Water Pool In Tesla X Spoiler

A photograph by worstwriter!

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? 

Rant on.


Reading The Footbed

Authoritarian Shoes? Yes. Authoritarians? No…?

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.

And on that note, I do die-gress.

Rant on.


Pontification Galore (Or Maybe Not)

Dear Old Friend, 

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.

Rant on.


Hi Tom,

Read this and weep you pseudo-Marxist cocksucker that left the shitshow and now think you can just call us all idiots.


Pontificate that baby!

Your old Friend

New Shoes To Turkey Day

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. 

Rant on.


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). 

The Darnedest Things Around

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

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

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

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

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

-Rant on.


Wishful Roadkill On Your Dashboard And Other Worst Pics

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

-Rant on


Crocs Of $hi+

crocs of__
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. Hold a sec. They were a gift from wife. Wait. I forget who gave them to me. What’s important is that I never bought a pair of these things. 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.

-Rant on

Links that motivated this post:

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

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

-Rant on


Caught With The Cookie In The Hand Jar

Screen Shot 2018-07-26 at 09.20.11
Screenshot from the Interwebnets

Title 2: Jar Caught With Hand In The Cookie

Title 3: Cookie With The Hand Jar Caught

Etc., etc.

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.

  1. The cookie jar is owned.
  2. There is a time and place for a cookie.
  3. The cookies are manufactured.
  4. The thief is a child but old enough to understand rules.
  5. An authority establishes cookie rules.
  6. Everybody wants a cookie.
  7. The cost of a cookie is equal to how much it’s wanted or needed.
  8. 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…

Or something like that.

This might be a work in progress.

-Rant on


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

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

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

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

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

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

And on that note, I fcuking digress.

-Rant on


Trying The Mirror This Evening But How Many Directions Can One Turn Away Away And Again Away?


Had about enough with #MAGA again again today. That means I spent a few hours reading the newz of my beloved & missed #Americant. I’m not sure if my interest in newz has peaked on account of #Trump or if I’m just having one of those feel-sorry for myself evenings on account I can’t find a way to get back home. Indeed. So much is the humour and taxation of being worst-writer, the unwilling expatriate. But before I get too far off subject.

Even though I own the DVD, I haven’t actually watched it. 1984 (the film), that is. I mean. Wait. I’ve seen the movie. I think I’ve seen twice. Yes. Definitely twice. There might have been a third viewing here or there but I also recall that one would have included banging some bimbo so I probably didn’t watch it to the end. But once again, I’m off subject.

Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. I got through about five minutes of the beginning of the movie. The beginning of the film with all those automatons as the audience of a propaganda rally was just too much for me. I short circuited. Indeed. #Trump and what has happened to my beloved #Americant has got me riled. Or have you not seen video of his rallies? But that doesn’t matter either. The thing to remember in this worst-post is that I simply can’t take it anymore. The whole dystopia thing that is obviously taking over my mind’s eyes.

Or am I wrong?


-Rant on.


Doing What’s Do-Able In Times Of #Trump And Too Much Freedom To Be Stupid

Believing in the power of knowledge has been a worst-mantra of mine for years. That’s probably why it’s so difficult for me to deal with the anti-intellectualism that has overcome my beloved & missed #Americant. I mean, what else could get a man like #Trump so far in this life? Or do you actually believe that intellect has something to do with all this idiocracy and reality-tv nation mis-state-hood? Wait. Did I just kill my own worst-question there? But on that note, I digress. For today’s worst-post deals with my most recent read. That’s right, dear worst-reader. I read this book last night and early this morning and enjoyed it thoroughly. Perhaps you can too–if you can still get it. (Btw, most recent search in online book store from hell shows it to be out of print but available as a used book.) Oh. And before I forget, pay special attention to the captions of two of the pics included above.

Rant on.


PS And no! I’m not the one selling the book used on online books store from hell.

Shade And Tree Innards At Top Of Stair For The Glory Of Everyone’s DDR

The car, I’m guessing, is the remains of a Trabant. Anyone remember the Trabant? Oh I remember them well. In fact, sexual relations in one was as good as when I did it for the third time in a 1972 Beetle–and it was 1980. My stepfather was furious the next day as he drove that Beetle to work on account his car was kaputt. When he came home he interrogated me about the foot prints on the ceiling. He had measured them, you know. He had deduced that they could only be the footprints of a young female and he knew that I came home that night from a evening with a lady-friend. He even added that my lady-friend was probably experiencing some abnormal on wear on the large ball of both her feet. Wearing too many high heels, that one, he said. And so. I suppose the Trabant in the pic, including the innards of a broken tree on the Rhine, leda me down that stairwell to have a peek. Should have left it.

Rant on.


Finding Blue

The pic I want to comment on is the one with Yogi Bear. I was pumping gas into my rental car a few weeks back and what I thought was a dead screen suddenly came alive and Yogi wanted to sell me something and I thought: the scavenging scrapers of the rotten innards of the barrel of #Americant has no pause in facilitating college grads in the name of edumacation and yet this is all they can come up with? Indeed. The reason there is so much failure in this world, the reason everything is so WORST, is because this is all that’s left in order to maintain the historical wealth of old people who’ve never achieved in their lives–they’ve only inherited from other old people–and someone has to pay for that. Or maybe not. Whatever, baby.

Consume to survive.

Rant on.


Storms & Tech In Germania


Struggling, dear worst-reader. Struggling. It is so wet here–here in worst-writer country–that one can feel it in the bone(s). In fact, one of the warnings from all the extreme weather has been to watch out for falling trees. Parks have been closed, don’t you know. The ground is so wet from so much rain that trees tear out easily from gusting winds galore. But let that not stop us, eh. For our path is set, the journey we must make, or maybe not. And so…

  • Headless Mac Pro (fiddling with it due to indoor out-of-weather preoccupation)
  • That is a tree branch that broke off in a storm gust last week (and I just missed it falling)
  • That is how Germans close park gates (to prevent people from being hit by trees)
  • Those are the cables that lead to the Matrix (or they power the German train system that has shut down because of heavy winds)

Rant on.


Wait. Remember When…

Screen Shot 2018-01-07 at 21.14.22
Missing a few devices there, eh Apple.

In an attempt to figure out Apple’s really, really krappy cloud service, iCloud, I finally hooked up with icloud.com today. Seriously. I’ve never been to this part of the Apple universe before. I guess I always preferred to do all my stuff mostly through a Mac and every once-a-once my phone. I had two reactions to this experience. First, it reminded me of e-World. Anyone out their remember e-World? Boy was that a terrible effort on the part of a company that would soon become the most profitable greed show ever to be run by automatons. The second thing I thought of was where’s my MacBook Air in the My Devices section (see pic above). Then I remembered that in order to get through the BS of Apple’s really, really krappy cloud service this morning, I unchecked my MacBook Air from the service. Is that why it’s not in the My Devices list? Not that it really matters. Wait. There should also be another Apple TV in there and a friggin Mac Mini. Oh my. So it’s probably better that I forget that. Instead, time to remember e-World.

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Apple’s e-World. Which should always be followed by… Why?

Rant on.


When Your Creek Finally Becomes A River Paint Your Car Ridiculous Or Dig It Out

The Rhine is swelling, dear worst-reader. Even though we’re not having the bomb-cyclon winter storm that my beloved east coast #americant is having, the weather in old Germania plays strange all the same. Check out how close the river is to the tree top and the dike in the pic above. The vehicle almost buried in snow is from my home town where a bit of crazy weather is happening, too. And the odd painted BMW is yet another example of Germans failing miserably at just trying to be funny with the only thing they can really do (make cars).

Rant on.