor who doesn’t actually act but instead turns his deepest, most inner persona into whom it is he portrays. (Is that the proper use of “whom”?) This type of acting doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing, though. Al Pacino does it. Heck, Robert Dinero does it, too. Who doesn’t do it? Even though he didn’t change his physical appearance in anyway for the roles, Robert Downey Jr. doesn’t stereo-type his person even while playing totally unchallenging roles in the form of Iron Man and Sherlock Holmes. Or am I wrong there? Of course, I need not mention the likes of Brando or Daniel Day Lewis. You know, real actors. Actors that hone a craft as though the sharpness of a blade ain’t enough to cut through the filth of humanity or the like. Or. But. As usual. I’m gettin’ off subject.
Even though I knew that this new-fangled way of producing TV (netflix) wasn’t about remaking a grand British version of the show but instead doing what all non-doers do: it was/is but another way for compulsive behaviourists to find a way to rule the day. In other worst-words, it is the way otherwise ambitious peoples, who have no other means to make a living, simply fill a void and thereby label it work. That is, compulsive behaviourism is the new sickness of getting by without taking a moment to reflect on why/how you and your life is/has become so worthless. Spacey, a two-bit actor at best, obviously did a grand job at bringing the dumb-downed #Americant audience closer to British cynicism, i.e. the British way of dealing with the ugly-truth/fact that they still have a fcuking queen running their $hitshow. But on that I should die-gress because it too will lead me waaaaaay off subject.
My worst-point with this confused worst-post is this: Kevin Spacey sucks not only as a person but as an actor. Yet, not unlike Harvey Weinstein, Spacey probably won’t be paying a high price for his heinous behaviour. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, when worst comes to shove, worst always wins–that’s what compulsive behaviourism is all about. Now get back on your couch and let those with spendable income and useless-eating hunger consume it all to survive.
Xmas Eve dinners are a big deal in worst-writer’s house. A few people are invited and some of them actually come. Since the kids are all growed-up this is mostly an adult evening. Either that or the kids are with divorcee parents. Nomatter. To begin the occasion, a bottle of champagne is opened and most drink from it. A few snacks are made available along with conversation about a year ending and perhaps, dear worst-reader, you can imagine how things go from there. Then the cooking begins. In a five-course meal, worst-moi is responsible for the first two. The starter was a worst-writer (aka Tom) carpaccio with baked and shaved gold beets, shaved parmesan, a dressing made of sour cream, vinegar and horseradish and all topped with watercress leaves and fresh broken black pepper. Of course, just before Guten Apetit is wished upon all, über olive oil from our Croatia trip this year was dabbled atop. Even though this meal has been prepared for everyone before, as it is our guests most requested worst-writer dish, this time it was a bit different. We actually opened our last bottle of what worst-writer considers to be one of the finest Chianti he’s ever consumed. It is a 2004 Selvapiana Chianti. Not a very expensive wine, it is special because it is also the last of about three cases–among thirty or so cases–that we brought back with us after a week of wine tasting in Tuscany in 2007. Nervous if the wine had aged well–on account we lost probably two bottles to “cork”–the first whiff following cork removal proved all was well. In fact, the scent that immediately emerged from the cork and the bottle did more than jostle the memory of that 2007 trip. It was indeed a grand piece of travel, not to mention it being one of the last where I was able to make love to my wife multiple times a day–every glorious day. Yeah, something about Tuscany, the air, the wine… and not being over fifty yet. A little more than a decade later, and many wine-o days behind me–not to mention the waning physical love drive–which is in-and-of-itself a relief–I thoroughly enjoyed it. I think my wife was especially tickled, too, as I didn’t need to remind her of its meaning.
“Shall we return to Tuscany in 2019 to get more,” I asked her while wishing her a merry Xmas.
“As you like, my love,” she said as we savoured wine wet lips.
