WURSTWRITER

Tom's blog of whatnots and other stuff

Category: Blog

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  • Corporate Compulsive Casino Crew

    Indeed. Dear worst-reader. There you have it. The four C’s. Or. Better worst-put: how worst-writer finds better and better ways to describe, if not transcribe, what my beloved & missed #Americant– land of THE FREE TO BE STUPID–has actually given the world and/or humanity since it turned the birth/day of Xhrist from July to December and thereby enabled Coca-Cola to become a rival to the bitter-sweetness of Disney and what gets in the mind of bullshit or batshit–that can only give-way to President pee-pee-hair. And so. Ever smell batshit, dear worst-reader? It is the rotten, metallic, repugnant odour of failing upward. Which means it’s hard to smell (anything) when you live (in) *shit. But I die-gress.

    Today, dear worst-reader, we worst-blog about yet another pending issue from #Americant newz. Or did you not hear about the managerial worker-bees from that Tyson’s food plant who were fired because they were betting in a betting-pool who would get Covid. Did you get that? Let me worst-repeat: managers running a food processing plant in the middle of bumfcuk #Americant were betting on who would get the covid–and die? Any idear what that means? No? Let’s break it down, shall we.

    First. As I’ve worst-written before, most (a huuuuuuge majority) #Americants have never worked a day in their lives. That is, they’ve never actually do anything of substance, nor do they actually produce anything. What #Americants do when they go to work is they behave compulsively and get paid to do so–and the machine in which they were born treks on. In other worst-words: #Americants, more than members of any other greed-mongering nation-state, do what they are told. Indeed. What is told is done–to the letter, don’t you know. In fact. All generations of #Americants have had their DNA altered since WW2 (give or take a war) to encompass the mantra: what more of #Americant god-of-money can you tell me to do because I am oh-so ready to do it. The do-telling comes first and foremost from parents, but it also includes elders and, of course, the/their environment. Compulsive behaviourism is a sickness, dear worst-reader. But on that note, again, let us die-gress.

    Oh wait. Let’s suspend that die-gression for a second. If you’re wondering how it is that so many #Americants get ahead, make a living, have money, etc.? Well. The answer to that is easy. Compulsive behaviourism, like so many human traits, can be mastered. It is indeed a skill. And so. Those that nail it–not unlike a nation of submissive wives who oh-so enjoy being the nailed of matrimony in a post-feminist world–make money. As far as the really, really rich money makers? Compulsive behaviourism works for them just as well. In fact, I can’t think of a more successful compulsive behaviourist then Jeff Bezos–who, by-the-buy, was a finance guy before he realised how much Wall Street sucks and then trekked across the country to Seattle to finally figure out how Windows95 works. I mean. Come on. Amazon is nothing but an old economy distribution centre… that runs on Windows 95 interwebnets and postal service(s). Am I wrong.

    But. Again. I die-gress.

    Understanding compulsive behaviourism (CB) is key to understanding #Americant. There are a number of ways to recognise CB. At the top of list would have to be conformity. In fact. It’s hard to tell the difference between diseases in #Americant. Conformity disease or CB disease. Take your worst-pick, eh. And. Although some might consider conformity to be on a higher plain as CB, I tend not to think that worst-way. For example. Just go to any Walmart. If you ever want to see the slop and goop where the conformity disease manifests, hold your breath when you walk in. If you can wear some goggles do so. And, if at all possible, don’t touch anything from underneath your body condom. And then have a look at what walks around #Americant’s favourite buy-krapp-store. Same shoes. Same sweat-shirt or hoody. Same hat and same bonnet and same pseudo-english slang that sounds as though it could yank the dong off a rattlesnake pissing on #Trump’s hair as it yells and screams the frustrations of having believed in The Dream that has relegated it to shopping at… Walmart.

    You’re all a bunch of snakes, ain’t ya.

    But. As usual, dear worst-reader, I’m off worst-subject. For today the worst-issue is: what is it that one does in life when compulsion rules and behaving ain’t enough? Indeed. One seeks a break for the mind. Such a simple task, don’t you know. Some may call it entertainment. Some call it addiction-personality. Others call it sadism. I, of course, prefer the latter. And so. The thing about compulsive behaviourism as both a sickness and national quest, not unlike going to the moon oh so many years ago only to reach the unprofitable point of never returning, is that it’s hard to see all the moments of death by a thousand cuts. You swim in bullshit/batshit long enough you can never know anything different. Or. More important. There is no return to anything that could have possibly been normal. And so.

    When there’s nothing left to be made. When all cookies have been distributed. When all that’s left is seeing others on TV humiliate themselves–aka President Piss-Hair and his dipshit #MAGA hat wearing pissers–where do you turn? That’s right. You turn to betting pools in the confines of the corporate structures that house what’s left of your mind. You literally bet on the death of others for your personal entertainment–because, well, where else can you get meaning? Which can only raise yet another worst-question: since it’s no longer about how far and wide the depths of fail-upward #Americant can go… It’s now about how to first begin the trek of getting out of this mess. Or?

    Na. Go buy something instead. And so.

    Bet on everything till there’s nothing left? Or. Aren’t you already there? #Nomatter.

    Good luck suckers–and snakes.

    Rant on.

    -T

    Links that may or mayn’t be relavent:

  • Praise Be To The Bighorn Sheep Of The Monolith Mountain Of Stupid

    The one true god. Or maybe not.

    Sub (or worst) title (2): Making über fun of conservatism because… well…

    • it can’t understand Kubrick’s monolith
    • it’s fun making fun of stupid

    First. Conservatism ain’t and never was about workers. You know, workers being the same as the-working-poor. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, there’s no such thing as a poor conservative. Or? I mean. There are plenty of stupid people. There are also plenty of poor poeple. And so. Put stupid and poor together, add in a bit of faux-newz plus Limbaugh & co., and there you have it. Never before have stupid poor people joined the ranks of their own demise until the late twentieth century rise of post Ronald Reagan #Americant. Indeed. But let’s not get too tied-up high-n-dry in the never-more of #Americant politics. Or?

    Second. It’s been a while, eh dear worst-reader? I mean. For a while there, recently, I thought I was gonna give up worst-blogging. Then I got to thinking: there have been times before that I wasted a thought or three about quitting this nonsense. And by quitting I don’t just mean worst-blogging. For in these times of greed and stupidity there is so much to quit. And so. Let’s just call the last two months of nothingness… a hiatus (see previous post)? Yeah. Whatever.

    Worst-subject of the day? Well, don’t you just know it. Somewhere hidden deep in your bones–or is it the amygdala part of the brain–there lies a worst-writer issue worth addressing–and, perhaps, worth bringing worst-writer out of hiatus semi-pseudo-retirement. And so. The worst subject of the day is all about STUPID. As in: LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID. Which means: your question, dear worst-reader, can only be: oh, worst-writer, but how STUPID is #Americant? Good question. Yeah, let’s go there.

    It all worst-begins with a helicopter flying around the good looking wasteland canyons of Utah in search of bighorn sheep. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, helicopters are needed by the state to look after sheep–as in: don’t let the flock run amok. Shame the same doesn’t work for sheeple, right? Also. Here’s another idear and/or worst-thought about what this is/could be about: them bighorns gotta live large, don’t you know. For they are a protected species. And. Once again. Sheep do need protection. Gee! I’m now wondering if these protected sheep wear red hats with something really, really, really stupid written on them? You know. Like: MAKE AMERICA EVEN STUPIDER! #Nomatter.

    While this helicopter is flying around and looking out for bighorn sheep, the pilot is distracted by something in them-thar canyons. You know, something bright, something shinny, something like a boob but probably a bit more distracting. Indeed. Something that may or mayn’t make the dog in your head go: squirrel! And so. Worst-writer can only guess that the pilot is distracted by a glow caused by natural or unnatural phenomena under the hooves of bighorn sheep. Keep in mind, since the area is protected land, any and all observable anomalies have to be recorded in the name of… you guessed it: protecting the environment. Yeah, we know how rural bumfcuk #Americant loves a good investigation into the suspiciousness of inspecting the environment. And so.

    Thanks to the wonders of GPS tracking and a few too many loudmouths here and there within the confines of conformist government agencies, soon a monolith–i.e. the glow that stirred our pilot, derelict mentioned previously–is the centre of Utah nowhereland along side a bit too much television-interwebnet for-stupid-people. And so. If you want to know more about the monolith that made it to the newz, see the links below. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, such a ornament, work of art, sign from the heavens, actually interests me very little. Reason? I’m all in on monoliths. I understand how they can be interpreted by some (#MAGA hat wearing morons) as something that they are not. For. Indeed. I get what Kubrick was up to in 2001 Space Odyssey. Yet if it weren’t for the reaction by certain #Americant reactionaries (#MAGA hat wearing morons), the likes of which have, for all practical purposes, long since overtaken my beloved & missed united mistakes, I would have just let this thing go.

    But we are here to worst-write about STUPID–of which there is so much to wort-write about. Am I wrong.

    The worst-thing that caught worst-writer’s interest about this monolith thing is this: will/can those interested in this phenomenon react to it not unlike Stanley Kubrick predicted? That is. Here’s the thing. The reaction to this phenomenon is two fold: The monolith…

    • was planted by aliens
    • is a golden (biblical) calf, i.e. false god and in the confines of #MAGA hat wearing #Americant must be destroyed at all costs, even if that cost entails missing out on your next ice cream with sparkles

    Either way, dear worst-reader, those who have picked up on this newz report are trying to turn it into yet another proverbial match that could/should be thrown into the gaslight of #Americant politics lead by right-wing batshittery. Again. Am I wrong.

    But before I worst-continue with calling-out my republican, conservative brethren (for all their STUPID), allow me to provide a bit of context. If you haven’t seen Kubrick’s 2001 Space Odyssey, here’s a quick worst-writer summary. First. 2001 Space Odyssey is a three-part movie from the mindset of the 1950s to the end of the 1960s. That mindset, of course, is driven by comic-book sci-fi but is also a stream of consciousness if not picturesque cinematic novel.

    In reverse order, part three of the movie is a 1960’s drug induced fantasy sci-fi without beginning and end–which may or may not be the end of ALL stream of consciousness antics post Ronald Reagan (hence Kubrick’s vision). Part two is a sci-fi wonder that is, like so many other Kubrik movies, unfinished but still worth watching (I’m thinking of the movie AI). Part one of the movie is the crutch of the film and depicts what is simply titled: The Dawn of Man. It is part one of this movie that #Americant conservatism can’t understand or grasp or comprehend but is somehow pushed to the forefront by those who embody so much STUPID all on account they can’t interpret anything unless it’s portrayed on a bumper sticker or a t-shirt.

    In part one of Kubrick’s masterpiece a monolith plays a pivotal role along side prehistoric man. Or should I say: along side the precursor of man? #Nomatter. It is the monolith that depicts man’s awakening (at man’s evolutionary dawn). In fact, this monolith is so powerful that the movie suddenly breaks from prehistoric but upright evolved man to space flight as it continues directly into part two. What an achievement eh. But could Kubrick have known–back then–that his monolith would eventually be over-taken by #MAGA hat wearing morons in the name of #Trump and THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID because the grand teapot in the sky says so? For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, this monolith thingy that has been in the newz of late is being seen as exactly that which it is not. It is not a false god that must be torn down. It is instead a request (to humanity) to cut out all the STUPID.

    But I die-gress.

    As you’ll note in the links below, especially the video link of the #MAGA-religious idiots tearing down a subsequent monolith that was put up in California and thereby claiming that #Americant is a christian nation… I mean… Come on! How far does #Americant religious batshittery have to go before a second enlightenment need come? Am I wrong, dear worst-reader? Do you get what the enlightenment was really about? What it was for? What purpose it served? Or are you too waiting for a second enlightenment–so that we can finally move on from what obviously made #Americant so f’n STUPID post Ronald f’n Reagan to president pee-pee-hair? I mean. Seriously. Fake monoliths, somehow installed on government land, make the eyes pop out of people because somehow, somewhere, they are reminded of the fact that Stanley Kubrick took certain liberties with an Isaac Asimov story and thereby turned an object of something or another (a monolith) into a religious symbol that ultimately brought mankind out of the intellectual darkness only so that it could eventually devolve back to that same darkness in the form of president piss-hair and his money-grubbing, fail-upwards followers. Or maybe not. Anywho.

