Tag: Nonsense

Like a previous post, the digitalisation of (worst-moi’s) life continues. As usual, though, at this time of year, the mystical holiday season threw me for a loop.

But what could throw worst-writer for a loop, you ask.

How about the physics (the E=MC2 stuff) of Santa being able to actually deliver all those presents to the world in one night. If he was able to do it, would he survive? Which rings another question: does mystery require survival? Nomatter.

Although I was able to finish scanning a bunch of old notebooks before the big day, I haven’t been able to scan anything sense. I guess the time off of my better-half means that she gets first dibs on the new scanner during her seasonal and obligatory end of year use of remaining vacation time. With that in mind, the pic above is the end of my black & white collection of old school notebooks. That’s right, dear worst-reader. I literally ripped twenty year old notebooks apart trying to get scannable pages out from under the confines of those heavy covers and knitted bindings. At the least, my hat is off to Fujitsu for making a very useable scanner. With only a few adjustments to the software it scanned every old page front and back. Now to get it all in this blog.

Rant on.

-t

 

When the end slowly reaches you all that remains is nostalgia. Boy have I got a lot of nostalgia these days. Or is it baggage? I’ve also got a lot of baggage that has finally reached the point of no friggin return. For example. I have around twenty years of worst-writing material laying around taking up space, collecting dust, in the way. No. Seriously. For a long time I’ve been wanting to throw all this sh*t away. Like life, the dream must come to an end, eh. And so. I’ve got typed manuscripts, hand written plays, stupid poems made from words cut out of newspaper articles and doodles of snot and cum that is all just begging to be finally put where it belongs, where both of us belong–in the fcuking trash. Of course, there is some worst-writing that I regret throwing away–which is probably the reason I’ve held on to this krapp for so long. I had a hundred page manually typed manuscript once that, due to the circumstance of birth, NOT being able to pick & choose parents, sibling rivalry angst, etc.,–and finally coming to terms with NOT being a victim (of life) but instead just accepting the fact that I’m a loser–that I threw in the trash bin. After waking a week later from that drunkin stupor I turned to the swollen chick next to me and said: where the fcuk is my manuscript? Oh well. I actually kicked myself for doing that. I think it might have been a story that I could have learned to like–which is what happens to most of my stories. Or at least I could have found a way to get used to dealing with the fact that such krapp came out of me. But I threw it away. I threw it away like I fcuked bimbos here or there when my cock could still be veiny and purple and careless about the walls we must get threw. The walls have won. Again. Oh well. So I decided to keep around some of the stuff I’ve written. Until now. Until the world could finally create a machine that would help me get rid of all the material that collected the dust of my life and allow me to put this krapp where it belongs. Welcome to worst-writer’s digitised world. Or maybe not. Nomatter. Above is a pic of about a third of the material that I’ve scanned so far. And the only reason I’ve been able to get this far is because I bought something. I mean, dear worst-reader, isn’t that how we all get somewhere, something, somehow? Buy something. Consume to survive. In my case, I bought some fancy engineered scanner. Not one of them bullsh*t flatbed scanners. Flatbed scanners suck. Can you imagine having to put each one of the pages (from the pic above) in a flatbed scanner? Fcuk that! Well, since we’re on the subject, thank your God for two things. One, they finally made a scanner with a feeder that works. Two, I can afford to pay the stupid-money for such a device. I mean, come on. This device cost four hundred plus euros. You can get a flatbed scanner these days for under a hundred. I know. I know. Flatbed’s suck. I’ve already made that clear. But still, just because it has a half decent paper-feeder doesn’t mean that it has to cost stupid-money? Do you know what stupid-money is, dear worst-reader? It’s the money we pay for this life that leads to more of our devaluation. Or maybe not. Moving on. Enough of my bitchin’ about stupid-money. The thing is this: it took me less than a few hours to scan more than a thousand pages of worst-writing in order to continue digitising my worst-world. In fact, the thing that took longest was figuring out how to organise the scans. And I’m not sure if I’ve figured that out. But I also don’t care. The sh*t is scanned and the pile in the pic above will be where we both belong soon enough.

Rant on.

