Waving Time

What do you call ye ole dine-&-dash, chew-&-screw, maneuvered in time to catch the waitstaff unawares while the hungover brunch crowd confuses its way into the joint?

Breggsit.

EeYew!
As’s been the case annually now for I’m not sure how consistently long, ye Yanks & Rebels ‘ve just lost the hour gained for a fortnight on EU member states. For more than like clockwork, hereabout’s had our hour short-sold for the emerging seasons’ interest two weeks following yonder’s ‘aving been loaned out & pwnd.

But no more! Following some sort poll I wasn’t a part of — which I guess’s redundant in that my never having been called upon to play a part in any poll, it wouldn’t be out of line, in my opinion, to extrapolate that polls are carried out without my participation.. .period. ..anyway (where was I) —, an amount out of the EU citizenry, apparently as well primarily from Germany (yielding yet greater irony to the EU’s greatest “net contributor”), was axt whether-r-not they’d prefer scrapping the science altogether.

Short story short, at the behest of the Parliament, Commission Prez Juncker played all “Give ’em what they want, we’re democratic, after all”, deploying democracy to matters that don’t matter, and therefore all member states have until April to decide whether winter or summer daze they enduringly be.

What this means is that those who wanna while in summer time are done with the annual 1revolution / 1counterrevolution routine with today’s winding of the works. All others will fall one final fall back to receive the return of their ultimate hour on this 27th of October, two-thousand and nineteen.

What this means for ye ole on-again, off-again Breggsiteers is anyone’s speculation.

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Internationaler Frauentag

English translation
Warum hat Berlin als einziges Bundesland dieser Tag frei?

Mit dem Reformationstag hatte das ach-so evangelische Brandenburg einen gesetzlichen Feiertag mehr als das Land Berlin. Dit jeht nüscht! „Her mit dem Internationalen Frauentag!”, meinte die Linke Berlins.

Na gut. Ohnehin hatte Bayern ja 13 Feiertagen, gegen nur 9 für Berlin, weniger als alle Bundesländer. Wie peinlich. Nur neun, muss einen neuen bei. Also am 21. Januar 2019 machte der Innenausschuss den Weg frei und drei Tage später folgte das Berliner Abgeordnetenhaus mit dem Votum 87 dafür, 60 dagegen.

Auf die Frage der 13 Enthaltungen, Stadtratskorrespondentin Eva Galant sorgte für Klarheit: „Die Fraktion der Pappnasen schlug ja auch den Feiertag vor, wohingegen die Fraktion der Blassnasen sich der Stimme enthielt.”

Happy International Women’s Day from Berlin!

Talk Talk About Post Rock Music

Or rather, upon Mark Hollis’ death, one of his three creations with the word ‘life’ in the title.  It’s from his final work, the only self-named solo. It requires patience like the two final Talk Talk albums, what’d probably led to their switching labels and breaking up, respectively, but patience pays the patient: MORE HERE

E-merge Nancy

Good evening. Is me, Vlad the Imp. Not to worry, I am not coming here like last time for devil-may-care mocking of how US American Democrat Party is every time getting overtrumped.

I even shorten name from Impaler so not to remind of still sharp spike of irony how First Dame of party model for Cheater in Chief is one to go down on own erection.

Oh, dear US American: I have shove spike in own mouth. I apologise if I offend with sexist joke. Is not who I am.

See? Even non-apology is proof I am more secure in strongman-ness than US Don. He is never saying sorry for nothing!  This is bringing me closer to point: I come to mock now idiot ass-ring kisser of Don Trump, still crazy after all two years. Surprised?

So US Don is promising state of emergency for paying for wall. In Valentine’s Day messenger, New York Times is maybe also describing step of state with tasteless wordplay: “dizzy new heights” may be referring to tower or wall. Of course is possible for me here to make point about volly-partisan incremental executive overreach which was doing nada to stop progressive overcheaching, but like I say,  I come to mock US Don fan. Good thing Republican voter is too stupid to understand implication of “volly-partisan incremental executive overreach”. Perhaps they think is joke about US American big breasted darling singer.

