WURSTWRITER

Tom's blog of whatnots and other stuff

Category: Blog

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  • Consume To Survive vs. Amazilla

    Screen Shot 2017-07-21 at 10.03.15.png
    Get a load of that discount. 56%????

    Update: May the heavens be blessed (if you believe in that sort of thing). To my worst-surprise, my consume-to-survive order that is supposed to help with cleaning my ageing teeth arrived today. Wow. If you can believe the original price posted (Euro299,99) then this was a pretty good deal. Yeah, baby.

    Haven’t been posting much in July. Something about the Germania weather this time of year. Even though the weather (and everything else) sucks here, this time of year seems to be the worst. They call it Drucken. It’s as though you have to walk around in a thick, pressing atmosphere where the breath and stench of too many people crowded into too small a place doesn’t mix well with a grey sky that wants to annihilate you. But enough about the misery of too much health insurance and worst-moi.

    Today dear worst reader it’s time to worst-blog about consumerism. You know, that thing we all have to do above and beyond surviving like our ancestors once did. Since I make no effort to hide my position in this world as a consumer–and what a lucky one at that–there are moments where even I get a bit perturbed with how The Man tries to control me and my consumption. For example. I decided recently to give in to the electric toothbrush craze. I’ve avoided it most of my adult life, even though my better-half has been using one most of her adult life. Since she needs to replaced her old one, because the battery doesn’t hold a charge anymore–and because it looks like it’s been used to clean things other than teeth–I broke down and started searching for a deal. And boy did I find one.

    The deal of the day, dear worst-reader is encapsulated in the screenshot above. I found an offer on that internet shopping portal that I couldn’t refuse. Is it two for the price of one or is buy one get one free? To be honest, I’m not sure if I’ll ever find out. Ordered over a week ago, I still haven’t received my purchase. I did get an email the other day that said something about they were working on my order but I couldn’t make heads or tales out of whether or not they (or someone else) had just pulled the wool over my eyes. I mean, come on, more than half off the original price of a new-fangled tech-driven electric toothbrush?

    As of the writing of this worst-post, I’ve not received my order. But then I did come across a tweet that opened up an eye or three. By-the-buy, this is the second time I’ve ordered something with such a large discount on Amazilla. The first time the order was cancelled for me. We’ll see how this one goes.

    Rant on.

    -T

    Other links:

  • Decomposing Fox Of Faux Newz?

    dead fox 1

    Wishful thinking, I guess.

    Rant on.

    -T

  • Über Health Insurance Money To Burn Equals Butcher Doctors Galore

    doctors recommended treatment
    The doctor post-it treatment recommendation.

    About ten years ago I got a nasty tick bite between my big toe and my pointer toe on my left foot. I was doing some garden work visiting family in my beloved #americant and I wore sandals when I should have worn boots. Although I managed to get the tick off without much hassle, the swelling and puss coming out of the wound that was left behind became unbearable by the next morning. I jumped in my rental car and drove to a wal-mart-like clinic in town that my sister recommended. When asked by the receptionist if I had insurance I told her I did but that I lived in Germany. Looking at my insurance card she said, “Oh, I don’t even know where to begin with a language like that.” I then told her that depending on the cost, I’d rather pay directly. “Oh, ok then,” she said. “I need a credit card.” I gave her my German credit card and took my place among the many in the waiting room and filled out the patient questionnaire. Eventually a young Indian doctor helped me by opening the tick bite, cleaning it out and giving me some antibiotics. “Within a day or two you will be right as rain,” he said. Upon leaving the clinic, the receptionist charged my credit card eighty dollars.

    I got hit in the knee by a van in the early afternoon last Thursday while riding my bike. The pain and swelling made me go to a nearby emergency room that same evening. Hoping only to get an x-ray to see if I had broken anything, I entered an ordeal that ended up consuming days, hours in waiting rooms and numerous doctors that confused me more than when confronted by Pam Anderson speaking Chinese. As of the worst-writing of this worst-post, I’ve had x-rays, CT scans and even my first MRI. I’ve been given crutches, a leg brace and even some sodium-something-or-other that I’m self injecting to prevent thrombosis because I’m not supposed to move my left leg.

    anti thrombosis injection

    As you may or may not know, dear worst-reader, Germany has a fairly decent national healthcare system. If you were to ask me if I utilise that system I would answer: fcuk no! Reason for the expletive is another post. Reason that I’ve always been a skeptic regarding national health insurance systems will be dealt with in the rest of this worst-post.

    Indeed. After all the care I’ve been given regarding my knee in the past few days only two things stand out about the whole ordeal.

    1. I will not see a doctor bill for all the care I’ve been receiving and I wish I could/would see it.
    2. No one. And I mean no one in this (sarcasm on) amazing (sarcasm off) healthcare system has asked me once about how it came to be that I was hit by a van while riding my bike.

    But before I get too deep into bitching & moaning about Germans and how the only thing they have to offer the world is über-priced luxury mass produced cars driven and designed by idiots, let me just say this: the German national healthcare system sucks! It sucks batballs. It blows horny goat-mules that have herpes on their penises. If German healthcare were a duck I’d shoot it with my twelve gauge and cook it up in a witches pot only to throw it away and bury it to prevent others from eating it. Then I’d gorge on self-pity-candy till I throw up unicorn puke. Oh. And I hate things.

    Or maybe not.

    I warned my better half after the initial emergency room visit after that fcuking van hit me that I would have to be careful regarding my care. “I’m not worried about the costs, honey, of course. But I am worried about what THEY could do to me,” I said. My better-half laughed and smirked as only a well-off German, spoiled by the spoils of The Marshall Plan, can. By the end of my initial emergency room endeavour things were clear: there was a limit to how much care I would get and, more importantly, on whose terms that care would take place. And so, they took some x-rays of my knee. From the x-rays they thought I had a tibial plateau fracture but said, because of lack of personnel, I would have to come back in the morning to get a CT scan, which would show more bone detail. I returned bright and shinny the next morning and, without much wait, got my CT scan. Conclusion? No fracture. Then the doctor in the hospital recommended a MRI scan to see if there was soft tissue damage. When the doctor tried to arrange the MRI she came back saying that I would first have to go to a regular doctor. Obviously the hospital had booked what it could off my insurance up to that point and obviously reached a limit. In order to get the further care–that they were recommending–I would have to go to another (different) doctor. Yeah, that makes sense. Or? They either work like a team or they work in collusion. I found a local orthopaedic doctor online. Let the circus begin!

    The orthopaedic specialist, without even examining me, gave me a prescription for an MRI of my knee. Should I be thanking the heavens now, I thought. Because of demand, though, I would have to wait till June 20 to get the MRI done. Oh really! Luckily my neighbour was a radiologist and could squeeze me in at her hospital the next day. I only had to wait till Monday to return to the orthopaedic specialist with the new pictures. Bright and early on Monday I waited a full hour and a half in his waiting room. When I finally got to see the doctor–again without ever even touching my knee–he was reading from the MRI report–he never even looked at the pics–he recommended an operation to fix some minor cartilage damage.

    Whaaaaaaaaa!

    “But doctor, don’t you even want to look at my knee?”

    He arrogantly pointed to the document from MRI doctor. At the same time he was massaging the back of his throat with the temple tips of his rimless glasses. He sat down in the exam room while I remained standing.

    “But doctor, when I was younger I didn’t treat my knees well as I wasted a great deal of intellectual time playing highschool sports in suburban hell #americant and chasing girls. Till my mid-thirties I regularly jogged five to eight miles three or four times a week and also ran away from girls. I had to give up jogging because of a bone cyst that had developed on my left achilles which I got from an injury when I was young–running away from girls. By my early forties I had learned that my left leg was two centimetres shorter (or longer?) than my right leg–and this was caused by marriage and no longer running away from girls. Since my late forties I’ve been limping regularly, especially after heavy rains and three divorces…”

    “Wait. Please, please,” the doctor said. “I would recommend two doctors for the operation on your knee. One of the doctors might be a problem to schedule because of your insurance. You don’t have good insurance. The other doctor will do it but it may take a year before he can.”

    Whaaaaaaaa!

    Let’s be clear here. I have the right as a blogger and useless eater to bitch & moan about everything. Yet why do I favour paying eighty dollars at a wal-mart-like clinic than having a system pay thousands upon thousands of Euros for care that ultimately has nothing to do with caring? Obviously it’s not right to compare a tick bite to a meniscus injury. So I guess what I’m really getting at is the fact that I have great health insurance yet when I consider what it is that doctors do with that insurance I get pissed off as though nothing is… right as rain.

    Without even touching my knee or asking a question about how I felt or even how I got to his clinic that morning the only thing the doctor with the fancy Porsche could come up with was that I needed an operation.

    Butchers. They are all fcuking butchers.

    doctors parking spot
    You know what they say: someone’s gotta pay for the priority parking of the doctor’s Porsche.

    Would you believe that at his clinic there are no parking spaces for patients but he has a lone spot near the front entrance of his clinic. Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t care what kind of car a doctor can afford to pay interests rates on. I’m seriously not a class fighter here. I’m just pissed off at the fact that a national healthcare system is ultimately nothing but a conduit for money transference galore.

