My scheduled appointment was at 10am. I arrived at the vaccination centre and 9:56am. Although traffic cones by the thousands were prestigiously aligned, most certainly capable of guiding hundreds if not thousands of cars, there was no vaccinations being given in cars. In fact, the only cars there were those parked at reserved spaces. So we drove up to the entrance of the old concert hall. A concert hall, btw, where I saw Judas Priest back in the day (forty years ago, perhaps). Turns out that the authorities had changed the office-hours for that days vaccines. It wasn’t open till noon. Bummer, I thought. If only they would have told me that earlier I wouldn’t have put all the effort into driving the 40miles to get their on-time. Heck, they even sent me a reminder the night before–I guess to make sure as best they could that I would show up to get the shot. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, there really are #Americants that refuse to get vaccinated. As simple minded as that sounds, I suppose for any admirer of #Americants past, you know, where it actually did things and built things and maybe, just maybe, fought wars that had some semblance of merit… But I digress.
Turns out while I was killing the two hours instead of driving back home that I finally gave an earnest look at the previous reminder email I had received. And guess what, dear worst-reader? I screwed up. At the bottom of the reminder email they had actually included a new appointment time. So it’s all on me that I wasted the morning. That worst-said, the two hours went by pretty fast as I drove around Salisbury, which I hadn’t done in at least ten years. But I won’t bore you with that.
When I returned to the vaccination centre two hours later things were hopping. Although clearly under capacity, I was somewhat relieved that people were getting vaccinated at all. And since I was at the Pfizer facility, which only recently had been approved for young people, it was nice to see the youth was there en masse getting their shots. Indeed, dear worst-reader. All the newz about how #Americants and their misconstrued skepticisms could actually prevent if not delay the eradication of this obnoxious disease really turns my pickle back into a cucumber. But let’s not go there.
Needless to say I got my first shot with ease and it couldn’t have been easier. With that in mind, does this mean that I might have to consider alternative nomenclature for my beloved & missed #Americant for the success of making this available? Does the success of vaccinations–at least for those willing to get vaccinated–warrant perhaps going back to calling HER America? Now. Now. Calm the fcuk down, baby. Let’s not get out of hand. Instead, let’s wait things out. Let’s give it all a bit more time. I mean. Who knows what these MRNA thingies are doing with me right this sec as I worst-type these words. Even though I’ve felt nothing since receiving my shot, things could be happening behind the scenes. My cells might be changing and dancing more. My DNA could be adapting–or not–better forms of anti-body-cells and whatnot. Are my brain cells swelling to where I might actually and voluntarily watch faux newz? I think not. And with that in worst-mind, it’s approaching that hour where I must cope with jet-lag. So too does my beloved & missed #Americant for which I’m grateful that I could get a shot in the arm today.
Rant on.
-T
PS No pictures allowed on the entire grounds of the vaccination site.
Have to admit something, dear worst-reader. I was a bit nervous about my first flight in so long. And then there’s that silly (sarcasm) COVID thingy. Of course, after getting tested negative, the only thing left was to actually get through with it. Yeah, it’s worst-true. I thought once or thrice about cancelling the whole thing. But family does call–especially when one has a rather rampant if not rabid family. Anywho. So I had to rush off with a rash decision to travel the high skies during the worst pandemic in a hundred years. With that in worst-mind, all is not lost and it’s time to appreciate the little things in life. For example. The couple sitting in front of me in economy class had booked the higher priced economy seats where you can stretch your legs. When the cabin crew announced that bording was complete they both got up and occupied two empty centre rows so they could sleep the eight or so hours to the east coast of #Americant. That’s when I jumped up and asked if they’d mind that I took the seats they were vacating. Before you know it, I was cheeping out like a mobster, baby. Beyond that, I heard one of the cabin crew say that the entire economy cabin of an Airbus A300-300 had 57 passengers. It was most certainly the emptiest Lufthansa flight of my life. With that in mind, hats off to the cabin and crew and the airport workers and the ghosts that occupy the skies between #Americant and #Eurowasteland. And. By-the-buy. If it weren’t for the requirement of mask wearing through out the entire flight, LH418 on May 9, 2021 would have been just a touch niftier. And so goes the cheep-o life of a loser-writer, baby. Yeah. It’s all about lucking-out for the little leg stretching things. Or maybe not.
Mega empty terminal. Or did I just snap the picture at the right moment of terminal emptiness? #Nomatter. As usual I’m an early bird kinda traveler. Since this is my first flight in 1.5yrs and there’s all these extra precautions and protocols to confuse me and and and… say, how is it that this world ever functioned? Oh wait. This is worst-writer. My pseudonym is dysfunction. And on that worst-note. Even though I snapped the pic at the right empty moment, I’m surprised how much traffic there is in Frankfurt. It’s certainly not the bustle of the past but things/people are flying.
And with this I can board an airplane that will most definitely be pointed in the direction of my beloved & missed United Mistakes. And so it shall be… in a few hours.
It’s the first time, since I can remember, dear worst-reader, that I’ve gone more than a year without visiting the country where I was reared, raised, braised and ruined. But that’s what love is all about, eh? #Nomatter. On this quest to find the home that I will have to (eventually) leave again, here’s a few things I take with me for $hits & giggles. Nothing like fresh Haribos, baby–from the source. Of course.. This is the first batch. Getting my Mom some German (European) coffee tomorrow. Thank goodness I could afford to pay the extra amount for the airplane fare that allows me to 1) check in luggage and 2) luggage that may or may not weigh 25kg. Oh. Shame I didn’t take better care with the pic. Under the Haribos is a box of chocolate for Mothers Day.
Well, there you have it. After a year and a half of quarantine and only touching my direct family in the confines of two households, it’s my first PCR test. Reason? Not what you think. Instead. Worst-Writer is flying home on Sunday—to enter a third household—and like anyone else flying I have to be negative. Everyone in my family has already received all their shots (back home). And get this, baby. Worst-writer has an appointment next Tuesday for my first shot. And it’ll be Pfizer, don’t you know. Looking forward to MRNA entering my system. For, again, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, worst-writer can certainly use a bit of DNA mutilation—or whatever conspiracy BS it is #covidiots have put in their tattered minds. And so. Most certainly looking forward to whacked out micro stuff doing its science. (Sarcasm on/off.)
Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. Worst-writer has owned an e-bike since 2017. I’ve also been an avid cyclist since (about) 2007. As an e-bike consume-to-survivor, though, there’s often a bit of here and there about the industry that kinda gets under my skin. A few recent articles and a YouTube video have woken up the issue(s) once more. You know. As in. It’s good to be constantly reminded of the krapp that pisses me off. So let’s go there, shall we?
Things that piss off worst-rider:
Just like the (regular) bike industry, I hate the fact that the e-bike industry went from expensive to stupid-expensive in, like, no time.
I bought my first e-bike at the end of 2016 and had to wait till May of 2017 for it to be delivered. WTF!
I paid €4300 for a bike that only three years later costs €6k. WTF!
I have yet to find a half-decent e-bike shop that isn’t hell-bent on ripping me off just like the car industry when it comes to service
Example. A basic tune-up for my e-bike after every (# of miles) cost at least €250,-. WTFF!
I’ve since resorted to servicing my e-bike on my own (and luckily it’s all gone pretty well)
Government regulation of e-bikes is beyond stupid but, unlike regular bike regulation, at least there’s a precedent on how one could regulate e-bikes
Hint: regulate e-bikes like you regulate cars. Moving on.
In Germany, pedalec e-bikes (no throttle) are regulated to 25km/h (ca 15mph), which is what I have–and I’m perfectly fine with it. Anything above that speed and up to 45km/h (ca 28mph) is regulated like a moped. That means, even if a 45km/h bike is pedal-assist, you are prohibited from using bikes lanes and/or bike paths–which equates to literally competing with cars while peddling a bicycle. Then there’s the issue that the faster e-bikes also are required to be registered with license plates and insurance, you also have to wear a helmet, and the bikes are required to have rear-view mirrors and brake lights. Moving on.
The things is this, dear worst-reader. Why is that government folk are not only slow but utterly out-gunned (intellectually) when it comes to regulating things? I mean. I’m totally happy with a 25km/h pedalec e-bike. In fact, my wife and I gave up owning a second car for our e-bikes and we have never regretted it. The only time I use our car is when the weather is so extreme that it makes shopping errands unbearable. And now. Let me get on to the gist of what this worst-post is supposed to be about.
There are two links in this worst-post. The first is the video above. I’ve been a fan of NYC Propel bikes for some time. Chris has done a great job with his channel, too. This particular video highlights exactly what I’ve alluded to in this blog when it comes to the ills and irks of e-biking. With that in mind, though, there’s also the opposite of the goodness that Chris espouses. Which brings me to the link below.
For whatever reason the folks at The Verge are a bit confused when it comes to e-bike regulations. I mean. Don’t get me wrong. The article is acceptable as a review of the Stromer ST2 series of e-bikes. I am a big fan of rear-hub e-bikes, too–even though I own a mid-motor e-bike. In fact, I’d be the owner of a rear hub e-bike such as the one featured in the article below if it weren’t for the one-sided and slightly skewed mindset of the manufacturer–which is something that the somewhat skewed attitude of the article author misses. Then again, what can one expect from #Americants who ALL seem to be so indoctrinated when it comes to government this or government that that they may miss the entirety of the ($hit)show. But before I get to lost in worst-writing.
My point is this. What the guy at The Verge misses is the fact that I would gladly own–even pay the Apple-like–price for a Stromer e-bike if the manufacturer would wake up to the reality of EU regulations–and not just stand against them. It makes no since to me that a company like Stromer would so willingly disregard said regulations simply because, well, I don’t why they don’t offer a 25km/h version of their e-bikes. Heck, I’m sure they could just offer such a version by fiddling with their software. Again. I mean. Say what you will about stringent EU regulations and in most cases they do suck. But then again, ride an e-bike around any major European city on a sunny weekend. You’ll be glad that there are regulations. Anywho.
I’ve lost my way in this worst-post. Hopefully I won’t lose my way on my afternoon ride.
Another dream worth transcribing, dear worst-reader? Not sure. But let’s go with it anywho.
I am a court jester, a janitor’s fool, some wife’s bathroom cleaner. But I am also a professional boxing referee stuck in a loop transaction of a match inside said ring. And here’s the thing that could make this interesting. No matter what I am in the ring, no matter what fight takes place, the ring always changes at the behest of the wife. That is. If the wife is fighting about my cleaning skills or lack thereof then the boxing ring is a bathroom. If the wife is complaining about my cooking then the boxing ring is a kitchen. Etc., etc. But here’s the other thing. While the situation plays out with the wife there is a real boxing match going on in the ring. So. Let’s say. I’m fighting with the wife while out on date-night. The boxing ring becomes a fancy-pants restaurant with waiters, cooking smells and candles, consumed bottles of wine–plus we are surrounded by large sweaty men throwing punches at each other which leads to bursting cheeks and slow-mo visions of flesh being crushed against bone. And while the wife is complaining and complaining and complaining I’m refereeing the match. All the while other boxers are, let’s say, somewhat perturbed with my referee skills as they too complain that the current match is taking too long. Just as one of the fighters falls to the matt after a hard right hook, he looks at me and complains, literally emulating the wife. As banal as this all may sound, dear worst-reader, there is a glitch in the matrix (excuse the pun) and we are all suddenly propelled to another boxing ring scenario. The glitch occurs when the wife takes on that I’d punch you in the face if I were man look when I turn around to find not just two but a dozen or so massive heavy weight fighters in the middle of a grocery store boxing ring. All of these fighters are fighting with each other thereby exchanging punch after punch. And note this, dear worst-reader, these aren’t trivial cartoon punches. These are, indeed, massive blows causing devastating damage to jaws, kidneys, ribs, etc. While blood and sweat spurts around the grocery store boxing ring I find myself standing at the entry way watching/listening to my wife who is in the middle of the battle. And guess what I see when I turn away to get some relief by looking outside? You know. That look every man has when he’s fed up, when he can take no more, when his Woyzeck kneels by his punched-out girlfriend, pulling the knife out from underneath his jacket. I see in the streets, outside the grocery store boxing ring, the town of this or that #Americant where really, really STUPID people are running on both sides of Politic Street. The one side is full of dumb-ass Republicans, don’t you know. The other side is full of smart-ass Dems. And both sides are wielding their weapons. I, the referee, am now watching it all from the middle of the street which has become my boxing ring. And as the two sides begin shooting–not unlike those who shoot and shoot and shoot from my previous post–I feel the bullets of #Americant go right threw me albeit filled with the yelling and screaming and angry voice of wives and girlfriends stabbed by the love they all think they’ve wasted on men. And then it all ends with a zap of the mind and risk of George Büchner’s lost pen and I’m no longer a boxing referee but instead a bystander in the war of life, liberty and the FREEDOM TO BE STUPID. The bullets flying from one side to the other go through me like the eyes of all loves lost. As I fall to the ground the dream ends and I wake up to… this.
Same sweater, different film? One is Body Snatchers and the other Animal House. Actresses? Not at all the same. (Sarcasm off.)
Alternate worst-title: Back in the day you could play musical cars (as in: musical chairs) at a great drive-in movie.
Disclaimer: this worst-post contains spoiler alerts for an old movie and may (or may not) be NSFW.
Back in the day, dear worst-reader, when I was still tuned in to TV, as in, you know, when I actually watched network or cable TV or even went to the cinema, I remember watching, for the third or fourth time Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Not the original, don’t you know. I’ve always preferred the 1978 version–the best version. One of the things I remember about that particular viewing–other than I had to watch it in German–was that I had also re-seen a bunch of other–let’s call them–70s dystopian thrillers around the same time. I don’t know what the issue was that caused me to watch so many old movies that may or may not be about American dystopia but let’s rack it up to Germany finding ways to allocate nighttime TV programming to the masses and/or bodies not finding better ways to sleep through the night.
The thing is. I had just moved to Germany and, even though I didn’t have a TV in my little flat, having often hooked up–you know, in that forever search for –what do girls call it?–love–everyone I met did have a TV. So. Between flirting, conjugating, waking up in the middle of the night to piss and/or continue with her, I watched whatever late night movie (on her cheap couch) that was available and when things were really good I even got some really great head until we both fell asleep, she in a warm cum soaked lap, and me with my head blown out the rear.
Anywho.