    Let the devolution continue. That way at least worst-writer can still be entertained.

    Rant on.

    -T

    Links:

  • Two Old White Men In A Corona Bar Talking Politics

    Worst-writer’s thoughts on 2020s first non-presidential presidential debate.

    Trainwreck $hitshow forever.

    -worstwriter

    How afeared are you, dear worst-reader? Whaaaaa? No fear? How ’bout embarrassed? Is there such a thing as dying from embarrassment? If not, how was President Stupid’s debate performance? And don’t worry. You really don’t have to answer the question. All you have to do is show up with your red hat, which we all know is nothing more than the new and improved KKK hood. Am I wrong?

    There you have it, dear worst-reader. The fearless are about to once again perform the other reality-tv show: #Americant democracy in (in)action. (What a tv show title, eh?) Its premier will take place on Nov. 3, so they say. Then again, one can’t really call last nights $hitshow performance a debate that may or mayn’t influence how the dumb-down vote. Or? I mean, these things have been sinking and sinking ever since Kennedy saw fit to do with TV what FDR did with radio. The only difference is, FDR didn’t have a bunch of dumb-downed morons sulking on WWE and whatever reality-tv show on account they can’t figure out on their own why their country has become a slow motion $hitshow train wreck. Or. For all their troubles (#Americants), at least they’ve got the Libtards to blame. Thanks Joe Biden.

    To be honest, I’m not able to watch the whole debate at one going. I have to watch it in chunks–otherwise I’ll blow chunks. Even the few spots I’ve seen so-far reassure me that the end is not nigh but instead long surpassed. I predicted that this would be a $hitshow but it’s hard to predict how deep in the $hit it can go. Or do you think there is a bottom to president pee-pee-hair’s fall? With that in mind, president-stupid certainly did deliver what his supporters expected. And by-the-buy, this is beyond lunacy. Indeed. The dumb-downed do have expectations. If only their lust for minority-rule and protecting (inherited and unearned) privilege would finally reach it’s moneyshot–so that the country can start cleaning itself of all the messy masturbatory residue that was initiated by Ronald Reagan’s tickle. Or maybe not.

    In a way, I kinda feel bad for Joe Biden. Even though I sent out my absentee ballot the other day–which may or mayn’t make it to rural $hitcountry… I mean. Who can ever know if the/your ballots are really counted? But that’s neither here nor there. The thing is this: Of course I voted for Biden. But this is in no way a worst-post to promote him. I’ve disliked Biden ever since he ganged up on Anita Hill for telling the truth about Clarence Thomas. It’s just that, who knew that elite and privileged #Americants, like Biden and his generation, would let things get so fascist-ically out of hand? For Biden is, don’t you know, nothing if not an enabler of both-sides-do-it, the status-quo, conservatism, etc., that is, btw, codified in the Constitution. As in. Protect the rich. Secure rule by money. Get in line. Conform. Etc. Or. Am I going to far down the worst-writer rabbit hole of naiveté regarding what’s in the Constitution? If not, I’m the only one to see the damage of the corpse that suffered its death by a thousand conservative, GOP, republican and, yes, Neo-liberal (Biden and Hillary Democrats) cuts. Or maybe not.

    As we all may or may not know, dear worst-reader, the debate the other night was NO debate. It was TV programming for sure. But was it good TV? Since I tend more towards the cord-cutting aspect of media consumption, I can’t really judge whether the gods of advertisement pulled off their latest attempt at appealing to the mindlessness of a nation of dimwits–all raised on TV. But there is this worst-idear. Of the clips I’ve seen of the debate, I think it’s pretty much game-over for the experiment that was/is America. Indeed. #Americant has sealed its fate and will be in place for years to come with or without Biden. What else could be the result of allowing/enabling the true rotten soul-character of a nation, in the form of President Piss-Hair, to be enshrined in history–via a fake-it-till-you-make-it “debate”? And so. All those that made it this far can be assured that the ride will continue. It will continue just as the Roman Empire became Italy or the British Empire became a bunch of old white dudes in the House of Lords. Or something like that.

    Good luck suckers.

    Rant on.

    -T

  • Conformity And Evil

    So many things need to be said, eh dear-worst-reader? Especially with the death of a so-called jurist icon. And what about this jurist icon–that I haven’t already tried to worst-convey? Well, here’s the thing. As great as #RBG was, did any of her greatness lead to anything worthwhile? You know, something worthwhile in the big-picture of things? Or was all that she did, achieved, taught, nothing more than a side-show that enabled real, raw political power to find its natural state by 2020 (2016?) #Americant? Sure. She’s got that feminist thing going–which may or may not still be trapped in the 1970s. Then there’s her stance on equal rights. Has that stance helped or harmed all those people resisting authority and then being shot in the back by weekend warrior cops? And let’s not forget her ability to charm even the cruelest beast of men with a law-wit only comparable to a dancing scene in Beauty and the Beast as it’s re-run on reality TV? But. As I’ve said. Or perhaps not. It’s time to get rid of all these icons who are so obviously stuck in the past. Or is it some kind of time-warp loop of… Of…?

    Yes. Icons do what they do. They are (t)here. They stand tall. Their stone is edged in the time of our rock quarries. And what do those of us do as we stare into the abyss that built such icons? That’s right. We don’t question them. We don’t demand anything of them. We don’t fight them to be more. Indeed. We conform. It’s all that’s left for those who live in the past or are too afraid of the/a future.

    What is my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant if not THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID that can only culminate in electing to its highest office a man who has hair that looks as though it came out of a cotton candy machine working with orang-utan urine? And that’s not all. Because #Americant is also the land of supreme conformity, does it actually have the capability to reform–as it conformed? You can see it everywhere, don’t you know. Go to an event. A bar. A sport arena. Walmart. Church. Everyone–and I mean everyone–is a conformist. It’s surely, I suspect, the greatest achievement of #RBG’s generation–the silent generation, if not the so-called greatest generation. It’s all been passed onto #OKBoomer and beyond. Don’t question anything. Don’t think critically. Think not originally. Live in and for that past. All you need is… money. And. Now. #RBG is done. There you have it: President Pee-Pee-Hair. Or #AOC? And while I’m throwing the boomerang of #AOC in the lick bucket, check this out. Have a look at how even the nicest conformists slide down the slippery slope of a freak-out society that can’t comprehend (its) conformity. And then watch the ricochet bullets and bombs of conservative, liberal $hit flinging. Yeah. This is brutal. I’m laughing my arse off?

    And so. Let’s go a bit deeper. For whatever worst-reason, since the news of #RBG passing hit my computer screen yesterday early morning Central European time, I have been struggling with the following comparison-contrast. So I hope you’re sitting down, dear worst-reader.

    I couldn’t help but think of Nurse Ratched. Anyone remember Nurse Ratched? She’s the hell nurse from the movie One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. What a study in conformity, eh, dear worst-reader? I’m gonna compare conformity in a famous #SCOTUS overseer with that of Nurse Ratched–a character in a movie that terrorised my mind for years and years and years. Ratched is so convincing to worst-moi as not only a nurse in a mental ward but also as a matriarch–so clever connected to patriarch. She is the overseer of those few men who question things. Or. Better worst-put. Men who question all the conformity they’ve never been able to cope with (in this life) must be subjected to the wrath of Ratched. She (and most conformist females of the submissive type) is the archetypal architect of the family if not social unit that is my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant. And so. Do what you’re told. Or else. Nurse Ratched is waiting while #RBG is passing on to being an idol in statue form. Remember that. Nurse Ratched will always be with us. #RBG’s fight, whatever it was/is, is now just an idol. Or will something whip Ratched’s arse out of the way–and turn her into a statue idol? Conformity says not.

    Or did you think One Flew Over A Cuckoo’s Nest is a movie about the goings and comings of a mental ward? #Nomatter.

    Even though it’s very hard for me to watch this movie, as it hit my soul hard when I first saw it forty or so years ago, whenever I question the same comings and goings of my beloved & missed #Americant, I can’t help but think of Ratched and now #RBG. The things is this, dear worst-reader. While #RBG solidifies her idol statue, how is it that all her so-called achievements may or may not have resulted in America becoming #Americant? What? Am I stretching things too far with such a comparison? I mean, obviously #RBG’s achievement as a fcuking lawyer or #SCOTUS over-seer is impeccable. Yet I can’t help but wonder while thinking about her… What the fcuk was the point of her generation fighting against Hitler, Communism, labour, and then fighting for consumerism, superficiality and nothingness-galore, etc.? Were #RBG’s achievements so great that it turned us into mystified fcuk cretans of capitalist big cocks and our only relief is to find an idol–or golden piss-hair calf?

    Good luck suckers.

    Rant on.

    -T

    Links:

  • Blind Or Blindfolded

    RIP #RBG.

    So. Like. What’s the difference between being blind and being blindfolded? One means you can’t see and the other means you don’t want to see, or someone else doesn’t want you to see. With that in worst-mind, I’ve never been a fan of Lady Justice. Don’t get me wrong. She’s a gotta body that gives (me) wood. And that sword looks like it could do a number on anyone’s arse. And who doesn’t like to be blindfolded when s/he is being, hopefully, royally shagged by a woman in Roman garb? But on that note, I die-gress.

    Once again, during morn coffee, jazz and news, anger ripped through me, dear worst-reader. I even belted out…

    I HATE YOU RUTH BADER…

    Then I drank more soothing dragon pearl jasmine tee so as to calm my über-espresso throat while listening to Miles Davis’ Oleo playing through bookshelf speakers galore and thereby letting that inner worst-dialogue run its course.

    Worst-Moi: You don’t really hate RBG.
    Moi: Of course not. I love her. She’s a giant. She’s an inspiration.
    Worst-Moi: But her statue should not replace Lady Justice, correct?
    Moi: That’s right, old friend. Enough with all the idolatry.
    Worst-Moi: But you’re still bothered?
    Moi: Indeed, I am. We’re fcuked. Let me explain.

    I was so angry when Barry-O tried to fill Scalia’s seat in 2016 which ended up giving us the fiasco known as #McConnellRule. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, for most of my adult life, a life plagued by ignorance abating (through) self-teaching, I’ve always idealised the idear that is/was #SCOTUS. Until, of course, I learned how republican $hitbags and their pseudo-nazi-faith (ideology) could so easily turn the court and the country into a/the protectorate of…

    THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID.

    Indeed. The Law is inherently fallible and when in the hands of generation after generation of ineptitude combined with greed… In fact, I’d go so worst-far as to worst-claim, there can never be justice because The Law is about injustice. But enough my worst-writer cynicism, eh.

    The thing is this: #RBG should have retired a long time ago. She should have been smart enough to know that she could have done more good by allowing a youthful, healthy replacement–as she’s been battling cancer for how long?–during times when GOP/Republican $hitbaggery wouldn’t be so blatant. She should have helped secure #SCOTUS from being turned into a a mirror of Republican slime. She should have seen the damage already done long before she was even appointed, i.e. going as far back as Ronald $hitbag Reagan and even Dick Nixon. But. Just like so many of her generation and the #OKBoomer generation that followed, the first rule of generational greed-mongering where commodified achievement can only lead to a meritless society: don’t make way for something new. Keep everything old and rotting and decrepit. That’s how you get to President Pee-Pee-Hair and an #Americant that already appointed the scariest Justice ever IMHO. And now the next scariest justice is surely on his/her way in.

    And so, to replace not only #RBG but also Lady Justice, this is/should be the new face of #Americant (in)justice:

    And don’t #Americants deserve it.

    Good luck suckers.

    Rant on.

    -T

    Links:

    • Example 1 of how conservatives and $hitbags can abuse so-called justice
    • Example 2 of how a $hitbag uses the law to prove he’s a smart arse
    • Example 3 – a brilliant video take down of law abuse that so many have to use to show the world how small their dicks really are

  • Berry Hifi Galore

    This (worst)post was updated March, 2021. (Strike throughs.)

    Title 2: No such thing as Hifiberry overkill. Or?

