That Woman Syndrome

One last thought before heading back to the old country where rational thought (still) prevails in the confines of political discourse. I spent a lot of time joining my mother this visit to her various church gatherings. Whether it’s mass on Sunday morning or happy-hour at a local lodge, I’m there watching her, witnessing, taking in the carnage that is my beloved #americant–and its old people. The only problem I have with hanging out with mom and her “friends” are the staunch republicans that occupy not only her church but the entire community where she lives. Which is kind of odd because, well, at least at the church, the pastor is an obvious liberal type–liberal as in he’s a hippy. That combined with an open door policy towards minorities, gays and, goodness forbid, immigrants (there is a sign in front of the church that reads: “immigrants are welcome”), it’s a bit of a wonder that so many church goers are atypical republican followers. Or maybe not. Nonetheless.

I was sitting at a happy-hour gathering of Mom’s church goers the other day and an elderly couple started complaining about Nancy Pelosi. It was right out of the blue. They were chomping down on their tuna salad sandwiches and chips and sodas when suddenly the doors of TV propaganda hell opened up and Pelosi was the wrath occupying their mind’s eye. I assumed that since they had gotten rid of Hillary in the last election, Pelosi was next in line–which I guess, for them, made sense. But then I popped a question to the patriarch that lead the anti-Pelosi wrath.

“Why are you concerned about a Senator that represents California? Aren’t there more important things for a Marylander to be worried about?”

“She’s the worst. She’s gotta go. Trump’s gonna take care of her, too.”

Keep in mind, dear worst-reader, this conversation was right in the middle of Trump’s attempt at getting rid of Obamacare–which, btw, was on the brink of failure.

“Let me ask you a question, sir,” I said. “I’m fifty-three years old, can you name me a liberal policy in the last thirty years that has negatively effected your life?”

“Obamacare!” he said.

“But sir, Obamacare is Mitt Romney’s health care plan for the state of Massachusetts, when he was that states republican governor.”

“Oh, then I guess you know everything,” the old, wrinkled, spoiled rotten American said.

“So you can’t answer my question, then,” I asked.

Both he and his wife got up with their paper plates full of processed food and walked to the other side of the room. They sat with other old people and continued eating.

It was a disgusting moment as I watched all those old people, born around the end of WW2, filled with rage because, well, they weren’t able to take even more than they already owned to the grave with them. Shame. Shame. Shame.

Rant on.


Twenty Bucks To Fly Across The Atlantic And Other Industry Antics Indicative Of How We Are So Thoroughly Screwed


No reason to be shocked. This flight, technically, I guess, has a “price” of “20.00 €”. And why shouldn’t it? Talk about a bargain. But then again, I did fly once across the Atlantic about thirty years ago–and for the life of me I can’t remember the name of the airline–that costs somewhere around a hundred dollars. Back then that was THE BOMB. It was the coolest flight ever, too. Everybody bought their own brown paper bag full of lunch and other munchies because there was neither service or stewardesses available. There were only these nice ladies dressed in purple that would provide water because there was some kind of regulation requiring the airline to at least hydrate passengers. Since the the entire fuselage was filled with economy class seats there was nothing but the boring sound of an a nine hour flight and the crunching of plastic bags, chips & doritos, and a few cracks of beer cans during the entire crossing. I think, if you paid (lots) extra, you could get those weird  tube headphones and watch a movie from a drop-down cathode ray tube. And there is one other thing I can’t remember about the past (where my expatriation began). How much “Taxes and carrier imposed fees” did we have to pay for flights back then? Nomatter. I suppose if anything does matter anymore it’s where all the money goes that we have to pay to consume to survive. And by-the-bye, the “OPC” charge is for the use of a credit card. But I digress. Rant on. -t

What’s Under The Bus You’ve Been Thrown?

