Drunk at Work

Freely translated from the lyrics of a song from Die Toten Hosen, a lovely punk-rock band from Germany. They are active and popular to this day, but this song is from 1984, so it’s fucking 36 years old.

Woohoo, woohoo, woohoo (this part is exactly translated)

Muffled knocks on the door
What could someone want of me this late?
The Reaper stands outside
„It’s not my turn yet!”, I call

Has my time already come?
Must I go with him?
My time was way too short,
must I go with him?

Woohoo, woohoo, woohoo

I saw, I had no chance,
so I let him in
He was very cold and pale,
so I gave him a drink

Has my time already come?
Must I go with him?
My time was way too short,
must I go with him?

Woohoo, woohoo, woohoo

He forgot his duty pretty fast,
he drank heavily, and it became bright at last
Completely drunk, he went away
Got lucky again

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„Quotable“

Geld macht nicht glücklich. Aber wenn man unglücklich ist, ist es schöner im Taxi zu weinen als in der Straßenbahn. (Money doesn’t make you happy. But if you are unhappy, it’s nicer to cry in a taxi than in a streetcar.)
– Marcel Reich-Ranicki
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Philosophical Swill II

Ah, the French. I spoke of them, and I speak of them now, and probably will again in the future. They loved my organic philosophical swine and swill. The thing was, they spoke similar swill in to the ears of my loving swine. My little swine was so joyous to hear it that he shit in their cafés and bistros, enthusiastically, right on the floor, out of mere conviviality.
The French were delighted. The funny thing was, completely aside from the shit, that I had the feeling they didn’t understand a word we said. We spoke English, except I started by saying bon soir out of politeness. Thereupon they assumed we understood their language. They spewed a thousand French words in to my ears in a never-ending torrent. The fact is that I was hardly able to explain my philosophy to them. I must admit that I even understood a few of their words, because I am such an astute fellow, but nevertheless it was rather trying. It was a typical case of humans not communicating at all and believing that they understood each other perfectly. Perhaps we did, though. I threw in an occasional „oohlala“ and „c’est bon, eh?!“, and the conversation lopped along like a bear on vacation.
In any case, at some point my swine disappeared, and though that made me somewhat uneasy, I decided to roll with the blow. I drank „some“ wine and „some“ pastis. The communication got better and better, it seemed. I may even have drunk some French schnapps, though I can’t imagine anyone making schnapps aside from the Germans, or perhaps, on a stretch, the Dutch. But what do I know. I woke up in the morning next to a young French girl stuffing a pain au chocolat in to my mouth. She gave me coffee as well. Damned good coffee, those French, but, I couldn’t help asking her, where the fuck was my swine?
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„Oohlala,“ she said, lit a cigarette, puffed on it artfully, as the French are wont to do, and gave English her best.
„Your, eh . . . – how do you say? – piig, has gone on a soirée, eh . . . il veut faire parler de paris pour les années à venir! Do you know, eh . . . how long you have slept, ma coeur?“
Oh fuck, I thought, so much for philosophy. So much for measured days. That’s what I get for flying to Paris with an organic swine. I thought we understood one another. You fucking pig, I thought.

Free

I think there is no boundary to free speech. Though they may be such a thing as hate speech, which is forbidden in Germany (where I live) for historical reasons, I don’t think hate speech should be forbidden.
Hate speech should be fought with tooth and nail, but not forbidden. Speech is to be fought with speech and experience; better speech and better arguments, but also personal experience.
You can say anything you want to. If I disagree with you, it is up to me to say my piece in a way that will kill yours. KILL! Let the better argument win, and yes, I don’t want my argument to kill yours, that was just a joke, but it is important to realize that arguments can win or lose. If you have a good argument, make it win!
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Why? Because speech is thought expressed. You may try to forbid it, but you can’t get inside of peoples heads (not yet, at least). What people think will be expressed, and you simply have to deal with it. Supressing it will not help in the least, it will simply drive it underground and get it out of sight. Bad.
Of course, this assumes that you are able to understand my arguments, which, if we want to be honest, won’t always be the case. People who read this blog will probably be more receptive to cogent argument (I hope…), but people who read this blog are not typical people. Typical people aren’t used to analytical thought, and, after thousands of years of getting along, they are not about to start with that shit now.
I think it is important for you, the people who read this blog and understand it as it is meant to be understood, to realize that you are not typical. Most people just don’t get it, or, even if they could and actually wanted to do so, do not read this blog or other sources of information that might help them along the way.
Nevertheless, free speech is the only way to go. The opposite would be to assume that arguments shall not prevail, but rather power, or ignorance (which can only be fought with, you guessed it, free speech).
Whether it be the power of the state, as in Germany, which forbids certain types of speech, or the power of society, which forbids certain types of speech with the threat of ostracization, or even incarceration, depending on the momentary societal situation, the only way to fight it is with good arguments. Or experience.
Personal experience is very important. For example, a simple person (forgive me for saying it, but there are human beings who are “simple”, without having any less “worth” than anyone else) can benefit hugely from experiencing different cultures. It’s a very simple thing, which, perhaps, seems natural to any university student at a big campus, or to anyone who lives in an international city: seeing and meeting people from different cultures. Talking to them! Sitting next to them! Oh my God!
I think you have to realize that this is something that the greater part of humanity is not used to. As soon as you get them used to it, well, they’’ll get used to it. Christ, it’s that simple, sometimes. Put a right wing asshole next to a left-wing black man for half a year, and he will (perhaps) realize that the black man is of course a perfectly normal human being (they might even, God forbid, become friends).