    Oh. As far as my knee is concerned. I can walk but I’m not ready to run. I can pedal a bike no problemo. There is still some swelling so I hope I don’t have an issue with water-on-the-knee. There is no acute pain only some stiffness. I’m wearing one of those fancy (and expensive) compression bandage/stockings that really does the trick.

    Stay healthy, baby.

    Rant on.

    -T

    Links that may or may not coincide with the post:

  • Glass Cliff, Glass Ceiling Or How Her Corporate Soul Is Made Of As Much Nothingness As His

    glass shattered

    I’ve always had a problem with motherhood being on a pedestal. Is it because I was hatched? Procreation is more of a disease than something worth a baby shower and the happy wonderland consequence that is the lie of family life. I suppose that could mean I’m only partly misogynistic or just General Schmuck. Anyone remember Schmuck? He was the undersecretary of the military that served in Patton’s underpants and it is said he was lost behind a tank that made a wrong turn while hunting Rommel in North Africa carrying both a victory flag and roll of red, white and blue toilet paper. Then again, I’ve got no prejudice in my life because loss and Victoria, a grand ole bitch I’ve been fcuking for years, won’t leave me till I’m dead. And you know what they say, eh, dear worst-reader? It takes two to blame one in this game of touch and feel and everything is ok. I mean, come on, would we (men) really go for the family thing if given a choice these days? Trust me. Hatching the future is definitely worth a try. Or would we rather run off to some war-of-choice with the booty of expensive gas to cruise our broken streets in our broken and never-paid-off cars? Oh, isn’t it obvious how we ( men?) have been tricked? Played? Jerked ’round? Obviously males did go for this back in the day. Back in the day when dragging multiple wives into caves by their hair and our knuckles was a worthwhile undertaking. An undertaking that is reflected so clearly in how the world works today for the corporate state. But I’m off subject. Or maybe not.

    Oh yea–we were worst-discussing my prejudices.

    And so #1a…

    I simply hate everybody and almost everything. With that in mind, there’s no reason to feel special if I call you out for a having uterus–and a mind incapable of dealing with it–especially considering how the outer part of the feminine sells that uterus.

    And so #1b…

    I do not hate the perfect balance between man and the uterus machine–if it can be achieved–especially in that which is manifested in a perfectly tuned turbo-charged V–8 that when given the gas it presses uterus (Her) so completely to the back of the passenger seat that breasts poke out and beg the driver-male to play another game. Hence youthful if not teenage sexuality aloft in the sky full of your candy clouds. I also find perfection in pistachio ice cream slowly blended into Napoleon ice cream after fcuking the entire day while laying in a field of daffodils and quaker oats mixed in real maple syrup. Beyond that, I gladly and openly live the life of a humble and powerless cartoon-like monarch-god that is angry and bitter and ashamed–for the sake of shame. I only blame part of what I am on the other sex because of Her desire to lock males into the uselessness of romantic love run amok in a world where pornography earns more than (insert your industry of choice here). Pornography, btw, isn’t as profitable as it is just because men want to spank it all the time. Indeed #1.

    And so #2…

    At the behest of my better-half, the Vladimir Putin of my life, I am a man destined, like Russia, to be ruled by two-bit dictators with tits. For that, like many Russians, I am thankful because I have been endowed with

    1. a well-careered wife and
    2. a society that couldn’t save itself from itself–if it had to.

    And so #3…

    This life that has been chosen for me because society (or is it sobriety?) has no choices left. I consider this (life) as an endeavour that is not without career and corporatist leanings. Indeed #2. We are all a slave to something. I see first-hand the unjust behaviorisms that influences not only mine but my better-half’s life–and the life of so many around me that must or are so willingly employed by the man. But enough about alter egos, wishful thinking and the admiration I abhor of those who are have-mores in the corporate world of their have-choice. And so…

    I came across a new piece of feminism v emancipation yesterday: Glass Cliff. Would you believe, dear worst-reader, I had never heard of the glass cliff–until yesterday? I’ve heard of the glass ceiling, thanks to you-know-who. But the glass cliff…

    The glass cliff is a term that describes the phenomenon of women in leadership roles, such as executives in the corporate world and female political election candidates, being likelier than men to achieve leadership roles during periods of crisis or downturn, when the chance of failure is highest.

    As far as the origin of this nonsense?

    While reading an article about the demise of Uber the other day, i.e. a corporate tech entity that is nothing if not a smart-ass corporation to join all smart-ass corporations. It’s being said that a female might be picked to help them turn things around. Seriously? Hasn’t the industry learned by now? What? Marissa Mayer not enough? What about Carly Fiorina? Should I even go down the list of female superheroes that save the world and the men around them? No. Defiantly not. So here’s the thing.

    Uber should be about connecting people with immediate mobility and thereby utilising the simplicity of modern technology. Instead it is a platform–a middleman, if you will–that tries to take advantage–or as corporate smart-asses like to put it: disrupt–the taxi industry. The platform on which this money is exchanged is the genius of Uber. Yet, like most who make money on a platform, they have forgotten that the platform must also have a purpose–other then their own greed. And I’m really rambling now.

    When I discovered the term glass cliff my heart lost two more beats. I’m so sorry that the feminine not only has to deal with my bull$hit but also that of others–who are so much more than worst-moi.

    Good luck, ladies.

    Rant on.

    -T

    Links that motivated this post:

    This post was created w/ writing software that utilises markdown and then uploaded to this blog; what the hell that means I have no idear. Good luck.

  • Random Moments Of Consumption Galore Or How To Get Your Kicks While On Route To 666

    route us 666

    Moments I recall that are all–must be?–part of today’s #americant opioid problem galore (see links below). The funny thing about this little list of recollections is that all the parties involved had something to do with Vegas. …I think.

    Moment #1

    While drinking a beer and waiting for an international flight at PHL a few years back I’m sitting between Cutie and Young Gun at a pub. Cutie asks if I’ve got any Speed because she doesn’t want to fall asleep on the plane before she arrives in Vegas.

    “Speed?” I ask. “The last time I heard someone your age use that term I was working post production on the movie Vanishing Point?”

    There is a pregnant pause while Young Gun on my other side rummages around in his shoulder bag and Cutie frivolously contemplates my response by turning her head to the side like a pug.

    Cutie can’t be more than thirty-five and is dressed in expensive clothes that look as though they might come from Über-GAP. She’s thin, tight and probably walks on heels as though they are tennis shoes. She’s got a beautiful leather shoulder bag and one of those small Tumi rolling suitcases that’s glossy black. Since I’m on an evening flight to Europe I’m wondering why, with a five hour flight to Vegas, that will put her there in the early evening, she needs to be awake. Nomatter.

    The pause is over and so is my mix with Cutie. Young Gun answers her question.

    “I’ve got some Ritalin,” Young Gun says.

    Cutie smiles and, as if I’m not even there, reaches across my face, the hair of her forearm is thicker than mine, and takes two pills out of Young Guns right palm. The pills have a dove engraving on one side and a sideways 8 on the other.

    Moment #2

    While visiting family in rural Virginia I’m out grocery shopping for the family dinner. I’m having a hard time finding wet mozzarella cheese in the huuuuugeness of the store. I make my over to the deli counter and stand in front of the glass next to a few people hoping I could get some answers and/or directions to what I’m looking for. Three clerks are desperately slicing and packing deli stuff behind the counter when I over hear two people waiting in line next to me, who obviously haven’t seen each other in quite a while, chit-chat.

    Pseudo-Friend 1: It’s good you’ve been well. You look great.

    Pseudo-Friend 2: Yeah, not always the case. But thanks.

    Pseudo-Friend 1: Say, do you still have any of that… (I can’t make out what she says).

    Pseudo-Friend 2: Sure. Got some right here. You want?

    Pseudo-Friend 1: Oh. You’re a doll-baby. This is my day!

    One of the clerks is talking to a customer she just gave sliced honeyed ham and mentions how she, unlike most people in the store that she is obviously referring to, isn’t gonna inherit anything like everybody else is. I can’t help but catch a glimpse of the clerks rotting teeth as she talks to much making other customers wait. I think to myself, this is 2015 America! Who has teeth here like our dentally challenged inbred cousins in Engaland? Deli clerks do. Obviously. Oh my. Should rotten teeth be in/around deli meats?

    It’s Pseudo-Friend 2’s time to order. While rummaging through her purse she belts out the ounces for honeyed-ham, spiced turkey, salami and a few others. When she’s done ordering and the rotten teeth clerk goes about gathering it all, she finds what she’s looking for in her purse but before she takes it out she turns to me.

    Pseudo-Friend 2: Bit nosey today, eh mister good-lookin.

    Smiling at me she pulls a small plastic pouch out of her purse that is sealed with a twist tie. The pouch is filled with what looks like white crumbs mixed with powder. She then notices her error.

    Pseudo-Friend 2: Oh wait. Wrong one.

    She returns to rummaging in her purse but then pauses and puts one hand on the shoulder of Pseudo-Friend 1.

    Pseudo-Friend 2: Don’t worry, I’ve got it. By the way, when were you last in Vegas?

    Pseudo-Friend 1: Funny you should ask. I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. I’m just buying my kids some supplies for the weekend. They just love the ham from this deli.

