Klaus Hnilica
Monday November 4th, 2019

(Deutsch) Ein seltsamer Vergleich – oder?

Sorry, this entry is only available in German.

Klaus Hnilica
Thursday April 11th, 2019

Death of the Cook (Part 2) – Dead Spot Hotel

Oh God – how often have I wished I had never agreed to this unholy affair: all the things that came to light because of my meddling, or rather all the things that remained unsolved, only contributed towards me feeling even more sorry about the loss of my friend Sturmius…

It started with the impossible ”Dead Spot Hotel” in the beech woods of O.R.. No halfway sensible person would ever have set foot into this impenetrable wilderness. But, naturally, Charlotte Burns, this dubious self-appointed guide, had to ‘produce‘ a breakdown near this the world’s absolutely most remote hideout with her minibus, four more persons and a driver. And it had to be exactly on Friday afternoon, on our way to the ‘Musikantenstadl‘ that, allegedly for the first time ever, played in the town W. Of course, the usual suspects were to come: Andreas Gabalier, Andrea Berg, Roland Kaiser and whoever else usually is part of the outfit.

Almost miraculously, there was a sign not far from the place where our breakdown had occurred that said that a ‘Dead Spot Hotel‘ could be found three hundred metres from here. However, as it turned out, said hotel had been out of commission for many years and, with the exception of a retiree who was hard of hearing and occasionally had a watchful eye on it, nobody ever went there.

Well – it is hard to believe, but occasionally, the famous TV cook Sturmius von Suppé, too, was part of the outfit. His purpose – typically for the outcast- was to try special cooking creations about which nobody at all must hear anything in this absolute solitude.

Naturally, only a very small and exclusive circle of persons was in the picture about these sporadic visits of his. Apparently, the mysterious Charlotte Burns was one of them: there is no other explanation for this accidental meeting of this bizarre group of tourists and my friend Sturmius.

I, too, had until then not had any idea that he actually used this place once in a while for diverse adventurous activities.

It seems that a regional TV station also used this ‘ancient place‘ for diverse ghost stories and ‘Tatort‘ recordings.

Still, it stroke me as more than strange that the famous TV cook Sturmius von Suppé, of all people, had been told to go there in order to create a suitable “monster dinner” for a “monster binge at midnight”. Allegedly, the motto had been “the less appetizing, the better“: make it an “abhorriminable TV program“!

As I was told, Sturmius von Suppé was not at all fascinated by the idea of having to execute such a lengthy cooking experiment that might well take several days in such a dilapidated environment. But his arguments were beaten; again and again, strict secrecy policy was given as a reason by the responsible parties!

But perhaps even more important for him was that this break-down tourist group turned up at the ‘dead spot hotel‘ totally unexpectedly late at night.

Was this an accidental? Or was it really this impertinent guide Charlotte Burns who had set a few wheels in motion?

Actually, the members of the tourist group were almost an embarrassment. Besides the alcohol addict Raffaela von Suppé, there was a rather dubious music journalist Dörte Hansemann, along with the two “Hessian Babblers” Ernie and Bert Hesselbach.

And, almost as if a button had been pressed, all of them seemed to suddenly hate the son of a bitch Sturmius. However, they did not take to each other, either: the lesbian couple Charlotte and Raffaela made fun of the lamenting Dörte who, after an alleged violation by Sturmius in the basement of the Dead Spot Hotel, admitted that she had a fifteen-year-old daughter with him. And it seemed that Bert Hesselbach had been cheated by Sturmius when it came to the rights for the phenomenal ‘Noggi Aroma‘. He said that a lot of money had changed hands during that affair.

So it came as no surprise that, under these circumstances, nobody could sleep well at night when Sturmius von Suppé was, on top of everything, accused of cannibalism because he apparently had, in a consciously provocative fashion, processed a bloody female arm – which he had ‘constructed‘ beforehand from pigs’ feet with culinary finesse – as part of his ‘fashion cuisine‘ for the ‘monster dinner‘.

As a consequence, there was an unappetizing argument in the hotel kitchen during which Sturmius, instead of being able to continue with his work, heard for the first time about his illegitimate daughter Katharina whose mother was Dörte Hansemann!

But the situation took a truly dramatic turn when the totally ignorant Ernie Hesselbach just drove the hand blender which Sturmius had demanded and which hung next to her over the kitchen counter into the soup saucepan in which he was busy partitioning the chicken mush for the creep soup with both hands. And since the device was apparently truly very deficient, it triggered an electric short circuit in the soup that was accompanied by a noisily whizzing electric shock in the wake of which Sturmius von Suppé dropped dead! And he was really and truly dead! As they wrote in one of those tabloids.

Well, you can rest assured that nobody had intended this outcome!

With the possible exception of Charlotte Burns who could not escape fast enough, followed by Bert Hesselbach with his totally clueless and confused wife Ernie.

Raffaela, who turned out to be Sturmius’s sister, was probably anything but unhappy about the sudden death of the brother she despised. She definitely did not take long to find consolation in her Schnapps bottle. …

And Dörte Hansemann, who, at long last, got a signal in this dead spot, was able to tell her daughter that she had just turned very, very rich through a substantial inheritance!

Dörte Hansemann was probably also the person who had called the local police. They came surprisingly fast und officially announced Sturmius von Suppé dead. They also sealed the crime scene for the coming securing of evidence. Dörte Hansemann and Raffaela von Suppé gave their statements in the same night, not even demanding to see their rightful lawyers.

Charlotte Burns and the Hesselbach couple were interviewed two days later, but none of these statements brought forth any changes in how the accident was judged!

After an initial ‘light storm‘ in the usual dailies – which was due to the popularity of my friend – it took surprisingly little time for everything to return to normal. I am sure it was partly because none of the concerned parties was interested in pursuing the matter further.

I was the only one who did not really find peace: somehow or other, my journalistic gut feeling told me that there was more to this alleged accident that met the eye. Since, however, I had no tangible proof, my hands were bound and I was left alone with my nightmares and musings for the time being…

K.H.

PS.
Let me express my gratitude to those who helped to shed a little light on the darkness of Sturmius‘ death: in particular, I would like to Christine Bruckmann, Gabi Nelges, Martina Tornow and Detlef Knoll. Irene Weingärtner, however, refused to discuss the matter.

Klaus Hnilica
Thursday April 4th, 2019

The Death of the Cook (Part1) – Flashback

“A first-grade asshole!“, was always the first reaction when they talked about Sturmius. For me, too, this guy was hard to digest – almost impossible to accept. …

But you had to admit that he was an excellent cook!
For many years, his name and his artistry in cooking were everybody’s main topic. Sturmius von Suppé cooked on TV on a Thursday at prime time, his viewing figures had no problem surpassing those of the Sunday ’Tatort’.

No rapist or child molester could compete with his Tafelspitz, let alone his roast saddle of venison. No murderer was ever able to get more interest than his acid Vienna Schmäh while he cut duck breasts and glazed carrots.

But I was never able to find out why this Sturmius showed such a dog-like devotedness towards me of all people. Perhaps it was because I, too, was different. Yet I had never been ostracized like he – who, even when he was at school, had constantly smelled of ’celery’!

”Here comes Stinkersturmi! Sturmistinker, Stinkersturmi“, they called after him or whispered with smiles at each other, because Stinkersturmi was not someone you wanted to find yourself alone with on a dark road at night. He had the strength of a Grizzly Bear and never hesitated to use it: even before he grumbled, his paws found their goal – after which mostly nothing remained to be said or done.

Since I was built more like a hen and had not much to offer except a full mouth, Sturmius – without my ever asking him to – made me part of his ’celery aura’ and removed all evil doers from my path before I could even say ’hens’-droppings’.

To make up for it, I agreed to sit next to him each year. Who else would have been able to endure this repulsive creep who smelled of celery?

Naturally, this earned me the mockery and anger of all the others, but that was the price I paid for being protected by him; the price also included all the help I gave this walking celery in mathematics, physics and chemistry.

Once in a while, I even went home with him and saw his impossible upper-class parents and his lethargic sister Raffaela. To be sure, she did not smell of celery, but she made up for this by smelling of perspiration. And the dark, wood-panelled rooms of the noble castle smelled badly of old cabbage, because, due to the high price of heating, they were hardly ever aired.

But I really had never been quite close to this Sturmius von Suppé! I am sure it was not exclusively his fault – I, too, liked hiding behind my protective ’shield ’ and did not let anybody come close: nobody would have understood my ’tepid sorrows’, anyway…

Well, perhaps Sturmius would have understood! But I totally had lost his trail after graduation. I was the declared asshole and had enough on my plate with all the oppressive salamanders. Camouflage and deceit were the necessities of the time: nobody should hear about my unspeakable tendencies. And then, I somehow had to get through my studies at university.

So much the more did it surprise me when suddenly he, Sturmius, appeared on the TV screen of the nation out of nowhere and not only pampered his guests in a culinary way – for instance with his Beef Olives -, but also brought tears to their eyes with his biting Vienese Schmäh.

Suddenly, nothing was left of his uptight inability to talk a lot, neither could you hear any of the Hessian dialect with which he used to provoke the nobility circles he moved in.

And how strong he looked, this appetizingly dark-tanned Sturmius: the formerly pudgy pig-face had become distinguished and the total baldness, along with the dark horn glasses and the then seldom seen three-day-stubbles gave him a magnetic look.

The lively eyes and his broad grin – disarmingly charming whenever that was what he wanted – cultivated everything like the most delicate of spices. All of this not only delighted me, but also felt like a punch into my guts: I had to admit that he – the eternal asshole – had managed something that I never achieved: burst out of the ’cocoon’ and turn the unappetizing caterpillar into a colourful butterfly! Yes – Sturmius definitely had done it …

I admit that this insight came totally out of the blue for me and that it gave me some sort of chronic stomach ache that did not seem to abate! My only consolation was the tasteless hope that, regardless of all his culinary brilliance, he probably still smelled of celery. If even this was no longer true, then what remained of my former superiority?

Nothing – nothing at all was left – as I immediately realized when we met again for the first time. He whispered with an air of nonchalance that he had never forgotten me! So what would have remained for me to brood over or be sorry about? It was immediately clear that I, the freelance journalist, would have to work where the beautifully sun-tanned Sturmius did all his barbecuing and cooking. Be it Amsterdam, Brussels, Berlin or Vienna – I was always there with him!

This is how it did not take me long to find out how Sturmius had not only learned how to cook and cooked with Plachutta, Lamprecht and diverse other restaurants, but also that he had been an item with a cabaret artist famous throughout the city for ten years. Said artist also had been responsible for bringing to the light of day the ’new Sturmius’ with a lot of sensitivity, thus laying the basis for his exceptional TV career.

Unfortunately, soon after they separated, this benign spirit turned totally towards the French Cuisine and his new lover, absolutely refusing to have anything to do with Sturmius‘ former Viennese cooking art. What a pity! It had actually been a lady who had intervened, but Sturmius refused adamantly to tell anything about her …

Well – and in Berlin, Sturmius had a short time ago, just like in old times, used his fists to get me out of a very inconvenient fight after we had celebrated through the night and met the wrong types of guys in a park. But Sturmius had not forgotten anything. On the contrary. Without a word, he finished the affair. The only help he needed was when he insisted that the three injured boys should be neatly positioned like sugar canes on the still dew-wet grass – arranged according their height. Somehow or other, he had become pedantic and more sensitive – this new Sturmius von Suppé…

So much the more brutal and merciless was the news that he had suddenly died!
For me, it was unbelievable that this frying and baking basic power was never again going to barbecue anything. Who could have managed to do harm to such a tough tree trunk? He was always the one who had wet the others?

Or was everything a lie? Just dog Latin? Had this grandiose camouflage artist again tricked us all? Perhaps because he saw that his mission had ended and he was scared to start a boring life of routine? Or did he intend to surprise the world yet again? With a Sturmius as a side dish that nobody had ever seen before? Well, it was absolutely conceivable… …

But when, after long and sad weeks of alcohol delirium, I awoke and regained consciousness, and after all news about Sturmius’s death in the press and all social media had been digested and several discussions with his former environment had happened, I seemed to feel deep inside that, for an investigative journalist like me, there remained a lot to be investigated and that this is what I owed my friend. As he used to say whenever his braised meat was in the oven: you have to give it its due time. …

But that is another even more unbelievable story!

KH
(Translated by EG)

Klaus Hnilica
Friday October 26th, 2018

Business Suit or Dirndl Dress?

I often went past this bar. But I never went in. Why should I? I am not a bar frequenter and never will become one.

However, after all these weeks of hot weather, the idea of a cool cola with rum or an ice-cold whisky soda sometimes found its way into my brains when I passed it on my way home. I have to admit it!

Besides, the permanent darkness you saw whenever the entrance door was opened also suggested that it must be quite nice and cool in there. And it opened quite often! Somehow or other, it seemed that the place was open day and night, seven days a week and fifty-two weeks every year! Wasn’t that strange?

Well – and then, last Tuesday in the late afternoon, I actually stood there at the bar of this strange place and finally ordered the long craved whisky and soda on plenty of rocks!

It was probably because the day had again been unbearably hot and I dragged myself home feeling totally drained and depressed after my day in the office. When, suddenly, an elegantly dressed elderly gentleman opened the entrance door to said bar directly before my eyes, I took courage and followed him spontaneously – as far as the bar: I had to do this because in the impenetrable darkness I immediately became totally dis-oriented.

Since, as I said, I ended up at the bar accompanied by this random door opener, I was then left with ample time to get used to the extreme darkness.

This sense of having lots of time was also why the existence of a barkeeper had totally slipped my mind. Only when he asked what I wanted did his youthful dark-skinned face – his white teeth – his totally bald head – and – and – and … register.

His question took me by surprise, so I just said whisky soda, please!
Which whisky brand?

Hm? – I moaned.

Bourbon? Scotch? Blended Malt?

Any of the three – but please with plenty of ice!

The young man possessed too much tact to further prolong my agony. In no time, he put a glass of whisky soda in front of my nose and next to it an extra container with ice cubes and a pincer. I was absolutely thrilled.

After two hefty swallows, I was finally prepared to look around and see where I had ended up: to my right, I saw, indeed, the elderly gentleman I had followed. He was probably a regular, because he talked English with the barkeeper. And to my left, almost at the end of the huge bar, there was a lady wearing a Dirndl Dress. She clutched her drink in both hands and just looked in front of herself rather stiffly.

But something was wrong with this lady.

The very way how she sat on the barstool. Her Dirndl dress, too, had moved upwards in an unseemly manner. The protruding leg looked like a hairy, brown-painted prosthesis and was stuck between the barstool and the counter. Well, and then even I understood! It was not at all a lady sitting there wearing a summer Dirndl dress – no, it was a man!

In fact, it was a rather rough man, too who, for some reason or other, had been pressed into a far too tight Dirndl skin like an oversized meat sausage. Consequently, you now saw not only the brown meat sausages between the blue waistband and the red upper dress, but also how the short sleeves of the white blouse pressed into the meaty upper arms. Not to mention how you saw plenty of black chest hair at the cleavage!
Well, you cannot do any worse, can you? Give me a break!

The fact that this ‘man-woman‘ kept trying to at least pull the light-blue hem of the dress over his right knee did not improve matters at all. To add insult to injury, regardless of the very dim lighting, it was easy to see that this strange in-between creature had not done anything at all to make its face something that might at least shown a tendency towards looking female at all.
On the contrary: some of his long and oily hair actually hung in strands over his forehead and his very brown, rather bawdy face, sported extremely visible black three-day stubbles!

However, when our eyes met because I had been gaping at this hermaphrodite for too long, I was surprised to see a sudden smile on his face. In fact, said smile even looked like an invitation to me, because it was accompanied by a friendly nod of the head.

Regardless of the confusion I felt, I nodded back and took two gulps of my whisky soda in order to regain my inner equilibrium.

The Dirndl-hermaphrodite then ordered a new glass of bourbon from the barkeeper by yelling at him quite loudly before getting up and turning in my direction.

Careful – the man was at least half a head taller than me and looked quite muscular! Not saying anything but moaning and reaching down at his light-blue dirndl dress, he took his place next to me on the bar stool while I bashfully smiled at him and mindlessly refilled my empty whisky glass with ice.

I am sure you are surprised to see my outfit? He said in a surprisingly winning way.

Well, to be perfectly honest, yes, was my terse reply. But I am sure I am not the only one around here who feels this way.

Too true! Was his short reply before he downed his freshly ordered bourbon in one go.

I continued by saying, but then, it is certainly none of my business! After all, this is a free country where everybody can move around as they like.

Correct! Was his reply while he took a gulp of his bourbon.
Let us rejoice in the fact that this is how matters stand in this country, I added.

To be sure, to be sure, were his eager words.

I said nothing because I did not want to appear nosy.

After a short interval, he said, you know, there is a reason for my strange Dirndl dress outfit!

Certainly, we all certainly have our reasons, I replied…
But in my case, my wife is the reason, he interrupted me.
Hm – I grunted.

Yes – she believes I am a drunkard!

How come?

She is convinced that, while she will see the musical later this afternoon in the Congress Centre, I will get hopelessly drunk!
And is she correct?
Definitely not! On the contrary. In fact, I believe she will not at all go to listen to the musical but instead see here lover. She is just afraid I might spy on her …

Which will probably not be an easy job with you wearing the Dirndl dress outfit!

That is also true, but this is because she shamelessly took advantage of the fact that, this time around, we already arrived a day early for the musical and consequently stayed overnight in the Congress Centre Hotel. When, at noon, I went to sleep as usual, she probably got dressed in her ‘small black‘, packed my suit – and disappeared!

Which means you are practically incarcerated in your hotel room until she returns! I finished for him, feeling as sharp-witted as a master detective.

Correct – by the way, I am Hilmar!

Okay Hilmar! I said and gave him my name – which I do not wish to tell you here – and raised my glass to him.

In any case, I continued, it seems to me that your lady is a smart creature, if you allow me to say so. And she definitely reminds me of my ex wife…

In other words, we are both burnt children, Hilmar summarized the situation.

Or else horned idiots who have deserved no better, I said before again raising my glass to him and, like him, emptying same glass.

Hilmar nodded thoughtfully and ordered two new drinks for us.

Then he said that, at long last, he wanted to fight back and consequently he wanted to propose something – among friends!

What kind of proposition are we talking? I asked.

How about, Hilmar said hesitantly, if you were to – quasi on an honorary basis, lend me your suit for a few short hours and in return wear my Dirndl dress?

That was definitely something I had not seen coming!

I quickly felt how both my blood pressure and the frequency of my sitting pulse went up in a rush and, supported with my right hand, gave him a gesture that suggested he might not be quite right in the head?

But Hilmar seemed to have anticipated this: he remained unperturbed and said that it would definitely not be detrimental for me because money was something he swam in!

After a longish pause, during which we silently stared at each other, I said: forget about your money, Hilmar! You know, your proposal is so beyond rational that it is coming out almost attractive at the opposite end. That – and because my ex-wife was similar in type to yours – I will help you. I will do it!

Hilmar embraced me very emotionally and we both disappeared to the toilets!

Of course, now all the diverse mouths in the surprised faces of the bar visitors opened again when, suddenly, ‘I‘ was a ‘Dirndl Dress Monster‘ while Hilmar looked the gentleman wearing my dark-blue summer suit!

Since he was more muscular than I, the jacket and the trousers were just as undersized for him as earlier the Dirndl dress had been, while I had no problem at all wearing the clothes that belonged to his wife. But Hilmar was definitely very happy with his new outfit!

He was visibly happy when he swallowed his newly ordered whisky. Then he consulted his watch, looked straight into my eyes and said with feeling that he will be back in no more than two hours.

Before I had a chance to reply – he was gone and I was left all by myself on the stage: at least this is what it felt like when all the guests in the pub suddenly stared at me.

I probably turned purple and spontaneously turned towards the counter with a feeling of inner emptiness. In a reflex movement, I looked for my glass and rather desperately poured the rest of my whisky soda down my throat.

To be sure, I signalled to the bar keeper that I want another one, but at the same time I already toyed with the idea of going home and hiding in my nearby flat.

But before I could think this idea through, a spectacular not-very-young lady suddenly made her way through the bar room entrance.

Besides her perfectly made-up face, she was much more remarkable because she wore a much too big trouser suit. However, this did in no way minimize her elegance!

She was around my height, had short black hair and perhaps a nose that was slightly too long. To make up for it, however, she had a fascinating smile. On her stiletto heels, she marched towards the counter without hesitation.

Even before the bar keeper had a chance to ask her what she wanted, she twittered self-determinedly: I want the same as the lady who wears my Dirndl dress!

That would be a whisky soda, stated the bar keeper soberly.

Well – you should know!

Of course, I, the moving Dirndl dress monster, realized immediately how my knees got softer and softer. But I was even more impressed at the speed and precision with which this newcomer had analysed the situation in this dimly-lit bar.

I hardly managed a short Good Evening and certainly nothing else, because the feeling that I, again, had to play a game in front of the aggressive audience robbed me of all my strength.

On the ‘trouser suit lady‘, however, the situation seemed to have a totally different effect. With a provocative glance, she said: or are you telling me that the clothes you wear are not mine?

I do not now, my lady, I stuttered.

But I know!

And why do you wear this much too large man’s trouser suit, since you claim that this Dirndl dress is yours, I enquired with sharp male logic?
Because you are wearing it – dear Sir! Or have you ever seen two persons wearing one Dirndl dress?

No – certainly not! Was my soft reply while I downed my glass in one go in my desperation.

Since the bar keeper had, by that time, already served her drink, she took it and raised her glass to me: here is to you, dear Sir, she said in such a loud voice that nobody at the nearby tables could have missed it.

And she whispered in my ear that her name is Elsa!
Hilmar’s Elsa? I asked without real surprise.

No – your Elsa, if that is what you want!

Oh my God – now that did surprise me. Or maybe surprise does not really come close to it? I was overrun and caught up by a tsunami of undefinable emotions in such a way that I said nothing for several seconds.

Since apparently Elsa noticed how I felt and all my colour had probably drained from my face, she said: but, naturally, this is only if you give me back my Dirndl dress!

With pleasure – but what will your Hilmar have to say about it?
Forget Hilmar – and come to the toilet with me – but quick – otherwise I might change my mind.

When, after having given the bar keeper a brief update, we disappeared and shortly afterwards returned to the counter with swapped clothes. We were, of course, still on stage, but we had become far less interesting. After all, a lady wearing a Dirndl dress and a gentleman wearing a suit were not really special enough to warrant hours of fascination.

And when, finally, we lay next to each other in the nude at my home, Elsa confessed that Hilmar had no idea how lucky he had been today: today of all days, her boss, the rat, had disappointed her and sent his secretary into the musical as a replacement. Hilmar was probably at this very moment sitting next to her – after the interval!

Yes, and because of this scandal, she was upset enough to wish for revenge in the form of wanting to surprise Hilmar in his ‘booze bar‘ – which she had known a long time about – by wearing his own suit. Because seeing Hilmar in her Dirndl dress was exactly what her thus humiliated soul had needed! But unfortunately, due to my un-reflected saving manoeuvre, this scenario did not materialize, said she with an evil smile before she took a painful bite into my left nipple – which, as she felt, stood far too provocatively.

Since, after an hour of lusty moaning and the return to this earth, Elsa had probably recovered from the misery that was brought upon her but could not decide what to wear – suit or Dirndl dress? – I dressed in her Dirndl dress and sent her back to Hilmar in his suit!

Hilmar already stood at the counter when I entered the bar!

He gave me a very friendly hug and for the bar visitors the show went on…

But he was rather in a hurry. After all, Hilmar was extremely happy about the entire affair having been only a terrible misunderstanding between himself and his beloved Elsa. Now he urgently had to go and see her in the hotel, he said, and make amends for his shabby mistrust in her by inviting her to a festive dinner in a ‘star restaurant‘!
He hoped that this plan would come to fruitition, because Elsa’s girl-friend in the musical had told him that Elsa had unfortunately been forced to leave the wonderful event during the interval as she had suffered from circulation problems.

Thankfully, at least I remembered the necessary clothes swapping when Hilmar’s burning heart became eager to see his Elsa, while the bar keeper reminded us of the six not yet paid-for whiskies which, naturally in his joyous enthusiasm, Hilmar gladly paid, including a more than generous tip.

And I was happy to be allowed to roll home at long last, wearing my own clothes and feeling the sound of 500 Euros in the breast pocket that Hilmar had hidden there. This was proof that the last few hours had not been a dream, but that Elsa might actually – perhaps? – again bite me next Tuesday…

KH
(Translated by EG)

Roland Dürre
Friday March 16th, 2018

March, 15th, in the Morning:-)

Sitting in the IC 196 to Zürich.

Today, I visit Wolf in Switzerland. At 6.31 a.m., the S-Bahn train was to leave Neubiberg. To get to Neubiberg station, I have to cover a little more than one kilometre. Consequently, I leave home shortly after six.

Morning is already breaking, it smells of spring. Behind the houses, I can hear the earlier S-Bahn train. It is on time. That is good news.
The road turns towards the railway track. I walk along the way towards the station and enjoy the day. I remember that, before Christmas and before my trips to the South Sea and to the Antarctica, the two clocks on the Neubiberg platform showed times that differed by two minutes. To be more precise: the one at the southern end was correct, the one at the northern end was two minutes late.

On my way, I meet a gentleman who is walking his dog. He, too, is in no hurry. I approach the railway station. In the distance, a very new looking Fiat Cenquecento is in the process of parking on the park&ride lot and does some rearranging. A young lady – a little on the well-rounded side but dressed very stylishly – gets out of the car. She wears black and looks very chic. I can see it all from the distance.

Then I arrive at the S-Bahn station. I walk first down and then up the steps. I am too early. The platform is still rather empty. I recognize the lady in black on the platform. She smokes a cigarette. It all fits perfectly: new Cinquecento, very well-groomed and well dressed, with a cigarette. A modern lady.

I have time and thus walk along the platform. Another lady – slim and blond and not quite as well dressed – is standing there and smoking a cigarette. I compare the time on the two clocks: this is hard to believe, but everything is as it was. The southern clock shows two minutes later than the northern clock. I stand where the rear of the train will be. Because the S-Bahn train will change directions at Ostbahnhof and I want to be at the front of the train when arriving at Munich Central Station and take the escalator up to the platforms. This is what I call route optimization.

In Neubiberg, the S-Bahn trains meet. This time, the outgoing train comes first. I take a close look at the train. The first part is rather empty. Only women sit there. Is that a coincidence? Or is there a reason that more women than men use the outgoing S-Bahn trains this early in the morning?

My S-Bahn train is a little late. I can already see the three headlights as it arrives from Ottobrunn. It is (almost) on time. I board the train. Here, too, more women than men are on board. Perhaps there is also some “gender“ issue about women having to use the S-Bahn trains earlier than men?

The DB sends me a (stupid) delay alarm. And they tell me that, at my destination in St. Margareten, we will arrive on another platform than expected.

I am back home!

RMD
? Written in the EC 196 on my way to Zürich – finished when we were passing Buchloe.
(Translated by EG)

Klaus Hnilica
Thursday December 21st, 2017

(Deutsch) Ach – Weihnachten …

Sorry, this entry is only available in German.

Klaus Hnilica
Tuesday December 5th, 2017

The Second Darkness

Carl and Gerlinde (Instalment # 55)

When Carl woke up and found back to something that vaguely resembled human existence excruciatingly slowly, the first rudimentary things his not yet quite ready body noticed seemed to be the fact that his eyes were absolutely unwilling to open!

In fact, the synchronously beating rain showers even postponed the usual procedure of starting the day until later for the n-th time. Regardless of his only partially active cerebral cortex, he actually seemed to have a foreboding that told him that the state of affairs his open eyes would convey to him would not at all be a pleasant one. Instead, he felt that the darkness caused by his closed eyes would only be replaced by the second darkness of the closed rolling shutters while the root of his ’eye-lid immobility’, namely the unnerving patter of the rain and the noise of the rolling shutters would not be ending or suppressed. Which meant that there was not the slightest bit of a chance for him to look forward to a friendly daybreak with sunshine.

So what to do with a Sunday like this one in the pre-Christmas time where he had almost miraculously been freed of all obligations, since he did neither have to visit an old aunt nor friends who lived anywhere closer than a hundred kilometres away. And Gerlinde, lying next to him, too, did not seem to be anywhere near waking up. Instead, judging by the noise she made, she was still deep in slumber and dreaming of SCUBA-diving in the Red Sea or the Dead Sea?

At such conditions, no normal person – let alone Carl – could be expected to unwrap himself from his beautifully warm bed: after all, the sum of all the threatening evil of this probably dawning morning had the sole purpose of making his already – due to low blood pressure – bad morning mood even worse.

Who could and would take responsibility for that? , thought Carl with still heroically closed eyes while he rolled from left to right on his bed with rather little elegance and accompanied by plenty of moaning. However, this last motion was immediately corrected because his snoring Gerlindy, to his total surprise, also turned towards him, blowing a gust the strength of six to eight directly into his face in the process. It really sounded like she actually needed to free her mouth of the salty sea water.

After having returned to his original position, Carl rested irresolutely for quite a while, strictly sticking to his self-chosen darkness. He was wondering if it might be a good idea to go back to sleep or if it was perhaps already time to prepare breakfast.

In fact, there was a tricky idea trying to find its way into his already neurally activated brain cells: should he maybe, now that we were in the middle of advent time, just for once and for the first time ever, prepare Sunday breakfast? This would mean he could present the surprise of the century to a still industriously snoring Gerlinde at the very moment she would be surfacing both from slumber and from the warm floods of the Red Sea. Said surprise being a beautifully laid breakfast table by yours truly that contained all the morning delicacies she liked every morning, including her beloved strong coffee…

What a great inspiration and fantastic display of his love towards his always hard-working Gerlinde who had started going back to work half a year ago and appreciated every help at home so much more. Yes – even regardless of his still reduced operating mode, he recognized a sudden growth of a tiny plant of enthusiasm. It was accompanied by a touching warmth that not only spread in his head but also started to tentatively envelop all his extremities…
It was a beautiful feeling!

In fact, it was an extremely beautiful feeling! It was inspiring and stimulating – but also just a little worrying – found Carl if he was totally honest with himself and also if he did not close his eyes before the fact that, with all this enthusiasm, he found it rather hard to keep his eyes closed!

And this was not all!

All of a sudden, he also had the alarming feeling that something unknown and alien started growing inside him. It pushed and pulled him. It felt like an ugly parasite draining him of his strength and drinking it all up.
That was not nice! It was not nice at all!

Carl felt with immediate precision: if he now were to give in to these unsettling powers, then the night would be over and the perhaps already dawning morning with it. That was something he could not at all allow to happen, thought Carl. And above all, it was not advisable for him to now open his eyes and at long last fall into this second darkness that always was such a problem for him and that always left him extremely depressed …

The only thing that promised help in this situation was his second pillow! As always, his snoring Gerlinde had assumed possession of it. So he grabbed it back quite unceremoniously. And even while he, as so often, wrapped it around his head, he started counting tonelessly to himself – and when he reached number three-thousand-eight-hundred-and-seventy, he was actually asleep!

The only thing that eventually woke a Carl who felt reborn were Gerlinde’s energetic twice uttered summons from the kitchen: “Breakfast is waiting”.

Comfortable yawning and stretching in all directions, he was visibly content about having manfully resisted this more than alarming breakfast threat with all its foreseeable consequences for the future.

Now Carl felt he could actually face the second darkness and opened his eyes with a smile …

KH
(Translated by EG)

Klaus Hnilica
Thursday November 9th, 2017

Get Yourself a Beer…

Miriam was a minx!