    Gotta say a few worst-words about my Hifiberry collection, dear worst-reader. Not sure if you can tell, but I’m a Raspberry Pi fan. I love these these little SBCs (single board computers) and when combined with DACs, IMHO, there’s no better way to enjoy audio without breaking the bank. Speaking of which, this equipment allows me to avoid krapp like Apple’s HomePod or whatever branded ridiculously priced streaming device, sound bar, etc. Also. As far as I’m concerned, Bluetooth ain’t quite there yet when it comes to quality audio streaming. On the other hand, I am an Apple fanboy. That means, I always have to compromise something when it comes to compatibility. I also have some legacy audio equipment that includes active and passive speakers, plenty of cables, connectors, and few really cheap Chinese DACs (smsl, etc.) The thing is, even though these devices are cheap and require a bit of maintenance, they do not lack in audio quality. But let’s move on.

    As you can see from the pics above I currently have four RPi’s with HifiBerry DAC hats. I use them mainly as media players or streaming endpoints. If you can do some basic linux stuff, you’re in the green with these babies. Although there is a swath of audio DACs from other makers for Raspberry Pi, I’ve never bothered with any of them, so this is obviously a one-sided pseudo-review. With that in worst-mind, let’s run down my use cases.

    Let’s start with the old and weak, shall we. In order to make use of my oldest RPi3 (from 2014), which was collecting dust in a drawer, I ordered the HifiBerry analog DAC with the 3.5mm headphone jack. It’s running HifiberryOS, which makes it a streaming endpoint (if I’ve got the tech vernacular correct). I use it mainly as the audio output for my AppleTV4k via shairport. The AppleTV drives a 1080p Beamer. Connected to the phone jack of the HifiBerry DAC–because the onboard headphone jack of the RPi really, really does suck–is a pair of Bose Companion 20 powered speakers. These are my trusty play-anywhere, use-anytime speakers for the past fifteen or so years. These old Bose’s are perfect for TV (instead of a stupid soundbar) or desktop PC use. Heck they even suffice for outdoor use if a party or a cook-out needs tunes. Also. Keep in mind. I live in a very rectangular townhouse with an inner loft-like atrium that is surround by kitchen, dinning area and living room. The living room and dinning room merge at a corner of the atrium. The main wall at the end of my living room, with bookshelves, is where I have what I consider my music speakers. Hence, I have a room with two disparate sound systems. More on that in a sec. The beamer projects on a perpendicular wall. As you can see in the pic below, the Bose speakers are on a high wall table and they project whatever audio comes out of my AppleTV, which is also hidden away atop my bookshelves.

    A second RPi3 has a HifiBerry AMP2 DAC hat also running HifiberryOS and functions as a streaming endpoint that I feed with iPhone, Mac or iPad. It’s currently my only remaining Volumio device hidden away behind books at the top of my bookshelves (see pic below). It provides my living room with… you guessed it: music only. Even though I love the old Bose Companion speakers, they are nothing compared to the AudioEngine P4s that resonate beautifully in the most expensive bookshelves I’ve ever owned. The reason this is my only Volumio device is because 1) my wife’s not ready to learn new player software and 2) it works better than HifiBerryOS when it comes to accessing SMB shares. More on that in a sec. The RPi and AMP2 drives the AudioEngine P4 speakers with enough quality to make me grin ear to ear every morning while drinking earl grey and waking up to jazz.

    Btw. Morning jazz is a worst-writer ritual.

    My third RPi3 has a Hifiberry DAC+Pro and is a Plex media player OSMC player. It’s attached to a flatscreen 40″ TV in my work room (not pictured). For audio it is connected to a TEAC (ice powered) integrated amp via RCA cables and powers Pioneer BS22LR speakers. I think it’s my second oldest Raspberry Pi (from 2015 or 2016). When I started using Plex back in the day, btw, I thought it would be my streamer and player of choice. Turns out better players software abounds. And, if you ask worst-moi, Plex has become too complex. (Pun intended.) Plus I hate subscription software. Anywho. I mainly use Plex OSMC with RPi and with AppleTV for for viewing my ripped movie and TV collection. When playing music I simply stream to it via OSMC shairport. Btw. All my media is stored on a simple samba server The Plex server is on a Pine64 RockPro64 which is in my basement. This is my minimalist, go-to, as audiophile-as-it-gets, setup. I absolutely love it.

    The last RPi in my collection is an RPi4. I’ve been using it mostly as a testbed and/or fiddle device. It has the HifiBerry DAC+Pro and is currently connected to my TEAC’s second RCA inputs. It’s currently running HifiBerryOS and I’m really digging how it functions as a streaming endpoint. The RPi4 is the most powerful device here and it shows–especially when loading SMB shares or fiddling with operating systems. I’ve been switching between HifiBerryOS and Volumio with it trying to figure out which player I prefer–and HifiberryOS is winning on account Volumio seems to be going down a path of greed-mongering. More on that in a sec. What’s become very clear to me while fiddling around with all this stuff is that the day is nigh when these little things will easily replace modern desktop PCs. As far as media players go… they’re already the bomb.

    HiFiBerryOS vs Volumio?

    My only gripe with with RPi + HifiBerry is the software. I’m still, kinda, in the experimental stage of how to setup all these devices. Although I would like something similar to what iTunes used to be, I stopped using iTunes years ago because of proprietary issues, including the fact that Apple doesn’t support FLAC. Currently I’m pretty happy with webradio and direct streaming via shairport. The only thing missing is to be able to do it all with one software. But which one? I’ve got HifiBerry OS on two devices, Volumio on one device and Plex on the others (including my basement Pine64 server). Anywho…

    I’m starting to dig HifiBerryOS more and more. Even though HifiBerryOS on the older RPi3 seems to have fewer capabilities than when on the RPi4 The OS works so well with shairport (open source version of Apple’s Airport streaming software) that I’m actually streaming more and more music from my Mac and/or iPad–as opposed to accessing music via SMB shares and Volumio, which I can’t getting running on HifiberryOS anyway. Update: using info provided here, I managed to get HifiBerryOS connected to my SMB shares. It works like a charm! Hopefully they’ll fix the bugs soon. Right now I’m streaming The True Loves Live Performance from KEXP (YouTube) and it is rocking’ cool!

    It’s time to admit the obvious. I’m becoming more and more disappointed with Volumio, which has been my go-to music player for a few years now. Also, since Volumio has decided to go down the cost-path of subscription fees in order to monetise, plus it thinks it’s OK to charge for Bluetooth access…. Come on Volumio, subscription fees suck. And how is it that HifiBerry doesn’t charge for its Bluetooth access?! Just charge a flat fee for your software. Or not! But heed this: as a streaming endpoint, I’m really digging HifiBerryOS.

    IMHO. Raspberry Pi and Hifiberry have really done a number on an industry that is obsessed with cheating consumers. Am I referring to the so-called audiophile industry? Or just the Denon and NAD makers? Yeah. Something like that. What’s important is that if you don’t want to be owned or miss out on modern music consumption and have a bit of tech knowledge plus you are willing to fiddle around with opensource software…?

    This stuff is a no-brainer. Nuff said.

    Rant (and listen) on.

    -T

  • Ambitious Sarcasm

    Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
    I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
    The evil that men do lives after them;
    The good is oft interred with their bones;
    So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
    Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
    If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
    And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.
    Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest–
    For Brutus is an honourable man;
    So are they all, all honourable men–
    Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.
    He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
    But Brutus says he was ambitious;
    And Brutus is an honourable man.
    He hath brought many captives home to Rome
    Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
    Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
    When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
    Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
    Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
    And Brutus is an honourable man.
    You all did see that on the Lupercal
    I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
    Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
    Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
    And, sure, he is an honourable man.
    I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
    But here I am to speak what I do know.
    You all did love him once, not without cause:
    What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
    O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
    And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
    My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
    And I must pause till it come back to me.

    -Marc Antony, Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare

    Yes, dear worst-reader, these are the moments where things read cause a thought or three while cleaning my weber über-grill this morn. Oh how it needed a cleaning, don’t you know. So much oily stuff accumulating underneath the flames after month upon month of use–since our oven is broke. It only takes a piece of fatty steak to drip at the right moment to ignite the oily undergrowth. So it was a few days back. The whole grill and the steaks bellowed a black smoke as the grime lit up into dull, orange flames. And as I age, admiring the gluttony of the couch during these days waiting for the clock to strike “it’s drink time”, I gathered myself and said: Clean the fcuking grill you lazy biatch of man, earn your afternoon drink. And so I did. But then. While my power washer was acting up, I got to thinking about Marc Antony’s speech from Julius Caesar. Oh, how I’ve battled with this speech, perhaps not unlike I’m battling with my power washer. Even though I’ve only directed this play twice in my dream-mind, both times I fought with this speech the most. You know, what does it mean? Where is it going. Where has it been? Heaven forbid you’re stuck with an actor who thinks this play is about power. Hence the varied right-wing bend this speech can take, as though it were a crowd pleaser or crowd controller. Being the liberal I am, of course, means I can only allow Marc Antony to be the sarcastic prick that too few know he really is. And so, while power washing the grill plates and flame diffusers and heat deflectors of my grill, the parts that catch all the flammable grime waiting to light if not properly cared for–not unlike California these days, eh–I allowed my dream-mind to imagine, even for a brief amount of time, that I would play Marc Antony in my third directorial attempt at Shakespeare. And I would give the speech as I see fit, don’t you know.

    There is a hint of sarcasm in there, or?

    Rant on.

    -T

    PS After my grill caught fire the other day, indicating it was time for a cleaning, the steaks that caused the fire weren’t all that bad. Indeed. They were tasty.

  • Reminders: Expat From Where

    Originally from Maryland, dear worst-reader. But don’t fault me for that. Don’t fault me on account, don’t you know, Maryland has given the world Kavanaugh. But I die-gress. After living in the golden cage of Germania for all these years, sometimes I need reminding of where I’m from. With a little help from my better-half, of course, she comes home here or there with just such a reminder. Indeed. Every once-a-once she brings something home that is supposed to remind me of who I am, where I’m from, what reared me. Little does she know the horrors that surge around my worst-mind. But that’s for another worst-blog, perhaps. Or. Are these little things supposed to do something else? #Nomatter. I allow the entertainment–especially in these times of covid and other pig capitalist misdeeds that have turned the world into a cesspool of shitfilth and other happy whatnot of demise. Yet here’s the thing. When I’m reminded of where I’m from I usually just give off a wink and thumb-up and then go about my merry bidness. Then, usually a day or two (or maybe more) later, I take another look at the reminder and realise: the world has my Maryland all wrong. But is that any wonder? I mean. Have you ever been to Maryland? It can be a nice place to visit but like so many other places… it’s just another shithole where one group of people can poop on another group of people and no one thinks once or thrice about any of it. Still. Some stuff irks me. Take a close look at the pics above. The “blue crab” isn’t quite right, don’t you know. In fact, to the best of my crab knowledge, that’s the image of a mud crab. Although the Schooner is a fine sailing vessel and deserves to have its image on a mini-bucket of oddly flavoured nuts, Maryland is not known for Schnooners. Maryland, especially the Chesapeake Bay, is known for its Skipjacks. But. Again. I die-gress.

  • Robot Vacuum Worst-Best Sucking Things Up

    To avoid all my worst-writing and get straight to the pseudo-review, just scroll down a bit. Otherwise, good luck.

    This consume-to-survive world/life is gettin’ to me, covid n’all. You too, dear worst-reader? I mean. Just the other day, after purchasing another one of them fancy-pants robot vacuum cleaners, after my previous über-expensive robot vacuum cleaner stopped working, I thought: what will be the last thing I ever buy? I mean. You know. Before I die, what will be my last purchase of this life? Which begs the worst-question: should it be something big and exuberant and gaudy? Even though the thought of buying a sailing yacht as a last purchase has crossed my mind, I’m starting to reconsider. For you see. Don’t you know. The dream-purchase of a yacht is two fold. First, it would be used to sail out to the middle of the Atlantic, once and for all. Once there I would hang out for a few days dancing and prancing in a state of glorious inebriation. After that I would pull the plug. You know, the plug at the bottom of every boat’s hull. And while the boat is filling with water, I will dawn my scuba gear and jump over board. While still on the surface, I’ll watch my last life-purchase sink and shed my last tears. Just as the hull breaches the water’s surface I commence to join it by grabbing the mast but continue breathing with my scuba gear as we go down. Now. Get this, dear worst-reader. This is my death fantasy combined with my last consume-to-survive purchase. And so. I commence a rapid descent along side my yacht and thereby watch my depth gauge. Once I surpass forty-five or so meters I then give way to my fate and submit to nitrogen narcosis, which, in my case, as I learned during a fifty meter dive in the Red Sea in 2010, sends me into a hissy-fit of giggling. Of course, since I enjoyed all those dreams of yachting across oceans for so long, it’s my hope that those same dreams will accompany me as my body submits to rapture of the deep. Without struggle or stress, the chemical imbalance of oxygen in my blood stream, at depth, sees to it that the lights finally go out and time stops and the misery that is a life that can give way to the likes of #Trump and #MAGA and the demise of my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant… to fascism… is finally over. Good night sweet prince.