PS The beef for the carpaccio is prepared thus: at about 2pm while first guests arrive and first bottle of Champagne is served, for show effect, the filet mignon is slightly salted (with flaky, pink, Himalayan salt), peppered and then seared all around in a glowing hot pan on the secondary burner of my Weber über-grill. The idear is to caramelise the outside of the meat without cooking any of the inside. After that rest it for about an hour in the winter climate. Then put the meat in a freezer bag and in the freezer. At about 6pm, after prepping all the other parts, the meat is removed and sliced as thin as possible. The freezing of the meat helps to slice thinly where it then thaws on the plate just prior to serving and if cut properly is almost translucent.
PSS The second course worst-writer prepared was homemade noodles with a butter-wine sauce, melted parmesan, and then topped with black truffle shavings–that we also got on our last Croatia trip. Croatian wine tasting combined with truffles almost competes with Tuscany. Anywho. It was served with a French Cabernet that was pretty decent and more expensive than the Chianti, but couldn’t hold up to the memory.
Does it matter that in all my travels, in all my years working for the man, in all those board rooms, sales pitches, project discussions, ex-wives, etc., I’ve never met a person that I look up to, admire or consider to be someone of talent or expertise. This, dear worst-reader, is the hell so many must live in. Well, at least the so-many that can realise it in the first place. But on that note I do die-gress.
There literally is no choice in this life, don’t you know dear worst-reader. Even if/when you leave your country (not for greener grass, of course, but just to fcuking leave it in order to breath) and expose yourself to other mindsets, culture, pu$$y and, of course, booze, there is no one out there to meet that is worth the effort. Perhaps this is a class (caste) issue. But let’s not make things too complicated. Eh?
Hopefully with this worst-claim, I’m not admitting to a/my false-God dependencies. I don’t want someone to look up to, to admire. No. I’m simply questioning the validity of wealth and power. Also. At this point in (my) life, it’s one of the things that really does busy my useless-eater worst-mind. Especially now that I’m well into forced early retirement and, of course, full dependency on the kindness of others and strangers.
At fifty-five years I have this one (last) question: How come I never met anybody that I look up to? Obviously there are those who I look up to but would/could never meet. In most of these cases I probably wouldn’t even want to meet those people. Looking up to them is enough. Or? I mean… What would I say to them? How would I even greet them? Should I curtsy? Indeed.
Short list of those worst-writer looks up to and would (maybe) like to meet:
Wait a sec. Of the short-list above, only one of them ain’t dead. Does that say anything about my age or my admiration and criteria for false-Gods? Nomatter.
The thing that motivated this worst-writing about admiration and false-Gods, is the article linked to below. It is yet another brilliant piece by Chris Hedges. And since I’ve read so much from him, I’m not actually keen on meeting him. Btw, I do admire Mr. Hedges. Wait. Maybe that’s not true. I actually had a dream once (right after reading one of his books) where I met Chris Hedges after our plane crashed. No seriously. It’s true. On a stormy night in July I was on a plane to Curacao and it crashed somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic near an uncharted volcanic island. After the crash a few survivors floated to the island on part of the plane’s fuselage. Chris Hedges and I shared our glasses during the ordeal as his broke in the crash and I only had one lens left in my glasses. He was busy the whole time trying to either write something or read something. Indeed. He had better things to do than worry about having just crashed. I, on the other hand, was coming on to a supermodel that crashed with us–and didn’t need my glasses much. And so. Hedges and I didn’t talk much on account when he wasn’t reading or writing he was prepping for a boxing match that he was supposed to participate in on Curacao in conjunction with a US presbyterian church. Or something like that. So much for worst-dreams, eh. Anywho.