So I say direct to you, US Don lover: You know how New World Order is plan to put United States under boot of International Order of Illuminati? Well let me explain you something about what I have much experience: the East German Wall was not falling down because of the Big Bad Socialism. East German Wall was collapsing because East German Central Planning Committee had no more money to keep up East German Wall. Do not think too long about this. I don’t want you to die of aneurysm of brain.

If only US Don had listen to me. My plan for keeping wall promise is making possible the wall without going bust. Look at China. Of course I know this is false analogy but I am still coming to point.

First of all, no state of emergency! This is stupidest idea, even as bluff. Following is bullets plan that US Don was vetoing in US-Russia Facebook to Facebook Super Secret Summit:

  1. Sell California to Canada. Say “Trust me. I can get really good deal, okay.”
  2. Key part of “good deal” is negotiating Commonwealth Plan for South CA, Ca border: Post Brexit Partnership for Her Royal Highness Security Service and Robust Employment. Toothless Brit will love hunting “Wog for Crown” with promise of R&R at beach front desert and getting herpes on holiday in Tijuana.
  3. Make Speaker Pelosi Governor of New Texas-Zona
  4. Give New-Gov. Nancy proceeds from California deal to start public-private partnership for Super Progressive E-startup Zone along border.
  5. Model for 1300 mile long Business Operations Bungalow (BOB) is Joint Security Area of Korea DMZ. North side is manager. South side is slave.
  6. Manager is Mexican-American who were becoming citizen through military service. South side is who cares?
  7. Kick can to President-elect Kamala Harris in 2020.
  8.  LOL

 

The Extreme Middle

*UPDATE, 09.02.2019 hour unknown, Berlin01.02.2019 0737 localish time, high above the Inglish Channel (I assume)

When I tell you that this recent experience summarizes all that is wrong with us, I do not mean each and every detail-able minutia of misery; it is however indeed a summary of sorts and it falls fairly into a realm of what should be obviously absurd as it relates to why we don’t express what is wrong with us, even if it is not strictly put the origin of wrongs or thereof explicative.

Brit Heir is my current host, I’m in the middle, and the gentleman in the middle in front of me, his dreads tied artfully into what would neatly form a Mohawk were they not grown long and lovingly matted into sections that too obscure that form, has just ordered a 2 guid-seventy Styrofoam cup of Joe.

“We don’t take Maestro”, says the attendant who had just spent enough time with the money card called Maestro that you’d think this was a new restriction he’d not been familiar with, “Visa?” Dreaded for Joe trades him for his Visa. Swipe. “Sorry, it’s been rejected.” DfJ hands him another piece of plastic, this one with an impressively printed, B&W lithograph-like visage of the sixteenth President of the United States on it. Honest Abe gets rejected as well.

I might have thought this third strike would suffice such that DfJ would forgo his liquid housed in the most lovingly designed disposable container you could imagine for such a thing. No. Before one could think “three” dude’s swapping Bank of Lincoln for something of identical size, to the approval of Mister Flight Servant’s female cart colleague.

“Sorry about that,” she says with an understanding chuckle as she delivers his order, which is followed by her explanation about the importance of using the cup’s lid, no less lovingly constructed for the important and, I infer from certain details, somehow unique purpose, which the cynically inclined might think is to make what’s not complimentary seem worth the 2 quid/seventy. I assume the explanation was preceded by an enquiry, ironic under the entire set of circumstances, that implied the wastefulness of including a lid. *Whether or my inference is misapplied, I include my part in this summary to be a part of all that is wrong with us.