    All kidding aside. Since I ain’t never gonna afford no yacht, how ’bout we make my last purchase something akin to a last meal. But would mine include ice cream? Certainly not. It would be all about blue popcorn and watching the tale of a salamander as it wiggles (and giggles) hanging out of the beak of a horned rabbit… with Monty Python pointy teeth.

    Pseudo-Review

    Today, dear worst-reader, we pseudo-review our new robot vacuum cleaner, the Neato D7. It is replacing our old iRobot 866 which we purchased in early 2016–or was it late 2015? Needless to say, I was very disappointed that our iRobot died. I’ve since ticked it away via that online auction service as “defect”, don’t you know. Good riddance. In fact, after a few years of use and being a device that I thought would hold up for a few more years, I can gladly admit that iRobot is on my shit-list. Indeed. The one good thing about being able to afford consume-to-survive purchase like this, is that I can also express my deep, deep disappointment in the corporate misnomer that some stuff that you think is quality ain’t really so. More on that in a sec.

    The Neato D7 cleans better than the iRobot. It’s also quieter and is easier to maintain. The most important thing, though, is the Neato is much, much smarter than the iRobot. Although the Neato software sucks buckyballs, I’m slowly adapting to its inadequacies. That’s what software is all about, or? It’s never about what software can do. No. It’s always about the compromises made when using it. Am I wrong, Microsoft, Apple, etc.? Anywho. As of the writing of this worst-post Neato’s software cannot be used by multiple devices, i.e. two separate iPhones. Also. The iPhone app crashes here and there. The app interface reminds me of lost Windows 95 sys admins who may or may not have jumped ship. But before I get too far off subject. The first downer I noticed about the inadequate software is that it doesn’t run on two different iPhones. Well, it does. But then it breaks things. That is, when my wife tries to control the robot with her iPhone and then I try to access it later with my iPhone, the device becomes disoriented and is unable find its home base. Another downer about the software is that room mapping on multiple floors only works if you have multiple home bases, i.e. charging stations on each floor. WTF!

    Price

    Oh yeah. The price. The Neato was on a special end of summer offer for 370,-€. Compared to the dumb-device cost of the iRobot from 2015 @ 699,-… that kinda makes the Neato a frickin‘ steal. Another notch in the hate-gun of iRobot? Nevermind.

    Back to software krapp.

    Although initial setup of the Neato’s room mapping was a bit cumbersome, requiring two hard resets, where the ground floor of our house had to be mapped twice, I eventually reached the point of… fcuk-it. If all else fails, I’ll forget the room mapping and just let it clean without it. That’s what the iRobot did. The biggest difference to the iRobot was that the Neato works as though it can see where it’s going. And that’s a big deal. Considering iRobot’s latest product that can also see costs triple that of the Neato…? I can live with krappy software as long as it cleans and doesn’t just bang into stuff.

    And clean it does, baby.

    After a few weeks of use, just letting it do it’s thing, I’m not convinced that Neato’s mapping algorithm is fool proof. But I did get it working. Things like “no-go-lines” are a good idear, don’t you know. “No-go lines”, btw, you can set in the app, which has a virtual map of your house, and they’re supposed to prevent the device from slamming into, say, the dog’s water and food bowls or any other complicated floor areas, e.g. cables, floor lamp bases, etc. The only problem with “no-go-lines” is that you have to make sure that what’s ever in the lines is always in the same and/or original place. A bit of a cumbersome thing considering a real world floor doesn’t contain “no-go-lines”. Even though our older iRobot could see walls but couldn’t see furniture, the Neato seems to be able to see everything–with or without mapping. Which brings me to…

    I was very disappointed when our iRobot stopped working. After searching and researching, I found out that the iRobot didn’t wear as well as I thought it would. That is, the build of the iRobot is better, more solid than the Neato, that’s for sure. On the other hand, the iRobot seems to be more complex. For example, before its demise, the iRobot kept indicating “Error 11”. I since learned that depending on the model, “Error 11” either meant bad battery or bad waste bin. I eventually bought a new (albeit third-party) battery for it. After one cleaning session “Error 11” returned and I was pissed that I might have just wasted my time replacing the battery. Turns out that the waste bin was also faulty. That’s when I found out (realised) that iRobot builds the suction fan into the waste bin. IMHO, after a few weeks with a new robot vacuum, iRobot might be stuck in that industrial mindset of not just over-pricing but also (aghast!) OVER-ENGINEERING.

    Anywho. The Neato has a much bigger waste bin, cleans waaaaay more efficiently, is quieter and after (finally) getting the mapping thing going, allows me to clean room by room with a few taps of the app. If/when I want to clean the second floor of our house, though, I do so by just taking it up stairs and hitting the clean button. After that I have to take it back downstairs and manually put it on its home-base. Oh yeah. That damn home-base. Hold a sec. That’s another thing.

    If you interrupt the Neato’s cleaning session by picking it up or moving it, it gets confused. That wouldn’t be so bad if I could just tell it to find its base. The problem is, removing it from its mapping seems to make it forget where the base is. The only way to get it back to the base is to manually put it there. Again: krappy software! I hope Neato will improve it with future updates. If not, compared to the 2015 iRobot, I’d still buy Neato. Reason? The most significant difference between these two robots is I no longer have to deal with one of them just banging into stuff.

    As far as cleaning goes. The Neato wins hands down. Our hard wood floors are much freer of dirt and tiny particles now. For the price and compared to equivalent smart devices from iRobot, I’m throwing the Neato in with any great deal I’ve made lately. Even though the software kinda sucks, it does a good job of cleaning. Add to that it doesn’t get stuck…

    Three years of krapp like this, baby. Replace it.

    Get your shit together iRobot!

    Consume and rant on, baby.

    -T

  • Hiatus

    Indeed, dear worst-reader. The hiatus began sometime ago. And so. Stay safe. Mask up. Avoid humanity and its inherent stupidity. Send good thoughts to my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant and its lust for anti-science, religiosity, and it fighting for the freedom to be stupid.

    Worst-writer bids you adieu.

    -T

  • Holistic System Of Systems–Gone Awry, Baby

    Check out the vid above, dear worst-reader. Get a’load of how the spineless albeit well-dressed (surely #MAGA morons) exchanged this & that about the fail-upwards life they’ve been living–and forcing the rest of us to live–but/and have never been able to recognise/comprehend? You know, comprehend as a life choice? Alone how the interviewee is complaining about his rent not being paid… LMAO!

    Don’t know about you but this might just be one of the better examples out there of how weak-minded pawn-capitalists1 show they’re really nothing but über-wankers unwilling to accept the result of the seeds they’ve sewn. I mean. Why the fcuk should the bottom pay rent to the top in times of a pandemic that has shut down the so-called economy because, literally, said pandemic was caused by globalised greed-mongering the likes of which humanity, in all its moronic-genius glory, has never seen.

    Obviously I hear something else when I listen to these $hitbags spew their brain-vomit about business business business–and, in this particular situation, only talk about being paid rent. For. Don’t you know. What’s the difference between rent and rentier? Why not call it what it also is: paying (your) feudal lords? How about just going down your street and yelling/singing bring out your dead? I mean. Anywho. As long as you talk about big numbers of dollars here & there, and thereby project yourself to being among the wealthy and privileged, all must be well in Oz, eh? And we all know who Oz is. Or? But before I get on about the social and political meaning (literary trickery) of L. Frank Baum’s The Wizard Of Oz.

    Say. Get this, dear worst-reader. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed–on account you may or may not be bleeding from your lungs with COVID-19 right now–but the dollars these $hitbags are talking about do not exist and, probably, those same dollars have never existed, especially when considering the age the men in the video. With that in worst-mind, it all irrevocably makes me cringe. Their speech-vomit is so vile, so decadent, especially considering the innate conflicts and contradictions in all that the interviewee says, it took me three hours to get to the end of this seven minute video. Indeed. So many times did I have to pause it, stop it, take a bike ride, drink some Grauburgunder, etc. Heck, I almost hacked down a tree near the Rhine River with my pinky-finger because I couldn’t get all this blatant banality and ignorance that I sometimes have to watch on the #Interwebnets out of my head. And to add high-test gas to the eternal flames of my fail-upwardness that is burning in the combustion chamber of my worst-mind, guys like the ones in the video (above) are–obviously–winners. Winners are indeed pariah manifest, eh, dear worst-reader? I mean, is there a better example of capitalism run amok? (Of course there is.) Yet. And get this. The capitalist pig, fail-upward interviewee, early in the video, pretty much sounds like a Marxist as he demands rent payment from those who, crisis or no crisis, don’t sound like they’re paying. Wow. Giggle. Giggle.

    And so. Here’s something from a totally different perspective but, perhaps, for some, is somewhat relatable. In the movie [Network](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Network_(1976_film), Ned Beatty gives this wonderful speech that pretty much sums up where we’re at in these times of greed-galore and where the cup may or may not spillith over with its long-since diseased froth as we laugh and dance through the virtual shopping malls of our minds just before dropping dead with coughs of lucid blood spurting from our COVID-19 lungs. But enough about worst-moi.

    Scene from the Movie Network: Arthur Jensen (Ned Beatty), a CEO-type, leads Mr. Beal (Peter Finch), a TV newscaster, into a boardroom claiming that he wants to sell him something.
    Arthur Jensen: You have meddled with the primal forces of nature, Mr. Beale, and I won’t have it! Is that clear?! Do you think you’ve merely stopped a business deal? That is not the case. The Arabs have taken billions of dollars out of this country, and now they must put it back! It is ebb and flow, tidal gravity! It is ecological balance! You are an old man who thinks in terms of nations and peoples. There are no nations. There are no peoples. There are no Russians. There are no Arabs. There are no third worlds. There is no West. There is only one holistic system of systems, one vast and immane, interwoven, interacting, multi-variate, multi-national dominion of dollars. Petrol-dollars, electro-dollars, multi-dollars, reichmarks, rins, rubles, pounds, and shekels. It is the international system of currency which determines the totality of life on this planet. That is the natural order of things today. That is the atomic and sub-atomic and galactic structure of things today! And you have meddled with the primal forces of nature, and you will atone!
    Am I getting through to you, Mr. Beale? You get up on your little twenty-one inch screen and howl about America and democracy. There is no America. There is no democracy. There is only IBM and ITT and AT&T and DuPont, Dow, Union Carbide, and Exxon. Those are the nations of the world today. What do you think the Russians talk about in their councils of state – Karl Marx? They get out their linear programming charts, statistical decision theories, minimax solutions, and compute the price-cost probabilities of their transactions and investments, just like we do. We no longer live in a world of nations and ideologies, Mr. Beale. The world is a college of corporations, inexorably determined by the immutable by-laws of business. The world is a business, Mr. Beale. It has been since man crawled out of the slime. And our children will live, Mr. Beale, to see that perfect world in which there’s no war or famine, oppression or brutality. One vast and ecumenical holding company, for whom all men will work to serve a common profit, in which all men will hold a share of stock, all necessities provided, all anxieties tranquillised, all boredom amused. And I have chosen you, Mr. Beale, to preach this evangel.
    Mr. Beale: Why me?
    Arthur Jensen: Because you’re on television, dummy. Sixty million people2 watch you every night of the week, Monday through Friday.
    Beale: I have seen the face of God.
    Arthur Jensen: You just might be right, Mr. Beale.
    -end trascribe-

    Good luck suckers–collecting your rent.