The article linked to below is brilliant. It’s brilliant because, well, as usual, Hedges nails it as he summarises not just who/what my beloved&misssed #Americant is/has become, but he does so in a way that I can totally relate to. I’ve been claiming for years not only that there’s no one in my universe worth meeting or admiring, but that almost anyone worth anything (in my universe) is either a disciple-wannabe or a victim of PT Barnum. Yes, that is a suburban hell up-bringing. Even those that have scraped by, by working for the man, some of whom I grew up with, are all so invested (vested) in that same upbringing that they are unable to differentiate mediocrity, mendacity and mental illness derived from the what/need of money money money. The fact that they have more consume-to-survive power than their neighbour and they’ve ALL done so according to the Barnum predilection: you either have to have-more or you have not–what else is there to do but live the false-life of: fcuk ’em. Yes. And so. Those who gave the world Barnum’s reborn corpse that is #Trump’s hair, this is your making–and I know you all are proud. Congratulations, suckers.
Preparing dinner the other night I got into a worst-photo mode. Lord knows I’ll never quite figure out how these camera-phone-computer-thingies work. But then again, with fresh blue M&Ms direct from NYC… I’m good.
While walking Beckett, the killer pug, yesterday and picking up a package from a DHL package station–and boy do I love those package stations on account they mean I don’t have to have so many working poor fellows ringing my door bell all the time–I pass by a regional Tesla dealer. I have to admit, when I see a Tesla I can’t help but stare. And then, as usual, I start bitchin&moanin. How come these friggin’ things are so friggin’ expensive? I mean, think about it? If the costs of an automobile is reflected in the amount of moving parts, shouldn’t a Tesla cost half a combustion car? Alone the moving parts of a combustion motor has more moving parts than that of a Tesla. Am I wrong? (Of course you’re wrong. You’re worst-writer!) Anywho. Other than the red ones, I can’t take my eyes off a Teslas, especially the X model. I mean, the S model is prettier but there’s something about the X model and how it gives off the impression it’s a vehicle from outer space. Just get a load of how you can change the inside of it. Moving/adjusting/removing seats. The leg room under the dashboard. That huuuuuge screen in the middle of the interior. Even though the dealer has offered me several test rides, I’ve denied each and every one. I hate it when I test something and then I want it and know I can’t have it. Which brings me back to the question, why are these things so friggin’ expensive? They have to cost half as much to make–especially when considering that Elon Musk was able to start such a manufacturing facility with people throwing money at him and being able to pay slave wages to make them in my beloved&missed #Americant. Or does he pay people well? Not that it matters. The way corporations function these days, you know, that there’s no connection between the money paid for products or services and the actual cost of making those products… Blah. Blah. But. Again. I’m probably über-wrong. With that in worst-mind, I don’t think it a good thing that when the rear spoiler of the X model is left open and it rains, it collects water. Water and electricity not good together. Am I wrong?
First. I’m not selling anything. Seriously. Ok. Maybe I’m selling all–things-worst. Yeah. That’s good enough.
Second. I’ve always considered two parts of my body to be more important than other parts: teeth and feet. But don’t get me wrong. I don’t care if teeth are white and shinny. They just have to work and they never, never, never should be the cause of distress. Considering the year we live in and the fact that dental medicine still requires the butchering of teeth with drills and whatnot, I guess I should be glad my teeth work as well as they do.
I brush regularly and rarely have to floss–on account I have small, parted teeth. I have the feeling that finally switching to an electric toothbrush last year has actually increased my brushing efficiency. I only have one ceramic filling, three gold caps (two of which were caused by dentist error), no root-canals (knock on wood), and I have all my wisdom teeth. At almost fifty-five, I think I’ve done fairly well with my teeth.
My feet, on the other hand, is a whole ‘nother story.
So you know the question: if you had to do it again, would you do it the same?
My answer: fcuk yea! Except for a few caveats:
– I would definitely start earlier in life flipping The-Man the bird. You know, becoming worstwriter sooner, quitting, giving-up, telling wives that they’re vaginas really ain’t holy nor does their using them thangs as traps deserve social benefits or sympathy, etc. (So fcuk-you Melania #Trump and all you females that voted for her and that hair she married!) – I also wouldn’t play contact sports – And I probably would not hunt animals anymore, which I really do regret, even though some of them tasted mighty fine.