src: wiki

As my beloved #americant waddles in the ease and comfort of blissful ignorance and the gayety of dysfunction, I’ve spent most of this day continuing my research as an expatriate in finding methodologies of distraction and systems of self medication. For example, tonight I’m due with my better half to visit a place that is gonna teach me about cooking steak. When I questioned Fräulein Betterhalf if she was trying to tell me something, aka trying to say that she didn’t like the way I cooked her steaks, she replied: no, silly, this is your birthday present. Oh, I thought, unhappily. Nomatter. While walking Beckett the Killer Pug this afternoon I came across the concept of The Overton Window while watching barges fight for position in the over crowded Rhine River. How I got to that deserves a few worst-words. A few days ago I was thinking about the idear of Eugenics. This coincided with a conversation I got caught up in with knuckle draggers aka neo-nazis a few days prior to that. When one of the neo-nazis found out I was American he turned to me and asked if I ever slept with an American black girl. Why American, I asked him. Because I think I could go for one of them, he replied. How so, du Arsch, one of his comrades said. Because they’re all mostly white anyways. It’s only a matter of time before we get the black out of them. Have you seen that Beyonce Weib! Nomatter. Beyond the reality of how some neo-nazis make fun of me, one thought entered my mind after that encounter. Of all human races only the white race still contains the gene of the extinct Neanderthal. Hence the knuckle dragging syndrome we all must live with in this day of corporatism, cronyism and government run amok. This could be the reason, I fashioned, that the western world is so batsh*t right now. White people are simply incapable of getting rid of the nasty gene that nature deemed unsuitable. Yet somehow it’s hung on. Nomatter. Ultimately, river barges, stupid white people and dog walking got me thinking whether or not Eugenics and the Overton Window have something in common. Guess what? They do. Both of these idears fit perfectly into the batsh*t that is the reason why humanity is so fcuked. That is, they both are social science constructs that are born out of political agendas. As humanity had to face the reality of enlightenment, i.e. people acquiring the ability to think for themselves, those who had, for whatever reason, i.e. monarchies, cronies, pawns, etc., reached positions in society that put them above others, had also to come to terms with humanity not wanting to drag its knuckles anymore. Perhaps some of this was clarified in the 18th, 19th and 20th century with the owners of the world being forced to move their politics to the left of the political spectrum and thereby allowing people to live their own lives. As hard as it is for me to take the bullsh*t of Eugenics seriously, it pains me even more to think that there are those out there who still do. In fact, Richard Dawkins is kinda pushing for it to return to the public domain because, he seems to think, the Nazis aren’t around anymore to misuse it. My problem is, idears like Eugenics and the Overton Window are nothing more than ways & means whereby those in the Above are able to control those in the Below. In other words, science and method are used as weapons of oppression and control. Nothing new there, eh! A world of Haves and Have-Mores, it seems, can only resort to repeating history because, well, knuckle draggers seem to like the neanderthal gene that the powers-that-be can wield at will. How else can one explain Faux Newz, the republican party, etc.? Nomatter. The Overton Window is supposed to be a way to understand the viability of political idears. Yet, when I look at the pic above I can’t help but see a pattern. It is a pattern of self-doom. And I can’t think of a more deserving species. We are starting to look like roadkill just under the bus. Or maybe not.

Rant on.



The Bouncing Oysters From Middle Rhine

lost oyster.JPG

See those little air bubbles? Well, I’ve finally managed to get a pic of this rare oyster species. It’s called the Rhine River Jumping Oyster. No. Seriously. It’s an oyster that jumps. When the oyster is, for whatever reason, out of water those little air bubbles grow and expand and can be used to move it around in very ingenious ways. When you find the oysters on the shores of the Rhine it’s usually because of two reasons.

  • One: the Rhine is exceptionally low (as it is now).
  • Two: to avoid being attacked by prey it propels itself out of the way of danger (not unlike German women–even when they’re not prey).

Indeed. This oyster’s prey avoidance trajectory has gone haywire. I followed this particular oysters around for a few moments while walking Becket The Killer Pug along the Rhine the other day. It was batting itself all around the shore till, suddenly, like a bullet out of Sig Sauer, it shot up into the sky and while in the sky it let out another burst of propulsion, albeit in a totally wrong direction, and landed on the sidewalk on top of the Rhein dike. Everything happened so fast I was unable to film it. (Actually that’s not true. I’m such a dunce with my phone camera that, although I did try to film it, I had the camera lens set to selfie mode. I managed to fix my hair at the same time I was chasing this thing around.) But I did get the pic above. Neat, eh? Of course, obviously, there’s one issue this creature must deal with when it uses propulsion. Sometimes, it propels itself right out of its shell. In this case, losing its shell in midair meant that the shell landed in the Rhine but its innards on the road. Luckily I was able to snap this quick pick before a bird came along and snapped up its delicacy.

Rant on.


Backward When Your Forward Is No More Or How Old Might Become New

The rubiks cube is the same as when I gave up on trying to solve it ca. 1987.

Like a previous post, the digitalisation of (worst-moi’s) life continues. As usual, though, at this time of year, the mystical holiday season threw me for a loop.

But what could throw worst-writer for a loop, you ask.

How about the physics (the E=MC2 stuff) of Santa being able to actually deliver all those presents to the world in one night. If he was able to do it, would he survive? Which rings another question: does mystery require survival? Nomatter.

Although I was able to finish scanning a bunch of old notebooks before the big day, I haven’t been able to scan anything sense. I guess the time off of my better-half means that she gets first dibs on the new scanner during her seasonal and obligatory end of year use of remaining vacation time. With that in mind, the pic above is the end of my black & white collection of old school notebooks. That’s right, dear worst-reader. I literally ripped twenty year old notebooks apart trying to get scannable pages out from under the confines of those heavy covers and knitted bindings. At the least, my hat is off to Fujitsu for making a very useable scanner. With only a few adjustments to the software it scanned every old page front and back. Now to get it all in this blog.

Rant on.