    Rant on.

    -T

    1. Let it be clear, dear worst-reader, I’m not against capitalism as a social tool to better the greater good. I am against capitalism if/when it becomes the political system that subverts the greater good. ↩︎
    2. Remember, dear worst-reader, sixty-two million voted for President Piss-Hair! ↩︎

  • Planet Of The Free To Be Stupid

    planet of the humans pic

    Pseudo-Review: The Planet Of The Humans

    • Pros: this is a somewhat informative–if you’re uninformed–documentary with a well branded name connected to it.
    • Cons: #OKBoomer white men1 who are so bored with life that they somehow find a way to make half-decent documentary movies but what they really need to do is step aside and help young people (make those movies) instead.

    I’ve never seen Roger & Me in its entirety. I’ve seen a few of Michael Moore’s other films, though. Roger & Me came out the year I was expatriating–you know, running away from the greed $hitshow of my beloved & missed #Americant. The thing about Moore and his movies is that he has most certainly raised the bar when it comes to 1) explaining or 2) complaining. And trust me, dear worst-reader, I know a lot about complaining (ranting).

    Here’s the problem with Moore’s movies (complaining)–and probably the thing #Americants will never be able to comprehend after watching them. In all of the troubles of the world–especially the #Americant world–there is nothing, not one single thing, that binds, that ties, that unites the whole shitshow, except, of course, complaining, which is all #Americants know. Well, that and money (of course). But. Hold a sec. Let me worst-elaborate.

    Whether Moore is ranting & raving about corporation A or B (Roger & Me), guns here or there (Bowling For Columbine) or the ills of for-profit health care (Sicko), like so many other so-called rational thinking peoples, he ALWAYS fails to mention what makes the entire $hitshow possible. And get this, dear worst-reader. If pressed to provide a worst-example of a peoples (a country) that can actually collectively do something about the ills of the world (or at least the ills of a country), then you’ll have to use a language other than #Americant accented English.

    Par-lay vu Fran-say, motherfcuker.

    The details are vague in my worst-memory, dear worst-reader. But I remember hearing lots of protesting voices as the 1980s came to an end. Sure. The Berlin Wall was falling. The Soviet Union was dying. And there was a lot going on with all that. But you know what impressed me the most? French farmers dumping whatever they farmed en masse in the middle of Paris. I think, at the time, apple farmers were dumping apples all over the Arch de Triomph. And they were doing so in protest. I had taken my second or third train ride to Paris that year–just for shits & giggles, don’t you know–on account it was so close via a quick train ride from Köln–and once I got a taste of Paris there was no tasting anything else. How fun is that, eh, for a redneck tobacco chewer walking and dreaming on cobblestone streets? #Nomatter.

    The thing I quickly realised back then was how the French, if they wanted to, could actually have a voice and thereby use that voice for political and social gain (or demise). And when I say peoples and voice, I mean regular people with big stick voices. Indeed. Real people. Saying real things. It was all quite the opposite of what would eventually lead to the #MAGA hat wearing morons of my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant? Or the singularity and repetitiveness of Michael Moore movies–and whatever it is #Americants call the political left. And get this, dear worst-reader. The voices and the peoples outside the world of documentary movie making, outside #Americant, had some (not all) real political power. Now that’s truly different than what I grew up with. You know, money or no-money. Eat or starve. Indeed. Submit yourself to the God of money, minion. And then self-medicate, bitches.

    It was an astonishing thing to witness back then, dear worst-reader. #Eurowasteland, especially France and Germany, but sometimes Spain and Italy, were awash in protests. Even though the protestors didn’t get their way in exactly the way they wanted, they most certainly made inroads toward that way. That is, politics listened. Also. They literally chipped away at capitalist greed, the cult of old-money, that hoped it could rule–like its cousins in #Americant and Britain were ruling–and are still ruling. But let me not get on about the ills & uglies of the Anglo-driven (mindset) world compared to that of other worlds.

    The thing to keep in mind, dear worst-reader, when it comes to protests, (protest) voices, fighting the good-fight, is that there are peoples out there (in the world) that refuse to have their voices dumbed-down. And so. Unlike #Americants, there are voices in the world that aren’t guided by money alone. Hence, Michael Moore’s movies complain in a big way about the ills of #Americant but nothing in any of his movies will make #Americant apple farmers dump all their apples on the steps of the US Capital. #Americants will never protest how government bails out banks and hedge funds and old-money corporations that should have died ages ago. Could #Americants don yellow-vests in earnest? What happened to the occupy movement? Indeed. #Americant perverted John Wayne individualism will always #Trump (yes, pun intended) #Americant collectivism. Hence #Americant can have no voice, no say, no-nothing in the fight between right and wrong, between greed and starvation, between moneyed-fairness and judicial greed-mongering. Thanks a lot Michael Moore.

    And so.

    Michael Moore is the executive producer of The Planet Of The Humans, which you can watch for free via the ultimate dumb-down device, the #interwebnets. It’s a pretty hardcore movie, dear worst-reader. The end of the movie is especially hardcore because it shows the brutal demise of an Orangutan after its forrest is burnt down–as though animal cruelty is any different than human abuse–which is nothing more than humans not only doing what they are told (compulsion) but also doing it all without question (behaviourism). Either that or it’s as brutal as a video showing white policemen gunning down African Americans day-in, day-out. The thing about this movie, though, is that it’s voice is a bit different compared to other Moore documentaries, and perhaps that’s due to Moore ONLY being its executive producer. And so. The Planet Of The Humans complains about the complainers. It literally tries to bore advocates of the Green New Deal a new arsehole by complaining about how solar panels are made or how alternatives to fossil fuel require too much fossil fuel. And so.

    Has you been woken you up yet, dear worst-reader?

    Unlike Roger & Me, I watched this movie to the end. Reason? It’s free. Does that mean I won’t buy another Michael Moore movie? Probably. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. Heck, I’m even listening to Moore’s podcast here and there. And I’ll always love him for those words spoken at his Oscar win–oh so long ago! But his movie making… This movie…? The Michael Moore voice would be better served if spewed from the mouth or movie making prowess of something more youthful. Indeed. Enough #OKBoomer complaining already.

    Good luck suckers.

    Rant on.

    -T

    1. The scariest part of this movie is the obvious and perhaps subconscious reveal that privileged white men, #nomatter their class, are still stuck on/in late nineteenth and early twentieth century Malthusian doctrine and/or social darwinism less the mass grave killing via Black Sabbath’s War Pigs. Or something like that. ↩︎

  • Verarschung

    schreib dein buch

    Alt title: worst-writer lessons in un-understanding Deutsch

    There it is again, dear worst-reader (see pic above). Although it’s happening less than it happened, say, twenty years ago–on account there was a time I was, let’s say, more hopeful, wishful, dreamy, etc., it still happens now-n-then. Like a grain amongst a ton-bag of salt. I mean. Language is a bitch, dear worst-reader. Let me not even start on how my German better-half can sometimes forget that she’s not talking to a native. She certainly knows my facial gestures or body signals when she starts rambling on about this or that and I’m like… “Did you just make up your own German? Cause I don’t understand a fcuking word you just said.” Of course, she attributes my inability to understand her language to my ageing ears. And that may be the case. Although I think my hearing is better than hers and she does, sometimes, have the cutest but highly distracting lisp. #Nomatter. There’s still a whole bunch of German out there that I don’t get–which is the reason I’m currently re-reading Kafka’s Der Prozess. But one thing I do get is when a German is being sarcastic, facetious, teasing, low-down, or, as the Brits might put it, taking the piss out. The thing is, that sort of stuff ain’t really in the German mentality. You know. Order. Train schedules. Achtung! That may or may not be the reason Germans ain’t very funny. But. Again. #Nomatter. It might also be why so many Germans are simply incapable of smiling–unless they’re a blonde, blue-eye looking for a husband/wife. Again. #Nomatter. So here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. I passed by my local bus stop the other day and have long since trained myself to NOT pay much attention to its advertising, which is usually for cigarettes. But this time… Damn. It caught my attention. Why? Well, get this, baby. Could it be that the Germans are fcuking with me1? You know, that maybe, somehow, they know that I’m a failed writer that has long since giving up on being published, discovered or even paid a dime for my efforts. Yeah. They know that I have a few novels sitting around just waiting to be finished (or burnt). And considering the state of theatre in this country since it never accepted any of my plays…? So when I see an advert at a bus stop telling Germans to write your book, I’m like… Oh really! You mean. Just sit down and write, like hundreds of thousands of words, pages, and nonsense and then use some company to become Salmon Rushdie? Please.

    Ich kann mich doch selber verarschen.

    The German word Verarschung is tough to translate. But once you understand the language–as I do, even though some of the stuff my wife says doesn’t ring a bell, then you don’t bother translating at all. And so. To come across such an advert like this… as a failed writer… as worst-writer… well….

    Rant on, baby.

    -T

    1. My translation of the German word “Verarschung”. ↩︎

  • While Walking And Dreaming

    Had a heck of time the other morn, dear worst-reader. As usual, I begin one of three walks a day with Beckett, the killer pug, at around eight in the A.M. After that I feed him and let him sleep until a bird stirs him awake around noon and he barks so loud that babies in quarantine two blocks away wake up. Should I mention how his sudden bursts of barking almost stir me to madness? No. Seriously. There are moments when he has a barking fit that I could strangle his stupid, ugly, disgusting, non-nose hound… but at the very same moment all I really want to do is just cuddle him till his guts spill out all over me in a frantic delirium of love-joy. Or maybe not.

    Among the other things seen during a given daily walk, here’s a few pics. The one to pay most attention to, of course, is the one with the Ferrari. Get a good look at that license plate holder.

    I’ve been there before, don’t you know, dear worst-reader. There’s something about z’Germans, especially the wannabe rich little $hits that drive around in rented Ferraris, or overly expensive high-end SUVs, that claim they want to do something to Greta Thunberg. I’ve posted other stuff horsepower $hitbags want to do with Greta here and here. Which begs the question: why won’t the earth just eat (and then shit-out) the rich who are so blatantly 1) disrespectful and 2) douchebags?

    But at least there are more pics to wonder at. For example. Even though my wife is disallowing me from having a motorcycle, which I haven’t ridden since 2001, I really want to get back on a bike. Although I’m preferring/leaning towards getting a retro Triumph, a few other brands are stirring my horsepower thoughts. For example. The bike that tickles my fancy the most right now is the KTM 790 Duke. What a bike, dudes. And to think Austrians could come up with such a middle-class two-wheeled wonder. Then again, since I’m stuck in a world of golden cage wishful thinking, and somehow know deep in my lust-gut that my wife is gonna fight it till her last breath, guilt by association follows me around forevermore and I lust for a cool two-wheeled ride. And so. While walking around. There it is. There’s a key to a Husqvarna motorclylce that someone found and kindly attached to a tree in the hopes it will be reunited with its owner. Do you see the connection here? That’s right. KTM owns Husqvarna. Which means this key on a tree is really telling me that I don’t want the Triumph. But I die-gress.

    The other pic is that of a varmint I’ve been seeing in a local pond. In the three or so years I’ve been living here, and walking past that pond, I’ve never seen that critter before. He’s just above the duck, swimming across the water. There’s always been ducks, geese and swan hanging around… but a large rat-like critter with a tail longer than its body and almost as large as a swan…? #Nomatter.

    The dog I love so much is doing just fine in his oncoming old age as he rests in his kingly couch. That’s right. Beckett the killer pug just turned thirteen. Or is he twelve? #Nomatter. He’s f’n barking like a madman again.

    Rant on.