It took till my expatriation in Germania that I finally started to grasp the meaning of #Americant dystopian thrillers like Soylent Green, Logan’s Run, Planet of the Apes, Mickey Mouse Takes Paris, etc. No. Seriously. I saw these films while in a drunken stupor, high on fresh-flesh and within my first year of living in consume-to-survive #Eurowasteland. Of course, the one film that stood out, because I had already seen it a number of times, was Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Yeah. During my youth and college days Invasion of the Body Snatchers was shown on some channel late at night or at some cheap cinema here or there. And why not? What a great movie, eh, dear worst-reader! And as far as my experience with the movie goes, there is something aphrodisiac about sci-fi dystopian horror thrillers–and chicks on the run or, at the least, Looking for Mr. Goodbar. But on that note, I probably should (but won’t) die-gress.
Flash to now. That’s right. I re-watched Invasion of the Body Snatchers the other night for the first time in about thirty years. Keep in mind, even though I have a fairly large ripped movie library–which I try to populate with old movies when I come across second-hand DVDs–I do not have Invasion of the Body Snatchers. And so. While arguing with my little family about what movie to watch on Easter Sunday evening, I managed to win the fight. And get this. Just like so many times before, I was enamoured with this movie–as though I had seen it for the first time. I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. When everybody had to get up and take a pee or fill their wine glass–it is a two hour film–I remained silent and in awe, transfixed on the paused screen image of Donald Sutherland, Brooke Adams, the cinematography, Spock! I can’t say enough good things about this movie, dear worst-reader. I mean. Is it me or should this movie be up there with Citizen Kane, The Third Man, Casablanca, Austin Powers? Okay. Ok. Forget that with Austin Powers. Just kidding.
What is it about these old movies that makes them so good? Is it the lack of CGI? Is it the mix of brilliant acting, direction and editing? Or is it the times? You know. As in. Man-o-man am I sick of high budget comic book movies that I’ve had to watch over the past twenty or so years. Or. Didn’t all that bull$hit about conspiracy theory really get its mojo on during the 1970s and no one can deal with it today–in movies? Hence, all the comic book movies with über-huge budgets that don’t really have much to say. Am I wrong.
For those worst-reading this but also born on or around the millennium, the 1970s were the f’n bomb in #Americant when it comes to two things. First. Oil. Yeah. Oil was scarce–or at least they (THEY!) made it out to be scarce. And second. Movies–on the whole–kinda sucked. But let me not get too much on about sucky movies from the 1970s. Smokey and the Bandit anyone? On the other hand, one of the reasons some older movies are so much better than newer ones is because, well, the newer ones have nothing new to say. Again. Am I wrong.
While I’m on the subject…
Everything that is $hitty today, as in, Republicans, greed-mongering old people, über-stupid graduating from college and fail-upwards-ness being the new career mantra, that whole mess started in the 1970s. Seriously. It did. For. Don’t you know, dear worst-reader, the high and the party and the fun-fun of post WW2 was over by the 1970s. Indeed. The 1970s was about no-fun, the re-establishment of patriarchy (as men began their fight in earnest against feminism) and, of course, making $$$$ at any cost. It’s no coincidence that the 1970s lead to the election of a two-bit actor who’s best role was hiding all his personal hate and greed and racism and white supremacy, which he learned by-the-buy from his adopted state of California and the career that did not choose him: acting. Again. For those not in the know. If the 1970s weren’t as fcuked up as they were, there might not have been a Ronald dip$hit Reagan. But on that note I must die-gress.
Which brings me back to the topic at hand. I re-watched Invasion of the Body Snatchers the other night and was just as tickled as the first time I saw it. Well, almost just as tickled. Reason? Boy does this movie bring back memories. And I mean worst-writer memories, baby. Are you ready?
I was in my late teens when I first saw Invasion of the Body Snatchers, which was right around when it was released. And, although I was afeared more of suspense than of horror, this movie subverted all that on account, as I was to be told, it was more of a… And this was the first time I had ever heard such nomenclature before. This movie was not a horror movie. It was not a sci-fi invasion movie either. It was a… dystopian thriller.
Seventeen year old worst-moi said at the time:
A what?
Two things happened that coincided with the first time I saw Invasion of the Body Snatchers. First. It didn’t scare me. But it did thrill me. Second. I think this movie was a wake-up call. Indeed. It was my wake up call to digging the idear of the dystopia I was living in. At least that’s what she called it. It was also a movie that could be viewed in various states of mind without which you don’t have to shut off your brain. Get my drift, dear worst-reader? No? Wait. Cancel that. Let me move on.
Everyone called her Beka. That was short for Rebeka Tabatha Short. Beka was my first older woman. Although years later I kinda knew she was lying about her age, at the time she told me she was thirty four. (She was at least thirty-nine, eh.) Of course, I didn’t care how old she was. Reason? She could suck a golf ball through ten feet of garden hose–and she could do it ten times a day, no matter when, no matter where.
Beka was the assistant manager of a fitness club I worked at and she was also a licensed masseuse. For those not in the worst-know, I worked two jobs to save up money for college back then. The first was tending bar in Washington, DC. That was my night job. My second job was at a kinda uppity fitness club just south of the city where a lot of really, really, really expensive upper middle class women were trying to keep their product in order. But that’s not the reason I worked there. I worked there because it paid well above minimum wage–and all I had to do for that was dance around a room providing MILFs aerobic excercise. Anywho.
Becka lived in DC only a few blocks from the restaurant where I tended bar at night. Because I was all into saving money at the time, I would drive to the fitness club, park my car, work my shift, and if our schedules worked out, Becka would take me to my night time job saving me the gas money. When I finished there she allowed me to stay on her couch till the morning when she would drive me back to the fitness club. This relationship went on for about six months. Of course, only after a short initial period, I no longer stayed on her couch. Unless a late night movie caught us.
We watched a lot of late night movies. The movies we watched were the really old ones, too. Most were also black & white movies. You know, Frankenstein, Dracula, Creature From The Black Lagoon, etc. But then, one day, after a Sunday shift we worked together but I wasn’t scheduled to work that night at the bar, she asked if I’d like to join her and some friends and go to a drive-in. She even added that it was her treat. I agreed but made it clear that she would still need to bring me back to my car in the morning. She smiled and winked. I then joined her and a few other people/couples in various cars and we went to a drive-in cinema to watch the recently released Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
That evening I learned three things. Beka was a divorcee and her former husband was a great guy and he loved movies and he was there with a new date. The second thing I learned was that I could come four times in two hours at the behest of three different women, who went from car to car, and all I had to do was stay in the back seat of one car. The third thing I learned is that after a movie, when smart people think about it, they can come up with some pretty interesting words to label it. As in. Everyone from the group that I was with that night agreed that Invasion of the Body Snatchers is not a horror movie, nor is it a sci-fi movie, but it is a criticism of where America is going: it is a movie about (our) dystopia.
But enough about worst-writer’s history of cheap love affairs and/or (intellectual) seeds that would lead to the tree of my expatriation. Or. Am I wrong.
Since, dear worst-reader, you’re obviously here for whatever else I learned from my various viewings of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, here are a few issues that stand out for me, even after this most recent viewing:
How can anyone sympathise with Americans being turned by alien gel-icky into automatons when a city bureaucrat opens the movie (Matthew Bennell/Donald Sutherland) with a nasty control/authoritarian schtick saying it’s not a caper it’s a rat turd and thereby terrorising a San Francisco French restaurant?
How is it that Elizabeth Driscoll/Brooke Adams is able to bring home an alien flower that ONLY infects her fiancé when they both sleep at the same time, in the same bed?
Why is it that the only malfunction of the pods came when the so-called hero of the movie kicked the pod that was next to the homeless guy who played the banjo and had a nice boxer (dog) as a pet, i.e. the dog with the human face?
Was it really necessary to have Robert Duvall play a Catholic priest on a swing at a playground full of kids? Oh wait. It was the 70s. They could get away with it back then!
At the end of the movie, the moment where Donald Sutherland is shown to be one of them, is it possible that he isn’t but is acting like one in order to save his own skin?
Leonard Nimoy is a great actor.
Finally. Did Donald Sutherland wear the same sweater in two movies? I mean, he did film Animal House around the same time. (See pics above.)
Actually. The (other) truth is. And I don’t mean this to toot my own horn any louder than I already do in this worst-blog, but on the/my first viewing of this movie I ended up that night with my first older girlfriend coming a fourth time after her former husband dropped us off at her place. That’s also when I first learned the word insatiable, swinging and there’s no such thing as jealously if there need not be. Oh. And if you’re ever at a drive-in and you see girls moving from one car to the other, you now know why.
Alternate worst-title: #Trump, Roger Stone, Matt Gaetz and the man-child $hit$how that is the bottom trolling of #Americant with a bit from Oliver Stone’s JFK.
Disclaimer: this post is NSFW.
Sometimes, dear worst-reader, the waters recede enough and the bottom is revealed. And what a bottom it is, eh. But does that mean you finally know why a man’s underwear is brown in the back, yellow in the front and red in-between? No. Perhaps it does not. Or. Perhaps we should stick with bottom trolling metaphors instead of dirty man underwear–which in and of itself is better than swamp-talk. This may or may not also be true (relevant) when it comes to facing your devils by having coercive carnal knowledge with a man as he turns around to give you a better view of what it is you’re about to… Indeed.
Since the election of prez piss-hair in 2016, including the reveal of his golden showers in a Moscow hotel, a scene and/or character development from Oliver Stone’s brilliant movie JFK has lingered in my worst-mind. This scene, as far as worst-writer is concerned, is a huge tell-all about what’s just below the surface of greed-mongering #Americant–that can and must lead to the likes of #Trump, #MAGA, tea-party, etc. Perhaps you remember the scene, dear worst-reader. It is the scene where Clay Shaw, David Ferrie and Wille O’Keefe role-play as Greek gods in a drug-infused gay orgy. No? Don’t remember that scene? Ok. Let’s go there, shall we.
Source: screenshot from the interwebnets of the film JFK
In Oliver Stone’s JFK, Clay Shaw is being interviewed by Jim Garrison. Shaw is a prominent New Orleans business man. During this interview Oliver Stone utilises flashbacks in order to depict the private life of Shaw. These flashbacks show Shaw’s homosexuality and his New Orleans, French Quarter lifestyle. Included in the debauchery is David Ferrie and Willie O’Keefe. Now, from what I recall about this movie, it is important to note that the character of Willie O’Keefe is the only made-up character in the movie. That is, Shaw and Ferrie actually existed and were part of the (real) Jim Garrison investigation. Which begs worst-writer’s question: why does Oliver Stone have to make-up O’Keefe for the development of the Clay Shaw character? Or. Perhaps. A better question to ask is: why do we have to split hairs on whether or not #Trump likes to watch girls pee or if he prefers having them pee on him? But I die-gress.
Here’s where we get into a bit of the reveal which is my beloved & missed #Americant. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, there is a bottom below the surface that is always yearning to be revealed. Or is it? It is an ugly bottom, don’t you know. It is also a disgusting bottom. A bottom of ill repute and vile and it is full of the waste of man-children never allowed to grow-up and out of the confines of their equally disgusting parentage, especially their fathers and mothers. (Insert redundancy laugh here.) And as much as #Americant would like to keep that bottom covered, hidden, out of sight, there are times when it must be revealed, i.e. the reveal. What better way to reveal such a reality than by the magic of Hollywood–or the antics of right-wing, $hitbag politicians that have never-ever had an original thought (check out video link below)? Also. Perhaps the control of this reveal is the greatest achievement that is the social and cultural experiment of #Americant–and its über, pseudo-fascist government. I mean. We see the disgust and vile in other countries. Yet somehow the red, white and blue has covered our vile for most of our history. Or has it?
American flag stained
The reason Oliver Stone had to insert a bit of his own interpretation of #Americant history, with the advent of the Willie O’Keefe character, is simple. How does one reveal what’s below the surface when people are incapable of looking at it as it is revealed? I mean. Certain realities simply need NOT be made obvious. Or? Is this not especially true of sexuality? Is this not especially true of (any) country that is obsessed with sex–as a commodity? This is where Oliver Stones’ script for JFK is fcuking brilliant. By portraying not only the activities of characters that operate underneath the surface of #Americant and, hence, conspired to murder Kennedy, the great weakness of righteousness that simply wanted to find the perpetrators of a crime, is also revealed. Namely, that righteousness is embodied in Jim Garrison who, it is said, was obsessed with Clay Shaw because Shaw was so blatantly homosexual–and patriotic. Actually, dear worst-reader, homo need not be used here. Sex is the only thing worth mentioning. Well, that and money and power. Moving on.
The great Clinton and his blue dress. Source: interwebnet screenshot.
Which brings me to Matt Gaetz, Roger Stone and, of course, former prez piss-hair. How would you like your sex scandal served? You know, served so that it maintains your power? How about a little bit from the mud from the bottom of the river, just below the lake, where troll ships dig up rotting carcasses to feed the many and the needy that is the $hit$how of greed. Or. How ’bout this. Since the likes of Matt Gaetz is pretty common place in this new post prez piss-hair right-wing Republican Party, how should one go about taking down his (her?) enemies? Indeed. Could it be that the whole Gaetz scandal has come about because, well, Gaetz was too stupid in how he was trying to take down fellow republicans that wouldn’t support prez piss-hair? Remember, this young, spoiled-rotten, Florida privilege-boy went around the floor of the House of Representatives showing-off pictures of naked girls for sale. You mean, to actually sell them? Or was he simply trying to set someone up? Sound familiar? Wasn’t that Jeffrey Epstein’s entire game, as in, setting up rich and powerful men with young women in order to extort from them? Hence, Gaetz’s loud claim of how he’s being extorted? Freudian Projection anyone? Moving on.
