Wishful Roadkill On Your Dashboard And Other Worst Pics

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

-Rant on

T

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 growing up.

-Rant on

T

Caught With The Cookie In The Hand Jar

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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

T

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

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

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

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

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

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

And on that note, I fcuking digress.

-Rant on

T

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?

Nomatter.

-Rant on.

-T

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.

-T

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.

-T

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.

-T

Phishing Email #(Whatever)

phishing email example.jpg

Don’t know why, but I’m totally into collecting these phishing emails. Here’s another one I got a few months back. Of course, when I get them I think of two things. One, of course, is to make sure I don’t click the wrong links in the email. The second is, …ha ha ha ha ha! John Podesta clicked one of these links and directly partook in the dumbing down of my beloved #americant. Wow. Rant on.

-T

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.

-T

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.

Screen Shot 2018-01-07 at 21.29.44
Apple’s e-World. Which should always be followed by… Why?

Rant on.

-T

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.

-T

Pyongyang’s Train Driver (A Dream)

kim jong un portrait

The man I was sent to replace was named Charlie. His full name: Christofer Littleton. He was born in Liverpool, England, but hadn’t been back there since he was a kid. After his mother abruptly died on his twelfth birthday, his father, who was an engineer for the British army, packed up everything and the two went to India. Charlie finished growing up in Bangelore where his father was a consultant to the Indian Government. After completing compulsory school and utilising contacts from his father, Charlie took a job as a tool-man in Hong Kong. When he departed India, it was two days before his eighteenth birthday. It was 1953.

A “Tool-Man” is another name for a train engineer.

His idea was to work in China and help that country develop its metro system. To start, though, Charlie worked with the digging crews that would eventually lay the first rails of the Hong Kong MTR. During his second year, right after his contract was renewed, Charlie met Marry. Marry was from Korea. Marry moved to HK just after North Korea tried to invade South Korea. Marry and Charlie never had a family. One day Marry went to Charlie and told him she was unhappy with their lives in Hong Kong and that her unhappiness had nothing to do with being barren. She then said that she had a big family back in Korea and she was ready to go home. Charlie had worked ten years. The HK MTR was flourishing.

Charlie quit his job at Hong Kong MTR. With in a few months he and Marry took a boat to South Korea. Once there Marry revealed that her family wasn’t in the South but instead in the North. This revelation had little impact. Charlie joined his wife and the two entered North Korea. It was 1965.

I met Charlie in 1989 in a small office in the south-east corner basement of The Pyongyang Great Hall. The door to Charlie’s office was labelled “Tool-Man” and below that was the Korean translation. After greetings and other formalities, Charlie immediately took me to the train station that was directly at the rear entrance of The Great Hall. It was during this walk through the building that I realised my situation. I was living a dream. Yes, dear worst-reader. Some live dreams through the physical universe, some do not.

I tried to question Charlie about his decision to live in The North. Other than the following, Charlie withheld elaborating about his life decisions. He said, “Do your job.” His other remark was: Not unlike where you come from, everything here is not a dream.

We exited the rear of The Great Hall and I found myself standing directly on the train departure platform. Something was waaaaay out of whack. I couldn’t place it, though. My watch read nine forty-six. The morning air was fresh and crisp, unlike the air in Seoul–which I had no recollection of traveling to. The grey sky dimmed my view somewhat of the train grounds behind The Grat Hall but below the platform was a single narrow gauge track. The track was just as out-of-whack as the departure platform. In fact, according to my limited knowledge of trains, the gauge of the track meant that the train could not be a real train. But none of that mattered because, regardless of train here or there, I would command it the rest of my life… in North Korea.

During the first few moments of this passing of the baton, Charlie voiced soliloquies about his endeavours and when he was done he continued with songs of glory-interludes, adding tales of privilege while driving Dear Leader around the grounds behind The Great Hall. There was also a small buffet of goose-shrimp, tackle-butter and confused-gender bread but only attendees with a special badge could take from it. I did not have the special badge.