-t

Look closely at the pic above. It is the pic of your future. Your future is now. And there is nothing to come after it. Except. Maybe. Another candidate full of Hope & Change. But I digress. In the pic above an a$$hole businessman did something that will make a bunch of a$$hole follower’s hearts beat a bit faster. The businessman is something like Japan’s richest man and he had just met with #americants pseudo-richest man, i.e. comb-over & chief. These two men, as are most businessmen, are nothing more than bull$hitters that have reached the top–a “top” that rests on the lives of The Stupid. These men are, indeed, that which has built a society of greed galore–of stupid galore. How all this came to past is another useless post from worst-writer. So allow me to just focus on the pic above. The pic above is another great example that no one will understand because it is so full of truth. Make America Great Again! Great compared to what? Oh, the idea of America was great. The dream was great. The patriotism is great. And now? Elect your comb-over & chief so that your misdirected anger that allows you to never look in the mirror is itching you right now–so keep looking away while you scratch. In a way, the pic above is part of your mirror. In fact, it’s such a small part that you can look at it without seeing the truth of who you are. It’s like going to a wrastling match. WWE. Do you know why wrastling is so popular? It’s popular because the people who watch want to be ridden, abused, mis-used, etc., it is all they know. These people get satisfaction out of their misery because they have been programmed to KNOW that someone else is to blame for it. Which makes them feel a-ok. Like a snort of cocaine, a needle in the arm of heroin, smoking some meth. And so. There is no difference between the content of the “signed” piece of paper–that promises so much nothingness–wrastling, and a political system that is able to exploit the drugged-up-stupid. But you can’t see that. Because you actually think that a businessman has signed a deal with another business man that will bring you jobs and wealth because you believe you are going to be great again. Itch. Itch.

Rant on.

-t

PS Go ‘head and look up the companies listed on the top of the BS signed page in the pic above. Remember the time when all those people jumped to their deaths because they couldn’t deal with building Apple iPhones? Foxconn is Apple’s manufacture since all the company actually does is design shit in Cupertino. Since then Foxconn installed nets around the roofs of their slave buildings in order to catch the slave jumpers. These are the “jobs” promised in the signed document in the pic above. Enjoy your next WWE match.

(Un)Fortunately I’m no photographer. But I could attach a toilet bowel better than the guy that built this one. Sorry for the bad pic. Can you make out the lean? I couldn’t figure out how to take this pic (for posterity’s sake) of our forth floor bathroom and the lopsided bowel that someone, somehow, permanently installed. Do you see the left lean yet? From the bowel’s perspective? There wasn’t enough space to take the pic inside the bathroom so I squatted just outside the door way. (Get it?)

“Ever had a constitutional on a lopsided head?”

“Not on dry land, I haven’t.”

Luckily this bathroom won’t be trafficked much as it doesn’t look like we even need the fourth floor of our mega-flat. Still, I did give the bowel a brief sitting (again, for posterity’s sake). It was then I realised for sure that it’s totally unusable for constitutionals. The flush mechanism works fine and the plumbing works good too. It’s just that when you sit it’s almost as though your going for broke on a port healing sailboat. When I asked the apartment manager, slash maintenance guy, if he could straighten things out, he told me that it’s not worth doing because they would have to rip out the whole bathroom marble tiling in order to get to the pipes which would have to be refitted.

Whaaaaaaa? Are you f’n kidding me, dude!

The one advantage I did find with our left healing bowel is that it’s great for man peeing. You know, standing while peeing–the way men were meant to do it. The left lean corresponds well with men who hang right. Just sayin’.

It can’t be said/asked enough: Who builds this krapp?

Welcome to India!

Rant on.

-Tommi

Caste – noun – prohibitions prevent people from marrying outside their caste: class, social class, order, social order, social division, grade, grading, group, grouping, station, stratum, echelon, rank, level, degree, set; place, standing, position, status; Hinduism varna; archaic estate, sphere.

The coffee tastes metallic this morn. Has to do with my upset stomach–I think. Finally got a bit of the bug the other day. Better half already got it during our second or third week here. Now it’s my turn. It’s not so bad since our new house has plenty of toilets to run to. Two on each floor, in fact. One thing you can’t say about India is that the houses here are small. Well, corporate paid houses aren’t small. In fact, ours is huge. Four thousand plus square meters on four floors. It has a three car garage, maid’s quarters and, the stairwell has been built so that if someone wants to–I guess an eventual buyer of this place–an elevator can be installed. For two people and a killer pug that will protect us from Bengal tigers, this one hell of a flat.

