Orifices

Two Little Assholes and One Big Mouth

Berliners will crash into you on crowded public transport without a single fucking ‘entschuldigung.’  Get used to it.  Fuck knows I’m trying.  You can blame the big city and you can blame the stars and Mars and whatever.  Dump a heat wave on a slow moving tram, jam it full of people and shake it.

I’m not the asshole who stands in the doorway of the tram with a large suitcase blocking people trying to get in.  That would be the Deutschbag.  Me, I try to move further into the tram with my big suitcase in tow.  I am not always traveling with a big suitcase, but if I am it is most certainly full of Berliner jelly donuts--or camera gear going to/from an out-of-town photo shoot.

I had just spent the last 6 hours on a sweltering hot train trip from Prague which should have taken 5 hours and most definitely should have been air conditioned.  All of the previous train trips were (air conditioned; most certainly not on time).  It was 11pm in the hottest and most humid night I can remember since 1966 when I was stuck in a Saigon hell hole and received a bamboo shank in the neck which facilitated my rebirth into yet another level of hell.

I digress.  Enter asshole number one:  German female pushing her way onto the tram (normally I wouldn’t refer to a female as an asshole, but what issued forth shortly after our chance encounter can only be described as a load of scheisse being forced out of a very spastic orifice), pushing ahead of the crowd.  Seeing her impatience, I tried to move my large self and my suitcase deeper into the sweltering tube of crowded hell in order to make room.  My efforts were repaid in kind by two hands beating my sides like Rocky training on a side of beef.  I turned to survey the impatient Deutschbagette.  “Where are you going?  There’s no space!” It was true.  If I moved one centimeter forward I would be tip deep in someone’s ass.  And a dude’s no less.  She kept pushing on my back.  I told her to chill out.  She wouldn’t.

“I don’t want to chill out! Fuck you and your fucking koffer!”  She then jumped up on my suitcase, walked over the top of it and dropped down on my feet in front of me.  Clearly this woman was mentally ill.  I was exhausted and about as close to a heat stroke as a 286 lb dude can be without a rebirth or a reboot.  I tried on my best Berliner Schnauze in the face of obvious insanity:  “Are you ok?  Alles gut now?”

“YES!!!” the crazy bitch screamed.  “I doubt it,” I replied.

Enter Asshole number two:  “THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND!” in an American accent.

Me: “OK.”

Asshole number two:  “SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!  SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!”

(German tram youth echoing):  “Shut da fuck up, shut da fuck up.  Hee hee.”

Me (to self): very funny, German yoots, but you are not helping.

Asshole number two:  “SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I WILL FUCK YOU UP!!!!!”

I gave him the smirk I give to every Chihuahua who barks at the Big Dog.  It was kind of sad.  Asshole number two was about 5 foot 9, 50 years old, scrawny with long, grayish hippy hair.  The only thing this pussy could fuck up was his morning joint roll.  I was exhausted and in shock.  His retarded girlfriend had just beat my sides and jumped over me to be close to her asshole.  I am not one to interfere with assholes in love, so I let it slide.

I stood there on the 100 degree tram stewing in my own juices (literally) and thinking about what needed to be said:

Dude, clearly I understand the situation.  This here ugly, mentally retarded bitch of yours is all you can get and you are lucky to have her.  I got between you and your stupid bitch and you needed to monkey up and howl at me.  I admire the fact that you spun around and never stopped screaming at me even though you MUST have seen that I am double your size and could crush you without even half trying.  You are only following your simian psyche and I suppose I can respect that. But what you don’t know is that I’ve been taking shit from bigger assholes than you my entire life.  As I got older, the assholes got bigger.  Some of them gathered in threes in London alleys and jumped me.  Some of them jumped me from behind and kicked my legs out from under me in the Prague snow and kicked my ribs in while I was down.  Others, a select few who were brave enough to look me in the face, got my full wrath.  One of them got a broken nose with a geyser of blood.  Another (your exact size and weight) was lifted off his feet and bounced so hard off the ground that he slid-slammed into a door--I thought I was in a cartoon.  Bitches didn’t get up.  Word.