    -T

    PS retro bike of choice–but I don’t want it in red.

    retro bike of choice - triumph

  • Generation: Malice

    I’m about fifty-two percent through the e-book version “Hiding in Plain Sight” by Sarah Kendzior, dear worst-reader. Not bad since I’m busy as bee in these days of worst-writing and corona-virus, i.e. same as it ever was when it comes to worst-writer social distancing, don’t you know. Even though a full pseudo-review of the book will follow, and I’ve already published two quotes from the book here and here, I have to let this go: what a f’n book! This chick can write, dear worst-reader. And don’t you’all love it when there’s a human out there that can write like this about everything that is so wrong with this world, doing it in a way that is whipper-snapper cool? On top of that, she most certainly nails it when it comes to creating a narrative that rips President Stupid–the commander n’ chief of pee-pee-hair–a new one. And not just President Stupid gets ripped a new one. She’s pretty dag-gone-it good a ripping all his cronies a new one, too. And don’t you know, dear worst-reader, I’m into these kinds of books. You know, books that tell the truth about my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant, that so many of my pseudo-comrades have missed–by remaining (with)in the $hitshow. If only I could find more of these books, eh. In fact, I recently tried Dark Towers by David Enrich but had to give up on it while reading the sample text on account, well, let’s just say he couldn’t bring me into it. Also. Let’s not forget, dear worst-reader, I did the same kinda give-up on Sarah’s first book, “The View From Flyover Country“. Now that her new book has intrigued me so much I’m more than willing to give Flyover a new look when I’m done. But will I return to Dark Towers? Nomatter.

    With that bit in mind, here’s my first worst-thought that Sarah has connived me into at only half-way through her book. Malice. That it’s, dear worst-reader. The essence of Pee-Pee-Hair #Trump isn’t so much that he’s a genius or about anything involving (human) smarts to become President, it’s that he knows how to utilise malice to the point of negating the law. Although I’ve always suspected that malice played a big role in #Trump’s fail-upward success that is only possible in #Americant–or 17th or 18th century #Eurowasteland–I didn’t know it went this deep. Hence, #Trump is a byproduct of the yellow press of NYC. I suppose, coming from such a place, plus his disgusting parentage, can cause one to never consider why a fish can’t know a world without water.

    But before I reveal too much worst-writing about this book, let me cease and desist and finish reading it. Till then, baby.

    Rant on, baby.

    -T

  • Things Corona

    Not sure, dear worst-reader. But it’s everywhere. Here just a few examples. By-the-buy. The house is a rich-man’s house not far from where I live and where I have to pass every day with Beckett, the killer pug. To indicate what they’re doing about the current crisis, they hung up a page from a local newspaper to indicate they’re staying-in. The van is from a local heating, plumbing and solar company. Great name, eh. The guts–or that’s what I like to call it–is a misnomer to me. I wish I could see the animal that coughs this up. Perhaps it represents–to my worst-mind–what lungs look like when Covid-19 turn them to mush. Otherwise. As best I can tell. It’s the throw-up-rest of what was once a frog, probably from the bowels of a prehistoric rodent that lives along the Rhine River. Or maybe not.

    Good luck suckers.

    Rant on.

    -T

  • Ununderstanding Or Toilet Paper Saga

    wet wipes

    A previous worst-post about ununderstanding is here.

    Asked my wife the other morn, dear worst-reader, what the hell does the graphic mean in the pic above. Do you know what she said? That’s right. She said: “I don’t know either.” At which point I turned to her and complained, once again,: “What the hell is your Abitur for?”

    For the worst-life of me, dear worst-reader, I don’t get what the graphic on the back of a wet-wipes package that I recently bought is about. What the heck is toilet paper > wet wipes > toilet paper supposed to mean? Of course, it doesn’t really matter. For. Don’t you know. There’s currently an issue with toilet paper in the (western) world. Go figure, eh. But that’s not the reason why, instead of buying the usual two-pack I bought two two-packs the other day of wet-wipes. (Why didn’t I buy more?) Indeed. I bought them because, well, my dog, Beckett-the killer pug, requires them for his under-carriage. He has what I like to call an artificial pee-pee-hole1. I use wet-wipes to wipe my dog after every walk (three x day) so that our house doesn’t smell like…

    But what of this issue with toilet paper in the western-world during an ugly flu pandemic that caused me to buy a few more wet-wipes? One theory that comes to my worst-mind–and perhaps it’s somewhat motivated in the conversations I’ve been having with person A though B through Zed–is this: why panic over toilet paper? Well, here’s a few worst-thoughts on the issue:

    1. One person said it’s because all the old people who are dying are dying with the memories of a world, a world they think is theirs, where toilet paper was scarce (when they were young).
    2. Another person said that toilet paper represents the gap between boredom and achievement when people are forced to face their useless-eating habits without the false (fake) work ethic that is compulsive behaviourism.
    3. In a world where the meek-masses COULD have all the power but rather heed that power to others (western democratic politics) because they can’t face the truth about their useless-eating albeit privileged lives compared to that of a newer generation, then wiping their asses is a last achievement before they die.
    4. Wiping their asses without soiling themselves is the last great achievement of both the greatest generation and #OKBoomer because, well, look at all else they’ve done that has culminated in not just SARS-2 but also #Trump, President Pee-Pee-Hair.
    5. Etc., etc.

    But I digress.

    Rant on.

    -T

    1. One day, about five or six years ago, we realised that our dog wasn’t peeing. I rushed him off to the Vet who immediately informed us that we had two hours to make up our mind. Either we put the dog to sleep or allow him to perform an operation that would re-route his urinary tract as the natural tract was kaputt due to clogging. ↩︎

  • “Heroes”

    Screenshot 2020-03-20 at 18.02.00

    Came across a list (link below) the other worst-day, dear worst-reader. The only question I had after reviewing the list–yet another Bowie best-of list, like all the others, don’t you know–was whether or not I had all the songs–especially since I don’t use music subscription services. Turns out I have forty of the fifty and I’ve been contemplating a favorites list for a while so this is kind of a kicker, eh. Also. The reason I’m missing ten of the list is because, well, I still haven’t purchased Bowie’s last album and my collection is also missing stuff like Black Tie White Noise and London Boy. Of course, another reason for posting this info here is simply because my all-time favorite song is at #5 which caused me to gasp while reading it. WTF! “Heroes” is forever the bomb, baby–easily my all-time fav Bowie tune. I mean, I would have accepted it at two or three–but not five! Which begs the question, what about Fame! Oh my.

    Rant on.

    -T

    PS The reason I haven’t purchased Bowie’s last album is because, well, it would mean I have to face reality. I’m not good at that sort of thing. I mean. I’ve always known I’d get to it and I have most of his music anywho in my collection and… And so. Yeah, maybe it’s time. To face. Reality.

    Link:

  • Boomer Plague, Face Masks And Toilet Paper

    American flag stained

    There you have it, dear worst-reader. End-times ain’t (just) nigh (anymore). They (end-times) be here, eh. How do you (we) know? Easy. There’s nothing to wipe your arse with. Don’t know about you, but I’m starting to love the idear about getting a bidet. As I worst-write this, I can almost feel a stream of water gushing around my under-carriage. But let’s not transgress too far off worst-subject–to places you may or mayn’t wish to witness. Or?

    What’s the deal with hoarding toilet paper, dear worst-reader? No. Serious. Why are people doing it? Is it because they’re worried about not being able to wipe? Seriously? These people wipe? And as you (I) contemplate the issue, get this worst-thought. One sheet of toilet paper looks similar enough to one of those masks that people wear to cover their face. They wear the masks, by-the-buy, to stop their minds from spilling out what they really think. And so. The masses of stupid people that make this, our beloved earth of STUPID, are simply hoarding toilet paper because, well, they think it’s the same as those masks. Indeed. Toilet paper covers a hole, if you will. It can prevent something from going out and going in, along side, of course, with keeping it all clean. And because so many are too stupid to know anything, they mistake one thing for another. So go out there, dear worst-reader. Hoard yourself some toilet paper as someone else has hoarded all the masks–and others hoard all the money. And whether its $hit coming out of your mouth or your arse, at this point in life, history, a world where the likes of #Trump can attain the leadership of LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID, it’s all obviously about the money. These are the times you live in. Good luck sucker.

    And while I’m on the subject of worst-luck.

    Something still lingers in the ever-more of the now which smells horribly like old people aka #okboomers. Do you smell it, dear worst-reader? Whaaaaa? Never got a whiff of old people? Quite the opposite of a newborn, don’t you know. And if you’ve (n)ever smelled a newborn–it’s an experience so much better than the actual birthing process where that bitch screams and yells about how well I fcuked a baby inside of her as the halls of her life squeezed to pin me down, lusting for my servitude, her matrimony our contract, that the beautiful babe she would bear c/would be true to us both in the misery that is fake newz or love. And total contrast to the death that old people espouse, especially in these days of greed galore embodied by #okboomer. Am I wrong? But I digress.

    Am I the only one to smell the stench of old people? A stench this grand old earth bitch wishes to be rid of? And do I smell it on account, well, because I’m probably, kinda one of them? Also. Don’t you know. I’ve always had trouble describing (or is it transcribing?) smell. But the comparison to newborns ain’t bad, eh. Is it because there are so many old people these days that is must be compared? What’s the adage? If you’re a fish you don’t mind disgusting, polluted, faeces filled ocean to exist in. You know, as in, old people are kinda everywhere–and they have everything. Which is most likely due to the fact that they took it all–everything–only to leave their smell behind as youth-life slowly perishes or is it dwindles into the long, slow night-wake of greed demise? #Nomatter.

    For all impractical reasoning, I’m old too. Approaching the big six-o. Yet I was birthed by the oldest of the generation that is currently the most ill in Italy. Wait. That makes no sense. What I mean is this. I am part of the ilk that is #okboomer but I’m of the tail end of it, don’t you know. I’m the last of what the so-called greatest generation could birth. Which begs the issue: if #okboomer parentage was so fcuking great, why is it that the world is lead by morons, anti-intellectuals, religious $hit-bags, greed-mongers galore? And so.

    Worst-writer’s ode to #okboomer.

    Oh, old people, I hope you all pass on as you came in. Came in to the $hitshow, don’t you know. Took it over–and made it your $hitshow–from your greed $hitshow parents. Greed and taxes do take a bite, she said behind the medicine counter where just above her head was a sign that read: show your properly stamped passport before receiving your flu dosage. Who has the flu? Come one, come all–fcuk heads. Show the world what you’re capable of, reveal your inner besties. All your drunk meth friends, revelling in the afterbirth of so many missed abortions and the love-forsaken feminism of the grand bimbo coalition where all is not lost as long as you blame someone (something) else for your misdeeds. And now bow to your pee-pee-hair god, #Trump, i.e. President Stupid. For he is yours #okboomer. Reap what you are and keep playing in that fake-gold hair. And before I forget. I hope you all die a miserable death for what you’ve done to this world and your children, especially the young girls you abused. Fuck you, boomer.

    Move on (quickly).

    Of course, if you ask worst-writer–which you shalln’t–Coronavirus could just as easily be called a disease of STUPID. I know. I know. It’s also a disease of poverty. But let’s not complicate things, eh. You know, as in, a disease my beloved & missed LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID kinda deserves. For #Americant is the embodiment of both STUPID and poverty. Or? Then again. My beloved & missed #Americant doesn’t deserve all my ridicule out of worst-spite, let’s be clear. It’s just that sheer ignorance is so abominable to me and it is manifest on a daily basis since the advent (election loss, electoral college win) of President Stupid. I mean, how else can a once great experiment in nation-state building be reduced to the likes of President Pee-Pee hair? Stupid deserves stupid, right? Stupid deserves this disease. Or am I getting-on too much about it all? #Nomatter.

    What is STUPID’S creed, dear worst-reader? That’s right. Greed. And would you believe that President Stupid is actually trying to secure a vaccine for the disease of stupid for himself. Indeed. He might be doing it because, well, he’s infected. And even if he is (infected), his real motivation is the $hitshow of greed, don’t you know, that is all he knows. He literally tried to secure the rights to a vaccine for a disease that could potentially kill hundreds of thousands. He did so not for the sake of a nation but instead in order to make a buck. Does that surprise anyone? Maybe it surprises a few people. But get this, dear worst-reader. I was born and reared in the $hitshow of greed that is #Americant. Nothing about money and ugly pee-pee hair surprises me. So there.

    Don’t believe anything you read about this being a disease of national origin. It is, indeed, a disease of forced poverty and subjugation. And, as usual, my beloved and missed #Americant is leading the way.

    Rant on.

    -T

    Links:

  • Helmet, Helmut And Yo-Yo

    Secondary title: Pseudo-Review of the Abus Hyban bike helmet with visor.