I know I’m not supposed to drink coffee while having stomach and digestive issues. It’s just, I can’t help it. I mean, I’m a tea drinker through and through. I’m an earl grey man. But get this. I’m in India. India is a place of tea drinkers, is it not? Yet I only have one or two brands of earl grey to choose from. Can you believe that? I mean, as bad as British colonialism was/is, something brought this country out of the prehistoric–or at least tried to. For some strange reason, for which clarification eludes me, I can only buy one or two cheap brands of earl grey here. And they both suck! And, btw, I hate Twinnings brand tea. Oh well. Things learned in India: there is no choice in India other than bland, no depth, reconstituted bergamot… No wonder I can drink coffee again.

Coffee. I was trying to worst-write about coffee–or India?

I can do two things here that I couldn’t do in Germany.

1. Grow fingernails
2. Drink (more) coffee

I kind of gave up coffee about two years ago. It was giving me stomach aches. Or was life giving me stomach aches? Nomatter. The problem with being able to drink coffee here is that there’s no place to get decent Italian roasted coffee beans. But I guess we knew that before we came. Yes, we knew that. We have a six month supply of highly flammable, extremely potent, lusciously delicious Italian roasted expresso beans and we brought with us a really cool Jura to make Euro lattes, cappuccinos, duo espressi. Only six months?

Have I mentioned that India is a mess? And what a mess! Between its stench and the dust filled air one is forced to breath, there is a vast amount of humanity crossing unplanned streets and convoluted wiring–and everyone is in haze of unglory. Wires. Wires span the short horizons as much as the greenery here. What is it with third world places and their street wiring? On the other hand, this place has the best internet I’ve ever experienced. Which means… Wires replace green–and I hate green. And wires mean less human contact. That’s a good thing when living as a westerner in India.

Worst-Speaking of greenery. There is, literally, more people in this city than there is grass. But what of the trees? Bangelore is supposed to be “the garden city”. Not sure where they got that from. While walking Beckett (the killer pug) on filth-streets, some of the people that mumble Indian-English tell me that there used to be more trees in Bangelore.

But the trees have all been cut down, they say.

But this is progress, I say back to them in perfectly articulated English.

It is mind boggling to try and understand Indians speaking English in India. I don’t recall this being an issue meeting Indians in Europe or the US. They all spoke perfect English. In India something changes with them, I guess. Perhaps it’s because here, in their land, they can resort to other ways of speaking English. The Indian way. And so. They mumble as though marbles are jammed between their cheeks and gums and they’re trying to blow bubbles. Their inability to speak English–even though it’s pretty much a standard language here–not unlike rice–requires a great deal of effort to comprehend. More effort, in fact, than I’m willing to give (them). Instead, my contribution to learning Indian culture after three months consists of being able to nod/jiggle my head in affirmation. But I can’t even do that very much since it makes me horribly dizzy.

And by-the-by, one more thing about India. In the short period of time that I’ve been here, I feel even more sorry for the poor of this world then ever before. When I say poor I don’t mean poor-poor. India has a working class poor like no other. And just like the West, the majority of working poor stiffs think they are part of an economy. As shocking as India is with its inability to build and maintain a functioning infrastructure (i.e. wires and greenery don’t mix), its societal poverty problems pale in comparison to the character of the people that are obviously blinded by false-pride, false-nationalism and, more importantly, a false sense of achievement. If the West is being devastated by austerity and propping up the rich, it is only a hop-skip-jump away from the same level of devastation India has achieved.

Which brings me to a bit of worst generalising. For those who don’t wish to continue with Tommi’s negativity, aka worst-writing, I can sum it up in two words that you can read and then click to go somewhere else in the Internetwebs: India sucks!

Don’t forget, dear worst-reader, I’m used to cultural arrogance on a grand scale having lived for so long in the Germania-Clan of #Eurowasteland. Yet India’s collective state of mind (state of arrogance) is beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. I never expected this. Whether it’s our landlord or some of the corporate executives that we have to deal with or those I meet on the street who obviously speak bad English with a purpose, I never expected this level of empty arrogance. Obviously India has learned well from the empire-state-of-mind that reared it. This vast land made up of government and military with a small portion of economics is nothing more than a freakshow version of most western economies, especially #eurowasteland. Add to that the Indian lust for the Caste system and religious nuttery galore! Wow. What a potent mix. I’m wondering if there are a few oligarchs and plutocrats in the West that look to India for a better way to control the ever expanding chasm they’ve created. The West has already interjected the ignorance of religion into society. If only it could get something like India’s Caste system interjected, too. Double wow!