I kept one eye on Charlie and the other on the people gathering around us. As each person recognised Charlie and then me, the reason for my presence became clearer. Oh, dear worst-dreamer, I was indeed there for a reason. The reason goes beyond the metaphysical of my never having laid one foot in either South or North Korea. As best as I can surmise, the only reason I was there–in reality or not–was to relay Charlie’s message. For I am, in fact, a chronicler of a dream’s dream.

Being a tool-man wasn’t Charlie’s only purpose in life. His life was the two sides of all coins. First there was Marry. Second there was his message. Together these two purposes served a power higher than even the most giving and willing humans have ever attempted. I speak, of course, of the great messengers Jesus, Mohammad and, perhaps, #Trump. (I use the word “perhaps” because purpose remains to be determined. Or?)

Upon my arrival Charlie had already surpassed his time on earth. His extension or continuance, if you will, was granted by Dear Leader. The cause of this grant was a mistake in life and was not unlike mistakes from other infamous messengers: He failed to get the message out.

I’m wondering if the whole idea of message-delivery is that which brings me to my greatest fear: Not having enough time to debate the error and misfortune of the only son-of-God, born to this foul-able coil, like so many others, of mortality, and thereby stuck with the impossible. But I’m off subject–perhaps.

No matter where Charlie stood during the ceremony there was a descending sun-glow around his head. He had no remorse in saying goodbye to the facility that had him trapped for so many years. Is his face just like that of Jesus? Was his a face of disappointment? A face of misguided rage? Forgive me father for we have sinned?

By-the-buy, asking The Father for forgiveness of your sins was once a translators interpretation of pre canonical text. The reason it is still used today, even though it has nothing to do with biblical forgiveness-seeking, is because it’s what JC said either before or after “Father why hast thou forsaken me.” In fact, JC mumbled no-nonsense for hours before his final light went out.

But Charlie’s remorse was something else. In fact, I’d go so far as to claim that he knew all along that I would get the baton. He might not have known my face but he knew someone would be there. He might have even known all along that he wouldn’t be able to get his message out. So I also wondered if he was enjoying the suffering in my face. Yes, I think he was enjoying it.

After elegantly praising his time as Tool-Man and extolling the joy of marriage, he turned to me and put a hand in a coat pocket. Out of his pocket he pulled a lone key attached to a six inch diameter stainless steel ring. He handed me the ring and key and told me to be gentle but also firm… with her. Then he added: she will determine your time. He stood at attention as the small gauge train rolled around the small gauge track and came to halt before us–on the small departure platform. It was the first time I had seen the down-scaled train.

The underlings of the train exited from one of the three cars attached and they all shook hands with Charlie first. Charlie responded in Korean to their gestures and when all was done, the underlings turned to me and offered salutations anew. As I began to shake hands and reciprocate, Charlie entered the last train car and the train drove off towards the west corner of The Great Hall and I would never see him again.

Just then I woke up.

-end-

Rant on.

-T

Sous-Vide Goose With Asian Rub Will Be Served In 22 Hours With Chinese Dumplings And Red Cabbage

Nine month old Goose vacuum packed and in bath water of 65 degrees celsius (ca 150f). Also known as Sous-Vide. Before dig-in will place bird on the Weber grill for about 20-30 minutes to get it crispy. The Chinese dumplings to go with it are supposed to have a filling made out of the innards but I’ve never been a fan of organs. Although we did prepare the innards according to the recipe, the flavour is just too… liver. Will probably substitute innards with mushrooms and/or maybe oats. Not sure yet. We’ll figure it out.

Merry f’n xmas.

Rant on.

-T

Finding Your Star Chamber Behind The Swine Ear Before The Nail Falls On The Hammer

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Worst-thoughts of the day, dear worst-reader. Hope you have your tolerance-hat on for worst-writing galore. With that in mind, good luck.