Source: screenshot of Geatz with Roger Stone from Reddit
The recent scandal of Florida House of Representative Matt Gaetz is causing me to bust a gut laughing, dear worst-reader. Reason? Can this stuff actually be written? You know, as in, written down for a film or a play or a novel? At this point in my worst-contemplation, I’m actually wondering if Gaetz has licked the knob of Roger Stone? I mean. Roger Stone, Jeffrey Epstein, #Trump, etc. Are all present? Or. Perhaps. At the behest of Roger Stone perhaps Gaetz has had carnal relations with Stone’s dead mother–in order to make sure you know who/what owns you? Does #Trump consider that entertainment, too? Or do you doubt that the likes of Roger Stone has the corpse of his dead mother tucked under a sheet in the bed he shares with his wife and other confederates? If you have a good look at Gaetz’s face, which kinda reminds me of Beavis, could there be a greater duschbag face that a world of rational people would want to punch? Also. Could it get more obvious how #Americant and it’s self-anointed, meritless class structure–which can only give rise to the likes of Matt Gaetz–is not only rotten (from the inside) but literally rotting in front of your (our) eyes? Still want to worst-talk about SWAMPS? And is worst-writer the only one to fantasize about the reality that Gaetz’s sex problem has to be connected to Roger Stone’s and to prez piss-hair’s? Remember. Roger Stone has the bust of Richard Nixon tattooed on his back between his shoulders. Is there any better way to communicate your presence? Need I even mention the mothers that raised these $hitbags?
Pic source: screenshot from the interwebnets
Anywho. Back to bottom trolling under the surface of #Americant where bodies and lives and honesty and merit and value and ugly men’s underwear all rest… rotting… rotting… rotting and waiting forevermore for the rotting to end. Yeah. Laugh with me, dear worst-reader. You can’t write this stuff down. Then again. Who ever thought #Americant would allow itself to stoop as lows as it’s been stooping since, gee, I don’t know, the fcuking Reagan revolution…
Indeed, dear worst-reader. This is what happens when you have a world where sexual repression, greed and the love of death rule you.
There you have it, dear worst-reader. #Americant cartoons. What else is there to explain to the aliens–when they finally arrive–how the human mind/intellect functions? I mean. We don’t have to explain much on account, well, it ain’t Star Trek and I’m sure most aliens don’t speak California English. And so. By simply showing the aliens how we educate our masses of #MAGA morons and man-children reared by eternal-perpetual child-brides that can only propagate the idear of white anglo Saxon milf-dom…. Hold a sec. Restart.
Perhaps it’s better to start this worst-post with that other weak link that is the #Americant intellect. Namely, the #Americant intellect has its origin in the likes of #Eurowasteland. That’s right. In case you’ve forgotten. Or you’ve misplaced in the trash bag you’re currently throwing away from some fast-food joint, everything (that is) my beloved & missed united mistakes stems from the ultimate motherfcuker: the big, nasty, bad-mood, ugly-tit, smelly biatch aka Europe. Or should we just blame Engaland since it’s the only remaining part of history that still has a useless monarch and also the only remaining $hithole across the great pond that cartoon-intellect #Americants can actually relate to? I mean. Don’t you too just love those accents? If only an accent could be turned into a cartoon. Oh wait. What about that French skunk?
Indeed. Probably should have included the British monarchy in the worst-title above, eh, dear worst-reader? But has #Americant ingenuity cartoonized the queen? I mean. Come on. Is there anything more cartoonish than monarchs, prince and princesses, Dukes and/or Dianas? Indeed, baby. There is no better example of a cartoon than the Engaland monarchy. Ok. Maybe the Swedish monarchy. And the Dutch one, too. Etc. And so. As a monarch hater, if you couldn’t tell, it’s kinda hard for me to include anything except revulsion towards hereditary privilege–in which case cartoons are a good way of explaining humanity. Then again, in terms of privilege, where would my beloved #Americant be today if it weren’t for the gradual progression of LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID–where there’s a bit too much f-you money to NOT go ’round–that so well emulates British monarchy–as a cartoon? As in. You know. Stupid only begets more stupid–especially if you’re one of the inheritors of wealth (or privilege) that goes around cracking itself on the head with a caveman stick. Eh? Indeed. But I need to move on.
Let’s be clear, dear worst-reader. Since I was born in 1963 (or there abouts), it’s pretty obvious that I was reared by idiocy–and cartoons. That is, among the various layers of #Americant middle-classes (that reared me), I’m from one of the lower ones and we were fed cartoons more than the others. But. Again. Lower or higher among the rungs of middle-class #Americant, the amount/level of idiocy is the only thing that connects us all–cartoon or no cartoon. Yet. What is obviously clear when taking a look at class structure–especially in the context of consume-to-survive #Americant–is that there is something above and beyond… a/our/the hyphen (that connects us and our classes). That’s right. If you’ve read anything in this worst-blog you know that that connection is all-things STUPID. But I’ve said that too many times already. And I want to really get-on about cartoons.
How could anybody pick on Pepé Le Pew? I mean. Get this. I’m sympathetic to the fight against rape culture. Truly I am. But Pepé was (and is) an insult to the French. At best he is/was an insult to either romantic or lustful flirtation. But to label Pepé as a rapist? Come on. Please. Dear worst-reader! Give this a thought or three: Post WW2 #Amercant was/is obsessed with the French appeasement of Nazi Germany to the point of… well… to the point of I don’t know what. But #Americants go from freedom-fries, to garlic smells to funny-nosed goblins that eat children when it comes to the inability of understanding the French and/or European history. Does any of that justify a cartoon’s behaviour towards women? Of course it doesn’t. But before I go too far and provide someone with the idear that I’m on the side of right- or left-wing cancel culture run amok….
Can you believe it, dear worst-reader? I mean. Have you gotten a load of what’s been going on in the newz of late? Or did you miss the whole inbred monarchy bull$hit being perpetrated by an #Americant billionaire (Oprah Winfrey) and thereby continuing the saga of error so many generations of inbreeding via the f’n queen of Engaland can’t seem to shake–nomatter who or what she arranges for her dunce children and grandchildren to marry? Of course, let me be clear on one thing regarding the American (Meghan Markle) that a British queen grandchild recently married. This is all so friggin stupid and repetitive (didn’t Prince Andrew go through basically the same thing?) that my head is spinning just thinking about how much I loved Pepé Le Pew (when I was nine). And since I’m on the worst-subject of #Americants marrying into the dentally challenged cartoonish British monarchy…
I really, really, really felt for Meghan Markle when she had to enter that Church all by her lonesome as she was about to marry Privilege. I actually stood up from the couch (or was it from my desk chair) when I saw how she exited that fancy car–alone–and then proceeded to walk up the stairs to the church–alone–in order to marry into–alone–privilege. And ain’t that ultimately how it’s all gonna end, this cartoon of life that oh-so entertains the women-folk, dear worst-reader? You know. We’re all alone in this dream of unicorn crocodile tears as the song of weddings intrigues our feminine worst-minds. But enough of my distraught frustration at having been born so poor but still being able to respect a speck of what Markle is (could be) above and beyond the pink inside that men somehow have to marry (to keep getting into the same pink that is inside). And so. Moving on.
The thing is this, dear worst-reader. As the audience of life goes about its cartoonish ways, enjoying the hissy and the pissy of foul marriages and rich-people interviewers, the political right-wing of my beloved & missed LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID has been gettin’ on about one of my favourite cartoon characters from when I was a poor middle-class shit-kicker. And that kinda ticks me off. You know. Why drag the innocent into all this? Unless, of course, you really want to call out the cartoons that turned stupid into STUPIDER.
I’m not bad. I’m just drawn that way. -Jessica Rabbit
Which begs the question: Why ain’t anybody complaining about Beavis & Butthead? But I die-gress.
How easy it is to get caught up in the riff-raff of television $hit-talk, dear worst-reader? It makes one forget about the real $hit that is #Americant life. In this case, though, as far as $hit-talk goes, I’d take sexist, pseudo-rapist Pepé Le Pew over the likes of Beavis & Butthead. Or am I splitting hairs? I mean, at least with Le Pew you know what you’re getting. With Beavis & Butthead, it is hard to tell it is a mirror if it doesn’t look back at you, eh. With that in worst-mind, why draw cartoons into the mix that is right-wing, dimwit, dip$hit #Americant mis-information? Because it might be a sign of someone or something–especially an ideology–having reached its proverbial end? Considering the cartoon-like antics of those that marched on Jan. 6, 2021–most of whom were probably reared by Beavis & Butthead–on the cartoon Capitol of the land of FREE TO BE STUPID–and those that made it all happen–i.e. #MAGA and prez piss-hair–is it any wonder that right-wing blowhards are turning to cartoons to help them conjure blame?
Yeah, baby. All that’s left for at least two generations of #Americants–Boomers and Boomer parents–is the run-away machine of the ultimate vehicle of (their) intellects: who/what to blame? The problem is, has all the blame run out? They can’t blame the poor anymore. Been done. They can’t blame Jews anymore. Been done. They can’t blame women anymore. Been done. Will they be low enough to blame their ugly and disgusting children? Or what about their mothers–who all have been unable to teach their sons the difference between flirtation and sticking it in after she says no? Perhaps. And so. The privileged, fail-upward, white-man disease must find blame anew. It’s all like a colossal beast-monster that feeds on both stupid and ugly and is best exemplified in the intellect of Beavis & Butthead–and no longer being able to blame the French and the image of a smelly skunk that digs pussy(cats). And so. What’s left to feed it? Oh wait, some blowhard white guy says: Why not blame the cartoons that still stick in our minds like smouldering donut dough left in the sunshine of Tucker Carlson’s mother’s ugly and teethed pussy(cat)? Yeah. That’s the worst-writer ticket, baby. They (the Tucker Carlsons) are not only raised by the intellect of cartoons but they’ve never been able to get out of Toon-town. Am I wrong.
On the other hand. What can one expect when one thinks thrice again and again and again about how #Americant actually elected a guy like #Trump to serve as el Presidenté of the LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID and all its information resources can come up with now to discuss is a carton from the 1950s. Or maybe not.
What does it take to change the story(line), dear worst-reader? You know. Change the story so that it fits the/your narrative. As in. My beloved & missed #Americant can’t quite figure out what to do with the mischief of its toddler man-children in the here and now that has become a $hitshow of greed and deplorable-ism run amok. Since it’s already beaten the bee-jee-zees out of most its people in the past two centuries, what’s left to do in order to maintain a certain level of control of the mind–that, of course, only benefits the few? With that in worst-mind, am I starting to sympathise with the events of January 6, 2021?
No. I’m not. But if I were….
As much as I despise the misconstrued anger and bespoke bigotry of the idiot white men who stormed The Capitol–and I also hope they are all punished for their transgressions–something makes me wish that at least part of their voice(s) could be heard. For here’s the thing these men have never (will never) learn in their measly, deplorable, mendacious lives:
Violence begets….
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Even though no gun shots were fired from the storming deplorable masses, does the question need be asked as to why their other half was the only one to have fired a gun–and thereby needlessly kill a person? Indeed. Only one shot was fired–and it was from the pawn of the oppressor, i.e. the Capitol Police. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, if you lined all the people up from both sides of the January 6, 2021 $hitshow, and lined them up naked, don’t you know, would you be able to tell them apart? Ah. The wrath of ugly deplorable white people all looking the same, naked. Moving on.
Many of the participants of January 6 were, of course, wielding weaponry–even though the Shaman and his viking wannabe weaponry was more akin to elementary school show & tell. My worst-point is this: in a country where guns and mass shootings are commonplace, why wasn’t there more shooting from those who think they were so righteous? I mean. I don’t know about you. From what I’ve read about history, revolutions end up killing lots of people. Am I wrong? I mean. On January 6 only five people died. Could that be the ultimate fail/pass grade of #Americant politics culminating in #MAGA and president piss-hair? Or. Where have all the Patrick Henry testicles gone?
Better yet: WTF?
Which brings me to a worst-analogy that’s crossed my thoughts recently. When was the last time you watched One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest, dear worst-reader? I mean. For the past few weeks this movie has been on my mind–along with January 6. That is. Is there anything from this movie that reminds you of January 6? Murphy (Jack Nicholson) is Deplorable, is he not? Or. As sympathetic as Murphy is (in the movie version), can Deplorable be wrapped in sweet gold fun chocolate, aka take the inmates out for a fishing trip, get an inmate laid, and perhaps even become your drinking buddy? Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher), on the other hand, is the State. She was indeed recruited to run the asylum wing of said State. No? None of this analogising working for you, dear worst-reader? Well, how ’bout this? I recently (re)watched One Flew Over The Cuckoos nest and I did so because, well, I think a little voice told me it was/is totally comparable. Do you ever hear little voices, dear worst-reader? Sometimes all they do is giggle to me you know. But not this time. Moving on.
In worst-writer’s humble opinion there’s only three things one needs to know/remember/concern one’s self with… when trying to make a worst-comparison between #Americant’s newest form of idiocy-governance run amok and a film appropriately titled: One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest. Let’s list them, shall we.
The antagonist of the film is a woman with power.
All of the crazies in the partly voluntary asylum are white men.
All the conflict in the film lead only to a sub-character, the Indian, escaping.
And so. This latest viewing of the movie has re-channeled my POV regarding Nurse Ratched and January 6, 2021. Although it’s been probably ten or so years since I last watched Cuckoos Nest, for whatever worst-reason, this viewing has opened my mind to the idear that Ratched might not be so bad after all–and, perhaps, not all the morons of the January 6 pseudo-putsch, as dumb as they seem, are as bad either. Oh. Hold a sec. By-the-buy. Only after this third or fourth or fifth viewing of Cuckoos Nest (in early February 2021) did I hear that Ratched and her, let’s say, somewhat antagonising character, has been rejuvenated in a TV series. I haven’t seen the series as of the writing of this worst-post but be assured I intend to watch it as soon as it’s available (to me). So let’s put that aside, eh.
This most recent viewing of Cuckoos Nest has showed me that Nurse Ratched (Government and/or state authority) ain’t so bad. In fact, now more than ever, I believe that Nurse Ratched is a pretty sympathetic character, including her treatment of Murphy (Deplorables). Keep in mind, the reason Murphy is in the asylum is not because he’s trying to avoid prison but instead because he thinks:
He can outwit the system.
He is in control of inner demons that only know that violence begets….
In the novel there is much more insight to the origin of Murphy’s violence and the reason he has been incarcerated by the State. That worst-said, I still prefer the movie character, especially the brilliance of Jack Nicholson and the foresight of the director (Miloš Forman) to exclude any character development of Murphy. That said, Murphy is simply a vehicle to a much larger message which may or may not be the subtext of the movie. Namely, #Americant manhood is doomed to a life of subjugation–with or without a lobotomy.
Now. Getting back to January 6. Is it me or has anyone else noticed that the only person killed by the State during this amateur attempt at a revolution was a woman? In this worst-writer context does that then bare the question: what if Murphy actually killed Ratched? But on that must die-gress.