When I walk my dog I feel as though I’m one of the bad guys of the world. But I don’t give a sh*t anymore. In this short period of time, India has taught me more than any other country I’ve ever been in, it truly is game-over for the rest of us. If the West can pull this off with a country like India–this perfect control of the poor–then it’s only a matter of time until India becomes the new model society. India is proof that no one in the West should have children anymore. No one should work-to-live anymore. Heads of all pseudo-aristocracies, pseudo neo-feudalists, should roll in the streets. For you must see, dear worst-reader, greed and revolution is the only thing the West has to give humanity. And so. Upon being beheaded, the blood of all the useless dead rich (most of which are all rich because of what they inherited not what they achieved) should serve as art for future generations to observe. Indeed. The bitterness of poverty, the bitterness of post-colonialism, the bitterness of human confusion mixed with a false sense of national pride is a potent and destructive tool. This beast that the West has created is perfect for controlling the poor, it’s perfect for India. Control the poor everywhere.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, as Indians avoid their own reality, building distortion fields like Bangelore–it gladly cuts its nose off to spite its own face. I must appear to these people, while I walk my dog in their neighbourhoods, like a ghost of an evil past. I am a horrid figure that comes from a world of really, really stupid working classes that think they actually do things with their useless eating lives. Which mean, everything workers in the West do, they do only to become India.

Thank goodness the morons of the world have their Gods to help them figure things out. (See pic above; turn sarcasm off; end life as we know it.)

Rant on.

-Tommi

Bought a pressure cooker the other day. When it arrived and I unpacked it I realised quickly that lowered expectations would have served me better. But how low? This is not the continent, I remembered. Lower your expectations, my thoughts repeated. Sub and sub-par. One of the security guards who watches over our little gated community just sneezed. I can see him from outside my worst-writing office window. He sits in a stool glaring into nothing while watching the/our grounds. What is he thinking, I think. But he can’t be more than twelve years old, I add to my thoughts. At least he looks no more than sixteen. On the other hand, he has a job. Is it better to have a job watching over those from the continent or, perhaps, cooking in a shabby restaurant along side other earthly refugees? That was the last place I saw a boy that looked almost like a man–twelve or sixteen? He prepared my meal the other night when I went out alone to a local western-like mall. My better half was away on business. I need to get out. That’s what this place is starting to feel like. Not getting out but getting… I’m starting to feel confusion boarding hysteria–it’s getting me. My minds-eye therapist says: that’s perfectly normal–unless, of course, they deliver your golf club membership this week. But I digress.

Where am I? I’m on a subcontinent of earthly refugees. But before I get too far off subject. Our only protection from the wolves of the starving classes and their bigoted expatriates is a sixteen year old that looks twelve. I’m not sure if that will do. Golf anyone?

While getting used to this new culture I started wondering who cooks with a pressure cooker anymore/these days? I thought everything was done here with a microwave. You can tell how often they use microwaves here. Just count the amount of times the power goes out. I want to ask our napping security guard about how life is here. My therapist doesn’t think that’s a good idear. Reason, she says, he’s even further away from my language than the rest of them–that live here. You’re here as a guest, she reminds me. Besides, she adds, to think I thought that English was pretty prevalent here, I hope I’ll be proved wrong, but you are a bit naive. You know, she continues, with that colony history not all that far in the past, perhaps they don’t like English. Thinking twice before answering her, I say to myself, Oh but what kind of person would I be to ask a rinky-dink rent-a-cop about subcontinent cooking utensils and life as an expat? Besides, I have a read a book or three about this place to prepare me for being so far away from home. Conclusion? Men on the subcontinent don’t cook. If they do cook, they certainly don’t use a pressure cooker. Unless, of course, they’re paid to do it. And some of them are obviously paid well. That’s what all my books say. Pay well inside your pressure cooker. Don’t you know.

I was told by our maid… Wait. I was told by our housekeeper… Yes. That’s the politically correct way to put it. Is there anything politically correct in this part of the world where pressure cookers rule the day? Which brings me to the income-plete question: the things that come out of pressure cookers is what? Such questions don’t matter anymore. Hence, once again, before I forget while staring at our security guard who is still wiping the snot from his leaky nose and completely indifferent to the mannerism where I come from… But I’m off subject yet again.