Donald Trump and Alex Jones and a society that can’t rise above conspiracy theory, WWE and stupid ugly old white people that belong in the 1950s. No. Seriously. They really do belong in the 1950s. In fact, wouldn’t it be grand if they should somehow be sent there right now? No kidding. Right now. And if they don’t belong in the 1950s and they’re sent there by mistake then it could be corrected if they are sent instead either to the middle or the end of the fcuking middle-ages. Imagine that. WWE wrastlers hanging out in 1790s London. Or how about Alex Jones (the grand conspiracy $hitbag entertainer of the royal middle-class dumb-down) facing a landlord that sucks the dick of some #euro$hitland monarch. But before things get too out of hand…

Does anyone remember the movie The Star Chamber? Don’t worry, I don’t remember it either. But I do remember the 5th amendment of the united mistakes constitution and how preventing self-incrimination was actually a result of a real-life Star Chamber from the late middle ages. Can you imagine living in those times, dear worst-reader? If not, don’t worry. For you don’t have to imagine anything. You’re in those times right now.

The reason I reference a bad 80s movie and one of the many ugly parts of human history is because I can’t help but feel that somehow both the ugly and history are repeating. Forget the fact that 2017 economics is kinda in the same place as, say, 1917. Of course, obviously, that which culminated in The Great Depression won’t repeat in the same way. I’m guessing the reason for that is people have gotten more stupid. You know the old adage. “You can’t fix stupid. Unless you fix it by making it stupider.” And so. Are you the least bit curious as to how the past will repeat itself since you’re pretty much living in the end of the middle ages, too?

Do you know what the worst-thing is about #Trump? I mean, the situation my beloved #americant is in is even worse than his hair, his moronic and spoiled rotten personality, and even the people that he thinks he represents. That’s right. He doesn’t represent people. That’s the real joke about him. I mean, he believes that people voted for him. I’ll give him that. He’s just not bright enough to realise that those people who did vote, were actually voting for something else. And as someone once said…

An idea is the hardest thing to kill.

So. Like. I’m walking down the street the other day and my dog, Beckett, the killer pug, is sniffing soggy mulch and trying to tip toe through the wetness we’ve been having since October. Seriously. It’s been raining here in the Germanic portion of #eurowasteland (where I live) pretty much non stop since October. In fact, it’s so wet here that I can sometimes feel the moisture in my bones trying to find due-north–or at least the direction the Rhine is flowing.

Whenever I waste time thinking about #Trump and my beloved #americant, usually while walking my dog, every once-a-once also think about Alex Jones, wrastling and how unsurprising the new tax $hitshow is. I mean, of the news that I do listen to–mostly via podcasts–it’s all about my beloved #americant. Seriously. I don’t even bother listening to anything about Germania or #eurwasteland. I mean. What’s the point in that? The only countries do anything these days are China, Russia and, yes, #Trumpland. Which means… I’ve been wondering ever since the Dick Cheney regime what will be the catalyst to push the whole $hitshow off the cliff? Or. Why hasn’t it fallen yet? I thought, briefly, when the electoral college elected #Trump, the cliff was finally behind (or above) us. But I quickly realised that that wasn’t the case. President Stupid hadn’t done anything yet. And up until the other day, other then tweets of nonsense, attacking is predecessor and even his previous political opponent, dilly-dallying around on Airforce One, playing golf, etc., etc., he’s done nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The things I’ve been reading about this new tax thing that’s gonna happen is pretty scary. I’m trying to dig up in my memory if, when Reagan did the same thing–but on a much smaller scale so many years ago–the game is finally up. I mean, obviously, Reaganomics, did have a somewhat constructive initiation within the kaputt economy where it started. But that level of Kaputt is no longer applicable. Or am I wrong, dear worst-reader? Nomatter. The thing I’m trying to get at, I guess, is that maybe there is no cliff to fall off of. Maybe, instead, what we’re really dealing with is a $hitshow of such epic proportions that the only way to deal with it is to go this route of spending the money of the future like never before.

Rant on.

-T

Roadkill And Other Forms Of Scaring Ausländer Out Of Germania

The horse in the pic above literally asked me, albeit in German, to leave his country. The fish in the moat around some #eurowasteland baroque castle said nothing. The flying rat reminded me of the story I’m about to tell. And the headless mouse reminded me of all those in my beloved #americant that got a once great country to where it is today.