Indeed. The only person killed by the State on January 6 was an Air Force vet who tried to break through a window while inside the Capitol in order to get on the floor of the House of Representatives to show her hate of Nancy Pelosi. Now. Considering the idear, via the Rolling Stones, that there’s a fine line between being a cop and a criminal, do we really need to differentiate good and evil within the confines of Empire run amok, aka #Americant? You know, even though I hate the bothsideism thing in #Americant politics, the one time it is applicable is when comparing a mob of deplorable white people storming the Capitol with the poor souls tasked with protecting it.
Just as every cop is a criminal, And all the sinners saints, As heads is tails, Just call me Lucifer, ‘Cause I’m in need of some restraint, (Who who, who who) -Rolling Stones, Sympathy For The Devil
So. Like. I guess. I’m wondering if January 6 can contain the great missed message of the the film One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest? You know. Not only are criminals and madmen made (Murphy) but they are also convenient (Ratched)–especially in a State on the verge of wanton madness. The only question that remains, then, is: since #Americant has lobotomised most of its people via lack of education, religion, anti-intellectualism and consume-to-survive, who/what/where is the one sub-character to be set free?
Yes. Indeed. Things to worst-ponder.
Rant on.
-T
PS Here’s a thought I wasn’t able to work into this worst-text. For worst-posterity I’ll just jot it here. Who knows. Maybe it’ll stay in my head for a while and I’ll be able to use it again somewhere else. Or maybe not.
The moment the class-clown stops your laughter is the moment you realise your lobotomy.
It’s what I’m feeling sometimes, dear worst-reader. In these Covid times. Even though I try my worst-best not to live off my emotions–you know, like my #Americant rearing dictates–these times of restrictions galore tempt me. For example. The other day I screwed up real bad via unbridled temptation. I mean. Since I’m not a regular consumer of Germania media, either visually (TV) or text (newspaper), I quickly realised that I’m quite uninformed when it comes to dos and don’ts while out and about during quarantine. I mean. Of course I know there’s a special kinda lock-down going on, but I’m also quite unaware of exactly what that lock-down entails. With that in mind, let’s worst-write on.
While on a get some fresh air e-bike ride the other day I wondered into two places. The first was a motorcycle dealership where I had noticed through the front window the bike I’d buy if I could in order to get back into riding. Yeah, it’s been twenty years since I’ve ridden, don’t you know. After noticing that two people had exited the showroom, I locked up my e-bike, dawned my mask, read the rules on the front door–about social distancing and masks and whatnot–and entered. I immediately squirted some sanitiser on my hands and then proceeded to sign-in on the tracking register. But before I could enter my full contact details an employee entered out of nowhere and started berating me about how I was breaking the rules and that I couldn’t just enter the place. Shocked, I quickly realised that I was in the wrong–even though I didn’t quite know why or what deserved such vehemence. Also, with masks it’s difficult to see/read all of the emotional distress I was causing. Not being a native German, all I remember is hearing the native berate me in his guttural German–along with those German eyes. It was kinda horrifying. I tried to tell the guy that I was sorry and that I just saw two people walk out of the place but he insisted on berating me at the top of his teutonic lungs and that he didn’t feel like paying a fine for my stupidity which was somewhere around twenty-five hundred Euros and he said that I am a… but didn’t actually use the word… idiot . The whole time, of course, worst-writer is smiling and quivering under my mask and on my way out I manage to snap the following pic. She sure is pertty, ain’t she?
Actually I’d prefer it in black but if any worst-readers are willing, I’ll take the grey.
The good news is, when I got home I caught up on the details of German quarantine rules and also started to wonder if the Germans are gonna track me down for breaking those rules. Remember, I did sign the tracking form when I entered the dealership. Wow. Paranoia in the land of paranoia. The bad news is, while having ruined my e-bike ride for some fresh air, on my way home I stopped once again at one of my favourite places to find some soul solace: a cemetery. Keep in mind, dear worst-reader, other than lots of archaic and mind-bending human mis-history, there are only two things today that one needs to experience in #Eurowasteland. Conveniently these two things are related. Have you guessed what they are? Ok. Here’s a hint: Churches and cemeteries. Indeed. #Eurowasteland is awash in mysticism and deserved human rot. But on that note, I must die-gress.
Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. During some of my e-bike treks every once-a-once I like to stop to talk with the souls of the dead to hear what they have to say about the living. This particular cemetery, by-the-buy, is also one of the regions largest. And. With another by-the-buy. Since expatriating to Germania, I’ve attended three funerals at this particular cemetery. Two of those people I knew, one I didn’t. Yeah, I guess in these waning days of worst-life, it’s time for me to pull a Harold & Maude and start attending funerals–just for the hell of it. And so. While walking my e-bike around the graves I decided to see if I could find a new exit. Usually I just went from one end of the cemetery and exited out the other–as it was also a short cut even though, out of respect, I walked my e-bike through it. Yeah, that’s how big it is if you have to ride around it. But I’ve always wondered if it was such a large cemetery was there another exit? When I began to realise that there probably wasn’t, and while in a dank corner amongst misty gravestones, I happened across what is now my favourite grave of all-time. See the pic at the top of this worst-post.
I was truly taken aback by the caged grave I had discovered. I had never seen such a grave before. It’s like a grave prison, dear worst-reader. And that really befuddles me. At least I’ve not seen, in this region of Germany, a grave that makes such a profound statement. Yet, as I thought about statements, I got hung up on two possibilities as to what that statement is. The first possible statement from the grave is thus: what’s in here needs to stay in. The second statement is, and this one really gets my croissant boiling: no, you can’t come in and join me.
And now for a bit of back story regarding my desire to communicate with souls. While living in Darmstadt many years ago, which is a few hours south of Düsseldorf, one of my favourite places to go to talk to the souls of the dead, was Frankenstein’s Castle. For you know the story of Frankenstein, eh, dear worst-reader? I mean the book, not the movie(s). Indeed. The castle is a grand place, especially if you go there when there are no tourists or it’s not late October. For if you wish you can tease the souls of the dead about how they are the ones that have given us this $hit world, i.e. the future they made. Which is what I like to do. In fact. While talking with souls I used to tell them I would be seeing them soon–with a vengeance. For someone has to make the past pay for what it has done to the future. Or. If you prefer, dear worst-reader, you can just go to Frankenstein’s Castle and chill, smoke a joint and ponder Mary Shelly’s mindset that lead to The Modern Prometheus. But on that note, again, I must die-gress.
In short, so that one may make the connection, the legend of Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus was ALL about grave robbing. But Mary Shelly got a bit caught up in audience driven story telling before she could really jot all that down. In fact, grave robbing back then was so popular that the living conspired all the time about how to protect (their) graves. If you could afford such an elaborate cage, though, why not just pay for a tomb, which also had a certain level of protection? Indeed. Many just made sure that they were buried naked and with nothing to accompany them. Or could it be that the cage-grave is from someone who thought more like the Pharaohs? You know, bury your corpse with everything, even the key, so that when you (re)awaken, you still have it all. Who can know, eh.
So let’s ponder the statement of caged graves once more. Is the cage for keeping something in? An appropriate question as the minions and compulsive behaviourist of today go about their useless eating lives emulating so well the pitchfork morons of yore. Or is the grave statement about keeping something out? Considering how the world is currently devolving via capitalism and greed-mongering run amok which has turned so many into cannibal-like goons, is the time nigh when we have to start digging up the dead? I can’t shed the thought that it’s only a matter of time before we start once again what Mary Shelly was afraid to finish and/or write–so she covered it all up with evil pseudo-doctors and monsters. Instead I’ll just ponder the possibility of what the cage-grave is stating while studying the rules and regulations in Germania about quarantining and the idear that, even at almost sixty, I’d like to get back on a really, really cool bike and do a few laps of the Nürburgring.
One positive thing about COVID and 2021 is that I finally broke out my old typewriters and it’s now how I communicate with my mother. Can you believe it? Snail mail? Who’d a thunk it? Then again, if/when I do thunk of it, I’m curious if US Postal Services can actually deliver it. You know. Considering how $hitbag Neo-liberals have screwed up government services and whatnot. But on that worst-note, I die-gress.
This is the stage at CPAC 2021. I mean, dudes and dudets, could it be more obvious? Source of pic: see link below
Scenarios of things past that could only lead to things to come. Or. How I learned to see the future–of where my beloved & missed #Americant would go.
Scenario 1.
So. Like. It’s ca. 1984. I’m navigating my way around Washington DC trying to find an office building where I have a job interview. Remember, dear worst-reader, it was a time before mobile apps. And so. I run into two problems above and beyond my orientation (or is it navigation) ability. First. I made the mistake of asking an old man in rotted clothes if he could tell me where my street was. The man, obviously a homeless man run waaaaay down on his luck, didn’t feel like entertaining my question. Right in the middle of the sidewalk he started freaking out and calling me names. While yelling f-this and f-that and who the f do I think I am he even lunged towards me with his shopping cart and waved one of his many bags in the air as though it were a flail. I quickly ran down the wrong street to get away from him, which brings me to the second issue. As I turned a corner a jewellery store owner peered his head out of his front door and started yelling at me for disturbing the peace. He asked about how stupid I was and then added that they have to clean up every morning from the bums and why do people like me have to make things worse cause he knows the guy who just yelled at me and that he would probably take another shit in front his door, etc., etc. And then he added as I was just getting out of (his) ear-sight, why don’t they round up the bastards and put them out of their misery along with all you yuppie $hits!
I guess the stage symbolism is a bit obscure. Or? Source of pic: see link below
Scenario 2.
It would have been the late 70s. My misconstrued parents dragged me to a party. Of course, my sister was older than me which meant she could stay home alone. I obviously wasn’t in the best mood being dragged along to an adult stupid party. While there, I watched the adults get $hit-faced out of their minds while stuffing themselves with some fancy-pants catered dinner of chicken in cream sauce that I remember smelled the same as the stuff my mother was drinking (probably gin). Of course, I was forced by my drunk parents to finish my plate after which I could go into the hosts bedroom to be alone and watch a movie on their cable TV. When I asked my mother why I couldn’t have just stayed home to do that she smirked and threatened to slap me for being a smart-a$$. Oh well. Long story short, eh dear worst-reader. After watching at least two movies and noticing that it was getting pretty late, I stepped outside to see what the adults were doing. They were all still partying as though the world was coming to an end, their noise having disturbed my movie night more than thrice. But here’s the catcher. Obviously the adults had been playing some sort of betting game and when I entered the living room the bets were being paid. Remember, dear worst-reader. This was the 1970s USA. There are a few things always present at gatherings that were supposed to give off an air of pseudo-sophistication in certain middle-class environments in 70s. In the name of expediency I’ll only inform you, dear worst-reader, of the things the males brought along to such social gatherings. The first is a polyester neck tie the size of a pillow. The second is facial hair in the form of sideburns or a moustache. Of the males who lost their bets in the game, the were required to trim their moustaches in the form of the old fashioned toothbrush, i.e. the Hitler moustache. Why adults of the 70s thought this was funny I’ll never know.
Scenario 3.
Last but not least for today’s worst-post, dear worst-reader. This scenario will be a short one. While growing up in rural and suburban-hell of wannabe WASP-ville galore, I can’t count how many Jew smirks and innuendo and conspiracies I’ve heard over the years. And now that we have a congresswoman who believes that lasers in space are run by Jews…
Just when you think the direction a country takes couldn’t get more obvious, one of the two major political parties throws a shindig and can’t even hide the prejudices of a once defeated ideology. Or. I suppose. If you must. You could think that maybe, just maybe, all the white supremacists of the #Americant Republican Party just really, kinda, dig the symbols of Norse mythology.
Worst-title 2: Limbaugh gone, Limbaugh&Co alive and well. Or?
Just another judgemental worst-post here, dear worst-reader. I’ve been abiding the obligatory three days and three nights thing to see if any rednecks have uncovered the tomb to let out the ghost so that it may rise in a flash of white-trash light to save the world as their messiah ascends to the father-god of white privilege… or whatever that Biblical nonsense is when/if applied to my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant.
Rush Limbaugh is dead, dear worst-reader. May he remain dead forevermore. Of course, being worst-writer, I can’t help but see the negative (un-optimistic) side of his passing–as opposed to the positive side of his passing that other wannabe worst-hippies lavish. As I’ve noted through out this worst-blog, Limbaugh&Co is a force to be reckoned with perhaps not unlike Messiahs, demigods and whoever else can stir the emptiness of minds hinged on privilege, supremacy and redneck, trailer trash über-whiteness.
For those not in the worst-know, Rush Limbaugh equals mass hysterical bigotry run amok that is the culmination of white-trash #Americant in the 20th century. Period. Oh sure, there is more to being a piece of $hit that represents the voice of lots more pieces of $hit. But like the rest of my beloved & missed united mistakes, who’s counting? Which brings us to this worst-question: who/what the fcuk is Limbaugh&Co?
Let’s get-on with origins, dear worst-reader.
After a wasted and useless life that is/was predetermined by previous bigots and authoritarians, I’ve concluded that the quintessence which gave rise to all this mental hate-driven menace is twofold. First, there’s flower power. Second there’s sexual repression. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, what is it that right-wingers hate most? It’s not socialism. It’s not welfare-queens. It’s not taxes, big government, immigrants. No. Those are all the gaslights, the labels, the talking-points and the emotional sparks that keep the flame of hate and anger and bigotry alive and kicking in a minority of bloated, privileged white men. With that in mind, the following life-scenario ensues.
Late High-school through college, while pursing the rules set by misconstrued parenting, you struggle to become a cog in the wheel of #Americant but while doing so there are others out there smoking dope, being judgemental, bad-mouthing your/their country and and and, most importantly, getting laid. I mean. Come on, dear worst-reader. What gets under the skin of young conservatives, compulsive behaviourist and all-around, $hit-kicking #Americant males the most? That’s right. That which they think they were born to deserve. For you see, young conservative judaeo-christian males think they are privileged because they behaved according to the rules of social, systematic, sexual repression. And all the while, the good looking dudes, garnering a bit of sympathy from the ladies, just fcuked their way through life. Could a guy like Rush Limbaugh have been perturbed by anything else? Ok. There’s also greed. But let’s not get too worst-complicated here.
Short pause. Breath.
Did you get that? No? Let’s continue.
What is the result of misconstrued parenting that can never know how wrong it is (has been)? Indeed. A bag of worst-worms has been opened, eh dear worst-reader? Or has it been obvious to you all along? You know. There is a simple answer to EVERYTHING that is political and social conservatism which Rush Limbaugh best exemplified. These males simply can’t deal with the fact that the females actually dig it–and all they ultimately want is a relative good male to give it (to them). And they don’t want to be controlled by it. For don’t you know, again, dear worst-reader, where there is little to no consequence, as has been the case since mid-20th century feminist #Americant, (most) females really, really, really dig getting fcuked–or as they put it: romanced and made love to. As long, of course, as they think they have a say in it. But enough about worst-writer’s confusion regarding the female obsession with loving love1.
The origin of bigoted and oppressive rhetoric in white anglo Saxon males is best represented in EVERYTHING Limbaugh&Co says and does. Of course, there is also the females that support and enable these/their males… Well, I’ve kinda gotten into that here–but you have to admit that the footnote below is kinda good, too, when it comes to worst-splaining everything. Or?
Moving on.
What little is there to do when, at last count (Nov 2020 election), 74m of these (direct and indirect) sexually repressed bigots practically run the $hitshow through what can be only be considered political mischief-ism-galore, allowing fail-upwards #Americant to continue its slow train-wreck on the backs of everyone else–even though old-man Biden was elected? Nothing. All you can do is sit back like me. Perhaps even expatriate like me. Or just sit around and wait for a somewhat easier passing into the nevermore (death) where, hopefully, nobody will wish so much horror and suffering upon your soul that I wish upon Limbaugh&Co.
With that last bit of worst-evil in mind, the only problem is worst-writer doesn’t actually believe in heaven or hell. There is only what you leave behind when the light of life finally leaves us all. And on that note, looks like Limbaugh&Co are the winners–as his corpse finally, finally, finally… rots.
Good luck suckers.
Rant on.
-T
As in: for females love is noun; for males it’s a verb. Or something like that ↩︎
Title two: Review of the LG Cinebeam 1400 Lumen Wonder
As you may or may not know, dear worst-reader, I’m a typing nut. That’s right. Even though I’m not all-that interested in what’s been typed (by worst-moi), as long as I’m doing it, life’s almost good. The only other thing that’s better in life than typing… Wait for it. Wait for it. Are you guessing what I’m gonna say? Well, you’re wrong. It ain’t xes (spelled backwards). Only riding a motorcycle is better than typing, which I haven’t done for twenty years. Wow. Life can suck, eh! Anywho. What am I on about today?
Last summer as the COVID b.s. was hitting the $hit-fan here in good old Germania, my better half came up with the idear, even though we’re not allowed to have a TV in our living, that she was now willing to entertain a beamer–as long as it’s not hooked up to cable. For that’s the thing, dear worst-reader, we don’t watch TV. Wait. That’s ain’t quite right. Here, let me try that again.
Since the get-go in this relationship, we both decided that we don’t want any sort of TV connection and we especially don’t want a TV in our living room. As time has past, though, we have become more and more accustomed to all-things #Interwebnets. Meaning, of course, we watch movies and TV shows, we just don’t want to watch them via something that would/could be installed in our living room–that takes up space, kills time and uglyfies life. And so. That’s right. Our living room is a place where most of our reading and music listening takes place. At least it did, to my worst-surprise, until COVID and my better-half came up with the idear that it’s time to “entertain” a beamer.
Beamer of choice from the get-go has been one from LG. Reason? The bulb. The main mechanism of a beamer (projector) is how it produces the necessary light beam. This particular series of beamers uses a lighting source that is supposed to last for thirty-thousand hours. Other sources of lighting for these projectors have only hundreds of hours of capacity before the bulb has to be changed. An expense that sometimes nears the cost of the device itself. According to the limited research I did, including price shopping, that pretty much sealed the deal for the brand we ended up buying. But then I had to learn about the whole “lumen” thing. My better-half set a budget for such a device at about a thousand Euros. That may sound like a lot but I can assure it’s not. Also. Being el-cheap-o, I kinda knew I could get one for cheaper than that because I also knew that we didn’t need 4k video and 1080p would suffice. What to buy, what to buy, what to buy.
Our first-try was the pico beamer from LG that produced 600 Lumens and cost about 500€. I used it for about two weeks and although it wasn’t very bright, I was impressed with what it could do. Also, it was about the size of a Mac Mini which meant I could easily hang it from my bookshelf. But I ended up sending it back because of the limitations of wife-approval and wall space (we have flat, white walls so there is no need for a screen). The biggest problem I had with the pico beamer was that it couldn’t properly “keystone” the image it was projecting. Also. In the end my better-half was kinda peeved that I didn’t spend more money. Can you believe that?
Of the 1080p beamers being offered in the product range, I bought the next one up which just happened to be on sale from 1000 to 750€. It is a 1400 Lumen projector the size of a child’s shoebox and, of course, weighs a bit more than the pico device. As you can see from the pics above, though, the jimmied photography equipment I use to attach it to our bookshelf works just fine supporting it. Although it offers limited up-down, right-left keystone-ing, it is enough to project quite a large image on a perpendicular wall that is about ten feet away, which is another thing the pico couldn’t do. The difference between 600 and 1400 Lumens is also significant, which means, unlike the pico device, this one we can use in daylight. Meaning, unless we have bright sunny weather, we don’t have to pull down any shades to see the image. Evening movie watching with this thing is pretty impressive too when you consider the five figure cost of a hundred inch flat screen TV.
After just over a half year of use, I’m still very impressed with this beamer. Connected to an AppleTV4, where my better-half can access her German TV news and shows via apps, it works great. That means it’s also connected to our home network so we can project lots and lots of movies from our media server. But more important, when it’s not in use, we don’t have an empty black screen on a table top or attached to a wall that always begs to be turned on and thereby kill beautiful empty, minimalist space. Oh, and if you’re curious about all the trickery LG offers in this device, you’ll have to go else where. I’ve not messed with any of it. It’s literally only a screen for the AppleTV. As long as that works, I don’t give a hoot about the rest.
The pic above, dear worst-reader, is the latest and greatest desktop setup of my tech world. As you may or may not note from any of my SBC and tech posts (https://worstwriter.com/tag/sbc/), I’m a cheap-o when it comes to tech stupid-money. That said, myself and my better-half are Apple fan-boys. To maintain a bit of perspective, our Apple world consists of iPhones, iPads and a 2015 and 2017 MacBook. That’s right. I’m a fan of the 12″ MacBooks that are supposed to have the terrible butterfly keyboards–and IMHO the 12″ form factor is the bomb. Although mine is a workhorse, my better-half’s MacBook is barely used on account she’s a real iPad user both personally and professionally. If it’s a contradiction to say I’m a tech cheap-o after we buy so much Apple stuff, well, maybe in this one area we do splurge somewhat–even though most Apple purchase for me are refurbished products.
Continue on the cheap-o tech theme. My better-half gets a new iPhone and iPad every few years and I then get her hand-me-down iPad, which is also used around our little townhouse as a media controller and music player for the various SBCs for both audio and video. I try to make my iPhones last for at least four years, which I was able to do with my previous iPhone 7s. My iPhone 11 is about to turn two years old and my wife’s iPhone 10 is pushing three and half years–and if it weren’t for COVID, where she works from home full-time, she would have replaced it already. Back to my desktop rig.
My 2017 12″ MacBook is my favourite Mac of all-time. I absolutely love this thing. It took me a while to get used to dongle hell but that quickly faded the more and more I used it. Considering the new–and for the first time in my Mac-life fairly priced M1 Macs–I’m still hoping that this Intel Mac will hold-out a while longer, especially considering Apple doesn’t seem to have another 12″ MacBook in the works. Anywho. As I first started using the MacBook it never occurred to me that I might want a second monitor connected along with the one I’m already using while it’s in clamshell mode. But then I discovered something kinda cool.
Again. As a cheap-o, I refuse to replace perfectly good devices simply because their I/O changes with the times. Take for example my monitors. On the left is a 10+ year old 22″ Dell monitor. It doesn’t even have HDMI. Using an adapter cable, it’s been a second monitor for this MacBook and my previous 2010 13″ MacBook Pro.
But what about the monitor on the right, dear worst-writer? A 2017 12″ MacBook can’t drive two external monitors.
Good question dear worst-reader. And how worst-right you are. Or?
The monitor on the right is actually a 22″ Samsung TV. It’s gotta be at least twelve years old now. For years I’ve mainly used it as a monitor for AppleTVs. You know, one in the kitchen or in a spare room for $hits&giggles. But I finally replaced my ageing AppleTV3 with an AppleTV4 (refurbished) last summer and connected it to a fancy-pants beamer. It took a few months to figure out what to do with this old little TV but lo and behold… I’m using the old AppleTV3 (also purchased ten years ago refurbished), which is attached to the back, so I can stream (or is the nomenclature in this case “cast?) from my MacBook directly to it. Obviously it’s not a second monitor per se, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s perfect for streaming audio/video while working–and my little MacBook handles it all with ease. I’ve been using this setup for a few months now and I’m sorry I hadn’t thought of it much earlier. But perhaps that’s a whole other worst post.
The beamer and ATV4 are on the bookshelf.
And while on the subject of cheap-o and neat-o tech discoveries. Get this. The one main problem with using AppleTV and, say, a beamer, especially when watching movies, is that Apple and the tech world still don’t quite have it right when it comes to wireless audio. This is the main reason I refuse to go anywhere near those fancy (and stupid-money expensive) HomePods. I’ve read that they also have issues when it comes to streaming audio from from a video source. That said, I’m using an open-source version of Apple’s Airport technology called Shairport for audio streaming. Shairport is what all my audio/video SBCs use to mimic Apple’s airport technology, which allows me to circumvent Apple’s stupid and greedy eco-system politics. With only audio it works fine and if anyone is a cheap-o like me, but you still want good audio in your home, look into this stuff. Needless to say, I’m often disappointed when watching a movie and the audio constantly goes haywire. Until the other day. I realised (yeah, I’m a slow learner), hey, why not try your AirPods when watching a movie. So I did. I put them in, fired up the AppleTV and beamer and clicked around in the AppleTV OS to add another audio device. My AirPods were immediately recognised. And guess what? It doesn’t only work great when watching a movie, it’s actually some of the best audio I’ve heard in years when watching something via AppleTV. Who’d a thunk it, dear worst-reader!
And there you have it as only worst-writer can present it. Cheap-o tech world from a young #OKBoomer that found a way out of the $hithole that is #Americant but never thought he’d land in #Eurowasteland along with so many $hits&giggles.
Rant (and cheap-o tech) on, baby.
-T
PS Oh yeah. I still use a manual typewriter to write my mother letters.
How ’bout a bit of a worst-update regarding worst-writer’s tech krapp? Yes. No. Well, then… buckle up butter cup cause I haven’t typed anything all day and I am seriously itchy. Or maybe not.
As of late 2020 there’s nothing left to be (technically) done, changed, updated, booted (into the bin) or saved in my humble abode of tech krapp galore. In fact, everything in my reduce & simplify tech world works great right now. Reduce & simplify means nothing more than getting rid of truck-like tech devices, an effort I consider complete as of 2018 which is also reflected in the fact that I have a half dozen (or so) SBCs doing things such as: stereo systems, media players, bluetooth audio end-points, servers, etc. Cool, eh. More worst-writer posts about the journey is here (tag link).
By-the-buy, worst-writer’s SBC journey includes not only Raspberry Pi but also Pine64. So let me discard a few worst-words about that. At this point I’m pretty much done with Pine64. It’s not that I don’t like their boards. It’s just that getting them to work is above my pay-grade. That worst-said, I’ve still got a RockPro64 running as a samba server and as a Jellyfin media server. Reason for Jellyfin? My linux distro of choice for both the the RockPro64 and a lingering Rock64, i.e. that which fits my pay-grade, is DietPi. It’s the only Linux distro I’ve been able to manage on both the RockPro64 and the Rock64 with only minor headaches. Even though I’ve tried distros that include OMV (Open Media Vault), I’ve always found myself resorting back to DietPi–on account I couldn’t get the others to work. In fact, my Rock64 (the little brother of the RockPro64) is connected to an external 4-bay HDD enclosure which I use to back up my RockPro64. It’s also serving as a PiHole anti-ad server—which I kinda love. The problem is, I’m starting to feel as though these two devices are at their end—at least in my worst-world. And get this. The RockPro64 feels like it has a bit more life left in it, the Rock64 is pretty much maxed out. I think. Pause. Drink. Gulp. I should move on.
Thank goodness last summer (or fall), as I was losing my $hit over Plex (hating it) and looking for a replacement (within my pay-grade), DietPi began offering Jellyfin in their repository. Since Jellyfin is an open source fork (I think) of Kodi (or is it Emby), which I’ve used on Raspberry Pi, I quickly felt at home with it. My only question has been: how long will it work–before all else fails (which seems to be a result of my low-pay-grade Linux capabilities)? The good news: So far so good–and even my better-half is getting used to using Jellyfin. My better-half, btw, hated Plex more than me and she totally refused to use it. I’m sorry to get on Plex so much. But, as the saying goes, never go full retard, which Plex has done with its microsoft-like, big bloated-ness. But on that note, I die-gress.
As far as media servers go… With Plex on my $hitlist, do I even need a media server? There was actually a short stint there where I thought I’d just give up completely on a media server and use the various Raspberry Pi’s as media players that simply access files via samba. And they worked.The problem with that, though, is, it seems, my iPhone and iPads couldn’t handle the (direct) file access using VLC. I’m not sure if that has to do with my home network setup or VLC on iOS. It doesn’t really matter because, no matter what I tried, I couldn’t get seamless playback using any iOS device via samba. Once I started using Jellyfin the iOS devices worked toot-sweet. I suppose that has something to do with transcoding. And so. Back on to SBCs.
After a few years of use, worst-writer is questioning how long will the RockPro64 last and/or when will I replace it with, say, a Raspberry Pi compute module 4? At this juncture, after using an RPi4-4gb for the past few months as a desktop PC, where I mostly watched YouTube videos, streamed movies or TV (from my media server) or used the Terminal app to manage my Linux devices, I’m tickled to death about how well it actually works. In fact, I was really tickled by how well the newest 64bit version of Ubuntu worked on it. I can’t praise Raspberry Pi enough for such an achievement with these little devices. And, by-the-buy, to my worst-mind, Raspberry Pi’s achievements is only rivalled by what Apple did with the first Mac and later the iPhone. And so.