I was told by our housekeeper to get a pressure cooker. So I did what any digitally aware sentient would do. I ordered it online. Even though delivery here is slow and painstaking, it arrived. The twelve-sixteen year old accompanied the delivery boy to our door. Yes, everything here is pains-taking. That’s clear to me now. Such pain and takings are probably best felt/seen/learned in the girl that packaged our package–it even confused the youthful security guard–who is probably not unlike our packager, if you will. And get this. The tape that sealed up our package was wrapped around the box perfectly and neat. None of the tape overlapped, crossed, showed sign of breakage or was anywhere pinched together. I mean, come on, dear worst-reader. Don’t you hate that when you are trying to wrap something and the tape tapes itself?

The tape was white and had some kind of handwriting on it. From stern to bow, from east to west, the tape was filled with handwriting that was done with a black magic marker. Of course, that’s not really the shocker here. The shocker is, the writing was in English. Still, I couldn’t make heads or tales of what was written. Was the packager practicing? Was she taking notes? I proceeded to remove the tape from the box and put it to the side. Since the side wasn’t long enough I stretched the tape on the floor. We have a thousand foot long living room that is connected to the dinning area. That should be long enough. But it wasn’t. I found a place on the tape that would allow a carriage return and then cut the tape. Lined side-by-side, the tape stretched one and a half times the length of our stone ground floor. The only other problem is, I couldn’t break away from the tape and what was written on it–even though our maid…. Even though our housekeeper was waiting in the corner of the kitchen for me to provide her with the cooking utensils she needs. How hungry was I going to be in a few hours, I thought. Hunger must take a side-seat.

Language is confusing enough and some day I must provide input here about what the packager, yes, she was female, wrote on that tape. Till then, I’m busy elsewhere. And so. I finally got through the package to the packaged pressure cooker inside. At that moment, which I guess could be a moment of truth, I realised that I wasn’t as far away from home as this whole trip may seem. Three thousand miles here or there, the consume-to-survive world knows no boundaries or nationalities or bigoted usurpers. In all my passivity our new housekeeper tripped me up and grabbed the packaging of the new pressure cooker. She left with the online delivery and its confused packaging. That surprised me. What was I to do with yet another box from Amazon?

The housekeeper said, while she freed the new pressure cooker from its factory packaging, in Indian-English gibberish, This is good, sir, I can save time preparing your Dal, sir, and if you like I’ll even start cooking for your dog, that way you can save more money to pay for me, industrial dog food is bad for the little guy. The only thing I could think about, as my dog slept in the corner that was infested with ants, how the hell is she really gonna save time? Obviously that question actually came out of my mouth. Within a few seconds my new housekeeper put the instructions from the pressure cooker box in my hand and showed me a small piece of paper. There, she said, pointing. There, she repeated, pointing. I read the small paper where her finger left a blemish. Indeed, I thought. She is right. And she should be right. This is her country and her pressure cooker was even made in her country. Within a blink of an eye she was off again whizzing around the kitchen, preparing my Dal.

We are scheduled to be here for three years, I thought to myself while sitting in the corner above my dog watching our housekeeper cook. We are at the front of a three year quest. The end of that quest has never felt so far off, though. How time doesn’t fly when you’re having fun, eh. Our contract says that we will be in India for three years. I bet my bottom dollar that that’s not possible. A high price to pay, I say to my better half. Not a price too little or too big, she says back to me. Now I’m worried about saving my housekeeper time when she cooks us Dal and also wondering how long it will take before our security guards stop sneezing or grow up–because there has to be an end to this (for lack of a better word) adventure sooner or later.

I was trying to worst-write about having purchased a new Indian pressure cooker. The thing is, when it arrived and I unpacked it, our housekeeper was all over it. She cleaned the new cooking device and put all the parts together, remarking that I need to eventually go to the store to get an extra o-ring. Can’t you get that, I asked her. She stared at me with those dark eyes. There was a glistening of jewellery that she hadn’t yet removed because she hadn’t started cleaning yet. That was her thing, you know. When she cleaned she removed her jewellery, when she cooked she put it back on. To top things off, she knows that the o-rings wear out quicker than one should assume. It’s the pressure and the heat, she said. The pressure and the heat kill the o-ring. She then proceeded to stuff the new pressure cooker full of Tuwar Dal. Aren’t you gonna put other ingredients in it as well, I asked. She turned to me, one hand sweeping the floor and the other stirring the Dal in the heated water. No, sir, she mumbled as though chewing on a mouthful of soft marbles. Listen, sir, hear me, on Tuesday when I come, not Monday because Monday is a big cleaning day, on Tuesday, I will show you how to make Dal. And it was at that moment I thought about what brought us here. We were brought here in a pressure cooker. A nice pressure cooker, at that. Probably made out of bronze with copious wings and a singing pressure valve lid that, when used precisely, will actually levitate in the releasing steam just above the valve–what a sight! Yes. I’ve seen the pressure of our cooker and it’s mesmerising in the odds of it all. Or something like that.