Dream Nr. 456

My Dearest,
I was a fool to join this venture. I never thought it would end like this, with me writing to you. We went in with a clear mission. Booty, slaves. Nobody knows better than I that no plan survives the first battle, but this… this is different.
We tore them apart. But then they got into our minds, and they turned us in to a thousand pieces. They ripped the puzzle apart and set it together anew, again and again. They fucked our minds. But I am getting ahead of myself.
We landed, we whipped them. That is to say, we slayed. We hacked them apart. Our weapons were superior, not to mention our tactics. Though they were not unused to war, as they had casual strife with neighboring tribes, they were compariaively disorganized. It was the usual bloody mess. We killed the men and children, we enslaved the women and what men survived. We used them as we pleased.
The women were the problem, that’s what I think. It may sound stupid, but they had a way about them. The music they played, that weird foreign beat, the way they walked. There is dissent. Our men fight one another for the women, though they be but slaves. The women are like a baking sheet full of cake, each one of them a piece.
The Captain has lost control. Rolf and Fjorad have disappeared. Murdered in their sleep? Eaten? The priest is gone too, not that I care.
It is insane. That beat . . . that foreign beat . . . I can’t sleep. The drums, these foreign drums! How can they dance to such a strange beat? They take our minds apart.
I would go away, but the men have disassembled our ship to build huts. I do not know how it will end. Forgive me for this disjointed report. I write this letter in knowledge that it will probably never reach you, my love.

Philosophical Swill

Will you be my swine? Can I drive you? Can I put you in a pen? You would be the perfect listener, with your long swine ears. I could confess to you, all my sins, even harmless ones, while I shovel your shit away. Of course you’d be an organic swine, you’d be able to go out, if you wanted to, and you’d get purely organic swill. Far better swill than humans get. Our days would be perfectly measured I would think. It would be best if you were a flying pig, then I could get on you and we would fly to France or something. Paris. I will fly you, it’s better than driving. We will enthuse the Parisians with our organic swill, in the physical, verbal, and philosophical sense.

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Dear Editor

You son of a bitch, you take all the good shit out, and now you post harmless shit as if it  was from me! I hate your fucking guts. If there is a single thing I’d like to say to you it is Fuck you, you soulless bastard! You have no idea of life as it is truly lived. For you, everything is just words, just possible meanings and possible interpretations. You’re a fucking hairsplitter, you even split the fucking split hairs. You’re insane, completely off the register asshole fucker. You have bo idea. If I could I would kill you. Fortunately for you I am a pacifist and a coward, otherwise I wo7uld get myself a gun and shoot you in the fucking head. Headxshot, motherfucker, kill your ass. I got friends, the<y’ll break your legs if you keep fucking with my writing. You know I care about that. They’ll do it for a fucking case of German beer, motherfucker. You know I would do that, even if I wouldn’t kill you myself, so stop fucking with my prose, asshole! Next time I see something wrong I’ll send the Hungarians, you son of a bitch! You didn’t post anything for months, though I wrote and wrote, what the fuck? Ain’t it good enough for you, you fucking jerk? What do you fucking know?
You know what I am listening to now, you fucking scum of the earth? Dancing in Your Head. If the Hungarians don’t work out I’ll set a fucking voodoo on you. Yeah, now you’re wondering, aren’t you? I’ve got your fucxking hair, motherfucxkere, set a fucking voodoo on you, nails in your headdd. Believe nme, ain’t facing around anymore, Christ!
And no money either… you promised me! Fucker!
[Note from the Editor: Uneditet]