I resisted the urge to bounce-flip your dumb ass because I understand. I got between your monkey ass and your spastic girlfriend.  You have to protect her; this is hardwired in the male DNA.  I even stuffed down my shock and rage and apologized for getting in between such simian love.  It was all I could do to apologize.  For three stops I fought the urge to say ‘Exit next stop, fucktard.’ To this day I think of picking your scrawny ass up and slamming you into your ugly, retarded bitch.  If only to make me feel like I didn’t suck up all the shit in the world for nothing.

And if only to keep another pair of stupid Berlin monkeys from breeding.  But I suppose you already have.  Enjoy your Hartz IV careers, assholes.

C-I-L-L. My Land....Lord

Maybe the smarmy little fuck saw us paying for our sumptuous Greek meal at Asteria with a 50.  We were sitting by the window and I swear I saw him slithering by.  Can’t let your landlord see you spending money.  Because then they will think they can milk you for MORE.  It’s in their nature, just as the parasite in your intestine is only trying to survive in a shitty tunnel.  Poor, smarmy little shitsucker.  He is only doing his caca duty in the Capitalist World:  property owner, parasite, pain in my ass.

The greasy little bastard is everywhere:  in line in REWE at 11pm with his fancy black wool overcoat thrown slapdash over stained blue satin jogging suit—the kind only Eastern Europeans wear.  The man is a Pollock by birth, Berliner by accident, money grubbing parasite by choice.  Who gives these people property, really?  Didn’t earn it; no fucking way.  He slithers through the park, letting his greasy hair grow long while his baby mama grows fat.  He is a breeder, so he gets the dole as well (the government pays for his girlfriend’s flat, they share another flat, and he rents us her flat for double what they pay him, cash under the table).  He throws his head back, smirks and gives me a condescending little ‘hi!’  I nod and silently shoot needles out of my eyes into his empty fucking skull. 

‘Ach!  Mein kopf!’ he would say whenever I asked him to do his legal duty as a landlord and fix the fucking dump.  That or ‘Morgen! Ein hunnert procent! (Tomorrow! 100%!)’ Ask this empty-headed white trash slumlord for anything and you get bullscheisse.  I ended up repairing everything in the flat myself at my own expense—only because listening to his bullscheisse one more time would result in me caving in the aforementioned skull with the nearest blunt object.

These warm feelings of death and destruction weren’t assuaged by his demand for more money.  Yup, one day I brought them the rent--just as I had done for 3 years--and they demanded 600 EUR per month instead of our usual 500.  For a small, one room flat. Tried to raise our rent 20% he did.  He even threw his arm in the air and said ‘600 pro monat oder RAUS (600 per month or GET OUT)!’  Strange how the Polish can imitate the Heil Hitler pose on demand.  Monkey see, monkey do I reckon.  Naturally, as an American, I don’t give in to terrorist demands. Nor do I take kindly to the cattle prod of gentrification.

One day The Weasel was in my flat.  He weaseled past Gabushka at the door—real sneaky like—and I found him fumbling around in my bathroom.  I was eating in the kitchen and really pissed off (because I had to drop my food).  I believe in a previous (Texan) life I shot bastards like him.  For LESS.  My German is scheisse and I don’t give two flying fucks.  So as I’m asking him between chews WTF he is doing in my bathroom, he spouted off some Germo-Polish crap about checking the meter.  I escorted him out of the flat.  Said to him (with a small degree of satisfaction I might add) ‘Morgen.  Ein hunnert procent.’

Then The Cow sent me an eviction email.  Gawd dammit, I miss the old days when printed eviction notices were nailed to the door, Martin Luther-like.  Cow and Weasel are lovers, breeders and my landlords.  I sublet under these stupid farm animals because that’s what We Foreigners have to put up with in Deutschland Uber Alles.  They don’t want us here, it is clear by the shitstorm of paperwork required to do ANYTHING here.  So The Weasel was pissed off when I asked him to leave.  He yells at The Cow (who speaks a few words of English) and she swings her udders over to the pc and bangs her hooves on the keyboard.

Now we are moving out.  It got so bad that they were trying to come into the flat every other day.  I refused every time.  I’m already out; they’re not getting in.  I changed the lock. Then they tried to move up our eviction date from 40 to 30 to 20 days.  Then, for the first time in this here donut muncher’s life:

I lawyered. The fuck.  Up.

You’re looking at a dude who never thought he would say the words ‘my lawyer’ from outside of a jail cell.  Lawyers are for people with money.  Or people in accidents.  The Polish farm animals made it easy.  They started a shouting match via email because they were too cheap to call me.  Stupid fuckers.  Now MY LAWYER (heh) has the transcripts.  24 hours later, MY LAWYER called me to say that I would no longer have any problem with these grubby little white trash fuckers (or German equivalent; maybe weißmüll scheißkopf ?).  He even got us another month in the flat while we look for new digs. Now there are no knocks on my door, no new email threats.  The Cow even wrote ‘please’ when she emailed to ask me to let the heater maintenance man in next Friday.

And I haven’t seen hide nor hair of The Weasel since.

Next episode:  A Rolling Donut Gathers No Moss

Prenzlauer Berg: Don’t Drink the Water

They said Prenzlauer Berg was a yuppie hellhole. They said it was gone, lost to gentrification and exorbitant rents. They said only “certain types” of people lived there. For the record, all of it is lies. I was afraid of The Prenzl, mainly because of what ‘they’ said. I fear gentrification and its effects on average people. So I swallowed the lies and lived in Friedrichshain for the bulk of this year. That neighborhood, my friends, has been sold to The Devil: Yuppie be thy name. F’hain is the doomed ‘hood, the one which is being sucked down the pipe by the real estate demons who lurk beneath the slimy surface of all that purports to be, ahem, ‘hip.’ But what I found when I left The Hain to move into my new P’berg flat was that the people in Prenzlauer Berg were not yuppies and not average, they were worse: they are all a bunch of God damned BREEDERS.

I don’t know why every other person in P’berg is a mother pushing a stroller. I can’t figure out why the only entry for Prenzlauer Berg in the TTG wiki has no actual information about the neighborhood except that it is “fertile.”

http://www.toytowngermany.com/wiki/Prenzlauer_Berg

Perhaps it is in the water. P’berg water is lukewarm from the tap even after being run for several minutes. If city water isn’t icy cold from the tap in October I just don’t trust it. If it doesn’t come from deep enough in the earth, it’s as if it’s been circumvented, redirected, adulterated and redelivered. Or maybe it isn’t a PROconceptive agent released into the water, but more of a psychotropic substance which, when applied to the water supply and the bloodstream of a healthy female P’berg resident, causes sporadic and unnatural advancement of the biological clock. Skip the prom, the drugs, the fun; go directly to motherhood. Fuck. In. Ell. I hope my girlfriend’s birth control can hold out against the chemical onslaught.

Or maybe it is in the System itself. I can’t verify the figures, but I get the distinct impression that the German government pays people to breed. Yes, there is this thing called social welfare, or Hartz IV, and some people say it pays punk rockers to party, while others say it is a much needed antidote to the Berlin economic sickness. In layman’s terms: no work, no worries, the rest of Germany pays.

It doesn’t matter to me personally what the wymyns choose to do with their uteri, or what the German Government does with its peoples’ tax money. But I will go on record: the next white trash bitch who slams her stroller into me and shouts at me to move will have her progeny ripped from the pram, weighed, measured, processed and barbequed right there on the sidewalk. Turkish kebabs ain’t got NOTHIN’ on my baby back ribs…