    I notice Pseudo-Friend 1’s shopping cart is full of chips, frozen hamburger patties, paper plates, hotdog buns, relish, frozen pizzas, pickles, plastic containers full of potato salad, ketchup, mustard, mayo, etc., etc. Her cart alone is a fourteen year old’s dream. I guess.

    Pseudo-Friend 2 removes another plastic pouch with a different colour twist tie. The pouch is full of at least twenty or so green pills. She hands the pouch to her pseudo-friend and then turns to me again.

    Pseudo-Friend 2: What’s the matter, good-lookin, never seen the white rabbit before.

    Pseudo-Friend 1 holds up the pouch for a few seconds so that I could inspect it. The pills all have the indentation of a rabbit.

    Moment #3

    Friends of my mother are having a family crisis. Because of an illness their son has been transferred to a hospital in Baltimore. When I hear them say that they are afraid to make the drive (they are very old) I volunteer to drive them. They are grateful. After I drop them off the hospital I park the car and proceed to take a walk around the city. I eventually find a coffee shop (yea, you know which one) and order a double espresso, a bottle of fizzy water and an oatmeal cookie. I find a window seat where I hope to take in the scenery of my beloved #americant and the vibrance I’ve been missing since becoming an expat a quarter century ago.

    Within moments of sitting down, just after my first sip of espresso, two young people (mid-twenties maybe) sit at a table near me. They both have über large paper cups of what I guess are lattés. One of them has brought the sugar dispenser from the condiments table with him, including three or four wooden stirrers. One guy grabs the sugar dispenser and begins to fill his über-cup as though there is no tomorrow. The other takes one of the stirrers and stirs his latté with the same vehemance. The guy with the sugar has filled his cup so much that the frothy milk begins to overflow, dripping onto the table. I’m waiting for the other guy to grab the sugar dispenser but he doesn’t. He just stirs and stirs and stirs.

    Sugar: You need to be there for brunch on Sunday.

    Stirrer: I told you. There are no more flights. I’m on standby but you know how it is with Vegas on the weekends.

    Sugar: Why didn’t you book earlier?

    Stirrer: Come on. I’ll get there. I’m leaving for Miami tonight. I should get there Saturday evening. Worse case, I’ll arrive Sunday morning and rush to the hotel.

    Sugar: Yea, right.

    Stirrer: By the way, how’d it go the other night. You like the new mix?

    Sugar: It was good. I’m not sure I noticed much of a difference to last time. But it was good. You got anymore?

    Stirrer puts a small pink envelope in front of Sugar. Sugar looks in it. Sugar smiles.

    Rant on.

    -T

    Links that motivated this post:

  • It’s A Good Thing I’m Not Draining The Swamp Because I’d Start With Those T-Shirts that Say: FBI – Female Body Investigator

    t-shirt fbi female body investigator

    No. Seriously. I bet if you did some kind of whacked-out empirical study–you know the stuff college grads can’t do anymore–because if they could they wouldn’t have gotten the world into the neo-liberal krapp-shoot it’s become–then you would know for sure what purpose a government organisation like the FBI really serves. It’s funny too how a former and recently fired FBI director is going up against the president of the united mistakes of (my beloved) #americant so that someway, somehow, a royally dumb-downed society can know the difference between this lie or that lie. Indeed. Drain the swamp? I’d start by getting rid of the FBI. I mean. Come on. Other than extortion and hunting the communist nightmares of those who can’t think for themselves, i.e. conservatives hunting communists, what purpose does the FBI serve? And not only that, if the FBI was worth a hoot when it comes to crime (criminology) then why would the US government need to create a completely new money sucking organisation known as The Homeland? (Or is it Homeland Security?) Whatever. What a shame that all these stupid white men in suits and ties appear before government committees and no one watching can see the difference between bullshit and a nightmare.

    Or maybe not.

    trump comey

    Rant on.

    -T

  • Half Century Knee And The Slight Bump Of A Car Upon It

    Got hit by van the other day. Can you believe it? The know-it-alls say that that line of distortion in the X-ray could (could!) be a tibial plateau fracture. Yea. The van hit my left knee.

    Cool!

    Update: It’s not a fracture. Whoopi. And get this, I get to get my first MRI so they can see whether my meniscus is damaged.

    Seriously?

    An MRI?

    Hold on there a sec, chippy!

    Between you and me, dear worst-reader, this whole health insurance coverage thingy that I’ve got over here (in Germania) that pays for all this great care is really, really over-kill. Knowing that the bone isn’t broke is enough to know that the swelling is caused by some slight meniscus damage. Ice packs, keeping leg still/braced for a couple of weeks will be the ultimate outcome with or without a corporate sponsoring MRI. But what do I know?

    Rant & ride on.

    -T

    PS I’m too old for this $hit.

  • Hit By A Van Almost Down By The River And It Was Obviously My Fault. #Hooray!

    hit by a van
    It’s true. Behind the tall building in the background is the Rhine River.

    What an exciting afternoon in good ole Germania. Have I volunteered, dear worst-reader, what I actually think about my expat host country? Well, there’s no time like the present to NOT volunteer such things. With that in mind, I was hit by a van today while riding my new über e-bike through the city. As you can see in the pic above, I was on the reddish bidirectional bike path and the van was blocking it while trying to rush into traffic. After using my bike’s bell and giving off a whistle, the female (in the pink/purple sweatshirt who was in the passenger seat) looked me right in the eye as I approached the van. Then I noticed, to my own detriment, that the driver of the van, the guy on the far right with the striped short-sleeve shirt, didn’t even bother to look both ways before entering traffic. Without very little consideration on my part–or being a bit brain dead as only I can be while riding a bike–I proceeded to continue on my route thinking (blindly hoping?) that the eye-contact I had with the passenger-chick was enough, so I proceeded to circumvent the van from his front. Obviously (obviously?) that was my error. And allow me to reiterate: The driver never looked to his right–even though he was blocking a bidirectional bike path. And so. Just as I was in front of the van the driver proceeded onto the roadway hitting me on my left knee and knocking me off my über e-bike. Fortunately I caught the fall with my right leg and didn’t body slam the road. I then limped off to the side as a young man–the thin guy with the shoulder bag and the blue jacket–came from around the corner and picked up my bike (not pictured but you can read about it here). The young man then proceeded to start asking me questions as I was dealing with the pain that the van had shoved into my left leg.

    left leg hit by van
    Those other scars below the current skin abrasion from today’s van are from another brain-dead bike fall last year after which I always ride with a helmet now!

    “Are you a doctor,” I asked the young man.

    “No. I’m a medical student,” he answered.

    “Should I call the police,” I asked the young man.

    “Not really sure. Don’t know if they can do anything,” the young man said.

    “Aren’t you supposed to always call the police in a situation like this,” I asked.

    “Not if it’s not serious,” the young man said.

    “Was this situation my fault,” I asked.

    By that time everyone had come together, see top pic. As soon as I uttered the word “fault” everyone, EVERYONE, Germans one n’all, answered:

    JA!

    eagle in van that hit me
    American steel doesn’t want me dead. Yet.

    And so, dear worst-reader, heed this as you bitch & moan about #Trumpism and the world of greed you have created: there are only two things that mean ANYTHING today–especially in good ole Germania. One, of course, is money. The other is The Automobile and all that that entails. And so. While traversing through Germania make sure you watch every possible way and direction from where a car/van can hit you. Because even if you are hit, it WILL be your fault. On the other hand, if you do get hit, I hope you too will be hit by a car from your home country that has an American Bald Eagle in its grill. Yeah, baby.

    Rant & Ride safe.

    -T

    PS I’m fine. Just a bit of knee pain but I’ve got it wrapped as I worst-write this.

    PSS The down by the river thing:

    “You kids are probably saying to yourself, “Now, I’m gonna go out, and I’m gonna get the world by the tail and wrap it around and put it in my pocket!” Well, I’m here to tell you that you’re probably gonna find out, as you go out there, that you’re not gonna amount to jack squat!” You’re gonna end up eating a steady diet of government cheese and living in a van down by the river!” -Matt Foley SNL

  • Rats Chasing Luv Or Am I Cool To The Secret Police?

    berlin graffiti

  • Pseudo Review #2: 1000KM On The Charger GX Touring Or How To Spend Stupid Money Smartly (I Hope)

    R-M Charger GX Touring Rhein 2

    Part 1 of this pseudo-review is here. Part three is here.

    Update: day after worst-writing this I was on my über e-bike and got hit by a van. But it was my fault, I guess.

    Summary:

    • Heavy bike that feels light due to motor and balance.
    • Although GX tires are loud on the road, they are also smooth and agile and don’t feel like off-road tires at all, even in turns.
    • Brakes are nothing less than fantastic.
    • The motor makes carrying full Orlieb side bags, easily pushing 25kg limit, and six bottles of wine strapped to the front rack, feel as though I was riding through the park, down a hill and the wind was in my back.
    • The dealer where I bought this e-bike is definitely below par (even though one of the guys that works there is great at explaining stuff).
    • The kickstand is very durable and stabile–even when loading full side bags to the rear rack.
    • Not sure about the wide and oddly shaped handlebars; still evaluating.
    • Replacing dealer issued cheap pedals with real pedals (to burn more money) a must!
    • I can’t actually say that there’s a whole lot of “measuring” going on–as claimed by Bosch & Co.–between pedal cadence, speed and pressure. The motor just seems to push when I push–even from a stand still, which is kind of strange and requires some getting used to. The bike will literally lunge ahead of you from a stand still and I’m getting used to making sure that I don’t start the bike from a stoplight where the pedal is in the up position.
    • Even though one can adjust the power settings at will, I’m finding it imperative to have the bike in the right gear when starting from a stop.