The most important issue not worth repeating/doing-over, though, is sports.
Even though I only played a contact sport for a few years in suburban-hell High School of my beloved & missed #Americant, to this day I’m still feeling it. Therefore, I both admire and feel sorry for professional athletes that actually make it through a (contact) sports career and can still touch their toes when they’re forty. Not to mention whether or not they can actually get out of bed instead of rolling out at forty-five. That said, I have a horrendous problem on my left heel (achilles) that is either Haglund’s deformity or a severe case of tendinitis. Although I’ve been to two doctors so far, I’ve been given little advice on what to do about my pain. One doctor was kind enough to inquire about my tolerance (of pain), adding that it will only get worse with age. Then she added that soft shoes will be part of the rest of my life. I’m convinced that the cause of this ailment that I have to endure was due to my lackadaisical acceptance of sport activity when I was young. (Then again, it did keep me out of trouble.) Although Haglund’s deformity is also hereditory, the extreme running (that I also did after I stopped playing contact sports; as a form of staying in shape) exacerbated the problem. To this day I cannot wear hard-heel shoes and most shoes I buy have to be at least one, if not one-and-a-half, size larger that my actual foot size.
If #Trump were a pair of shoes he’d be Birkenstock? Or?
No insult to Birkenstock intended.
Yes. We live in times of experimental authoritarianism and painful feet. We live in times where females, especially (something like) fifty-two percent of white, educated, married #Americant females, vote for a $hitbag man who they would otherwise (or not?) avoid like the plague. And let’s not forget the fact that we live in times where greed is the only show stopper. Is it any wonder that consuming-to-survive constitutes greed? Indeed. But I’m off subject.
I’ve never owned a pair of Birkenstock sandals. Reason? I tried them once many, many years ago and thought them to be extremely painful to wear. I was told the discomfort had something to do with just getting used to them–and imagined after trying them that they too were like the militaristic environment that I was forced to grow up in. The military commanders of the day tried to convince me that all I had to do in order to make it with these über-house-shoes was to just get used to them. Yea. No. No thank you.
So let’s spring forward twenty or thirty years.
My better half, knowing of my foot problems, suggested recently that we get Birkenstock because, she added, they can be kind of therapeutic. And since she also knows that I hate wood floors, which she’s made me walk on since we’ve been together and she’s the one that chooses where we live, her solution has always been house-shoes. But I hate house-shoes–and she knows it. Usually when she’s not looking, I put on thick socks instead of house-shoes. Although I used to like walking barefoot, times are a changin’ there too. And so. A few years back she bought me pair of Crocs and with a big smile handed them to me and demanded I wear them.
“They’re good for you!” she added. “And it’s unhealthy to walk around all day in your barefeet–at your age. Grow up!”
Whaaaaaa? But barefeet are cool…
There was no denying it. Nor could she avoid reality. I hated house-shoes and I rarely wore those disgusting plastic shoes she bought me. Of course, I also should add that I hate Crocs for another reason. They are typical marketing products. That is, they are a product conceptualised for money making only. Which means they are bad for feet. Real bad.
I know. I know.
Capitalism is about money making first. But things have changed since the days Ford literally helped a country go from horse & buggy to transcontinental mobility. Am I wrong?
Ingenious smart-asses that have no room to manoeuvre in an economy and/or market on account EVERYTHING IS OWNED by the old and the sick and super-rich, they come up with ways anew to make money. Good for them, eh. Hence, Croc shoes equal no-cost to make, no need for product enhancement or advancement, push them out till people walk around in public wearing them–just as they’ve learned to walk around in public in their fcuking pyjamas. It is the new #Americant way since NAFTA/Globalisation has decimated manufacturing and all wealth has been given to the wealthy on account the poor and the middle class are stupid as fcuking rocks and keep electing money-grubbing conservatives as their representatives… blah blah blah.