    Perhaps some of you are too young to know. So allow worst-writer to explain yet another worst-title. In the movie Night On Earth by Jim Jarmusch a really bad taxi driver from the (then) recent former East Germany picks up a New Yorker in New York City and his name is Yo-Yo. While these two drive around NYC and have what Jarmusch portrays as the time of their lives, they also try to figure out their names. That is, Yo-Yo can’t understand the difference between the name Helmut and a helmet, i.e. protective gear one may or may not wear on ones head. Helmut thinks Yo-yo was named after a child’s toy. #Nomatter. The audience is given one of the best comic duos in cinematic history that is only comparable to Abbot and Costello. If you haven’t seen it (the whole movie), give it a look, dear worst-reader. Boy do I miss the days when movies were made like that. You know, creative movies. Works of art. Etc. That worst-said…

    Late last summer during what I consider to be the worst bike riding year of my worst-life, I decided I needed to do something about being a bespectacled bike rider. Or have you never been there, dear worst-reader? You know. You’re cruising along and you know it’s eventually coming, and then it does, and suddenly you’re riding through nature as it unleashes rain rain rain rain. #Nomatter what you do, your standard and/or traditional bike helmet (or even hat) won’t/can’t protect your eyewear from being covered in rain drops. And so, when you arrive at your destination, which in my case is usually an out-door market where I gather fresh veggies and sometimes fresh hunted pheasant (from Guido the French/German pheasant hunter), everyone (including Guido) would stare at me with sympathy as they could see the misery in my blurred, foggy, soaked glasses face.

    “It’s a bitch riding in the rain, eh.” Indeed.

    And so. I decided then and there it was time to take action (which usually means spend money) on one of them new fancy bike helmets that includes a visor. Being the cheap-skate that I am, though, I searched for days both online and in a bike store here or there for a consume-to-survive product that fit my budget. Since this was my first helmet with a visor for bike riding, I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for. Hence, this is the moment where corporate branding comes into play and a bit of online research can help–or not. As you can see (pics above), I decided for the another Abus branded helmet1.

    Here’s my visor helmet buying advice short and sweet: steer clear from this one.

    Don’t get me wrong. It’s obviously a good helmet. It’s well made, it’s very sturdy and exudes safety, and, I guess, it’s practical. With that in mind, here’s why I wouldn’t buy it again and only recommend it with the following thoughts:

    • Feels heavy, huge and bulky and kinda looks funny (on worst-rider’s head)
    • On an e-bike constantly traveling the gut wrenching speed of 25kmh, it’s freaking obnoxiously loud due to airflow
    • Directs air/wind into your ears and as you can see in the pics, I’m jimmying2 it to see if I can better control the airflow (I don’t think it’s working, though)
    • The chin strap sucks and is uncomfortable with or without included chin strap protector, which I’ve ripped off and thrown away while singing good riddance motherfcuker
    • Mechanism to adjust chin-strap length detaches but luckily, since it’s magnetic, when it detaches I don’t lose the connector but I have retraced my riding path after I thought I lost half of the strap connector only to realise the strap had come lose but the connector was attached to the other connector, blah, blah, blah (see pic with red pointer)

    The good news is, even though I wouldn’t buy it again and all of my complaints have not motivated me to send it back, the adjustable visor perfectly protects my glasses from not only rain but also cold wind. And that’s a big deal, don’t you know. It’s a big deal on account, at my age (pushing sixty, bitch!), cold air constantly blowing in my eyes can be quite irritating. Oh. And. I bought the friggin’ thing discounted, about 80-,€. It’s retail price was well over 100,-€ (at the time). What a bargain, eh. (Sarcasm off.)

    The main problem with this helmet is the airflow along with its weight and size. When riding it feels as though cold air is being directed to my inner ear. Also, because of airflow, it’s friggin’ loud. This winter I’ve been riding with ear plugs plus a heavy skull cap that covers both my ears. Since I ordered the largest (size) helmet, I can fit quite a bit underneath it. But. Again. That makes it large and bulky. It does have an easy adjuster for fitting and/or tightening it to fit your head. The visor is easily adjustable too but airflow is influenced whether it’s up or down–again, making it either loud or louder when riding. Luckily adjusting the visor is no problem, even when using only one hand, i.e while riding. In warm weather the helmet is hot, and when it’s cold, well, you get the picture.

    Is it well made? Yes. Does the safety light on the back work? Yes. Is it safe? I guess it is–if not for the weird, cumbersome chin strap. But at this point, the only reason I wear it, needed it, is because it’s been raining for months and months and months. Not a day goes by that I have to ride and it’s not raining–since friggin October of last year. And so. The only thing good about this helmet is that it’s great for protecting my glasses/eyes from the weather.

    Rant on.

    -T

    PS. Yes. According to the pics above, I voted in the Democratic primary via Democrats Abroad of my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant. As a former Democrat, and considering the direction THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID has done since, gee, I don’t know, the end of the cold war, Bush and his wars of choice and, now, of course, President Stupid with the pee-pee hair, I thought it appropriate if I voted for a democratic socialist that might turn #Americant socialism for the rich into a bit of socialism for the down-trodden. Since it’s becoming more and more obvious that Bernie ain’t gonna get the nomination, I’m still glad I participated. Or maybe not. Oh well. Rant on, baby.

    1. We only have Abus bike helmets. For motorcycles, though, I prefer Shoei or Arai. ↩︎
    2. Fiddling, rigging, changing it, etc. ↩︎

  • Pseudo-Review – Charger GX @ 10k

    Let me start this worst-post by saying that 2019 was a bad riding year, dear fellow worst-rider (worst-reader). Due to circumstance beyond and above worst-riders control, I was unable to complete my self inflicted, obligatory yearly riding mileage, which corresponded with falling into a depressed state of inner self loathing that I get every once-a-once due to expatriation mistakes galore, among other worst-things, and also corresponding with falling off this über-e-bike a few times here and there. To make things worst, it feels like the whole of 2019 happened when I was, well, full of drink. Or was I? #Nomatter. I’m not full now. And as worst as all things are/be, the fall I had last October–or was it September?–that limited my riding even more, simply meant that I was extending the life of my über-e-bike on account, well, it wouldn’t be ridden all that much. Or? More on the misery of 2019 here.

    So get this, dear worst-rider (worst-reader). I finally hit ten thousand kilometres the other day on my über e-bike. Cool, eh. Well, it would be cool if I hadn’t ran into an old couple I know that also own R&M über-e-bikes. They purchased twin red Nevo’s right around the same time I purchased my Charger GX, about three years ago. When I told them about the mileage I’d ridden they both snickered and the old lady pulled me over to show me her odometer. Holy krapp, I thought in a glorious deep breath of shame. These old gizzards (geezers?) had over 30k on their e-bikes. WTF! And so. Am I the only one that hates it when I’m put in my place?

    As far as my Charger GX is concerned, there’s not much to report that I haven’t covered already. It’s still running like a champ–except, of course–for the battery. I’m only getting fifty kilometers out of it right now. I’ll be looking into a battery replacement sometime this year. A dealer told me there’s a battery cell company not far from where I live. They actually replace the cells in Bosch batteries instead of having to replace the whole thing. If I do it, I’ll post something about the experience. Other than that, I’m on my third set of brake pads, which I recently replaced. By-the-buy, I also (finally?) replaced the original brake pads on my wife’s Charger Mixte. Her pads lasted for about 4000km. Considering that my Charger GX brakes are used much more than the brakes on the Mixte, I’m a bit surprised that they didn’t last longer. Oh well. Also. It’s a bit of shame that these two bikes require different brake pads. But that’s the $hit$how of greed and being nickled & dimed that we all must dwell in, eh.

    I am still very impressed with the recent change (urbanisation) from knob (mountain bike) tires to moto-x road tires. I have to admit, though, after a few recent romps through some local mountain areas, I could have used knob tires. It’s not that I don’t like the Moto-x’s off-road. I love them. It’s just that when it’s wet, as it’s been for months here, there were a few areas where I had to get off the bike and push to continue on my way. Indeed. Muddy shoes n’all, including a few sketchy moments akin to riding on pudding, I’m still not ready to return to loud, hard, obnoxious knob tires. I mean, it can’t rain forever–not even in dreary Germania–which means the ground has to dry out sooner or later. Or?

    Anywho. To those few who read it, consider this post my last Pseudo-Review for the Charger GX. Any further posts will just be about e-biking.

    Good riding you-all.

    Rant (and worst-ride) on, baby.

    -T

  • Desk Rig While Migrating To Linux

    desk setup Feb 2020.jpeg

    In worst-writer’s quest to eventually (when exactly?) dump MacOS, I’ve been dabbling in Linux for quite some time. The problem, of course, is that I’m a very slow learner. Add to that the relative slowness of previous RPi’s, I’ve not yet felt comfortable with Rasbian or any other Linux distro on the RPI3, with the exception of Dietpi, but that’s not really a desktop option. Besides, as we all know, eh dear worst-reader, there’s no place in this worst-world for slow learners or pure CLI. Hence I am worst-writer and I’m destined to live as such–slow CPU here or there albeit with a desktop environment. And so. Since Windows is out of the question, the alternative OS for worst-moi can only be Linux with a fancy desktop distro. My only regret with facing such a reality is that I have to wait till my current MacBook is ready for the dung-heap before making the change. The laptops from System76 are looking pretty right now. Reason for the wait, though, is simple: that fcuking pink MacBook was fcuking expensive and to make matters worst it fcuking works great as a worst-writer daily driver, USB-C dongle or not. I’m mean, it is one of Apple’s smallest and weakest computers. Yet I love the thing, krappy keyboard n’all. And for fourteen hundred painful Euros… I can’t believe I paid that much for such an underpowered device. What’s wrong with me? Goo-goo, ga-ga. Bling, bling. Anywho.

    The reason I’m eventually (when exactly?) changing to Linux is the open question of the day, of course. What’s clear is that I’m really NOT interested in paying the über high price for Macs anymore. Considering how the company is going full iOS, plus the Apple tax, i.e. the made-up cost (arbitrary) of Apple + intel that is bordering on STUPID, when considering the power and usability of something as cheap as an RPi (ARM processors), it all only reminds me that the whole industry is, not unlike #Trump and the LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID, waaaaaaaaaay out of whack. And as we all know, I’ll tolerate an iPad as a hand-me-down from my wife for viewing media and reading digital books but boy oh boy do I hate touch screen computing–and I’ll never (in this case never say never may or may not apply) buy another iPad for as long as worst-live. But let’s not get tied up on the tablet thing and me making promises worst-writer might not be able to keep, eh.

    As you can see in the pic above, I’m currently running my Mac world on the right side of my desk and on the left my new RPi4 world. Since I’m also not ready to splurge on a new monitor, I’m using an old TV that has two HDMI ports as my RPi monitor. And although a TV is not a computer monitor, this one works pretty good on account it’s desktop small. At the least, it’s good enough for fiddling around with Raspbian-Linux (a Debian distro). To my surprise, even after only using it for a few weeks, the whole desk setup, including those new infancy monitor arms, works pretty good. Considering I didn’t have to buy a new keyboard for the RPi4, which I thought I’d have to do to use two computers systems on one desk, the setup is looking even cooler. My old Apple keyboard and mouse work just fine on the RPi4. As you’ll note in the pic above, there is also a second RPi, an RPi3b+, that I’m currently using as a retro game tester, which is plugged into the TV’s second HDMI port. I did splurge on a cheap knock-off PS3 controller for that one, though. I may or may not post something regarding RPi retro gaming but that’ll have to wait since I’m still trying to figure out how it works.

    As far as desktop setup and duel monitor arms, I splurged on a you-know-who Basics offering. Although there is no vertical movement of the monitor arms, you can easily adjust height via the centre poll. It’s all not as uppity and fancy as those more expensive arms that seem to float in the air but I suppose that’s the reason this one only cost 35,-€. And since I can rotate my Dell monitor 90° when needed, as I sometimes use it in portrait mode when working on longer draft worst-writing, this is all über-good, baby.