    Disclaimer: Probably as I worst-write this worst-post I’m just now surpassing the 1000km mark on my new e-bike. With that in mind, are you asking how it is that I can ride an e-bike and chew gum at the same time, i.e. worst-write a/this blog post about it? Wow. What a great question. To that I can only answer…

    The Bike.

    R&M Charger was the right choice–for us. The other bike/brand we considered, i.e. Stromer, is as good a build as R&M with the difference being utility and, perhaps, the cool factor (the Stromer wins that one). The Charger offers the most robust, durable, useful, confidence I’ve ever had on a bike. With that in mind, I better stop inversely-lamenting before I cum all over this post.

    charger gx touring on bike rack
    Maintenance is mainly keeping the chain and derailleur clean.

    Two Chargers.

    Did I mention that we bought two Chargers? We did so, btw, as a result of selling our second car last year. These two bikes, for the most part, replace that car. My wife has the Charger Mixte Nuvinci. Since she (still) works for the man, she’s the one that continues the sinners life and uses a car most of the time to get to work. Of course, she’s not an all-weather biker. When it’s not raining or too cold and her busy management schedule allows it, in the morning she’ll ride her Mixte to our local (regional) train station, about 5km away, and from there she’ll board the train with the bike and ride (about 25km) to a train stop near her office. From there she’ll ride the remaining 10km to work. After work she rides the whole way home–about 45km.

    Charger Mixte Nuvinci for the wife
    Other than handle-bars, stem and seat, I love the Mixte, too!

    Purpose.

    • The perfect grocery-getter and general errand runner.
    • Trek on or off-road to city centre of Düsseldorf (20km) or Köln (45km).
    • Great for picnics, country side or even travel to nearby cities and villages. The huuuuuge difference here to conventional biking is the fact that we can double or even triple (more?) the distance travelled.
    • Combined Euro-trains, I’m hoping that these things will be an even robuster car replacement than we originally thought.

    Range

    • Longest ride so far: ca 75km.
    • Still had 2 out of 5 bars of battery life when I got home.
    • Battery charge time between 2-4 hours.
    charger gx touring locked
    How I lock my bike when I’m in town, shopping or collecting bribery fees.

    One key, two roles.

    The Charger GX comes with an Abus folding lock and it’s own carrying case that is attached to the bike’s rear rack. The key to the lock is the same key that secures the battery–which, I guess, is a good thing. I have no need to remove the battery, though. I suppose, if I lived where the bike would be in a cellar or basement that has no electric socket, let’s say, in an apartment house, then I would have to take the battery with me to charge it, thereby requiring me to unlock it from the frame. As of yet, I have no use for the dual role of the Abus key.

    The Abus lock.

    It’s taken a bit to get used to the folding lock but I think I’m getting the hang of it. I’m still worried how it bangs on the thin spokes of the wheels as I usually insert it through the rear wheel and the frame. Although the lock is too short for securing the bike to a pole or fence using it, I’ve added a steel cable that I also feed through the front wheel. At the least I’ve got both quick lock wheels secured. I would never use this method to lock the bike somewhere in the city overnight but I do feel secure about it while I’m in the city during the day. Btw, I store the cable along with various tools that I always ride with in one of the rear bags.

     

    That rack (in the front).

    I was skeptical about the front rack after I picked up the bike. I even contemplated removing it after the first few rides. But I’ve since come to my senses. Rated, according to the owner’s manual, at only 3kg, I’m sure I’ve carried at least 6 to 10KG on it so far. I’ve already used the front rack to deliver cake (while visiting friends which was stored in a heavy plastic container and wrapped in one of them big, blue Ikea shopping bags and then attached with bungee cords). I’ve also used it to carry home a month supply of toilet paper and kitchen paper towels. The front rack can easily hold six bottles of Rioja Reserve that I picked up a local wine dealer. The other day I also used the front rack to deliver a Rhine River alligator to a friend who payed me righteously to catch it for him. Please don’t ask me for pictures of the alligator because, if you don’t already know, it’s not quite kosher to ride a bike with a live alligator attached to it via bungee cords–let alone catching the damn thing. ;-)

    charger gx touring rear rack scratch from bags
    Waterproof Ortlieb bags doing a number on my new rear rack.

    Bags.

    I use ten year old Ortlieb side bags with the rear rack. So far these bags are scratching the hell out of the paint. The rear rack is rated at 25KG and that’s probably more than I’ll ever need. I usually only fully load the bags when I go grocery shopping. When I’m running around to get fresh groceries, which I do three to four times a week, I certainly don’t need to carry that much weight. But like I said previously, one bag always has my tools, tire repair kit, etc. I do plan on eventually getting that fancy Ortlieb office bag. That way I’ll feel safer carrying my laptop to work or to meetings. The rubber bungee cord that comes with the rear rack I’ve not gotten much use out of but I’m sure I will eventually. One other good thing about the rear rack is that I use it to manoeuvre the bike in my basement. It’s the best handle to pick up and move the bike.

     

    91.4KG on a bike seat?

    Btw, It’s not a seat. It’s a saddle. I was skeptical about this Brooks “saddle”. On my sporty cross road racer I have one of them fancy, comparatively cushy bike seats with the ergonomic (and prostate saving) split down the middle. (For two hours of leg work that split really does work!) The first few days on this old British designed horse saddle did leave a bit of blood in my undies. Once that cleared up, this is the best f’n bike seat (saddle!) I’ve ever experienced. Obviously there is no cushion and even the thudbuster doesn’t help when it comes to those knots in the road you can’t get around while riding. But there’s something about how my/a a$$ just fits in/on this thing–and it’s only just now starting to break in. I’ve been using mink oil on the underside of it to treat it hence the discolouration in the middle. (Remember, less is more!) I’ve also changed the rubber on the thudbuster from middle to soft and plan on trying hard soon. So far soft is too soft and middle was too hard. Does that mean hard will be…? Nomatter. Even after four or five hours on this saddle, I’d still take it over any other seat I’ve ever had. Where other seats hurt you in the inbetween, this one does NOT. It just hurts your whole a$$. I know that might sound weird but to me it’s kind of a relief. Will I put a saddle like this on my cross racer? Probably not. But I did read that Brooks has a sportier and lighter offering for race bikes. So far this B17 is worth the hype!

    charger gx touring brake and shift mount cluster
    Great parts don’t always work well together.

    False ergonomics?

    The right brake leaver (rear brake) and the gear shift mechanism do not fit on the handlebars. I’ve moved them here and there over the past few weeks and can’t find the right position for either. They are both in each others way. I can’t adjust the brake leaver height to where I want it because moving it means it will collide with the shift mechanism. That also means I can’t get the shift knobs in the right place in order to utilise a triple downshift with one push. Bummer!

    charger gx touring rear gears

    Love the chain.

    The gears and the derailleur are top notch on this bike. There are moments where the sound from shifting is pretty scary, though. The derailleur has a switch on it that stiffens it. This is supposed to stop the chain from moving too much while on rough terrain. When the switch is “on” and you shift it sounds like a hammer hitting an anvil. I’ve not found much use for the switch so far. Who knows, maybe future mountain biking will change that. The only downside to a chain and derailleur (compared to the fancy Rohloff or my wife’s fancy-pants Nuvinci) is the mess of keeping it clean. My maintenance routine is to simply wipe it clean after every other ride with lots of WD-40. (Aghast!) I only use oil on my bikes chains when they are not in use for more than a few days–i.e. when I have to leave town. For those who don’t know, extended use of WD-40 alone will lead to rust on a bike chain. As far as lubrication goes, WD-40 is more than sufficient and as good as oil–on a per ride basis. If you ride off-road or in dry, dusty conditions, whether oiled or full of WD-40, you have to clean the chain regularly anyway.

    charger gx touring water collection under battery
    See that little water collecting crevice just below battery charging port?

    Even though I prefer a battery that is better integrated in the frame (Stromer!), I’ve become accustomed to R&M’s minimal but functional design choice(s). With the battery kind of hanging there, I wondered if it would remain tightly mounted. I’ve heard stories of people not properly snapping-in their battery. A few of these bikes have been returned because customers didn’t snap the battery in properly and it was damaged rolling down a road. But that’s not the least of my worries. It rains a lot in Germany, don’t you know. See that little crevice under the battery and next to the frame? Guess what else is right there? That’s where the charger cable connects to the bike. Water collects in that little crevice. Yeah. Water plus a 500w battery and a charging port… No issues there. Or? Nomatter. After every rain-ride I’ve gotten used to checking for water before plugging in the charger cable.

     

    Knobby tires galore.