The only credit I give to the Croc folks is that they new the #Americant $hit$how of greed was an impasse. And good for them. Talk about curbing the want of wealth creation. Obviously the guy that came up with Crocs earned his keep. And I hope he’s enjoying these days in the wake of (his) efforts in the comfort of his own Who Is John Galt fantasy. But to get back on subject…
To entertain my better half, who had at least three or four or five pairs of Crocs in the time I barely wore the one pair she bought me, I did give them a go. Getting rid of them recently was a godsend, though. I do not miss them. But my feet have been hurting of late because, well, she was right on one thing. I can’t keep walking around on hard, cold floors with nothing on my feet. So I gave in.
The first few days with what I like to call #Trump shoes was extremely painful. I call them #Trump shoes because, well, they really are authoritarian shoes. Unlike other shoes that fit to your feet, these Germanin constructs make your feet fit to them. The lady that sold them to me even mentioned that to break them in easier, I should wear them wet directly after a shower. Within a week I started to like them, even though they hurt. After about two months, I fell in love them. Never have my feet felt better–when in house-shoes and walking around on hard floors. Do I still have pain? Oddly, only when I take them off. My feet feel as though they are encased in something secure now. I walk on something rigid yet smooth. I tip toe while taking the trash out in something formed yet conforming. But there’s more. Did you know, dear worst-reader, that the foot-bed of Birkenstock shoes are like tea leaves? You know, as in tea-leaf reading?
As you’ll note from the pic, the dark spots on the foot-bed indicate pressure points. Obviously I still have very high arches (which is part of painful feet at my age–or so I’ve been told; my better-half’s shoes have practically no pressure points at all as she has much flatter feet). Also, I walk with most of my weight on the outside of my feet, which could be a reason for Haglund’s deformity in my left heel. And then there are those toes. I had no idear how much toes play a role in foot work/pain.
Let me know more of the #Americant reality that is dictated by lust for fictionalised (regurgitated?) truth. I think this is also referred to as the/a mental distortion field. A common place, indeed, dear old friend. Of course. I could be wrong on account I actually liked Steve Jobs. You know, the one who invented the distortion field. Even though I would have declined sharing drugs with him. Yet. Who in the middle-classes of the #Americant Empire that thinks s/he have achieved, that they’ve “earned”, is not blinded by this distortion field? You and and your favourite people, dear old friend, the Haves and the Have-Mores, the Trump makers, and their willingness for debt-peonage, suckle the golden (biblical) calf never knowing who or what will come of it. All there is is NOT Trump but what results in Trump. Even the article sent, the very old fake news article from the other day, won’t wake anyone up or serve any other purpose. Reason? Everyone has partaken in making it happen—especially if all you own is debt. And so. There’s only interest rates, bank accounts, taxes—and those who must suffer at the behest of the distortion field players. To add to my unoriginality: it’s hilarious that no one is out on the street protesting. But then again, how can those who are the problem actually face it? What an ugly task indeed to fight the fight and then only realise that you are nothing but the glue that holds Trump’s hair together.
None the less. Thanks for the link. I guess.
Best wishes, old friend.
Read this and weep you pseudo-Marxist cocksucker that left the shitshow and now think you can just call us all idiots.
Walking the other day prior to cooking where I celebrate #Eurowastelanders slaughtering–as only they can–the indigenous peoples of the Americas way back when. And I do it unashamedly in the land of those same #Eurowastelanders. Does that mean I’m full gone-native now? Or should I just keep reminding them of what they’ve done?
Silly questions, eh.
PS The truck is a fat and oil waste collection truck. It picks up all the krapp from restaurants in big, blue, plastic barrels and hauls it off to Holland where it’s then processed and used as Diesel fuel. Ironically, the barge is full of (probably diesel) cars also on their way to somewhere Holland where they’ll then be shipped to India (I’m guessing).
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.