The Raspberry Pi is nothing short of phenomenal. Not only has it rocked my low pay-grade world but it’s obviously gonna be even more valuable in the near future for my everything networked household. That you can get an RPi for less than a hundred bucks with only a few bucks more to turn it into (what I consider) a high-end audio player (HifiBerry!), it’s no longer a question of if but when these little things will completely over-take the PC world–let alone the fact that I have never regretted selling all my old standard high-voltage stereos and A/V receivers. Add to that the new RPi compute module, which should eventually replaced my RockPro64, I’m tickled to death that my choice to start fiddling with these things in the first place so many years ago was the right choice.
But. As usual. I’m probably off worst-subject. As I’ve said with a whole lot of nothingness here and there, what’s the deal about non-nas-nas and my daily rig (the title fo this worst-post)? Well, since the/my non-nas-nas is based on an SBC, albeit the RockPro64, which, as stated above, I’m not sure how long it’s gonna be around, I can’t complain all that much. It does work–as a samba server. And samba is all about file sharing. And as far as I can tell, I’ve lost no data after fiddling and fiddling. But I have gone through quite a bit of headache and troubleshooting. I’ve also concluded after all this time and effort, Pines64/RockPro64 is not a NAS replacement–unless you’re interested in a lot of troubleshooting and Linux headaches. But it does look good in that Pine64 case (see pic above). Or?
Since I refuse to buy a NAS (aka Synology or Drobo), beggars can’t be choosy. I’ve had to fiddle quit a bit to the point where I’ve (pretty much) given up on having a home NAS as a file storage device. Since my wife and I are Apple fans and we use Macs and iOS devices, I simply maintain a TimeMachine drive that is connected to an old AirPort Extreme which backs up our Macs. It works and works and works. Other than that, we use 200gb of iCloud space for important files and photos on both Mac and iOS. So I guess. If I wanted to. I could provide a half decent worst-argument that average tech users don’t even need a nas. I mean. I’m using the RockPro64 as a media server only on account my pay-grade can’t really get it to do anything else. But. Again. I die-gress.
As far as I my home rig goes. Get this, dear worst-reader. Like I said above, I’m really, really, seriously impressed with the RPi4-4gb as a desktop PC. In fact, I’m so impressed with it, that I’m probably gonna buy the RPi4-8gb this spring, relegating the 4gb device to some media player service and then, when it’s available, getting the RPi compute module 4 so I can get rid of the headache that is the RockPro64–and then, finally, begin the process of getting into some kind of truly functional non-nas-nas configuration. OMV, as far as I can remember, works great on RPi (and terrible on Pine64)–it’s just been a matter of waiting for RPi to provide some kind of SATA interface. If/when Raspberry ups the RPi4 to an RPi5, though… well, heck, don’t you know. I’m already re-thinking weather or not I’m gonna replace my MacBook with a new M1 device in 2021. And even though the new Macs with M1s are rockin’ good, the thought of actually getting a M1 MacMini just ain’t in the cards on account how well RPi’s are working these days. As far as my 2017 Intel MacBook goes, slow or no-slow, avoiding Big Sur (and Apple’s stupid update policies), etc., etc., I’m still kind of good so I’ll probably keep it a while longer. And so.
Worst-title #2: Why it should be called the rich white trash Putsch and not #Americant Coup d’etat.
Which do you prefer, dear worst-reader? Do you prefer Coup, as in Coup d’etat, as the proper nomenclature of #MAGA’s newest and greatest achievement–other than electing president piss-hair in the first place? Or do you prefer Putsch? I mean, come on. A coup is a much more common happening, especially when one considers how my beloved & missed #Americant has sponsored so many of them in, say, South America, Southeast Asia, Africa, etc. Again. I mean. Come on. Could this whole thing have been just a simple-minded Putsch? Indeed. Now that’s something new, don’t you know. So let’s summarise as only worst-writer can as we try to worst define things in the name of worst-clarity.
January 6, 2021, is not a day that will go down in infamy in my beloved & missed #Americant. Reason? Well, I’m not sure #Americant is really seeing what happened as a couple thousand bat$hit white people tried to storm the Capitol, where they even defecated inside the building, spreading their faeces around as though it were graffiti paint, as a really big deal. I mean. Sure. Five people died. A few Representatives are gonna have to deal with PTSD. And no one will probably be able to get close enough to the building anymore to take a half-decent selfie. And so. What does one do when you live by the gun? Where do you go when war and government intervention is all you know? What comes after the trauma of being born in a world that fills you with blind optimism only to quickly realise that the only way to get ahead is by joining up as the ship of fail-upwards sails on the backs of every one else?
As I worst-write this ca. 74m minions either directly or indirectly supported the January 6, 2021, event that was the culmination of electing and trying to re-elect President Orang-utan. But what I want to focus on for a sec are those who inderectly supported him. These people(s) are The Good Germans, don’t you know. You know, all those Germans right before, during and after who said $hit like: ah, don’t worry, he’s not so bad. And then they went on their merry way–those Good Germans–even as their Jewish neighbours were being rounded up and shoved into gas chambers. Indeed. Indifference is a grand sailing vessel named biatch and it ingeniously fails-upward, eh. Not to mention those who ride in it with their funny hair-does and dubious bank accounts.
It was called the Beer Hall Putsch, dear worst-reader. Two thousand brown shirt German speaking thugs–drunk on German beer, of course–gathered together in an attempt to free Germany and Germans from the political and economic confines, post French Revolution Europe, of the Weimar Republic. These thugs were lead by you-know-who. Once the Putsch attempt failed, though, you-know-who was jailed for his antics where he then dictated his book Mein Kampf. As we all know, $hit-bag Hitler was eventually released from jail. He immediately became a best selling author (of a reality-TV-like book) and then proceeded to take on the image of a wannabe dictator. He changed his hair and moustache accordingly so as to appeal to his–let’s call them–fans, which has to include those who were indifferent. Does any of this sound familiar, dear worst-reader? No. Of course it doesn’t. Reason? Well, Adolf Hitler was able to go from wannabe, cheap, funky hair-styled political trouble-maker to actual dictator and all in less than a decade. Now. I don’t know about you. But until #Trump, I thought Hitler was a huuuuge underachiever (sarcasm off).
That’s the reason worst-writer is having trouble calling January 6, 2021, a Coup. For, you see, don’t you know, a Coup usually has the military behind it. Hitler had no such thing. There is also clarity in who the Coup is trying to dethrone–or replace. Once again, Hitler was trying to replace a (bad) idear, not a person. And then there’s the idear that a coup, if successful, usually has support from… That’s right. You guessed it. #Americant. I mean. In case you’re unaware, most Coup d’etats that have taken place in the past hundred years were all somehow supported by US empire–either directly or indirectly. Or do you believe that the US would have partaken in WW2 after the debacle that was/is WW1 if Hitler hadn’t declared war on the US and, of course, been so cruel to… Her f’n Majesty the Queen? Am I wrong? But let’s move on before that bit of worst-history bogs us down.
And so. Worst-writer say, January 6, 2021, can’t be a Coup. And worst-writer’s reasoning behind that may be a way to (re)define the difference between Coup and Putsch. A Putsch, contrary to a Coup, doesn’t really fulfil any of the above mentioned criteria. And if that’s the case, there’s more reason than ever to be worried–severely worried–that January 6, 2021, was a Putsch. Again. Even after Adolf Hitler’s amateuristic Putsch failed, he did end up becoming dictator of the Third Reich and most German speaking peoples–within a friggin decade.
And while we’re on the subject of under-achievement galore, let’s not forget the rich white trash thingy in worst-title #2 from above. Here’s how things connect.
In Worst-writer’s pseudo attempt at (re)defining Coup vs Putsch, here’s the one thing you need to remember. Not unlike Hitler, as I may or may not have said in this post, Trump , despite his claims of wealth, belongs to white trash. Indeed. There is white trash even on fifth avenue. What we’ve seen with his rise is how this trashy element has a way with taking advantage of both direct and indirect frustration in all things government and society–thanks to forty plus years of right-wing media. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, the trash of society, whether rich or poor, has a very strong thread that ties it all together. There is the hate of culture and cultivation. It despises creativity. It hates science and intellect. And it cannot cope with thoughts of a future in which it knows it will be erased–and not only because most of the children of the rich end up being dunces. Trump children come to mind?
Oh how strong the threat is, especially its voice. In #Americant white trash has a voice through the likes of faux-newz, Limbaugh, #Trump, and now fake-news, long-winded conspiracy theories, reality-TV, etc. Add to that the fact that white trash has absolutely no means of being funny… That’s the reason, btw, reality TV is so successful. Although the shows are NOT funny, because they show human banalities in a hyper display of whimsy and callousness, the viewers actually believe that they are laughing at someone or something else–when in fact they are laughing at themselves either with or without their emperor clothing or the painted industry arse of Kardashians. Indeed. Whether a hundred or so years ago or the 2016 #Americant election, the ingredients and fat arses for a Putsch have been stirred. Which means there are a few questions that need be worst-answered.
Is #MAGA smart enough to stay on message as Hitler was before and after his Munich Putsch? I mean, #Trump is going on trial (again) next week.
If so, is former president piss-hair capable of leading his sh*tshow further down the road which could culminate in a dictatorship within a decade? According to those Republicans elected in November when he was not, maybe.
Since indifference seems to be the best way to deal with politics, what will wake up humanity so that it can rise above and beyond what the history of #Eurowasteland has given mankind? Or do you think the Neo-feudal system that is #Americant today is really any different than 16th, 17th, 18th (pick your century) Europe?
Indeed, dear worst-reader. Rich white #Americant trash is basting in the gravy of indifference right now. Picture that next time you see #Trump’s kids try to articulate anything. Even though I voted Democrat (especially Bernie in the primary), I’m not sure any significant action from old-man Biden will be enough to avoid the inevitable. And that’s the ticket, ain’t it, dear worst-reader? Nothing should really change. That’s what Biden & Co. is. That’s the whole point of the US Constitution, as well. NO CHANGE. Perhaps that was #Trump’s real burden–that has turned him into the worst president ever even though he was gifted something by Democrats in 2016. On the other worst-hand, is indifference the secret sauce that pushed Hitler over the edge where he almost ruled the world?
Yeah. Considering what has happened among rich white people on Wall Street recently, see my previous post, #Americant is most certainly deep into being ruled by rich white trash from the past, from the now and from the future, Putsch or no Coup.
“The game is rigged,” they’re saying, dear worst-reader. But worst-writer say: if it’s rigged, especially on such a grand scale, how will/can you ever know it? In other worst-words: part of the rigging is making sure that those who are (being) rigged can never know that they are (being) rigged–or, at best, always made to think that they know the game is rigged–when they don’t/can’t know anything on account, well, they’re f’n stupider than rocks. Also. If you’re just now coming to terms with the reality of the system is rigged, how come you only notice it when/if your stock valuations are on the jimmy?
Yeah. As far as stock valuations go… you been jimmy-dicked, morons.
And then there’s another worst-question. If, for whatever reason, you notice (think/imagine) the system is rigged, and, you suddenly wake up to a world where a guy like #Trump can become president, wouldn’t it make more sense to perhaps look a little further back in time to see if/where/how the rigging started? You know, as in, your whole life has been one giant rigging session that you’ve been too stupid to wake up to. Yeah. That’s the ticket, biatch.
Or maybe not.
Did you get a load of the recent Wall Street GameStop thingy, dear worst-reader? You know, the thingy where, perhaps, hopefully, a bunch of hedge fund managers are losing their shirts on account other non-connected younger stock traders out-witted them to the hilt. I mean. Wow! I love this story so much I’ve actually had a moment or three where I thought: Hey! Maybe there is some hope for 2021 being a turnaround year on account, I mean, at least #Americants got rid of president stupid, eh. On the other hand, what do my beloved & missed #Americants have instead (of president stupid)? That’s right. Now they have president old-man. I mean. Biden doesn’t only look old. Depending on how the cameras catch him, he looks like a friggin corpse. But on that worst-note, I probably should die-gress.
Oh yeah. We were gettin’ on about GameStop and Wall Street…. But before I do that, let’s get on about terminology. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, terminology is especially important to peoples who are incapable of intellectualising their world. Just listen to any/most republican politicians in my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant. I mean. Say what you will about the arsehole, elitist Democrats–but there’s one thing you can’t say about them. Democrats don’t vomit up the likes of Alex Jones, Limbaugh, tea-party and #MAGA. Hence the silly madness of #Americant conspiracy theories, fake newz, the media, etc. Would all of that be around if Republicans could intellectualise? Heck, just have a look/listen at all the new republican $hitbags that got voted into the Congress recently, all on account Democrats are too dippy to figure out how to actually fight for taking away the label #Americant. But on that note, I once again die-gress. And. Back to terminology.
You know, dear worst-reader, I’ve heard some folk compare the goings-on at Wall Street, including the GameStop thingy, with something akin to a casino. You know. They’re comparing their life to gambling houses where men wilfully continue on with the delusion of being men in a world that is probably run by women–or at least it’s not being run by the fantasy of their manhood. Then again I can see why some folk consider manipulated stocks as gambling–or as a casino. But here’s worst-writer’s thing about calling Wall Street a casino. It just ain’t right. I mean. As you may or may not know, the system is not only rigged but it is also kaputt. That’s it. It’s called #Americant for a reason, don’t you know. Yet the comparison to a casino…? Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. Even if you tried, even if you stealthily, with hundreds of millions worth of tools and trickery, if you go into a casino and cheat… What do you think is going to happen? And I don’t mean cheating like they did in that Rain Man movie or, perhaps, one of them stupid, mindless, Oceans Eleven movies. You go into a casino and try to cheat–someone will come along pretty quick and cut your friggin fingers off. You know, so you can’t deal cards anymore. Or so you can’t throw dice anymore. Or pull a slot machine lever. Or. Or. Or. So you get what I’m sayin’, eh dear worst-reader? Of course, what we all know by now is that you can walk into Wall Street and cheat your arse off–if you’re friggin privileged and already rich. You can cheat till the cows come running, baby. In fact, in kaputt #Americant, cheating is about the only way to get on with life–unless you want to starve. Or have you already forgotten that you elected #Trump–the born cheater–as president? So. Stop calling Wall Street a casino. The terminology just doesn’t work.