    It’s too be expected that after a 1000km the rear tire shows more wear than the front. And to be honest, I’m not sure the rear is gonna make it to 2000km. The question is, with the amount of off-road riding I do, can I replace these tires with those fancy Schwalbe Big Bens or do I stick with knobby tires? I’m thinking I’ll go with one more rear knobby and after that move to the more street oriented Big Bens. We’ll see.

     

    Chain guard?

    Two things about a chain, oil and keeping things running like a well tuned killing machine. The chain is scary close to both the frame–where the Bosch motor is attached–and the tire. Even though their is a rinky-dink guard around the front sprocket, as you can see from my pants leg, it doesn’t do much good. This is the price I’m willing to pay, though, I guess. Did I mention that I love this chain and derailleur setup? It’s so much more valuable to me than having spent almost a thousand Euro more for an over-engineered, over-kill Rohloff.

    charger gx touring service indicator

    Ok. Ok. I get it. The dealer has to make some money, too. Right? But what do we do when the dealer is… useless? I hit the first service interval within a week of owning this bike. When I asked the dealer when they would service it they just laughed. “It’s spring time and everyone’s buying bikes,” they said. “We’re too busy for your silly service,” they added (or the like). And so. I don’t get a service appointment until the end of June. Did I mention that I’m already at 1000km? Come on. Give me a break. Bike ownership shouldn’t be like Apple Computer ownership. As in… come on dealer, can’t I just give you my money?

    Rant & ride on.

    -T

     

  • Green Green Green And More Green

    green green green

    There’s too much green in Germany. But I think I’ve worst-said that before. Ranting onward, ho!

  • Exercise In Translation: F-Word In German Not A Type Of Insect

    f-word german

    Translating the German f-word and feeling some cumuppance. And so. Another example of living-the-dream in #eurowasteland with Margo Honecker’s Germania-galore protege Merkel and the aristocrats with all the inherited money that afford us park benches. Or maybe not. Ranting onwards.

  • Germany And Why #Trump And His Ilk Hate That

    300x169-R1244_FEA_Trump_A_SML

    This is just a list (bullets followed by minor worst-explanations) I’ve been putting together in my head since reading that #Trump thinks Germany is bad, bad, real bad. I guess, in a way, I’m kinda jealous of Trump–you know, his bullhorn is so much louder than mine. Still, that’s why the tech-gods gave us all the capacity to have cute little blogs. Or? Anywho. Below is a list of thoughts (bullets) why Trump and his followers hate Germany. And remember, dear worstreader, this type of hate isn’t so much a fcuk-you-hate but instead you mean nothing hate w/out your autobahns and cars… Hate. In other worst-words, keep in mind, when reading this (and other worstwriting), especially when it comes to comparing my beloved #americant with my golden cage, Germania, I will never be a German, don’t want to be one and will gladly pass on without being one of them dipshits that immigrated here (by mistake and got stuck) and took it up the a$$. Or didn’t you know that Germany is a club, a collective club and if you’re not born into it you’re not in it. (Thank God!) Whatever that means. Oh. I’m off subject again.

    • Germany is a politically functional country–that over engineers everything–even government.

    Compared to my beloved #americant, the Germans actually do things with government that don’t just benefit one part of society, i.e. the 1%. Now don’t get me wrong. In general, Germany (and Europe) still has a feudalism problem. Luckily, because the aristocrats of that feudalism–made up of both the children and grandchildren that gave us WW2–have been so pacified by what their parents and grandparents actually did, they don’t have much of a voice to manipulate politics–as is the case of the winners of WW2 in #americant and Engaland. (I mean, come on, Dick Chaney, Margerate Thatcher, Dipshit Dubya, #Trump, do all seem to hold a grudge–for winning.) The wealth of aristocrats in Germany is used in part to maintain the structures of the country and, especially, the Mittelstand. In other words, if left up to their own doing, the aristocrats that own Germany would sell it out just like the rich have sold out America since the 70s, culminating in today’s globalisation. How long the Germans can hold out–with austerity n’all–is anyone’s guess. But that’s another issue. Trump and his ilk hate that.

    • Germans love their green aka environment–even though places like Cologne are unGodly ugly and there’s snot everywhere.

    I’m always complaining about there being too much green in this country. I read somewhere once that of all European countries, Germany has the most trees per capita. Think about that. If Europe was a house, Germany would be a guest toilet in it–and it still has the most trees of all other countries–per capita. And speaking of guest toilets. Get this. I have never been anywhere in the world where so many people have alergies, the sniffles, soar throats, etc., day-in, day-out–all fcuking year ’round. Trees, grass, …shit in the air NOT from cars–and people are as sick as three legged dogs that eat too much icecream. And I often go to these people–many, many people–with their über coughing and über sneezing, snot running down their allergy faces, and say: why don’t you get rid of some of this fcuking green? Do you have any idear how f’n polluted your air is with all the dust and pollen and spores that all this green sprews out? Of course, as usual, they just look at me dumbfounded. Indeed. German government do get itself some green! Trump and his ilk hate that.

    • Order, timing and efficiency are all lies not worthing revealing and always garner a smile or three but if you book a train early enough to your destination it’s also really, really mega cheap–and they serve real beer on it.

    Everytime I fly internationally, I get to FRA using a train. When I visit family in the north, I use a train. When I go to Paris… Why anyone would fly to France from Germany is a mystery to me. Anywho. When I was a kid and first started traveling to Germania, people back home would always mention, in passing, and based on their knowledge of The Old Country–The Huns–that the trains all run on-time. Now. Let’s get something straight. Although the DB (Deutsche Bahn) is pretty good compared to other European and American train systems, it is far from an efficient or on-time. In fact, when using it, I can’t remember the last time a train was on-time or without some major outage–as in the train has to stop and let out all passangers at a trainstation prior to its original destination. I would still rather take a train in Germany than drive a car, though, that’s for sure. Oh. And by-the-buy. The entire train system here is paid for by government. Trump and his ilk hate that.

    • Health Care and my gold teeth.

    No. Seriously. I don’t go to the doctor. Don’t go to a dentist either. Or do I? My philosophy is: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. My German wife’s philosophy is different. That said, I’ve had minor surgery (ten years ago), all of my teeth fillings and caps are in gold, I’ve had very large German fingers check my prostate (twice!), I’ve had my eyes examined, my ears poached, my knees bumped (with one of the rubber hammers) and my tongue checked by a nurse that looked just like Pamela Anderson–at least the part of her that I could see looked like Pam A as she leaned over me and begged that I say “Ah”. And you know what, dear worst-reader? After all of that, I have yet to see a doctor bill. “Whaaaaaa,” you say. Seriously. I have never seen a doctor f’n bill in the over two decades that I’ve been an expat. Now ask me if I laugh at my brethren in #americant as they bitch & maon about healthcare. Ha. Ha. Ha. Suckers. And. Trump and his ilk hate that.

    • Germans are pro business without being anti-social.

    This is a bit of complicated issue. So let me address it from the other side. The thing that’s obvious about my beloved #americant today is that it’s lost its ability to be creative in business. Probably since the 1970s, the US has been riding on the industrial laurels of the past. This in part is due to generational issues–as baby-boomers secure their retirements–but it also has to do with a skewed sense of what the American Way is all about. Indeed.  The generational issue, i.e. baby-boomer greed mongering galore, cannot be underestimated here. The simple truth is, while Americans jockey around in their inability to self diagnose and/or think independently–thanks to faux newz–they also find themselves swimming in a cesspool of political lies and untruths–all to their own personal detriment. Hence, to worst-moi, the fact that faux newz is even on the air says everything about where Americans are politically and mentally. But let me come back to this side of things. Germany has yet to idealise their politics like Americans have with faux news. What is said politically in America cannot be said in Germany. And that’s not because it’s not allowed to be said. Put another way, it’s not that the bull$hit of right-wing propaganda can’t be said as much as it can’t be heard because there is no one to listen to it over here. Oh yeah… The German government is very pro-business without being anti-social. Everybody and every business has to pay its share to make things work/function here and they all seem to do it willingly. Trump and his ilk hate that.

    • All bankers are a$$holes but German bankers aren’t a$$holes and suckers.

    Alright. Here’s an open can of worms for ya. As I’ve tried to post here and maybe here, my best-worst-guess (as an arm-chair pseudo economist) is that one of the reasons Trump and his ilk are pissed at the Germans is because the Germans saw through the bull$hit of the real-estate bubble that was being promoted by the US Federal Reserve and US Treasury after 9/11, 2001. The Germans, especially Deutsche Bank, literally bet against the bubble and won. (Two other German banks lost.) I mean, even though it all kind of sounds complicated with the bull$hit that comes out of Wall Street, you know, financial engineering, CDOs, sub-prime mortgages, etc., it’s really not. It’s all more akin to being a casino. Within the casino there are different “games” being played. The difference to a real casino, though, is that after years of playing these games, all the participants, being used to one another, resort to other means to get ahead. You know, lying, cheating, manipulating, coercion, etc. Therefore the roulette table has its hidden buttons, the blackjack dealer has his price, the slot machine maintenance staff tighten the levers this way or that way, etc. The only problem is, what to do if a player decides not to play on the terms of The House. In the film The Big Short, the bank that bet against the US real estate market was Deutsche Bank. Oh, I said that already. Trump and his ilk hate that.