But I digress.

On the grave of someone’s mother, I swear this happened. I was walking around some Germanic uppity village one day many years ago. In fact, it was one of them uppity über-villages. You know the type. The type where the past still lives in the form of protected inherited wealth. Indeed. In my beloved #americant this type of village is called an old money town. In America, if you look at these towns closely, you can still see the slaves. In Germania, on the other hand, these towns are about something else. In fact, you could put street signs up around these towns that read: they kicked our a$$ in a war but our kids got to inherit the loot. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Anywho.

I’m walking down a sidewalk with Beckett, the killer pug,  in this über-village and I hear this strange muzzled explosive sound. Within seconds of the sound a flying rat falls out of the sky and lands right in front of me. My useless dog begins to sniff at it. For those not in the know, flying rats are pigeons and useless dogs are pugs.

Moving on.

This flying rat had a huge hole in the middle of its chest. It was at that moment I associated the muzzled sound with a powerful air rifle. I proceeded to look around the old money neighbourhood but all I saw were rows and rows, streets and more streets of #eurowasteland über-villas that looked like they were part of a well fortified ghost town–with too much money at Deutsche Bank. Taking a closer look at the dead pigeon, I noticed that there was no blood around its rather large chest wound. That meant the shooter had executed a clean shot, instantly stopping the heart of the animal as the projectile concurrently emptied out all its inner organs. I looked around to see if those organs had fallen somewhere near by. But I couldn’t triangulate the dead flying rats course. Still. Its inner organs had to be somewhere. If only I had something other than a useless pug as a pet. Have you ever seen, looked closely at, the nose of a pug, dear worst-reader? It is a useless pet for a reason. But let’s not dwindle on that.

“Find the organs, Beckett!” I yelled. But he just stood there on all fours looking between me and the flying rat and, perhaps, considering, if he was next (to be shot).

Before I could contemplate further this worthless life situation, a man came running down the sidewalk of the street. Aghast! It was an old German. In fact, he was old enough to be one of the enemy. Or maybe not. Indeed. Most likely he was born during or directly after the great war. Nomatter. According to how was running, he was in great shape.

“I say old, boy. Do you remember me,” the old man asked me in English.

It was then I remembered him. We had met twice before while I walked my dog and I only recognised him because of the earring he wore on his right ear.

“How do you like my old dungarees,” he asked. “I got them from an American Navy boy stationed in Kiel when I was there as a student. “Can you believe it, after fifty years I still fit in them.”

He waved his hands in the air gesticulating how proud he was of his figure.

“And don’t worry about that, old boy. I’ll take it.”

He bent over and grabbed the dead flying rat, cupping its carcass in his hands.

“I have to be off now, old boy. My oven is reaching temperature and it takes forever to get rid of all the feathers.”

I watched him run back the way he came. He entered a gated villa down the street and I could hear the metal gates clanging as he locked the door behind him. I looked back down the sidewalk and once again was astonished the dead flying rat left not one speck of blood. I wondered what kind of air rifle could do such destruction.

-end-

Rant on.

-T

 

 

Worst Tweet # 4 Thousand So-n-So

Since the 80s has been living off of consume-to-survive nothingness, meritlessness and the rule of mindless, college grad corporate #Automatons run amok. Understanding how the old economy so easily defeated the new economy in the 90s is also something worth considering. Then there’re the #warmongering #WarsofChoice of this new millennium. And now you’re worried about more of the same? #TaxScamBill? #LandoftheFreetobeStupid Good luck suckers. -T

The Confusion Of Roadkill, Mighty Mouse And Who Is In My Dungeon Or Who Will Survive My Neighbor’s Dog’s (W)Rath?

 

In my previous post, I wanted to put up these pics. But then I started typing and, well, you know how that batshit show ends up. Still. Here is potentially the post I would have uploaded regarding roadkill, my youthful confusion between Mighty Mouse and Mickey Mouse and a dead rabbit that was obviously mauled by dog near where I live. Poor Bugs Bunny, eh.

Rant on.

-T