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.
Cute as a button how someone could put tiny animal-dolls on their Mercedes dashboard. I only wonder what they are thinking as they drive. I even went around the car to see if there was anything else to photograph. No rotting animal carcasses anywhere. Also, no USB cables or smartphone holders. Whaaaaa? I then headed to the Rhine, which is terribly shallow right now on account of one of #Eurowasteland’s worst heatwaves in years. But perhaps the desertification of the Rhine region might hold out a bit. Then again, shipping German made tractors can’t displace all the much water. Or? Then Beckett, the killer pug, discovered a pumpkin patch right on the corner of a drive-way. Cool, I thought. Now if only Cinderella can find it when she needs it. Say, ever herd of “Gang – Joker Crew”? Me neither. But I think I’ve seen this graffiti before. Nomatter. Final pic is of some German miscalculation when tearing down an old house. Or do you think they hit it right?
Worstwriter’s leather topped and fancy speckled…in my fav colour.
“Crocs, Inc. is a company that manufactures and distributes a foam clog shoe.” -Wiki
The above quote says pretty much everything, eh? “Foam clog shoe…”???? Unless, of course, you’re a devotee. According to the pic above, I guess, I’m a devotee. Actually, that’s not true. First. Yes, I own a pair of crocs. As you can see in the pic above, they’re a pretty old pair of crocs. I think they’re at least ten years old by now. Does that say anything for this brand of shoe? Who the f cares? Second. The truth is, I hate these things. The only reason I have them is because, well, I’m f’n lazy and über middle-aged–and I hate shopping for house-shoes–which means I haven’t yet gotten around to replacing these things that were a gift from Mom. Also. I hate hard wood floors. And when my feet get tired from standing while reading… Hold a sec. Let me clarify that. That’s right, dear worst-reader, for half of my designating reading time, I stand. Give it a try. It’s a healthier thing to do. Anywho. When I’m standing while reading my feet get tired–from the f’n hardwood floors. These krappy shoes–clogs?–actually provide some relief when standing for extended periods. But as soon I start to walk around in them, I want to remove them. These things are awful to walk around in. Why do people love them? With that in mind, I’ve been living with hardwood floors for most of my years in Germania expatriation. Seriously. What’s with hardwood floors these days and when is shag carpet gonna make a comeback? Hardwood is freezing in the winter–even though our place has floor heating. They’re hot in the summer–especially considering the heatwave we’ve been dealing with lately. And they produce an odd and prevalent dust-film that is extra difficult to clean. That is, because of the hardwood and possibly the floor heating system, there is a constant dust-film everywhere. Needless say, Margaret, my Dutch slave-maid who wears skimpy garb when cleaning, hates me for dust but that’s why I pay her with my presence and money. And on that note, I digress.
I read a strange article on the #interwebnets this morning that Crocs–the shoe maker–was shutting its doors. First, I giggled. Second, I was kind of relieved. But then I started to think about it. Could Crocs actually go out of business and shut it’s doors? I mean, even though I hate the shoes, whenever I’m in my beloved & missed #Americant, I laugh my a$$ off watching people–a lot of people–walk around in these shoes in all kinds of public places. And for that, I suppose one has to recognise the genius of who ever came up with this krapp. Make it, make it cheap, sell it everywhere, always. There is a mass of human beings that would rather walk around in ridiculous sub-par house-shoes than wear something decent. Which brings me to this last worst-thought: even though I’m getting to that age where wine consumption and other sustenance abuse makes bending over and tying my shoes torture, I swear that I’ll do it till the day I die if it means not having to walk around in public as though the whole world is a sloppy Walmart store.
And by-the-buy, the article I read about Crocs closing is bogus. Yeah, fake newz has really caught on, eh.
What are the things you miss most as an unwilling expat? It used to be blue crabs. But I’ve indeed had more than my share of them. (May the God of the Chesapeake, you lovely Bitch, have mercy on my soul for all my sins!) There was also a time when I missed the #Americant highway–especially when traversed on a motorbike. Oh how things have changed throughout the years. Yet there are things I still miss, still yearn for as this going-native journey has become something quite unexpected. For example. Soon in my beloved & missed United Mistakes, especially in the mid-Atlantic area where the headquarters, Washington DC, land of free to be stupid suburbia, it’ll be corn–as in on-the-cob–season. Of all my memories, the fishing and crabbing, the hunting, the untrimmed putang of the early 1980s, etc., etc., and the puffy nipples of THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY, the thing I’m thinking about most, especially this time of year, is the corn. Those ten to twelve inch cobs that are anywhere between two and three inches in diameter, with light-green, almost transparent husk-leaves…. Yeah. My mouth is watering already. And then there’s the experience, once perfectly cooked, you bite into the small, stiff, snow-white kernels of the super-sweet kind and there is literally an explosion between your teeth and gums of juice filling your mouth with a sweetness unmatched by even honey droplets delivered by THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY and her luscious puffy-nipples. And so. In the mean-time, considering that I probably won’t make it there till October, I’ll just have to have some puffy candy to stare at. Indeed. I won’t eat that krapp. But it is a great image to fill the mind’s eye of dreaming about puffy nipples during corn season while growing up.