    • Education is practically free.

    I guess I have to use the word “practically” because there is some cost involved in getting an education in good ole Germania. The difference to my beloved #americant education, though, is that here schooling isn’t treated as a business–as neo-liberal economic idealogy dictates it be treated back home. In other words, you can’t turn student loans into an industry here. Trump and his ilk hate that.

    • Technology can’t be monopolised.

    This could be another can of worms–but I’ll go with it. The thing is, compared to my mom’s house on the eastern shore of Maryland (that I miss so much), I have the choice of at least three ISPs for my internet connection where I live in Germany. Not only that, but if I want to have a landline phone, which I don’t, I could chose from various services for that, too. As far as net-neutrality goes, it’s not much of an issue here because, well, media streaming is already offered through a variety of delivery systems. Then there is the issue of free speech, which German only has as long as that speech does not promote hate. Trump and his ilk hate that.

    That’s about it for now. Will keep it all in the back of my worst-mind and update as required.

    Rant on.

    -t

    Links that might have something to do with this post:

  • Angry Men + Cheating Wives = Sloppy Tree Choppers

    hurensohn tree 1

    I take this snapshot while walking in the park and then ask my better-half why someone would cut down a fledgling tree–where w/out special government permission it’s illegal to cut down trees–and then spray-paint “Hurensohn” (son-of-a-whore) on it. She turned to me as she often does with half a cynical wink in her left eye. It’s her look of “oh my naive little American”–for she is a big German. She says: don’t you know what men in Europe do when their wives cheat on them?

    “Oh,” I thought.

    Rant on.

    -T

  • Exercise In Translation: Is #Germany Bad Or Evil And What To Do If Someone Wants Both?

    Go ‘head, dear worst-reader. Ask me. Ask me if I care how many German cars are sold in my grand and beloved united mistakes. Indeed. I don’t care. All I know is this: I’ve been driving Audis (in Germany, on German Autobahns) for most of the time I’ve been an expat. FYI, I’ve also been driving these vehicles at speeds that would make most of my brethren rednecks back home cringe–especially those who are Nascar fans. Worswriter and a 140mph? No problem when the Autobahn 3 is open between Neuwied and Wiesbaden. I think I topped 150mph once when driving between Bremerhaven and Cuxhaven. Yeah, baby. That’s what company cars should be about. Unfortunately, it’s not.

    In fact, because of the various benefits of a relative functioning corporate nation-state collective social market economy–yeah, that’s kinda what the Germans call it here–and because of Germany’s love of government subsidies–that literally keep the German car industry afloat–I get a new Audi every four years. Ask me, then, if I like the A5? Ask me if I liked the previous A4 All-Road? I did not like the A6 with Bose stereo we had ten years ago. Indeed. These cars that are part of the German functioning corporate collective economy blah blah blah are overpriced, over-engineered and over plastic pieces of mega-krapp–which I love-hate to drive. In fact, the whole government subsidised company car leasing bull$hit that goes on here, is really a fcukin joke. But hey! It works for the Germans, eh.

    But get this. German car makers have so marginalised this car industry subsidy to their own benefit that even though a company car can feel fancy–because you can get a new one every four years–you can never get one “loaded” because, well, gee, the government doesn’t subsidise the coolness that buying/renting a car should be all about. Indeed. The government only wants to subsidise four wheels, the fuel and the hearts & minds of the aristocratic families that still own everything–and thereby allow the pions that work for them to have the feeling that they are actually achieving something in this life. But so is our modern world, eh worst-reader? First-world problems abound in Germania these days. Which means we must all, somehow, consume a car. Such privilege should leave the pions happy. Happy indeed. Otherwise an aristocrat might get itchy again (in history) and start jockeying numbers and banks and tax offices and right wing propagandists….

    Here’s a little pseudo-review of how I’m starting to get wise and am moving away from rolling pieces of metal that guzzle too much stuff that causes too many wars and ain’t worth the effort anymore.

    In short. I think all über-expensive cars that people waste so much of their money/lives on are stupid. It’s why most expensive things should no longer have a price tag on them. I mean, come on, we’re well into a time when ownership of stuff just ain’t gonna happen anymore anyway. So. Instead of price tags on krapp there should be stupid meters on all consumables. The stupid meter will tell consumers–based on information stolen from their Facebook profile–how stupid they are for adhereing to the mantra: consume-to-survive. Or maybe not.

    Which brings me to this blog post.

    The other day when dip$hit #Trump said that the Germans were bad, very bad, for selling so many über-priced cars in #americant, I laughed. I didn’t laugh at the amount of cars #americants buy but instead at how Germans, once they read the headlines and then start looking in their Dudens and/or German > English translation books, will all get the translation wrong. German news is publishing #Trump’s bad as the German’s Böse. Among the great German words that translate multiple ways into English, Böse is one of them. Reason? Böse means not only bad but also evil. Which one it means all depends on how it’s used–or how you want your girlfriend to dress after you watch German porn. You know, context is everything.

    So. Did #Trump say Germany is evil or just bad? Gosh, since Trump likes to be peed on, I’m kinda hoping he said/meant both. And then he should finally try some German chicks after he’s done with #3 Malania. German chicks are a blast–and not because of their porn. But then again, they aren’t the happy-marrying type on account they don’t take much $hit from men. But if you need gaskets changed on your John Deere, or you need a place to park your car (see vid link above), or maybe you need a New York cheese cake to dine on before happy-time, they can almost do it all. But before I get too far off subject….

    Rant on.

    -t

    Links that motivated this post:

  • Never Unknow: There’s Always Someone Watching When You Pee Or Fighting The Collective You Didn’t Know You Joined

    cover getting along with the germans

    Update: holly-krapp-olly! I’ve since been informed that I seriously broke the law pissing on/near a German water plant the other day. If I would have been caught by a German policeman (instead of one of the policeman-in-a-policeman-in-a-policeman that make up Das Volk) I would be facing a heavy fine and possible jail time. Which means, I guess, an apology is warranted. So. Like. I’m sorry. And I won’t do it again. Otherwise, fuck you. You assholes should be paying me to live in this shithole that is a golden cage of a country. Alone the fact that I had a child here, which means I brought in some fresh blood to a place that is becoming more and more incestuous, and that I’m able to show you jerkwadds what humour is and now you make me feel bad because, at my age, it’s difficult holding my piss? Oh yeah, you’d rather see me piss my pants in public. You guys get a kick out of that shit. Oh fuck it. Fuck this place. Piss on all of you.

    This is almost a book review I’ve been meaning to do for years. But it’s still not quite there. Instead, let us, together dear worst-reader, have yet another review of what it’s like to live among the seedy Germanians. (“Seedy” being a term used by Ben Franklin when arguing against making German the official language of the newly independent colonies back in seventeen hundred and… whatever.)

    First. Remember at the beginning of the film Gladiator where the Romans are preparing for battle and waiting for the return of their carrier and all that shows up is a headless body on a horse? The scene cuts to a huge barbarian standing on a hill waving a man’s bodiless head. The barbarian throws the head to the ground where it bellows a hallow thump and then yells to his Roman counterparts:

    “Ihr verfluchte Hunde!“

    The barbarian is speaking a not-so distant form of German that basically translates thus:

    • You fcuking dogs
    • You dog fcuks
    • Fcuk you dogs
    • No thank you. We Germans are really not interested in being a slave colony of you stuck-up, half-African Romans who all think indigestion is a mating call that requires barfing before copulating. Have a nice day.

    I’m not quite sure why but two things have stuck with me since becoming an unwitting expat and–aghast!–part of a collective:

    1. Why couldn’t I have become an expat in California–which kinda makes sense because I’m from the mid-Atlantic coast of the US? No. Seriously. I’ve seen more of the US since moving to Europe/Germania in my mid-20s. During my travels I’ve concluded that there are more similarities between western Europe and the US east coast then there are similarities between the US east coast and the US west coast.
    2. There is no scarier thing in the world than a nation-state of peoples that all think the same, act the same, eat the same, birth the same, fcuk the same, drive the same, walk the same, speak the same, the same, the same, the same… the collective.

    No. Seriously. You wanna know the secret to success of the post WW2 Germans that Trump recently called “bad”? (Btw, I’ll avoid getting into the magic of debt cancellation that was the gist of the Marshall Plan.) It’s all about one thing and one thing only.

    Everybody is the same.

    It’s really that simple. There is no independent thought. There is no tolerance of others. There is no creativity. There is only the same, the same, the same. The thing that keeps the German from exploding is the simple fact that WW2 has pacified them to the point of no return. Also, add to that the shit-kids of Margot Honecker are now running the show. Thank you Angela Merkel. Anywho. That is why, as the rest of the world struggles with Trumpism, authoritarianism, austerity and keeping the rich richer, Germania, barbarians at heart, are still yelling at Roman overlords…

    You fucking dogs… Now: how can I serve you more white asparagus with Italian twenty-four month cured ham with a wondrous glass of Graubegründer? Oh. And before we rudely forget. Would you like to fcuk Heidi Klum?