Rant on.

-Tommi

A worst-reader sent me a email this morn. In the email I was asked the following question: What is the essence of evil? While eating breakfast, drinking too much English Breakfast tea and surfing the Interwebnets, my mind drifted to the following in its quest to find an answer.

• Is the essence of evil murder or rape or pillaging?
• Is it war or politics or meddling wives?
• Is it the opposite of right or worshipping the devil?
• Is the devil the essence of evil?
• Is the devil actually a woman who set up her own email server to protect herself from the piranhas of Washington DC politics?

After clearing my system with a grand morning constitutional, and like most other challenges in life, I gave up on finding an answer to one of my three worst-readers. Reason, I must by a woman hater. I mean, just look at the sh*t that came out of my mind–as transcribed in the bullets above. Wow. I need to take a break–from being an #americant.

Break is over.

The question and the answer are moot. For one thing, conjuring evil by finding its essence is like finding out what the core of a baseball is in order to understand the game. In other worst-words, evil is not a  grand thing. If it were, then, I believe, nature, a’la Darwin, would have somehow rid evil from our species. Or are other living things plagued with so much evil–like we are? Which brings me to the female part of this.

(You see, there I go again. So I really should move on.)

Couldn’t help but notice a correlation between two articles I read this morn and the/an attempt to answer an innocent albeit naive question by just giving up on it. That said, the hate for Hillary Clinton is deep and I’m wondering more about how deep that hate is more than the essence of evil. Or. Perhaps. Maybe hate is the essence of evil. Hey! I think I found it. And just in the nick of time. I found that the essence of evil is hate because, well, so many people just hate women–and I’m not one of them. Or am I? Oh no. My last blog post is about giving up my love for Hillary.

On that note, allow me to add this. Donald Trump has been married three times to women that are so similar one could surmise, if one were a psycho-analyst-type, that he has an infatuation that borders on the psychotic or he never learned during that stage of life where boy turns to man that you really have to put some effort into finding the right woman on account, well, since it’s all pink on the inside, you might as well get something different on the outside. But enough of my worst vulgarities.

Hillary Clinton was able to save her marriage and keep her family together as the misogyny of an entire nation weighs upon her without remorse or consideration.

Oh my.

Rant on

-Tommi

Links that motivate this post:

• Misogyny from women-folk for women-folk? | BBC News
• Oh look! Another report about a woman made by men and all because she’s a woman | The Guardian

A pic I took recently. Notice how the machine is perfectly aligned. (Short pause. Blink.) Except for the camera that reflects my mind. (No pause.) There are gears that intertwine. Perfectly they glide, common yet far and wide. If I had to I’d say, admit, where this pic comes from… This is the image that a white haired German gave me once. It is the image of his “tool”. Or maybe not. It could also be the image of his dinner table when extended before the middle plates are inserted. But I digress. I met that old f’n German just after the Berlin wall fell. And do you know what he told me? He told me tails of spending luxury nights in an Oklahoma prison camp in 1946 just after losing (the war) because Rommel gave up. And just before Rommel gave up he gave his troops some advice. Rommel said that the problem the western world is going to have is that it totally misunderstands intercourse. “Fucking!” he yelled with his twisted German accent to a bunch of German soldiers about to answer their fate to British troops. (So I guess he was giving them English lessons.) And then he continued: Everybody in the west these days thinks that the origin of it all comes out of what penetrates, what interjects, what collides and goes boom–disenfranchising that which is not wanted, that which is not profitable. But big bangs are nothing more than jokes that fail. And I tell these jokes that fail even before they are brought to paper or the microphone or the one attempting to rule the world. But. At least. None of that matters. Or. Nomatter. The image above, brought to you by a dead desert fox represents more than gears and tears. It represent the image of what should/could be: LOVE. Yes. What should/could be. And for those who wish to counter/dispute this claim (of mine and the old desert fox that taunted/taught it to me), all I can say is this: NO; I don’t publish pornography on this site so I can’t post a pic of what intercourse is to the many. Rant on. -tommi

