Hey, a rat, said the cat, in her head.

(As cats can´t speak)

Got to get the red rat.

(Sorry, there are no red rats.)

Got to make the fat rat dead to get her head.

So the cat heads for the rat.

After she had the head of the fat rat the cat said: sad rat, too bad.

Vergessene Phrasen – forgotten phrases

„Spitz wie Nachbars Lumpi“

„Horny like neighbour´s Lumpi“. Doesn´t work in English. It´s not funny, not even nice. But what does it mean? And who is Lumpi?

Lumpi was a Dackel what is translated with dachshund or saussage dog – I´m not kidding – and they were quite popular in Germany from the 50ies to the 70ies. A Dackel is an ugly dog with short legs and a saussage-like body, formerly constructed for foxhuntig. They went down the holes and told the fox to leave, sometimes they got stuck and had to be digged out by the hunters, Wikipedia says their will to education is not very destinctive.

But this was not the reason why people these days liked these dogs. Germans like to command. But after loosing the big war it was not very appropriate to play the big commander in public, actually nobody in this world wanted to see any German giving commands to whatever, not even to the great German sheperd. And as Germans are also very obedient they stopped being masters under the eyes of the allies.

But, as everybody knows, feelings and desires burried deep inside the soul you don´t throw away like a used hankerchief, you need a lifetime therapy to get rid of these bad attitudes – if you´ll ever make it. Anyway, the Germans still needed something to command to.                                                                                                                                   People failed, German sheperds reminded too much of the Nazi stuff, boots of shiny leather in the dark and barking „Sieg Heil“ in front of a concentration camp.

Bad times for the great commanders.

But then came Lumpi. Lumpi is not very German, except for being brown, he´s a little bastard pretending to be the good dog as long his owner is in the house, but as soon he leaves Lumpi jumps on the sofa and doesn´t give a shit. Unfortunately he always forgets to take along his bone jumping of the sofa again when the key turns in the door. So the commander commands again and Lumpi looks so much remorseful through his big sad eyes and everybody is happy again. Lumpi somehow was the psychiatrist of the defeated German mind.                                                                                                                     Thank you Lumpi.                                                                                                                 Now what the hell is the big case about Lumpi being horny? First of all being horny is not very German, actually it is not German at all. Che Guevara was sexy, JFK was sexy, Stalin was sexy in his days, Cleopatra, Gandhi and Mao were sexy. But how much sexy was Karl Marx? He looked like a goddamn Taliban! And does anybody think Hitler was sexy? Eva Braun (Eve Brown!) was an invention by Nazi strategics for not telling the people that the Führer is an one-balled virgin who never saw a pair of tits besides his mothers. Or fathers.

Germans are good in poetry, science, technics, they are good workers building cars and tanks but they are not sexy. Actually the only sexy German person in the last thousand years was Claudia Schiffer. But could you imagine her being naked? Or fucking the milkman? She was just perfekt, well, German. That´s all. Not even romantical. When a German gets romantical it ends up in suicide. A sexy German is like a communist from Texas, it simply doesn´t exist. Germans don´t have sex, they produce children.

As being horny is not a very nice habit for a German HIS Lumpi of course can not have it. HIS „good boy“ Lumpi is not wanting to have sex, he is not jumping at the leg of the guests, rubbing his dog penis at their pants and moving his ass back and forth like a little rabbit and finally leaving a spot of ejaculated Lumpi sperm. If there is a horny Lumpi in this world it only can be the son of a bitch from the neighbours.

Germans don´t like neighbours. They don´t trust them. Neighbours are different. They look different, they talk different, they smell different. But as it´s hard to ignore the neighbour so the best you can do is to attack him. If you don´t understand ´m kill ´m. Kill ´m all!               As we all know they were not very succesful with that in the end but they tried hard. And as a German is a very obedient student he learned fast that it does not make any sense to try to kill the neighbour so he needed to act a bit more indirectly. And he starts mobbing. But to mob directly is not seen as very nicely and falls right back on you, so better mob the dog.                                                                                                                                     Horny Lumpi = bad dog = bad neighbour = me being a good and honest person in this rotten world.

I admit, these times are gone, the Lumpis today are no Dackels any more, they are Chihuahuas called Paris or Daisy, as Germans too move more and more into this global herd of robots spoiled by television and propaganda from plastic selling major companies.       Times are a changing and all you can do is to remember like it was before when things were easier. And hate was cheaper.                                                                                        I have to stop now, it is short after ten and I have to call the police for the asshole family below me again is not able to make their children shut up. And Lumpi: Get the fuck off the couch!

Immer wieder schön. Eingewanderte Spiesser, die spiessiger als die deutschen Spiesser sind. Nennt man wohl gelungene Integration. Eher über-integriert. Die UCK Flagge neben Schwarzrotgold im Schrebergarten, der bebartete Islamist, der, vom braven Steuerzahler finanziert, Adiletten im Lidl kauft. Der Russen-Fascho mit Stalinportrait nebst röhrendem Hirsch.

Haben wir nicht genug Nazis hier?

Ich bin dafür, nur noch schwule, drogensüchtige Kunststudiumsabbrecher einzbürgern.

Wahrscheinlich aber mal wieder: allein auf weiter Flur.

Things I hate

Winter. People. God. Jazz „music“. Money. English breakfast. Religion. Rhianna. Talkshows. Television. Baggypants. Quentin Tarantino. Banana milk. Smoothies. Red Bull. Small cars. Taxpayers complaining about tax paying. Musicals. Sports. Sports in TV. Sports in the news. Sports in arenas watched by fat people. Pink toys for girls. Pink. Pink Floyd (today).