    With that in mind, allow me, dear worst-reader, to cut to the chase. Obviously I’ll have to review the book “Getting Along With The Germans” another time. Till then, read it–if you can get it–and heed this pic:

    a policeman in every german

    There is indeed in EVERY German a fcuking policeman and within every German policeman is another German policeman waiting to German-come-out. And do you want to know how to get all those policeman out from deep within every German? Well, you can start by being a 54 year old man that has to pee a lot when going on long bike rides–and can’t find a place to do it.

    Yesterday, while taking a bike tour with my better half (who loves the way I talk about her homeland and her Germans), I had to go #1. (For those not in the know, that’s peeing; ask an anglophobe what #2 is.) My better-half was perturbed and said:

    We just got started. Why didn’t you go before we left?

    She’s right. But. The obvious problem is: I forgot to go before we left. And. The thing is. At my age and my physical demeanour, when/if I gotta go, I gotta fcuking go!

    Since I was familiar with the bike route we were on, I knew of a rather secluded corner where I could whip out the monster and help filter some man juice to the Rhine River. The problem though is that the day before was Ascension Day. Ascension Day is yet another mandated-by-law paid vacation day that always falls on a Thursday. That means that the day after (Ascension Day) is what’s known as a bridge-day. (It’s not known as Friday.) A bridge-day is a day that the collective usually takes a vacation day from the compulsion they call work or career. That means that there are double the amount of Germanians out enjoying–in this case–the great weather. It was indeed a rare beautiful day. There were a lot of fcuking Germans out and about. It was not a good time for me to screw up. But I had to go. I really had to go!

    So I find a secluded corner and do my bidness. But before I can get the monster back in my pants, I hear a male voice from a short distance behind me. I can’t remember exactly what he said–yeah, I’m kinda deaf when I’m focused on zippers and flesh and really, really tight, padded bicycling undergarments. When I finally turned around (yes, with my monster tucked away and zipper up) a German (a little bit smaller than the one throwing bodiless heads) was standing there preaching about the vulgarity of what I had just done.

    Ok. Now this isn’t the first time I’ve been confronted by the plain-clothes collective police. But this was the first time when the guy took his civil duties a bit too far. He started yelling and preaching and demanding and and and… The German language can sometimes be very scary! Without paying much attention to his words, I simply said:

    “You want to lutsch my Schwanz, you vixxer! Mind your own fcuking business.”

    He proceeded to explain to me that I was peeing on a fence that guarded the entrance to a part of a water plant… blah, blah, blah, achtung, dumbkopf, fahrvergnügen…

    Stupefied, I looked around. He was right. But it was a secluded fence. It was off in a corner at the end of a driveway. The fence was totally corroded with algae and other growth as though it hadn’t been used in a long, long time. By standing in the corner, facing the entrance there was no way to see me unless you put some effort into it. Welcome to Germany!

    I told him once again that he really should mind his own business but then I pulled back and realised that this type of confrontation can have no outcome. No. Wait. My better half told me that. Of course. And so. That is the main problem of a collective society where nothing gets done beyond the compulsion of what’s already been done and most individuals can’t find their way out of a collective wet paper bag–but at least they can afford to lease, on the taxpayer teat, lots of BMWs, Audis and Krautracers.

    But before I get into too many details about what I think of The Collective, for it was quite a vulgar display on my part (thank you very much!), the German put away his collective policeman and we both went about enjoying the sunny day. With that in mind, dear worst-reader, don’t worry about me. I’m already planning in my head where I can find another more quite and secluded place to piss on the Germania water supply.

    Rant on.

    -t

  • Conspiratorial Death Of The Eurasian Magpie That Brought Down My Cessna

    IMG_2377IMG_2379

    No. Seriously. I had this wild pre-dawn dream. I was in PHL with my wife. We were working together on an American TV show that had a deadline. I had to take a Cessna plane to MD in order to solve a problem in the TV show’s script. On the trip back to PHL the Cessna got caught in some kind of whirlwind and we had to make an emergency landing on a road on the outskirts of the city. Before I started running back to the office with the solution from MD, I told the pilot of the Cessna to figure out what was the cause of our having to make a premature landing. I was vehement about knowing why, with so much technology–and the ability to fly–I still had to run back to the office to make a deadline. I then I complained to the pilot about the “pool of sweat” I’d be in when I arrived and how it wouldn’t match my suit. Back in the office, after having trouble finding my way through a maze of stairways in the building, I solve the TV show’s problem but have lost track of my better-half. Then, suddenly, the pilot of the Cessna enters and shows me a picture he took with his phone. It’s a picture of a dead Eurasian Magpie in the middle of the road. The pilot proceeds to explain that the small bird was the cause of our Cessna landing early.

    Rant on.

    -t

  • A Sign For The Now, The Future And, Of Course, Profitable Ice Cream

    career choice ice cream truck driver

    Since I’m on a roll with translating today, here’s one more. Saw this truck this morning while walking Beckett, the Killer Pug, and couldn’t help but think of reality. So I snapped this pic. Indeed. Berufswunsch: Eiswagenfahrer. Translation: globalisation means that kids don’t need school but instead a driver’s license and maybe a few phonebooks to sit on. Then they can drive these trucks around and deliver ice cream at the cheapest wages ever. The ice cream company will be very profitable since the kid truck driver will have to be home so his mom can feed him and, of course, that’s where he’ll sleep, too. Indeed. If only the future could be now for corporations. Or is it already?

  • Excercise(s) In Translation: A Schlampe Is Not A Bitch. Or Is She?

    There are moments, dear worst-reader, where I love the German language. There are also moments when I don’t love it. But that’s not what this worst-post is about. Even though I’ve given up studying the language–because I reached a point many years ago where I not only would dream in it but I achieved such advanced forsight in it that I could read German facial expressions, German innuendo, German conspiracy-theory, etc., etc. German had become more than a second language to me. And that scared the living beejeezees out of me.

    The thing is/was, as an avid, willing and unabashed Ausländer (foreigner) that reached a high level of language understanding (even though I still can’t write in it), I came to realize that I was NEVER, NEVER, NEVER-ever gonna be… A GERMAN.

    And so.

    There are times/moments, for shits & giggles, I open my first edition, original paperback of Das Capital and give it another go. (That’s right. Wanna know what it is to be German? Read Marx.) It doesn’t take long before I’m once again frustrated–and not only at Capitalism and the families that own all German businesses–but at the fact that I would never, never, never-ever be… one of them. Nomatter what I read, nomatter where the language takes me, nomatter how many of its women I have, all I hear when Marx or a German news broadcaster or a German actor says anything, is this:

    Deutschland … Den … Deutschen … Ausländer … Raus!

    Germany is for Germans and foreigners should leave.

    With that in mind, it’s no wonder that I could barely save myself (from more shits & giggles) as Margot Honecker’s step-daugther, Angie Merkel, started letting refugees into Germany as though there’s no tomorrow. And don’t get me wrong, dear worst-reader. It’s not that I’m against helping others or helping those in need. War refugees, especially from wars-for-oil that the West has been fighting and profiting from since 9/11, do deserve our help. But what are these people supposed to do that come into Germany under such pretence? Wait. Do you see that can of worms I just opened, dear worst-reader?

    Nomatter.

    Not unlike the grandparents of North Africans that jumped the Colony-train and made their way to France, 21st century war-for-oil refugees will never integrate into German (European!) society. And before things get too out of hand with all this worst-writing, that lack of integration has nothing to do with religion. In white northern Europe (and white wannabe rest of Europe), dark skinned people are out of luck and out of power. That’s just the way it is. If I’ve learned anything since living the past quarter century in #eurowasteland, it’s how tribalism and racism can turn the collective into a fucking madhouse where the cheese and cured ham and white spargel in spring-time taste unbelievably delicious. Whooop-di-fucking-doo!

    But I’m off subject. Again.

    I wanted to worst-write today about the German language and not how the Germans so naively circumvent their world power by seperating their greed functioning economy from their greedier dysfunctioning a-social politics/society. Part of this discrepency lies within the German language. Ever heard the story that during America’s founding the founding fathers debated what the country’s standard language should be? Well, indeed, German was at the top of the list. But do you know why they didn’t/couldn’t pick German as America’s language? I think it was Ben Franklin that summed it up best.

    “Those Germans are seedy and their language makes them so.”

    -worst-writer paraphrse of Ben Franklin

    It’s no coincidence that Germans aren’t funny, btw. Their language just doesn’t allow humour–at least not without great effort on the part of any drunken audience. German, unless you understand  the context, can be very vague and imprecise–unless, of course, it’s used to build things, to govern things, to write Das Capital and thereby invent authoritarian communism. Oh yeah, and there’s Germans and their elbow-attached beer halls! But let’s not get too lingui-sticky here. (Linquistics and sticky? No? Move on.)

    Anywho. Let’s cut to the chase. Below are two screenshots from online news sources that I frequent. Here one can clearly see the confusion there is for those struggling to grasp the German language.

    nazi slut
    Typo correction, red-line, from moi.

    Still, although not funny, German can be fun. One of my favorite German words is Schwer. In English it means both difficult and heavy. Although that’s not a very fun German word, try this one: “Schlampe”. Now that’s a fun German word–especially after you’ve had so many German women, been married to them numerous times, you mother is one and, well, let’s face it, you’re a bit of masochist.