It’s not about being a bitter old man. It’s not about happiness or tranquility. It’s not about a xmas tree making one smile or cry–depending on the xmas tree topper. Indeed. This is a time of year to rejoice–but NOT in what you think. As I celebrate my own personal war on xmas, I do so with a vengeance. I don’t have to, though. My war has long been won. I suppose it’s the nostalgia that keeps me doing it. Not unlike a soldier that hangs on to that uniform only so he can wear it in his dementia while revisiting the fields of Normandy or Khe Sanh. No. In fact, I have long been vindicated in my war-efforts. Being proven right in a sea of wrong has its limitations, though. How should I celebrate? Where can I go to sing my victory song? I suppose it doesn’t matter that I would prefer to sit on a plane during this time of year. How comfortable I’ve gotten in those lovely, devoid, lust-cramped seats on Airline A, B or C. I feel in those seats the same as I feel in life–perhaps I feel a bit more. It is the perfect setting for sitting the time away at the end of a year–yet another year. Is it me or does each year end just like the previous and just like the one forty years ago? Can’t there be something different to end a year? How about ending it with a final gesture? Like a claim to fame or a last minute open-ended vacation booking to another dimension or unearthly planet? Now that’s the ticket. But since resources are limited, I suppose it would not be appropriate to make such a gesture. Those who are more in need will turn their already preposterous bitterness into a dragon flame of demagoguery. They will assert themselves into the political realm and wield power of another kind. They will annihilate me, you and all that disagree with the/our war on xmas. Either that or they will win the redneck lottery and go about their business wasting it all–just as they were meant to waste everything anyway. Remember, in these days of the one percents and wealth inequality (that the democratic system has so eagarly and willingly facilitated) all that remains is the content of (y)our character. Which brings me ’round to my suggestion on how to end a year. I say end it with a mirror or end it with the proper questionnaire. Forget the romping through walmart and target and sears & roebucks or a local ben franklin five and dime. It’s your choice, dear worst-reader. Have a look at the self or the collective you’ve joined or answer a few questions so that a market research company can figure out what to sell you/us in 2016. Yeah. Questions about childhood seem appropriate at every year’s end. Because every year ends with everyone either believing or disbelieving in childhood. And with that mind, merry fucking xmas until we do it again next year. Rant on. -Tommi

Well, dear worst-reader, so much for jokesters and hamsters. As I tried to say here, it would be fun if car makers–especially those who lie to us about emissions–had a sense of humour. But then again, how can one have a sense of humour when you know that society can do nothing to you for your crimes? Or maybe that’s a reason to have a sense of humour? Nomatter. This worst-post is just a follow-up to my post about VW, the lie of emissions and what probably should be my last diesel powered car. And as I also worst-said, I ordered what should be my last diesel last spring, even though I was stunted by the fact that during the car shopping faze, I could have chosen a gasoline (otto motor) powered car. In my confusion I was kinda happy to go ‘head and take one last diesel. Remember, nature is my servant, and there is something über about a 3.0ltr, six cylinder, 240hp, 460 torque motor in a car built on an aluminium chassis with full-time all-wheel drive (quattro). With that in mind, and after driving around in my new Audi, it was time for her first fill-up. And what do I see when I open that little hatch. That’s right, another frickin’ hatch. As you can see in the pic above, I have celebrated too soon regarding my lust for turning nature into my bitch. This new Audi is indeed not the nature trashing beast that my previous Audi was. Yeah, baby. My last Audi (AllRoad)–one of Audi’s worst cars, btw–had only one orifice for filling it’s diesel lust. That single orifice is the reason that VW will pay so few taxes in the coming years. What? What does lying about emissions and orifices have to do with taxes? Well, I’m glad you asked. Recalling cars has become part of the gluttonous way multi-nationals have to run their businesses. Ralf Nader refers to it as recycled tax money. For you see, all these multi-nationals have to do is claim to pay fines and fees whereby they simply make a few changes on their income statements that reflect less revenues and hence fewer profits for whatever given year. Since taxes are rendered based on revenues and profits, they pay less tax. (Short pause. Breath.) I know. I know. I’m trivialising something that is much more complex. But that’s the thing about being worst-writer. I not only can dish out the bullshit but I can cut through it just the same. Oh well. I’m off subject, as usual. Check out the pic above, dear worst-reader. It’s my first tank fill on my new Audi A5. And what do I find? That’s right. There it is. There’s the other orifice that VW hopes to retrofit all of those diesel powered cars that it illegally sold by lying to customers about emissions. All new VW (and Audi) diesels have this extra orifice. They are conveniently labeled “AdBlue”. In this orifice goes a special chemical, about eight gallons of it. Gee, I wonder what PR/Advert company earned millions on figuring out that spiffy name? The technical acronym for this stuff is DEF, which stands for diesel exhaust fluid. But the real world term for it is piss. That’s right dear worst-reader. The main chemical in DEF, which is mixed with diesel exhaust prior to entering the catalytic converter, is urea. The main substance in urea is nitrogen and all mammals produce it in their urine. Urea reduces the emission of nitrogen dioxide in diesel exhaust–which is pretty hazardous stuff. Are we thankful for what these engineers can come up with in our time of need? Do/Can we appreciate their concern about our health and welfare? I mean. Why the hell couldn’t they just make it so that we could piss in our cars? I mean. Seriously. Does profit have to be made on everything? I mean. That’s what having another orifice where something manufactured has to go into is all about. Or? I guess the powers-that-be are so angry that they can’t charge humanity for breathing air means that they then feel no remorse when resorting to the most silly forms of profiteering that coincides with lying about emissions. Indeed. But before you whip out your slick-willy and take gentle aim at that little orifice, heed this: human urine only has between 2-4% urea. DEF has something like 30%. Wow. We pissers can’t get a break. Rant on. -tommi