    Yes. All in all this is a cool desktop solution for lots of worst-writing, including lots of continued worst-writing procrastination. Combined with my Ikea height adjustable desk, I should be good till the next urge to consume-to-survive hits and I have to buy something else that I don’t really need but is, well, cool. Speaiing of consuming things needed (or not), I’m really digging the idear of getting back into motorcycling. Maybe this year I’ll be able to worst-post something about getting back on two (powered) wheels again. Or maybe not.

    Rant on.

    -T

  • Worst-Road Travelled: The NON NAS NAS

    Pine64 Digital storage solution w/out NAS

    Well, there you have it, dear worst-reader. As I’ve indicated in many a-worst-post here and there, I hate the NAS industry. In fact, even though I kinda grew up with it, worked in it, played with it, I sort-a hate the tech industry. But that’s neither here or elsewhere. And so. Of all the tech krapp out there since consume-to-survive with interwebnets is the new & improved way of worst-life, the tech that’s pissed me off the most–other than gaming PCs, don’t you know–is the rip-off that is NAS boxes. And so, in my quest to avoid such devices–even as the world progresses ever-more towards co-called cloud computing–which is nothing more than an industry controlling (your; all) content–I’ve spent the last few years (since 2015???) trying to figure out how to maintain a quarter century of personal data so that my data1 is mine and mine only. And keep in mind, dear worst-reader, when I say my data I really do mean the stuff that belongs to me–copyright here or there, political or generational ideology here or there, greed-mongers included. For as far as I’m concerned, most of the media industry (audio, video, tv, radio, podcast, etc.) has been ripping people off since Welles’ 1938 broadcast of Wells. But let’s adhere to the current issue of copyright nonsense and/or avoiding the costs of corporate obsoletism galore. I mean, if it weren’t for the ability of worst-moi to get copies of albums from friends and foes on cassette–back in the day–I wouldn’t have purchased half of the music that I currently own. Hence, with the likes of iTunes and streaming services, I can’t remember the last time I actually consumed music. Which brings me to this tangent: Not only does most of the music produced in the last thirty years suck but the way one is forced to get it sucks too. Wait. That’s not quite right. At the least, I don’t consume music like I once did. You know, buy a CD and then rip it and then listen to it either via cassette, ripped/copied CD or iPod. Indeed. But I do remember buying Greta Van Fleet last year as shitty mp3 download or some Brian Jonestown Massacre and, yes, a Japanese only version of Sinatra At the Sands–at least I think it was Sinatra but it could have been his daughter and, don’t you know, those boots walking all over me in dream. But. Once again. I’m off subject. Nomatter.

    So I’m not really into consuming much media anymore. Although I suppose I shouldn’t count ebooks in the mix. I have actually bought more of those than music or videos. Still. Even though I don’t buy much digital content, what’s the point of maintaining an ageing library of content that is, for the most part, poorly ripped? Well, I guess, because I can. And. More import. Because. It’s mine. Or. To be more fair to my worst-self, I maintain such a digital library because, well, I get a kick out of it and, so far, it’s proven to be a slap in the face of an industry hellbent on continuing the grand rip off. And so. Indeed. Enter the world of SBCs as a means to circumvent the grand rip-off.

    The discovery of SBCs for worst-moi (2015) has been a godsend, dear worst-reader. Not only has the world of SBC opened up my digital horizons, I think it too might be saving me time, effort and, of course, money. Not to mention that these little computer boards are as fun as tits waving in spring time as though man-scarcity were the norm and the Weinstein tragedy were long behind us. Add to that the fact that I’m slowly becoming comfortable–at a very superficial level, of course–with Linux, as that’s the system that runs on SBCs–and I feel that the/my future of tech is bright, shiny and cheap–where it once was dim, dark and dank thanks to the greed of Apple & Co. Or am I the only one that thinks the time has come to put the rip-off tech industry in its humble place? Oh wait. There’s still a deal here or there on a Synology or a Drobo, eh? Oh fcuk me. Nomatter.

    And so. Worst-writer, with this worst-post, wishes to coin a phrase. Ready? Here we go:

    NON NAS NAS

    I get a nickel for every time it’s used, don’t you know.

    That’s right. As of early 2020, after five or so years of fiddling here and there, having bought, discarded or returned several NAS boxes (Western Digital, Synology, Drobo), I’m finally feeling comfy with having found a replacement for at least one part of the rip-off tech industry. That replacement? Single board computers, baby. The PC is dead. Long live SBCs. You know, Raspberry Pi, Pine64, etc. I especially love the RPi4 with its GB ethernet and USB3. Not only is it a fully functioning computer but it’s also finally a viable alternative to the rip-off intel-based PC industry. The RPi4 that I’ve been fiddling with as a desktop device works like a charm even though, in my cheapness, I have to hook it up to a ten year old 20″ TV, which is the only HDMI ported monitor I have right now. Put another worst-way, I cannot hook my RPi4 up to my 5 year old Dell 22″ monitor because, well, it doesn’t have HDMI. That is, mini-HDMI to DVI doesn’t seem to work, adapter here or there. Nomatter. VNC over my network works fine. For you see, dear worst-reader, I’d gladly spend more dough on replacing a monitor or buying new cables than having to spend thousands to replace the Mac I’m worst-typing this on right now. Which brings me to the godsend part of this worst-post. As I’ve suspected while fiddling with SBCs, this also might be the last Mac I ever buy. For don’t you know, dear worst-reader, a linux laptop has to be in the worst-writer mix soon enough.

    Hail the NON-NAS-NAS! Hail SBC!

    Rant on.

    -T

    1. The whole use of the word my and/or I is part of a generation, don’t you know. Which? #OKBoomer, of course. Or is there another generation that has been so greedy, so selfish, so narcissistic, so that the likes of #Trump can find its way to the surface? Or maybe not. ↩︎

  • As You Live, Eat And Breath It: Compulsive Behaviourism And Fascism

    Stopped watching at exactly 16:51, dear worst-reader. Reason? It’s all I could stomach. What a disgusting display of… Of? Of? Well, how ’bout this: what a disgusting display of life, liberty and the pursuit of greed (at any cost) that is the current state of  my beloved & missed united mistakes of compulsive behaviourism, aka #Americant. Why should any honest, hardworking person give a fcuk about these privileged people and their complaints about the cesspool of life that they obviously chose from the get-go to participate in and hence build/enable? Oh wait. Where does this sort of behaviourism come from? Does it come from men eye-groping as skirts walk by? Does it come from ill-construed patriarchy and submissive matriarchy? Or what about the women who raise the men that give us such ills? Yeah, what about those mothers?

    You mean, dear worst-writer, that with all their privilege and education, they weren’t able to see (judge) the cesspool of life/career that they were getting into–from the get-go? As soon as blondie #1 started talking about how she worked her way up, just prior to the 16:51 mark, I thought I was gonna lose control of my eyes rolling into the back of my head. Thank goodness I recovered. Or?

    Bimbo #1, like so many #Americants born since the 1950s (in her case 70s), has never worked a day in her life. What she has done, though, is something much better and much more deserved than work and it is probably the future on account, well, what else is there now that the $hit$how has reached new heights above and beyond the incorporation of seven deadly sins? Sarcasm on/off. Indeed. She has BEHAVED. She is the epitome of compulsive behaviourism–like so many of her ilk, her generation, #okboomer?, Gen-X?, corporatists with the right skin tone, hair colour, etc., etc… All who have what they have because of how they behave–AND NOTHING ELSE. But enough about the bimbo coalition that makes up half a species and how they emulate the other half (that is just as bad).

    Who should give a hoot about the players who play in this game? I mean. Come on. Now that the game has ruined life for so many (culminating but probably not ending with #Trump), should those of us who chose not to participate in it, put up with all this fcuking whining? Again. I quit the video at 16:51. Like most people on this planet who must live with choice and consequence, who gives a fcuk that you had to raise a skirt while dancing in front of your career choice? Oh wait. Maybe some of you had to give the boss a blowjob? Of course none of you thought about just walking out from the get-go. I mean. Come on. Who wants to give up a career because, well, the next bimbo could lift her skirt better?

    Which brings me to the heart of the issue. Welcome to your new world order of Neo fascism. Yea, baby. This is but a game in a game that is fascism. More than any other political ideology, fascism is about exactly this. I mean, it’s not only about power and money. It’s about old, fat men finding loyalty up the skirts of chicks who grew up never questioning why all those other women in magazines and on TV so easily acquire the gaze of men men men. Or am I wrong, Walter? Put another way, there would be no fascism without all the bigotry, greed and a few bimbos never questioning what is so intriguing up a skirt. Which begs the worst-question:  what about all those women who not only did the skirt twirl without question but also gave great loyalty blowjobs?

    Ah. What we all do for love and career.

    And so. For $hits and giggles, let’s run down a worst-writer definition of fascism for the moment–or this worst-post.

    • Bigotry, of course, is the hate that my beloved and missed #Americant has been utilising since it squandered the end of the Cold War, or perhaps even earlier.
    • Greed, of course, is the capitalism that is currently feeding on the negative of bigotry so that the Have-Mores don’t have to pay-up for cheating the Haves who in turn have always cheated the Have-Nots.
    • Or check here.

    What better facilitator of all of this is there than faux newz, #Americant political and social conservatism, and the bimbos that make all the old male owners, the Have-Mores feel better about their dick pills? And so. The reptile brain of greed mongers–in this case the compulsive behaviourist bimbos–know this, dear worst-reader. In fact, Bimbo #1 might finally know it more than ever. Welcome to the world you created, sugar tits. Hope you make the world better for daughters.

    Rant on.

    -T

    Links:

     

  • Cerebral Rock

    rush albums.jpg
    Rush collection

    Three bands by the late 70s that rocked my world:

    • Led Zeppelin
    • Budgie
    • Rush

    With the passing of Neil Pert I can’t help but recall my first reaction to the 1976 album 2112 which I listened to on a hand-me-down plastic mono record player in my suburban hell bedroom. What the hell are they making music about, I said, after playing side-one over and over and over. Here’s a summary of the song, dear worst-reader. By-the-buy, the lyrics of this song–or is it anthem–were written by Pert.

    “2112” tells a story set in the city of Megadon in the year 2112 where individualism and creativity are outlawed, with the population controlled by a cabal of malevolent Priests who reside in the Temples of Syrinx. A galaxy-wide war resulted in the planets forcefully joining the Solar Federation (symbolised by the “Red Star”). By 2112, the world is controlled by the priests who take orders from giant banks of computers inside the temple. Music is unknown in this world absent of creativity and individuality, but in “Discovery”, a nameless man finds a beaten guitar inside a cave and rediscovers the lost art of music. In “Presentation”, the man takes the guitar to the priests at the temple, who say, “Yes, we know, it’s nothing new; it’s just a waste of time”, and then proceed angrily to destroy it and banish him. Next, in “Oracle: The Dream”, the man dreams of a new planet, established at the same time as the Solar Federation, where creative people live. He awakens, depressed that music is part of such a civilization and that he can never be part of it, and commits suicide, in “Soliloquy”, originally titled “Soliloquy of the Soul”. Another planetary war begins in “Grand Finale”, originally named “Denouement”, resulting in the ambiguous spoken ending: “Attention all planets of the Solar Federation: We have assumed control”. (Source: Wiki)

    Of all the bands I listened to growing up, Rush is the only band that made me sit down and contemplate not just the music but what the heck were they going on about.  Compared to Zeppelin, Rush was a creative power that would take me years to truly comprehend. That is, where Zeppelin covered a lot of their famous tracks, Rush wrote and composed every damn story-be-told song. When I saw Rush in concert the first time, from the only nose-bleed seats I could afford, Neil Pert looked like an octopus wrapped inside a monstrous drum set. You could barely see the mans head. But you could see those arms, multiple, many arms, and sticks, all flaring around making magic sound galore. Indeed. A band to make one think. So I guess I’ll continue choking-up when listening to Tom Sawyer or One Little Victory, etc. Btw, the intro to One Little Victory still boggles my mind.

    neil pert drum set

    As far as that fantasy I’ve had for years, I guess I’ll never run into Neil Pert while riding a motorcycle cross country, which I’ve heard was his preferred mode of travel to concerts. Oh well. There’s still all those songs to listen to, to think about, to comprehend.

    RIP Neil Pert.

    Rant and rock on.

    -T

    Links: