LOL Dude

I will have to look at your other "not-as-bad-as-this-one-will-be" features. But how can you make fun of ME ( if I catch it) when you admire me SOOOOOOOOO much ???

You will think and think and think of a bad thing to say. You will walk outside to clear your head, then stop somewhere for a coffee. You will become distracted by pretty girls walking by. Then you will become distracted by pretty boys walking by. You drag your gaze from all of their wanton and cruel seductions before you are lost forever and left gasp a hollow shell of a man. Hurriedly you will look around for something else to think about …
You will see a headline on a newspaper that will annoy you. You will pick up the paper and see an ENORMOUS photo of Barack Obama with Angel Merkel. Barack is staring at Merkel's boobs which are hiked up even farther than before. Can it be? A new Wonderbra for Merkel? It seems so. Even the gay mayor of Berlin is seen next to Obama, admiring the Official Boobs of State. The caption on the photo says “Wowereit -If those don’t babies make him go straight – nothing will”.
You become enraged and jump up and down on the newspaper. You scream about the decline of Germany and the sodomizing of Democracy. The manager throws your ass out of the cafe. The pretty girls and boys laugh at you and throw crusts of bread at you. One chunk of bread gets stuck in your hair and bangs you on the head as it blows in the breeze that you create by the speed of your stride. You are too enraged to notice and the bread chunk bangs away at you much like the prodding of a horsewhip and causes you to go faster and faster. .

You stomp off to a nearby park, where you seek the solitude of trees and Fraulein Nature with the intention of walking in a brisk Teutonic manner beneath leafy bough and bloom, to shake off your black mood and fill your heart with song. Because after all, the hills are alive – with the sound of music. With songs they have sung, for a thousand years. You go to the hills when your heart is lonely. And then… you can sing once more.

But to no avail, the images of the MerkelBoobs rise before you time after time. A weak rain begins to fall. As you stomp around the park frightening children and small dogs with satin bows in their hair, the bread on your head (rhymes) becomes soggy. But the rain is such a light mist it does not wash the bread from your head but instead (rhymes 3 times - oh wait! four!) transforms it to a pulpy mass, much like a wad of vomit.
The breeze becomes stronger as you walk out from behind the trees, drying the pulpy bread wad onto your left eyebrow, making you resemble Quasimodo.

But no! You have become lost! How can it be? In your own town yet. But this is the strength of your Merkelboob emotions; they destroy all that had gone before. Leaving you blank and empty. You approach a strudel-vendor (wtf, this is Germany, you want me to say "sauerkraut vendor"?) One look at your vomit-brow and the poor man pitches all his strudel and runs as fast as he can to be free of the terror of Vomitmodo. The strudel adheres to your wet hair and clothing. The weight of the strudel causes you to lean forward and limp a bit. You cry out in desperation for help. But the cruel villagers respond with only more screams and more running.

Burgermeistermeisterburgergotterdammerungkriegswaffelhaus Otto von Doofus is called. He is busy with the local prostitutes and sends three members of the Gruen Jugende who pee on you and then lock you in a damp stone cell. Rats and other vermin (most of the vermin seem to resemble Joschka Fischer, perhaps you are beginning to hallucinate?) The rats chew on the lumps of strudel. They have little cappuccinos too. Aah, you ARE hallucinating.

But even in the depths of your delirium something nags at you, some thought...
oh yes, you wanted to think of ONE BAD THING to say about sulis-minerva.

still

nothing

Fun is not the problem, you have people with minds like mine in your country too,
so you only must think "what wood Sarah Silverman say?" (I know, would is good but wood is better).
Say it short:
No penis, no admiration.

See, I must not think to say something.
The truth is, I never have to think to say things . . .
It is only my tongue, you know?

Once when I'm famous you can give your shocking essay above to the New York Times.
Maybe - when I shoot Sheriff? Or let the gas out of the Merkelboob balloons. After we lost World War I they forbid us to have Zeppelins. We bombed London with them.
Nerkel bombed nothing than my mind.

--
It's soooooooooo hard: [link]
Did you know? Chest bumping with suicide-bombers is dangerous! [link]

What a charming way to reward your 20,000^th viewer! (or, 20.000, as you express it in the Old World)

I did my best, but alas, I was 27 page-views late. Did sulis-minerva catch the 20,000^th ?

And yes, we do have people in our country with minds like yours. Most of them, of course, are safely locked away and on medication.

--
"Are we lost, Daddy?" I asked tenderly.
"Shut up," he explained.

--Ring Lardner

Brava!!! Well said!

--
"Are we lost, Daddy?" I asked tenderly.
"Shut up," he explained.

--Ring Lardner

omg
Remember what Jimmy Kimmel said in that weird talkshow to his gf?
"Congratulations".

--
It's soooooooooo hard: [link]
Did you know? Chest bumping with suicide-bombers is dangerous! [link]

Oh I see, you want to give me a good motivation for your bullshit-feature when you catch the 21.111. That's why you talk about my medication.

--
It's soooooooooo hard: [link]
Did you know? Chest bumping with suicide-bombers is dangerous! [link]

Something like that.
And perhaps I will watch for Kiriban #101010

--
"Are we lost, Daddy?" I asked tenderly.
"Shut up," he explained.

--Ring Lardner

If you catch it, I give you as a bonus the true story when a german cameraman planned to sue me at court or to kill me.

--
It's soooooooooo hard: [link]
Did you know? Chest bumping with suicide-bombers is dangerous! [link]