And while I’m on the issue of terminology #Americant-style, I’m not even sure the David v Goliath analogy works either. Perhaps a better way to animate what’s going on with GameStop and Wall Street and, of course, #Americant, is to try this: as the lemmings are lead to the edge of the cliff a few lemmings manage to $hit on a few other lemmings–you know, as they did during the January 6, 2021 pseudo-putsch on the US Congress–just before their final leap which causes all the lemmings to laugh their arses off as they fall to their doom–all laden with $hit. Or something like that.
The thing that doesn’t really work by calling GameStop David and Wall StreetGoliath is the fact that even though the enabler and facilitator of GameStop’s stock is the ranting and ramblings of various Reddit users–an online message board system with the not so uniquely titled subject: WallStreetBets–and those users ain’t exactly small in numbers. In fact, as the whole GameStop thingy started to surge in late January, 2021, it’s impossible to know exactly who all the buyers that created the squeeze are. Put another worst-way. Even though there may be thousands of Reddit users that bought up thousands of available GameStop shares–hence the squeeze–there has to be some other form of buyer or buyers out there to cause such a sudden surge in a single stock. Oh my. All this terminology combined with the pseudo-complexity of the US stock market is mind-boggling–if you can’t intellectualise it, don’t you know.
There’s one more #Americant terminology thingy that need be addressed. Another player in the $hitshow greed-game is a company called… Wait for it. That’s right. Where there’s David and Goliath, where there’s casino capitalism, where there’s… There must also be a Robinhood. You know. As in Robinhood.com. And what a misplaced (or is it misspelled) euphemism we have to intellectualise now. And so. Just as confusing as calling Wall Street a casino, let’s call a greed-mongering website that enables the buying and selling of stocks without any fees…
Seriously. One of the culprits in one of the funniest, most hilarious stock thingies in decades, is called Robinhood.com. Intellectualise that, dear worst-reader.
Indeed. Leave it up to #Americants to confuse the name of a free from fees stock trading service/app with the fiction of old British aristocratic story telling that enabled another kind of nation-statehood idiocy, i.e. that of Great Britain, to get caught up in story telling as opposed to facing the truth about the utter ridiculousness of monarchies… And so. What the creators of Robinhood.com really mean by giving their company such a name is more like: robbing the hood. Get it? I mean. A few letters here or there are no-never-mind to #Americants who are all drifting around in the ignorance of still trying to fathom #MAGA and/or taking a dump while pseudo-invading the US Capitol building (Jan. 6, 2021). And so. How do you get a bunch of suckers in the right place at the right time in order to rip them off because they are intellectually incapable of understanding that their lives are rigged and it’s just a casino and they’ve played it all their lives–and now they’re just bored out of their minds? And. And. And.
Again. Indeed. For those who think fee-less stock trading is a real thing, then perhaps you should apply some face-bag (facebooK) reality here or there. Namely, FB’s only product on which and/or with-which it makes money is stupid users, i.e. YOU. That is. The way FB makes money is by collecting information about how you use the Internetwebs. And just like FB, Robinhood’s product is NOT free stock trading but instead gathering data of what you do (with your credit-card money) and selling that data to the highest bidder. Hence, it was a no-brainer that when Wall Street came calling to suspend trading of a stock that was bankrupting a few hedge funds, the guys at Robinhood obliged.
The only question remaining, dear worst-reader, is how/when/what will the government that is a/the reflection of its people step in and finally do something about how rigged casinos, the inversion of Davids and Goliaths and the whole shebang of #Americant greed-mongering–which is, by-the-buy, the single greatest social experiment in human history that has culminated in: THE LAND OF THE FREE TO BE STUPID–be regulated.
Where to go with all the toxicity, dear worst-reader? Hence a country is awash in poison, filth, dreck–including #Trump’s hair–and whatever drug concoction of the day fits into the nose or arm of the lower and middle classes that are subsumed in the aftermath of political conservatism run amok that is the end of the 20th century. Or. Did you see something other than all-things disgusting the other day at the US Capitol in my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant? And I’m not even concerned about the crowd. I mean. Get this. For the first time in history, the confederate flag was totted around the Capitol. Grown men were heisting office material, especially the speaker of the house’s podium, and then dancing around with it as though they just won a prize on the price-is-right–and thereby giggling while posing for said photographs. A half naked tattooed man with his face painted red, white and blue mockingly wore a hat made of fur with two horns attached–looking as though he were in a drug induced state ready to invade Sweden or Denmark or wherever else his sophomoric mind could fathom that vikings still exist. Yes. 2021 #Americant is where the whole world can see what happens when you can’t pull yourself up by the mental bootstraps, have no dreams to pursue, or simply can’t tell the difference between stupid and stupider–even if it came up to your face and said… Hi. I’m Martha. Wanna join me and George in a three way?
Quick question. Is it at all possible that human history’s first and best form of collective governance could actually enable people instead of disabling them in the name of greed, greed and more greed?
But I die-gress.
As of the writing of this worst-post, dear worst-reader, five people have died in #Americant’s first (internal) coup d´etat. Two of those people were killed through direct violence and three others died due to circumstances that may or may not have had to do with… #AmeriCANT. As in, the country simply CAN’T dig its way out of the pit of poop it has dug itself into. And by the buy, that chick that was shot while disobeying the-man and trying to break into the US Capitol building the other day, shouldn’t be dead right now? I mean. Where does all this mental toxicity come from? Could it have anything to do with covid-19 and being locked up in your own four walls since ever-more—because your government is so inept at dealing with the reality that viruses exist and exist and exist? And what about that alien, DNA rendered (sarcasm off) vaccine that they’ve got in the works? Were any of these rally-goers inoculated–which has obviously (sarcasm on) activated their zombie-ness? Indeed. Zombies. They’ve been zombies ever since their $hitkicker trailer-park ways took over their already empty-space minds and they finally discovered shits&giggles by enabling the election of president piss-hair. Or have you witnessed an ounce of political smarts–before or after #Americants first coup d’etat?
Am I wrong. -Walter, The Big Lebowski
Hold a sec, dear worst-reader. That woman who was shot and killed was a veteran of the US Airforce. In fact, according to various reports, there were numerous veterans at that “rally”. And there you have it, eh, dear worst-reader. The makings of a coup? You know. The makings that include… Gee. Let’s see. Lust for authoritarianism. Lots of stupid–on account everyone was obviously educated in #Americant. Guns. Idolatry (MAGA hats). And the fact that the only way to make a living in a country that has completely decimated its manufacturing base (since Ronald Reagan) is to join the military and be taught that you’re the only hammer in a world of nails. Etc. Etc.
Or was it just a political rally stirred on by president piss-hair all on account he might be (finally) facing financial ruin and jail because he is unable to rise up, like most (74m most) of his generation, and do the job. I mean. How do you expect white men to respond to facing the reality of imminent fail upward recognition? And so. Veterans, trailer-trash and #Americant united in one big WWE kumbaya that did nothing but solidify a new kind of wall thereby relinquishing any chance whatsoever of political this or that. And do you know what that act was? That’s right. It wasn’t protesting a valid election. It wasn’t even a coup. It was thirty, forty, or fifty years of republican bat$hittery drilled year after year, generation after generation into the mind’s of… #Americants.
That’s your opinion man… -The Dude, The Big Lebowski
And that’s not all, dear worst-reader. Just when you thought the #Americant fail-upward coup d’etat was over, it turns out that the MAGA protestors left one last thing. That’s right. The political act that will forever be associated with January 6, 2021, in worst-writer’s opinion, that included the ransacking of what could have been humanities greatest government…
Someone actually took a sh*t in the open, right in the middle of the building.
Joseph Beuys at the beach. Source: screenshot from the Interwebnets
Worst-title #2: Thoughts stirred by Werk Ohne Autor
Worst-title #3: Stop old money making all the films so that someone else can have a shot at it.
“My salad days, when I was green in judgement…” -Cleopatra, Shakespeare
Disclaimer: spoiler alert.
This worst-post, like so many other worst-posts, contains spoilers. Not a lot of spoilers, mind you. But a few. These spoilers, by-the-buy, are from the film Werk ohne Autor (Never Look Away), which premiered in 2018 (or so) and I just happened to finally watch the other night on German compulsive-tax-paid TV received through my cord-cut digital world (which means I streamed it). With that in mind, as you like, this is a worst-post with a bit of NSFW worstness that may or may not include incredibly beautiful tits and ass galore wrapped in the historically confused megalomania of… What the hell do we do with them frickin Germans now that they’ve gone and lost two frickin world wars and pacified the Wirtschaftswunder like never before? Or something like that.
FYI, watching this movie the other night was something akin to “Date Night”. And even though we only do this a couple times a year–on account she always falls asleep during movies but not necessarily date night–I have to put this (worst-thought) out there: we didn’t just watch any film on post Xmas/New Years date night, don’t you know. No. We watched a frickin three hour long film that went right through the heart of who/what we are not unlike a love-hate dagger lost and found in a sock-pile from the Middle Ages. I mean, come on. Did you get that, dear worst-reader (above and beyond the sock pile)? This film is three hours long. I mean. Again. Come on! I get it when Hollywood makes three hour long comic book movies that fascinate child-minds with everything except tits–that I have to watch with my millennial son. But when a German dude that’s, like, eight frickin feet tall… and he makes a movie that is as long as he is tall… What the hell could go wrong on a date night where the chances of wifey falling asleep and thereby occupying the couch as though it were the Germans invading Sudentland…?
Anywho.
Let me try to put the beginning of this worst-post another worst-way. I finally broke down and watched Werk ohne Autor the other night on account I’ve been meaning to watch it ever since I found out it was made by the same dude that made Das Leben Der Anderen. Of course, I failed to find out how long this movie actually is. Still. Also. I failed to do any preliminary study about the film which could have warned me how stunningly beautiful tits and ass on digital celluloid can be. In fact. Praise be to the #Eurowasteland lore of artsy-fartsy films and their ease of showing skin. Lots and lots of beautiful, gorgeous, luscious, juicy, scrumptious, appetite wetting… skin.
But all worst-gesture aside.
As we traverse this $hithole of life together, dear worst-reader, let us give thanks to the privileged few that can entertain (and enlighten) us because, well, they’re rich enough to be able to finance the development and creation of… artsy-fartsy stuff. As opposed, of course, to comic book films that not only bore the $hit out of wanton minds but also prohibit the necessary jerk-off content that so many young males require in order to not turn into fascist rapists. But. Again. I die-gress. But. Again-again. Wait. Before I die-gress. Let me say this. The movie Werk ohne Autor really fcuked with my head. Hence, I should worst-write something about it before things explode into the nothingness that is my mind.
By-the-buy, before I worst-continue, if you want a film review that includes a half-decent summary or explanation of this movie, use the google-machine and then trust in the capacity of the Interwebnets. At the least there’s enough promotion material and various interviews with the makers and players of this movie to hold ones attention for hours. If, on the other hand, you want to know how this film fcuked with worst-writer’s mind, and you’re also open to a bunch of anger, bitterness, spite and a worst-post that will include the least amount of worst-writing about my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant that is reaching the crescent moon nadir of its demise, stick around. Otherwise. Again. This movie has me in the mood of: Fcuk off baby because there is some serious gorgeous naked skin that I haven’t seen since Eva Green in The Dreamers. And so…
Dresden with a bunch of Nazi $hitbags.
As with all German stories that need be told before and/or after The Brother’s Grimm and/or Napoleon, this story starts with the Austrian Adolf Dipshit Hitler and the spiteful bombing–and good use of surplus bombs–of Dresden in 1945 after Hitler failed just a tick worse than Donald Dip$hit #Trump failed (since 2016) as president Stupid. Oh wait. Hold a sec. I said I wasn’t gonna get-on about my beloved & missed #Americant. So let’s take a breather. Ok. Gulp. There. Gulp.
Moving on.
Werk ohne Autor starts a bit before the fire bombing of Dresden which was/is covered in-full by Vonnegut’s Slaughter House 5 so I certainly won’t get into that here. Which means, the creator(s) of Werk ohne Autor need to prep the audience with some form of conduit to make this fcuk-over cinematic art $hitshow with hapless yet fantastical acting palpable on account… Who the fcuk doesn’t know everything there need be known about the fire-bombing of Dresden? And so. Let’s f’n move on.
Enter… Wait for it. Here comes the name of the director…
Hold a sec. Werk ohne Autor is written and directed and produced and and and by… Here it comes… What’s in a name, eh.
Florian Henkle von Donnersmarck.
And what a name it is, huh? Is it worst-moi or do you also get this strange anti-aristocratic, monarch-hating, loathing of all-things hereditary chill through your whole body when you hear/read a name like that? (Or is it just worst-moi?) And did I mention that the director with the douchebag name is like… thirty-five feet tall? I mean, dear worst-reader, you have to search the Interwebnets a bit to see how frickin tall this guy is. I mean. Again. A German, his name, a dude standing something like seven feet tall… what else do you want in a artsy-fartsy film maker that’s making film about…? Or?
But. Again. I die-gress.
The first too-many minutes of this movie is about Dresden and some gorgeous aunt and her nephew viewing art that is declared Entartete Kunst or: degenerate art. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, back in the day art is called degenerate by Nazi douchebags that claim it doesn’t represent national socialist virtues. And who better to bring this up in a film than a guy who totally does not look like some seven foot tall family connected goober that reminds worst-writer of what Butthead (yes, of Beavis and Butthead fame) would look like if he were real–and seven feet tall. Oh. Wait. Did I mention Florian Henkle von Donnersmarck’s hair style might be as weird as he is tall? Again. But I die-gress.
The aunt and her nephew are this hot little couple that get royally screwed by the Nazis, don’t you know. In fact, they are so screwed that the aunt gets gassed because, well, she’s suddenly schizophrenic after handing The Führer (that’s #Trump English for dear-leader, aka Adolf Hitler, don’t you know) a bouquet of flowers during a small town drive-by visit. Immediately after handing Hitler the flowers–and being taught/shown/told that any form of “art” that is NOT national-socialist is degenerate–hot Aunt goes nutso and is then turned over to the Nazis by her family. The Nazis proceed to sterilise her and, as previously mentioned, kill her in a gas chamber made to look like group showers for half-chromosome deprived girl-scouts. Did you get all that, dear worst-reader? No. Well it’s a complicated if not intricate artsy-fartsy movie, don’t you know.