(I can´t stop)

Broccoli. James Bond. James Joice. James Brown. Barcley James Harvest. Stupidity. Universities. University sweat shirts. The word: sweatshirt. Or sweater. And hoodie. Pepsi. People walking and talking to their hidden cellphone. The german word for cellphone: handy. Communists. Capitalists. Fashists. Democratic hypocrites. Warlords. Lords. Kings and Queens. The Queen. Boygroups. Peergroups. Disney. sms. lol. CoD. NSA. SUV. STD. FDP. FBI. FSR. CPU. LSD. ABC. PC. pc.

(I cant stop. I can´t stop!)

Snow. Newspapers with big letter headlines. Saying „fuck“ in every fucking Hip Hop song. Hip Hop songs without saying „fuck“ for christian parents. Christian parents. Light beer. Green tea. Horses. Small dogs. Fat cats. Rats. Conspiracy theories. 9/11. Wars caused by dumbness. Stock markets. Hillbillies. Hitler. Munich. Wrestling. Killing. Web smileys. Golfplayers. Reptiles.

(I can´t stop. I can´t stop! I CAN`T STOP!)

Hunters. Teenage vampires. Harry fucking Potter. Dreadlocks. Plastic bags. Skateboards. Surfboards. Snowboards. Stupid Americans. Stupid Anti-Americans. Anti-Semites. Incense. Facebook. The 80ies. Football. Baseball. Soccer. Tennis. Jogging. Walking. Candlelight dinner. Highschool movies. Horror movies. Narrow streets. Tourists. T-shirts with funny stuff on it like: life´s a beach. Songs with a message. Actors getting political. The climate change. The Oktober Fest. Mao Tse Tung. Yin and Yang. Yoga. Yoghurtdrinks. Music in supermarkets. Eating food with fingers and sucking drinks with a straw like a baby. Screaming babies. Barbie. Wasabi potaoe chips. Crystal meth. Jägermeister. Organic food. Junk food. Nuclear power. Meditation. Andy Warhol. Abstract art. Describing yourself as an artist. Homophobian Russians and Arabs fearing their own homosexuality. The flu. Cancer. Syphilis. Blue sunglasses. Men in short pants. Adults in sneakers. Music and get drunk places calling themselves club. Blogs. Hot spots. Trumpets. Saxophones. The flute. Tsunamies. Private photo postings. Youtube. Youporn. Commercials. Bachelor parties. Saying „to party“ for just having some drinks with friends. Virtual friends. Designer jeans……

Things I like

The sun

Sleep, she said.
No, I won´t.

Close your eyes, she cried.
I denied.

But then, I died.

Diktator des Jahres 2012

and the winner is……..

(Mies-gelaunte Diktatorenfresse unter Strohhut zeigt die aktuelle nordkoreanische baggypant-suit Kollektion in der einzigen Größe XXL, schwer zu toppen. Gratulation)

Jetzt will ich einmal tun, was man in einem blog so tut: Über belanglose Dinge schreiben, die keinen Schwanz interessieren, nicht einmal den Autor selbst.

Angeln zum Beispiel.

Eigentlich könnte ich das ganze Bla dann noch bei facebook einstellen, nur macht das Sinn bei meinen Freunden? Der eine ist der Penny Markt ums Eck, der andere der Arsch aus der Grundschule, den ich seit 30 Jahren nicht mehr gesehen habe. Ich habe ihn schon früher gehasst, wahrscheinlich geht’s ihm genauso und er brauchte nur etwas Füllung in der linken Spalte. Keine Ahnung wie er mich im Netz gefunden hat, er fragte mich dann ob ich sein Freund sein will, nie im Leben, dachte ich, stimmte aber zu. Seine Posts lese ich nicht.

Das Bla kürzen und twittern? Liest das denn jemand bei 0 followers? Kann das überhaupt jemand lesen, selbst wenn er es nicht will? Gedanken rausmüllen in realtime, kaum sind sie da werden sie schon von den nächsten überholt, überschrieben, übermatscht.

Nee, dann lieber bloggen, ist cooler und da erwartet man sowieso nix.

Worum ging es nochmal? Ah, Angeln.                                                                                 Ja, ich war mal wieder angeln am Meer. Mit einem Freund. Männer, die aufs Meer starren. Ich habe geangelt, er hat beim Angeln zugeschaut. Die alten Männer und das Meer. Hemingway, der Fuchs, wusste schon was gut ist.                                                   Gefangen habe ich nichts.                                                                                                 Man geht nicht zum fangen angeln. Man angelt weil man einfach mal die Fresse halten will. Weil man nicht antworten oder fragen will und keine Antworten auf Fragen hören will. Kein Bla. Weil man mal nicht in einen Bildschirm glotzen will und man mal nichts kaufen will in irgendeinem Drecksladen. Kein Netz, kein Sex, kein Zeug, kein Geld, kein Phone, kein Ton, kein Food, kein Drink, kein Club.

Angeln ist ein Anti-Event. Ein Minus-Sport. Ein Low-Light.

Meinem Freund, also der, der beim Angeln zuschaute, sagte ich, dass ich ihn beneide. Das sei das ultimative Nirvana. Er sah es anders. Ich glaube, er ist noch nicht soweit, wahrscheinlich fehlt die Routine. Auch nichts tun will gelernt sein.                                   Jetzt bin ich wieder hier und überlege, ob ich mir Angelfreunde bei fb an Land ziehe, wenn schon keine Fische. Oder in Foren gehe auf Angelseiten. So mit Fotofischvergleich, wer hat den dicksten – gefangen, welcher Wurm ist der geilste und welcher Blinker ist der tollste Hecht.                                                                                                                      Einen Namen für meinen Avatar habe ich schon.

Sin Pescado.