[from Berlin]

Per oversight I had brought along with me to the plane stations a set of items I always carry in my bag should I encounter a bike breakdown. Mainly, for the purpose of this tale, I refer to the product for the purpose of temporarily refilling a flat tyre [spelling courtesy of happening’s location], which is simply labeled “Reifen-Dicht”. The presence of this item necessitated no short delay on my way over, a lesson learned, and a measure taken for the return trip, using the clear plastic bag provided by Heathrow airport security.

So on my layover on the way back to Berlin, the nice Lady in London looked at and fondled my baggy with bike-lements and uttered to no-one in particular (at first) a quite proper and professional-sounding name for my emergency tyre filler-upper, a term which I cannot recall, nor did I know (i.e. still can’t recall & still don’t know), and then, after doing something else related to her activities, but unrelated to me or my baggy, wandered back to it, picked it up again and repeated the name in the form of the question to colleagues “A [proper name of bike-tyre filler-upper] is allowed, innit?”

I heard no response, but it was apparent she got an okay, put it down, and things continued uneventfully, unless you include my observation of one Yank in line before me who (unnecessarily) removed his shoes and placed them in a plastic tray and onto the conveyor belt… and that most of us were waved around the full-body scanner, which might mean that either Albion’s arbiters of a world ostensibly safer from terrorists go one level lower in passenger profiling (and hence more or less racist and/or more or less ridiculous (i.e. ridiculously thorough)), or that Yanks are just more Yanky than their Limey counterparts. The previous comment about my previously potentially misapplied inference here to my assumptions applies.

 

“He ran contra dictions.”

From Memewars by Bo Rama Took a final trip to Poppy the other day. He said, “I ran contra dictions.” We chuckled. I told him I’d be seeing Jim. He said to give him his final regards. Silence for traditional introspection. We shared a tender reptilian tear. Something in the way he was looking at me just then seemed sexual, or as if he didn’t want me to forget he could have me in that way. Or for lunch. Literally. The signal was supplanted by an insecure personal projection: It was superior the way 41 waged his wars — in Central and South America and the Middle East and places unknown — compared to how I had merely steered them with technology he’d helmed the development of one way or another for a generation, and even then only by way of the powers bestowed upon me by his seed in 43. But that look disappeared in that reflection and its replacement glimpse let me know that I had served well. Or, at least, the best I could. He gave me parting advice: “If you wanna really relish retirement, never stop playing the game. Sure, let down your hair, but only in putting on airs. Speak as if you’re speaking frankly.” Me, as if giving it an immediate go for his approval, “I can, uh, assure you… let me be clear…” I choked up a little, then I said, “Can we really be friends?” And him, without missing a beat, “Yes, we can.” It doesn’t get any more almost real than that. Now, I don’t actually play chess. Still, pretending to drop kayfabe in feigned ignorance of the kayfabe of the kayfabing opposition is a four-dimensional game at least. I suppose you might think this easy once one’s operating only in raking-it-in mode, reaping the rewards of a post presidency, but I can tell you that in some circles — circles the most ignorant and shallow of my adherents do not travel in, or will ever read about — they marvel at the brilliance of the affected lack of self-awareness of my tongue-in-cheekiness. That’s enough for me. To know that it is the likes of Baker & the Bushes and, by extension, I who belong on the money. To make sure kids have a chance to go to charter schools, that is. You think that last bit was a tell — like, he only at that moment realised amidst his loving himself so much while basking in the adoration of the likes of those gathered to benefit the creation of a man who was instrumental in making sure Dubya lived the birthright his father forewent on Bubba’s behalf that there might be cameras rolling? Not sure why. His shallow adherents have an excuse at the ready that ranges from “he’s a lesser evil” to “all those things are good”. Since our most steadfast state leads us to jumping out of context to the most convenient conclusions, always pretending we don’t know what’s going on while also pretending we care about where it might lead (because, frankly, where it’s led is the problem dominating the national psyche and what led to it is “complicated” at best/worst). I have a prediction: Hind/Sight 2020!  Good luck with the #resistance.