Had to get a few minor adjustments to my Alfa yesterday. Recently had four new Pirellis installed (and boy are they better than the cheap tyres I had on her before). Also, finally had passenger window repaired. After I repaired it the first time it went bust I thought it better to let a professional handle it this time. Besides, I drove her around this summer and had to use a strong rubber grip in order to get the window up and down. Also went ahead and had a switch installed next to the battery (in the boot) that allows me to simply disconnect the battery when I put her in the garage over winter. And be assured, winter is coming to Colonia sooner than anybody thinks. Hopefully the days of having to replace the battery every frickin’ spring are over (the analogue clock under the dashboard doesnt help either). I also turned in some old extra wide rims that came with the Alfa when we bought her from some dude in Munich about ten years ago. Those wheels, although they looked good, didn’t play well with the rear-end axel mounts. The extra width caused the mounts to over strain when turning. Luckily I was able to find some used, in great condition, original alu Spider wheels on the Interwebnet. But that’s not what I wanted to worst-write about today, dear worst-reader. Today we’re gonna post about what we saw at my favourite Alfa garage. Every time I go there there is some form of Italian super car waiting in the wings. The lead mechanic of the place is some kind of guru Ferrari specialist. At the least when you greet him he doesn’t greet you back–and that seems fitting. And the guy who owns the garage is obsessed with Italian cars all the same. The showroom is always full of 60s and 70s Giulias and GTAs and, of course, my beloved Spiders. Again. Anywho. Although I’m not much of Ferrari fan, I have to admit whenever one is parked in the garage I have a quick look. That said, there was a real treat in the garage yesterday. A Ferrari 400 Automatic. I had never seen one up-close. It’s a two-door sedan that for some ungodly reason the Italians thought they should build in order to satisfy the needs of ageing Ferrari nuts who wanted a vehicle to take a party of four to the opera. In fact, after gawking at the luscious interior I couldn’t take my eyes off the engine: 4.8 litre, 12 cylinder, six carburettors. But eventually I did take my eyes off it only to stare for a few moments at the material that lines the inside of the hood. What the hell is that, I thought after poking at it with my left index finger. I couldn’t believe how thick and stable it was. It felt more like a thick, leather pillow that the engine could rest on–if the car were turned up-side-down. But then I thought of those films where a killer approaches his sleeping victim in the middle of the night. The killer grabs a thick pillow and puts it over the muzzle of his gun. He then fires and we see the legs or perhaps a hand jolt with a last signal of life. Then we see the black stained pillow in the after math of unleashed death. Blood seeps out from somewhere underneath it. Yeah. That’s what I thought about while touching the noise reducing material under the hood of an absolutely gorgeous Ferrari. Rant on. -tommi