    The word Schlampe means many things in English. Here’s a short list:

    • Slut
    • Hussy
    • Trollip
    • The chick that has that “fuck me” look on her face
    • Hot but not marriage material
    • Untidy
    • Lazy
    • Gluttonous
    • Sloth (which I believe is where the word stems from as it was initially used by Indo-Germanic tribes as they hauled off their women by the hair into caves)
    • And last but not least: Sloppy

    nazi bitch wrong translation

    Indeed. One word can mean many things–depending on the context inwhich it is used. And so. With so many ways to translate something, I really, really hate it when the German language gets abused to the point where those NOT in the know mistranslate it and thereby spread misinformation–potentially hurting not only the language but human communcation.

    The one word that Schlampe does NOT translate to is: Bitch.

    Again. For posterity’s sake.

    A Schlampe is not a Bitch.

    Even in German… A Bitch is a Bitch. Woof. Woof.

    Or something like that.

    Rant on.

    -t

  • Curious As To What Things Are, Have Been, Could Be

    seed pod.jpg

    Photographed on a street somewhere in India. I have no idear what it is. Could it be one of them seed pods from Body Snatchers? Or perhaps it’s a leather case that houses the ersatz medication of an attempt to eugenically–or do I mean sexually–enhance an Ogre.

  • Fehler Fehler (Error x 2?)

    Technology at its best. Or maybe not. Wondering if Aldi-Talk (my lazy answer to rebelling against big German motherfcuker telecoms) has been infected by wcry. Serves them all right. Go hackers. Go luddites (who need a iPhone to get chicks). Or…

    No one wants my money.

    Rant on.

    -t

  • Upchucking Cherry Wizard Ants

    ants on a cherry

  • The Macabre And Bad Moods

    bird - no insides.jpg

    In Bangelore during our stint there last year I noticed two things. You can only find green grass where wealth lives. For some reason that green grass might be hostile to the natural order of things. Or. Maybe a cat got to this bird.

    Rant on.

    t

  • Who You Pay When The Customs Agent Comes With Rhino Horn Powder

    Dead Rat.jpg
    Rat. Not an endangered species. Ever wonder why? They’re so much like humans.

    Having a bad day. This is a NSFW post.

    No. Seriously, dear worst-reader. Just a few moments ago I almost got into a fist fight with a German customs agent. Ok, well, maybe not a fist fight. So let me set this up.

    Taking Beckett, the killer pug, for his afternoon waste-my-time walk, we come across a few street tents. As we got closer we could slowly see what was under those street tents. Whoopi! It was be-green day, save the world day. There were tents for the prevention of wearing fur, cruelty against animals and my favourite: German customs agents were informing the riffraff, i.e. the public, about what NOT to bring in the country after they go on their get up earlier than anybody to preserve your beach chair collective-state vacations.

    On the tables under the customs agents tent were examples of the various contraband that has been confiscated at Düsseldorf Airport. There was a crocodile Dundee hat. That’s right. A real croc hat made out of real croc leather–lined with croc teeth. There were sea horses in a glass casing–that looked as though someone might have painted over them to make them look like toys. In a glass vodka bottle was a preserved (I’m assuming it was formaldehyde) cobra. Could there once have been vodka in that bottle and it was owned by a Russian oligarch who was flying through Germany after visiting Botswana? Then there was my favourite. Smack dab in the middle of one of the tables was a rhinoceros horn. Wait. rhinoceros horns. Plural. I think. And I don’t mean just the tip of the horn(s). It was a horn from one of them rhinos that has two horns. The whole of the skull of the rhino was still attached to the horn(s). It was fucking gross. And that’s when everything started to get queazy for me. There were hundreds of examples of once live animals that the riffraff tried to import into Germany–illegally. Boo-fuckin’-who, eh! Barf!

    But here’s the thing. I fucking hate these pretentious motherfuckers who go out on the streets and try to convince people to join their little bandwagon of nitwits–and thereby never actually making it clear as to the reality behind nation-state customs officiality. (That’s just another worst-word that almost combines reality-tv with official. Or maybe not.) So I turned to one of the customs officials and proceeded to attempt (at having) a provocative conversation about officiality. All the while I was on the verge of throwing up my guts and slapping someone silly.

    Moi: Why is it illegal to bring this stuff into the country? Most of these animals are already dead when the vacationing riffraff buy them. They are, in effect, trinkets sold by very, very, very poor people who would otherwise have nothing else–except what all poor people have–namely the inability to feed their idiotic offspring. What’s the harm in that?

    Customs official: (narrowly translated to English for the hearing impaired) It’s illegal.

    Moi: Oh really, Opa! What an ingenious answer. Did you hear my fucking question?

    Customs official: It’s illegal. Duh.

    Moi: Yes. I understand that. But why?

    Custom official: Germany make law. Illegal. Ugh, ugh, ugh.

    Moi: Yes, my Germanish ape friend. I get that. But have you ever thought about the reason for such a law? Who does it really serve?

    Customers official: In Germany illegal…

    I gave up on the conversation not because I was talking to an ape but because Germans were starting to stand around me, they were starting to hone in on the foreigner who might in some way disrespect the(ir) collective. Run for the hills indeed, the pitch forks are being dusted off.

    And that fucking set of rhino horns was ringing dollar signs in the back of my head. It was the only thing preventing me from throwing up all over the place. If only I could get my hands on them horns. I could sell them, you know. I would make enough to get the fuck out of collective land, out of #eurowasteland, out of my gold cage. And then I would go to fucking Thailand and eat baby seahorses while strangling fucking whales the Japanese are not longer allowed to hunt (in open oceans).

    (Gently close can of worms now.)

    Don’t get me wrong, dear worst-reader. I’m fucking with you. And. I know that there is exploitation in the world. I know that there are endangered species out there that need protection. But here’s what gets under my gander with all these pretentious wannabe fucks that think they are saving this fucking rathole that we call earth by protesting something that does nothing but help feed really, really poor people–and, of course, keep them poor, as well.

    Customs officiliaty today should serve to protect the poor of other countries as much as it protects the rich of its own country. Bingo!

    If the German corporate state wouldn’t pump so much cash into China so that a few fucking perverts who own all that cheap labour can build Audis that make German stockholders more money, then maybe they wouldn’t have enough cash to buy fucking rhinoceros horns for their perverted sex activities after they grind them up into powder and snort that shit away as though camels shit roses and and and…

    Oh wait. You didn’t know that rich Chinese fucks grind down rhino horns into powder and then snort the powder before having sex with slave girls?

    Oh sorry.

    Now go buy another fucking Audi.

    Rant on.

    -t

  • Time To Celebrate Europe With French Vote? Not. Time For Some Lily Livered Lefties.

    FDR Stahlin Churchill

    What has #eurowasteland done for you lately, dear worst-reader? Well, the answer is simple. Nothing. Or. Put another way. At least it hasn’t given us another fcuking world war.

    It behooves me to say something about recent farcical election in France–that so many are comparing to the recent farcical election of my beloved #americant but because of the results consider France’s a godsend. The problem for these and all current iterations of the acts of democracy is that Macron’s election is nothing if not a win for the status quo, i.e. political conservatism. That’s not to say that I was rooting for Le Pen. It’s just that, if anyone actually believes that Macron is gonna do anything to deal with what’s going on in Europe (the entire western world) right now… Come on.

    As I noted in one of my previous worst-posts, I love France. Even though I live in the Germania partition of the joke that is #eurowasteland, France is my true love. Humanity owes a great debt to France becuase of what it did to useless eating monarchs. And let me not get started on monarchs! The fact that they are still around… And so. Here’s the thing about the sodom & gamorrah that we live in today:

    Why is it when the down cylce of capitalism reaches this point, as it inevitably always does, there’s only one example in (our) history of (political) liberalism winning over conservatism to come out and save the day?

    According to the krapp I’ve read about our history, that is, the result of the history that has made this greed-suck-world we are all forced to live in, only FDR stands out as an example of someone who saved the day? That’s right, dear worst-reader. FDR, who was not necassarily a liberal politician, realised during the great depression that there was only one way to fix things. Tax the fcuking rich! Ok. Ok. Did he stop America from entering the European war theatre? No. But, again, he taxed the fcuking rich and told them:

    If you don’t pay they will come. They are standing outside your (rich) door right now with pitch forks and guillotines. They carry with them communism, socialism, the collective society that you and your faux newz fantasy despise. And if you let them win by gauging them of every last drop of their labor, you’re doomed–perhaps not unlike King Louis. And so my fellow rich brethren of European lore…

    Indeed. FDR saved capitalism from the threat it had become (to itself). Of course, to payback the children of the capitalists that lost because of their game that culminated in The Great Depression, FDR graciously won WW2 and thereby supplanted Europe as a world power. By-the-bye, the children and grand-children of those loser capitalists are still running my beloved #americant today. Yeah, baby. We have become what we defeat–and then some.

    Which brings me to this worst-post’s worst-question: whether it’s in my beloved US with comb-over-chief #Trump or the joke-island of Brexit, why is it that the movers & shakers of politics now ALL come from the extreme right of the political spectrum?

    Link that motivated this post:

    Rant on.

    -t