Backwards When There Is No Forward

scanned worst-writing.JPG


When the end slowly reaches you all that remains is nostalgia. Boy have I got a lot of nostalgia these days. Or is it baggage? I’ve also got a lot of baggage that has finally reached the point of no friggin return. For example. I have around twenty years of worst-writing material laying around taking up space, collecting dust, in the way. No. Seriously. For a long time I’ve been wanting to throw all this sh*t away. Like life, the dream must come to an end, eh. And so. I’ve got typed manuscripts, hand written plays, stupid poems made from words cut out of newspaper articles and doodles of snot and cum that is all just begging to be finally put where it belongs, where both of us belong–in the fcuking trash. Of course, there is some worst-writing that I regret throwing away–which is probably the reason I’ve held on to this krapp for so long. I had a hundred page manually typed manuscript once that, due to the circumstance of birth, NOT being able to pick & choose parents, sibling rivalry angst, etc.,–and finally coming to terms with NOT being a victim (of life) but instead just accepting the fact that I’m a loser–that I threw in the trash bin. After waking a week later from that drunkin stupor I turned to the swollen chick next to me and said: where the fcuk is my manuscript? Oh well. I actually kicked myself for doing that. I think it might have been a story that I could have learned to like–which is what happens to most of my stories. Or at least I could have found a way to get used to dealing with the fact that such krapp came out of me. But I threw it away. I threw it away like I fcuked bimbos here or there when my cock could still be veiny and purple and careless about the walls we must get threw. The walls have won. Again. Oh well. So I decided to keep around some of the stuff I’ve written. Until now. Until the world could finally create a machine that would help me get rid of all the material that collected the dust of my life and allow me to put this krapp where it belongs. Welcome to worst-writer’s digitised world. Or maybe not. Nomatter. Above is a pic of about a third of the material that I’ve scanned so far. And the only reason I’ve been able to get this far is because I bought something. I mean, dear worst-reader, isn’t that how we all get somewhere, something, somehow? Buy something. Consume to survive. In my case, I bought some fancy engineered scanner. Not one of them bullsh*t flatbed scanners. Flatbed scanners suck. Can you imagine having to put each one of the pages (from the pic above) in a flatbed scanner? Fcuk that! Well, since we’re on the subject, thank your God for two things. One, they finally made a scanner with a feeder that works. Two, I can afford to pay the stupid-money for such a device. I mean, come on. This device cost four hundred plus euros. You can get a flatbed scanner these days for under a hundred. I know. I know. Flatbed’s suck. I’ve already made that clear. But still, just because it has a half decent paper-feeder doesn’t mean that it has to cost stupid-money? Do you know what stupid-money is, dear worst-reader? It’s the money we pay for this life that leads to more of our devaluation. Or maybe not. Moving on. Enough of my bitchin’ about stupid-money. The thing is this: it took me less than a few hours to scan more than a thousand pages of worst-writing in order to continue digitising my worst-world. In fact, the thing that took longest was figuring out how to organise the scans. And I’m not sure if I’ve figured that out. But I also don’t care. The sh*t is scanned and the pile in the pic above will be where we both belong soon enough.

Rant on.


When Money Talks Bullsh*t Rules


Look closely at the pic above. It is the pic of your future. Your future is now. And there is nothing to come after it. Except. Maybe. Another candidate full of Hope & Change. But I digress. In the pic above an a$$hole businessman did something that will make a bunch of a$$hole follower’s hearts beat a bit faster. The businessman is something like Japan’s richest man and he had just met with #americants pseudo-richest man, i.e. comb-over & chief. These two men, as are most businessmen, are nothing more than bull$hitters that have reached the top–a “top” that rests on the lives of The Stupid. These men are, indeed, that which has built a society of greed galore–of stupid galore. How all this came to past is another useless post from worst-writer. So allow me to just focus on the pic above. The pic above is another great example that no one will understand because it is so full of truth. Make America Great Again! Great compared to what? Oh, the idea of America was great. The dream was great. The patriotism is great. And now? Elect your comb-over & chief so that your misdirected anger that allows you to never look in the mirror is itching you right now–so keep looking away while you scratch. In a way, the pic above is part of your mirror. In fact, it’s such a small part that you can look at it without seeing the truth of who you are. It’s like going to a wrastling match. WWE. Do you know why wrastling is so popular? It’s popular because the people who watch want to be ridden, abused, mis-used, etc., it is all they know. These people get satisfaction out of their misery because they have been programmed to KNOW that someone else is to blame for it. Which makes them feel a-ok. Like a snort of cocaine, a needle in the arm of heroin, smoking some meth. And so. There is no difference between the content of the “signed” piece of paper–that promises so much nothingness–wrastling, and a political system that is able to exploit the drugged-up-stupid. But you can’t see that. Because you actually think that a businessman has signed a deal with another business man that will bring you jobs and wealth because you believe you are going to be great again. Itch. Itch.

Rant on.


PS Go ‘head and look up the companies listed on the top of the BS signed page in the pic above. Remember the time when all those people jumped to their deaths because they couldn’t deal with building Apple iPhones? Foxconn is Apple’s manufacture since all the company actually does is design shit in Cupertino. Since then Foxconn installed nets around the roofs of their slave buildings in order to catch the slave jumpers. These are the “jobs” promised in the signed document in the pic above. Enjoy your next WWE match.