This/the long winded initiation into this movie culminates in the nephew learning that in order to see the truth he can/should Never Look Away, hence the English title of the film*. Never looking away is also, somehow, the subtext of this film. The problem with never looking away, though, is that it’s no different than putting a cookie jar in front of a child and telling him no touchy-touchy. The cookie jar, btw, is filled with the actresses Paula Beer and Saskia Rosendahl. They are both so stunningly beautiful that without them I would not have gotten past the Dresden bombing–or the first hour of this movie. And since I’m on the subject of hot actresses, my better half also helped me get over the trauma of watching yet another film that gives just a tick too much humanism to Nazis. And so… it’s hard to never-look-away when so much beauty may or may not be distorted by the ugliness of trying to tell Nazi stories. But. Again…
Moving on.
Now we move on to Dresden after the most devastating bombing in all of human history–even when compared to Hiroshima. The film goes to post Nazi waw-waw gibberish in the dreamland of Marx & Co., aka DDR subpar pseudo-bourgeois nobody get rich eastern Germany. That’s right. Our nephew is now a young man after the war and he’s learning NOT to use the word I (Ich) as he embarks on a life of artistry–by drawing pictures of pre-#Trump #Americants with sickle and hammers in one hand and Vladimir Putin as saviour in the other hand–or was it Marx, Lenin and Trotsky and the New York stock exchange? #Nomatter.
Our nephew has to draw pictures of/for DDR Germany which, in a way, is kinda exactly like how one might draw #Trump and my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant today as it too delves into the Mein Kampf confusion of political circumstance dictated by greed, greed and more greed albeit in a nation of mindless nationalism run amok. And… Ok. Wait. Stop the worst presses. I know I get-on a bit too much here and there with #Trump & Co and #Americant. So forgive me. Let me take a swig of post Xmas drink and I’ll try to move on.
Gulp. Gulp.
While dabbling in DDR waw-waw, studying, smoking, drinking communist beer, our cold-war artist/Nephew falls for a chick (Paula Beer) that looks perfectly NOT unlike his gassed aunt (Saski Rosendahl). This young couple now get it on in wondrous ways that the porn industry probably doesn’t want anybody to see–on account these actors loved each other on screen so well that it even gave me hope that love is real. Their post-nazi love, of course, leads to a pregnancy which in turn leads to the girls father–who I have purposefully left out up to now even though he plays a major role from the beginning to end of this film. I have left him out of this worst-post because I think he’s stupid. That’s right. I said it: stupid. In fact, I think the character of the Nazi/doctor/father is so stupid that this will be my last mention of him. If you want/need to know more about him, watch the movie. Otherwise, fcuk you and all Nazi/doctor/fathers.
Moving on.
Now. Before I continue worst-summarising. This is a movie where the director (remember his name?) seems to think he can somehow work through Germany’s past in about three hours. And while working through that past, he thinks/assumes all will be well. Or? For it is a dilemma, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, that Germans and oh-so many German speaking old white men of #Eurowasteland have to rehash their Nazi past even more than their money has paid for WW2 reparations. That’s kind of the essence in this movie. I think. Either that or rehashing the past is a new past-time for Germans born of Wirtschaftswunder parents. But don’t worry. If you’re unattainably confused about what worst-writer is trying (and failing) to say about this movie… Get this. It’s creator/director has a really really really (sarcasm on) important name and the artistry of his movie is naked… I mean stunning… I mean the actresses in this movie are gorgeous and… that… Well. Hint. I’m not sure anymore about what I’m trying to say. So maybe I should just move on–and at the same time try and stop summarising this movie. Indeed.
Joseph Beuys.
Our beloved nephew and his luscious wife end up leaving DDR waw-waw-land and make it to The West. Once in The West our nephew pursues his art career along side a bunch of other post WW2 guys who somehow find a way through life via art school at the behest of the infamous Joseph Beuys–in the town of Düsseldorf–which is also worst-writer’s golden cage… Blah. Blah. Blah. Stop. Pause.
This is where I should definitely break from my attempt at worst-writing about this film and get into a long-winded rant about the artist Joseph Beuys who died a few years prior to worst-writer arriving in D’dorf which also turned out to be the beginning of my expatration. But I won’t do that. Instead. Allow me this.
Once I got over the waw-waw of Florian Henkle von Donnersmarck’s (what a name, eh) attempt at rehashing Germany’s recent past with lots of Nazi drama which, for him, seems to have begun in Dresden and then ended in my beloved D’dorf, I realised: Hey! This film ain’t so bad after all. I mean. Beyond the spectacular cinematography of actresses, actresses and more naked actresses, there’s actually a highly confused story that reminds me of an ugly but extremely useful quilt. But. And here’s a big but. If it weren’t for the post WW2 art school in D’dorf and the love story of a couple who deserve love, I might not have made it to the end of this film. That’s not to say that it’s bad. But it is to say that it’s long. Way too long. It’s also a rehashing of the past that I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to get a grip on–as though it were my calling on account of my mother and her war-torn Prussian father who was born in 1918 and died in 2001. With that in mind, I think it’s time to get on about Joseph Beuys.
The thing is this, dear worst-reader. This film could be condensed to an hour and a half and all the Dresden stuff could still be included as flashbacks (except the naked scenes, of course; they need to be seen in full) and then the movie could focus on what kept me watching it: namely a movie about Joseph Beuys. For here’s the kicker, dear worst-reader. In 1992 I spent three days in Kassel, Germany, at Documenta 9 staring at various Beuys’ exhibits that did nothing less than blow my weak #Americant pseudo-intellectual mind. I was so enamoured with Beuys that for a few years after that I never passed up a chance to visit a museum just to see his work.
So let me be as clear as only worst-writer can about this movie. It’s an ok movie. It’s a artsy-fartsy film. It has some good cinematography and some of the dialogue is really good–except for the scene where Ben Becker, as a DDR sign-maker foreman, spouts Shakespearean, if not Goethe-like text that was/is completely misplaced telling the protagonist (nephew) that he’s not making art but instead making posters that promote communism. And so… The only problem I have with this film is that it is miraculously indulgent. It is a film about exuberant film making–and those who can afford to make it. It is long winded and at times a bit boring. But it’s also a film that a lot of people should see. They should see it even if it’s not as good as Florian, Count Henckel von Donnersmarck’s (can you believe I’ve forgotten to include the “count” this whole time?) previous artsy-fartsy film Das Leben Der Anderen. This movie should be seen because it has something in it about the 20th century’s greatest artist, if not best German rehasher of Nazis: Joseph Beuys.
Which brings me to one last worst-thought about Werk ohne Autor. This should have been a movie about how one makes art, which may or may not include a love story. From the beginning to end, a movie about wielding a paint brush, as the nephew of this film does, or wielding the idear of art as life, as Joseph Beuys did, would have made this film a bit less banal, a bit less mediocre, a bit less mendacious. For those who have said wondrous things about this movie. That’s cool. I too recommend it. But for those who say something critical about it–take heed. In the end there’s three hours of quilt parts in this film to have fun with or without the directors stupid name.
And so…
Fcuk aristocracy, old money, the past in all its forms–even film making. It’s time to change your name, dude–because, in case you don’t know, names like yours are what gave the world (Germans) Nazis in the first place–and obviously set the example of how fascism wins wars even when Nazis lose. Instead make a film about Joseph Beuys. Stop revealing how painters paint–on account you take the fun out of it. Or go the way of worst-writer’s salad days, where/when worst-writer’s cock could cum ten times a day on Cleopatra’s face because she smiled the only way a scorned woman can–and that’s hotter than hot. And that’s what happiness is to those of us who can’t make it as an artist because, well, I guess, some of us just don’t have the right name–or all the old (name) money.
Or something like that.
Rant on.
-T
*The translation of the German title is just as fun, dear worst-reader. It goes something like this: work without (an) author or an author without work or, maybe, art without an artist or or or, etc. WTF.
Well, don’t you know, dear worst-reader. The silly-show has begun regarding the/our privileged greed mongering galore in the name of survival, life, and the pursuit of more purchasing power. But this time it’s not just the privilege of proximity-birth and who’s at the head of the corporate mobbing council that determines who and what you can buy. No. This time it’s about something almost completely different. Different as in miserable-life and a gruelling almost unnatural death by the sheer destruction of human lung capacity in the name of Covid191. Or let’s just call it covid, our new poor-people disease. Eh.
Now that the first vaccine has been approved for use and the second and third vaccine is at the door of approval, what’s there to do about who gets it first? You know, as in, who’s standing at the syringe saying, well: “I should get it first because I’m more productive in this society than that guy.” Or. “Here, I’ll pay whatever you want, I’ve got money coming out of my guzoo, which also means I’m more privileged than the average useless-eater, so I should get the vaccine first.” Or. Or. “That life raft is for me and my wife because we have first-class tickets on the/this Titanic, baby.”
I mean, don’t get me wrong, dear worst-reader. I too am one to worst-say that front-line workers and old people and those particularly susceptible to the disease should get the vaccine toot-sweet. But then again, should they? Since it’s quite obvious that President Piss-Hair is part of that click of humanity that has no problem with masses of people dying–as it fits a certain eugenics if not pseudo Darwinian survival of the fittest agenda… Or do you not believe elites love-loathe #Trump–not for his smarts to get elected president but for his susceptibility to be a push-over by those who are privileged enough to have contact with him once he is elected and there agenda is the antithesis of governing for the people by the people and, and, and… Indeed. Cull the heard, baby. Weed-out the riff-raff. Do at least something about over-population that seems to bug the privileged! (Sarcasm off.)
But. Like I’ve worst-said here and there in this worst-blog, covid is nothing new. In one form or other it’s been around for years. For it is but another strain, another version, if not manifestation, of an ailment that’s been afflicting the poor and downtrodden for the better part of my worst-life. It’s no coincidence that covid, SARS, MARS, swine-flu, etc., all, somehow, got there start in the abundance of poverty where human beings are relegated to eating on top of or underneath batshit, hoof-shit or human… You get the picture. Which begs the worst-question: why hasn’t there been a vaccine already? Oh wait. Maybe for those that control the sheep, culling of the heard is a godsend. Or? And that godsend has finally arrived. But. Maybe. I’ve already worst-said that.
So let’s get back on subject about the vaccine. Or were we worst-writing about something else? #Nomatter.
One of the most curious things I’ve noticed about the vaccine so far is how my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant can’t talk about who actually… done it. I mean. Obviously there were/are plenty of greed $hit$how pharmaceutical companies working on a vaccine. But only one seems to have received first approval. And yet, there is barely mention of the company that actually did it. I mean. The distributor of the vaccine is all over the newz. Reason? Pfizer is also the infamous distributor of… That’s right. You guessed it. The blue pills, baby. Oh wait. I’m sorry. This isn’t about the blue pill or the red pill, as in, The Matrix. No. Indeed. This is solely about the blue pill that was invented so that women don’t have to suck a… Sorry. I’m off worst-subject again.
Pfizer’s claim to fame is that it is the largest distributor of dick-pills. You know. Stiffy drugs. Wood for woman pills. The pills that mean women-folk CAN just lay there. Etc., etc. Indeed. Viagra. And don’t you know, Pfizer had nothing to do with the actual development of viagra and–that’s right!–they’ve had nothing to do with the covid vaccine. Indeed. Some corporate $hitbag, working at a desk who sometimes gets to fly business class around the world, made a deal with a company that actually made the covid vaccine. Yet where is that company? If you’re reading this worst-blog-post from North America, have you heard anything about BioNTech?
Oh wait. Since #Americant can’t (hasn’t been able to) make anything since… Gee… I don’t know… It has completely decimated its manufacturing capabilities since the 1980s because a bunch of submissive college grads were never taught to think for themselves… And bean-counting pseudo intellectuals in the form of so-called management consultants, aka McKinsey, Booz Allen, etc., as outsourced corporate automatons, have been literally making actual production productivity scarcer than a fifty year old virgin mother who hates the man/men that impregnated her in the first place and now they want to do it more but with even less consequence and all in the name of the blue pill… Anywho. #Americant probably couldn’t have made the first Covid vaccine even if it wanted to. Or am I being too harsh with my hate for post Ronald Reagan LAND OF THE FREE TO BE STUPID?
For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, I’m sure there’s reason enough the privileged, Neo-feudalist #Americants need not mention BioNTech. Let’s cover a few of those reasons, shall we?
It’s a small German company based in Mainz
It is a company founded by Turkish immigrants–to Germany
BioNTech was funded by government, German government. Oh my!
And so. What does #Americant talk about instead of where the first covid vaccine comes from? That’s right. It talks about… full distortion-fields of greed-galore packed in unsold Xmas wrapping paper lined with fake-it-till-you-make-it #Trump gold2. Faux newz-mode. Fake it till you make mode, baby. And so. Talk about MAGA–which is code for reality avoidance abundance. Talk about libs, which is code for racism and bigotry and never having to visit a multi-racial playground. Indeed. For #Americant is good at this sort of thing, don’t you know. Reason? It’s about more than just changing the subject. It’s about controlling the narrative. The TV narrative that is the #Americant mind. So what does #Americant do to stop all talk about who created the first approved vaccine–which may or mayn’t make people question #Americant republican/conservative bat$hittery? That’s right. It talks about the big-wig distributor of dick-pills. And when that’s not enough it talks about an American immigrant from Hungary who discovered major breakthroughs in gene technology that is the precursor to the covid vaccine–because she’s an American now. Which begs this worst-question: Will the founders of BioNTech get the Nobel prize next year? Or will #Americants continue avoiding giving credit where it’s due because of bat$hit tribalism run amok?
But I die-gress.
This should always be a story about how immigrants are leading the way and not about corporations who simply buy-up opportunity. And so. Enjoy your next dick-pill, baby.
And don’t even get me started on the idear that something similar actually killed off the dinosaurs and not the fabled belief in asteroids. For. Don’t you know, dear worst-reader. That which killed the dinosaurs was a lung ailment not unlike our covid. But for the dinosaurs, the cause of their ailment wasn’t a permanent establishment of the poor versus the working poor and how they were all forced to live in $hit. No. The thing that killed the dinosaurs was much simpler. It was all about O2, i.e. oxygen. That’s right. The reason, according to worst-writer, that dinosaurs got so big and were so fruitful was because the earth’s atmosphere was much richer in oxygen back then. Where we now have an atmosphere of just below twenty-percent O2, back then, it was something around or above thirty-percent. That’s a lot of juice for a fruitful biosphere, eh. But on that note, I really should die-gress. ↩︎
That’s right. The same #Trump gold covering his toilets. Which means. That’s right. He shat on it at one time or other. ↩︎