Let’s figure them out, shall we? I’m referring, of course, to right-wingers. I mean, it’s one thing to simply call them all Deplorables–as Hillary so brilliantly but also mistakenly did–but it’s another thing to actually get down to the nitty-gritty of what these ugly and disgusting morons–I mean Deplorables–who are ALL so susceptible to propaganda and manipulation–really are. And so. While walking Beckett the killer pug this morning in ravaging heat in old Germania, I thought of the old #Americant adage of the child stealing from the cookie jar. So let’s give it a go.
First. Here the parameters of a cookie jar world that is fundamental to right-wingers, conservatives and GOPers and their political ideology.
The cookie jar is owned.
There is a time and place for a cookie.
The cookies are manufactured.
The thief is a child but old enough to understand rules.
An authority establishes cookie rules.
Everybody wants a cookie.
The cost of a cookie is equal to how much it’s wanted or needed.
A cookie can be a physical object or not.
And so. Here’s the scenario.
A child comes along one day and steals a cookie from the cookie jar. In the spirit of truth, justice and an all-powerful lust for cookies, a few other children call out the cookie thief. This call-out causes a split in the cookie nation and there is a panic. During this panic the makers of the cookie-jar, the cookies and the place where the cookie jar exists, face some existential issues. They come up with a plan to turn the lust children have for cookies into political advantage. Their plan is successful beyond their wildest dreams. All the children become mindless cookie monsters. Now, whenever a cookie is stolen, the child that stole it and was witnessed stealing it, has a huuuuuge platform that magnifies his or her baby eyes and screams of anger where cookie crumbs spew from butt-hole shaped mouths. This used to be called a tantrum. But since cookies are stolen everyday and deniability has joined with scapegoating–a tantrum is no longer a tantrum, it is a way of life. But that’s not the biggest problem. The biggest problem now is that the planners of cookie-hell have run out of the means to maintain the cookie jar. Add the fact that there are no more children lusting for cookies who also know truth, justice and…
So. Like. About a year ago I was out and about on my beloved E-Bike and, as usual (at my age), I had to take a piss. Usually I find a secluded place among the urban trees but for reasons owned by men of my age bracket… when you gotta go you gotta fcuking go! And so. I found a relative off-street spot but it was aligned with a über-steel fence that enclosed the local water-works facility of D’dorf. Indeed. I knew that I might not be relieving myself in the best place, but like I worst-said… I had to go. Long story short. Some guy caught me at my business and while my (#Americant) Johnson was hanging out he decided to confront me and, only as a German can, give me the once-over regarding my choice of piss station. My first reaction was…
Dude! Is you fcuking out of your fcuking mind? Never. Never. Never confront a comrade while his Johnson is dangling. Can’t you at least wait till I’m done? You fcuking cocksucking German piece of mother fcuking…
And here, dear worst-reader, we enter the world of differences between the Germans and… and those who don’t want to be fcuking German. I think. Anywho. The guy was vehement about the fact that I probably broke a few German laws that afternoon. I indeed had pissed on a fence that housed the local water-works facility. My bad. Yeah. My bad.
By-the-Buy, that’s NOT me in the pics above. It’s a pic I took this afternoon of some dude having his way with a local tree. When I came around the corner while walking Beckett, the killer Pug, I saw this guy pissing in the middle of… fcuking everything. Behind him is the Rhein; in front of him a fcuking restaurant. I walk along this path where he’s doing his bidness almost every fcuking day. When I take this pic (the second one is a blow-up) I’m standing at the exit of a park which is next to a restaurant and local hotel overlooking the Rhein. Should I have tried to photograph those on the terrace of the restaurant enjoying their meals… with this view?
Ok. Ok. None of that matters. I would never be in this or any such situation in my beloved and missed #Americant. Reason? Well, there’s room to piss galore in land of free to be stupid–that gives way to the like of #Trump with with is piss woven hair.