Everybody knew it – so Hermann, too, knew it.

But, being the youngest, the farm was going to fall to him. It was the biggest farm in Erleinsbach, but it was rather run-down and indebted!

On Sundays, when everybody – except Hermann who stopped going there a long time ago – met in the surrounding pubs for their regulars, the state this farm was in was simply commented with “yes, Hermann does not have an easy life!” – if you were lucky. More often than not, these words were then accompanied by either a sleazy grin or embarrassed silence. There were even some who actually spat on the ground whenever the farm was mentioned.

Hermann’s brothers and sisters were only too happy that, after having been hesitant for many years, he had agreed to be the heir of the farm. None of them would have wanted to burden himself with it. His older brother Korbinian preferred working as a carpenter in the neighbouring village of Kopfing and Annegret had married into a respectable and profitable farm when she was very young. For farmer Leitner, Annegret was a stroke of luck: she might not be the most attractive and snugly person, in fact, she was perhaps even a little frog-eyed, but she was as industrious as a honey bee. Her mother-in-law herself said so with pride whenever she wanted to show off in front of the neighbouring farmers. Annegret could work like no other. No haystack was too heavy for her, no tractor too big, no manure spreader too smelly – and even when she was round with a baby inside, she milked all the cows and cleaned the stalls.

My old lady is a true ’working animal’, the red-cheeked farmer Leitner would often contentedly say to the regulars at the pub before toasting his friends around the table with a full stein of beer.

But Miriam – she was not a ’working animal’!

Regardless, Hermann married her! Actually, he married her even though she was no longer the freshest fruit on the market and came with a fatherless child. Said child, however, was well cared for in Grieskirchen by Miriam’s aunt. So it was not much of s surprise that, under these circumstances, it was not easy for Miriam to find someone to marry in the vicinity of her home place Natternbach, where everyone knew everyone. Hermann actually fit the bill quite well!

Luckily, Miriam only saw her offspring Paula at funerals and marriage ceremonies. That was more than enough! Because whenever she laid eyes on Paula, Miriam was disappointed and angry to notice that her daughter looked just as unattractive and worn-down as her father who, as always, was still working as a butcher in Wels: why had Paula not inherited at least a little bit from her mother?

Yes, she knew how you made yourself up to look sexy and how you turned men’s heads with a high bosom and a steep bottom. Every one of the farmers turned his head when she appeared. But Paula? Perhaps a blind man would turn if she called something friendly after him …

Hermann rather liked Miriam’s Paula!

He had occasionally seen her at family gatherings and he had also once in a while pinched her well-rounded bottom! It was all, of course, in a very friendly manner – which meant her only reply was a laugh. He also knew Paula’s less-than-elegant father Josef. And, as opposed to all the others, Hermann was truly proud of her mother Miriam!

Yes – as proud as a peacock!

He would never ever have dreamed that such a ’nice lady’ would want him for a husband: him, who did not know how to behave, never looked very attractive and never had enough money. What could he offer to a lady like her?
Well – a farm – and a lot of dirty work along with it. From morning to night!
Miriam came from a family of craftsmen!

Her father had been a roofer. Her mother had always been particular about there always being a good meal and two bottles of beer on the table when he came home after a hard day’s work. But still, she could not prevent his death, one morning when it rained and he fell from one of the steep church roofs. Cervical dislocation – and a multiple broken spine!

Subsequently, Miriam’s mother had had to feed herself and her daughter, who more and more grew into a beautiful, well-rounded thing, by cleaning and cooking for others. Small wonder that said Miriam swore to herself that she was absolutely going to marry a man who could offer her more than her clumsy father had offered to her mother. Or than this fat Josef who had given her Paula in a state of total alcohol stupor but could barely pay the alimonies for her.

And it was absolutely out of the question that she would one day clean after others as her mother now had to do all the year round. That was not for her. No, she would rather remain by herself and dry out slowly – as her mother had predicted!
Perhaps Miriam looked so attractive to Hermann because she neither looked like a farmer’s wife nor ever wanted to become one?

Hermann had always had a certain tendency towards wanting to feel superior to others. Even at school. Korbinian and Annegret had shown the same tendency and had often been ostracized by the other farmers.

Above all, Hermann admired Miriam’s satiny, light skin! Her face never showed the frost bite marks that shone when you danced and were so common for farmers’ wives. She knew how to dress and would not have looked out of place as a salesperson in Linz.

While he kept telling his siblings and other stupid folks that he certainly could not have cared less about this ’roofer’s daughter Miriam’, Hermann – regardless of some warnings – probably was less than alert when the decisive moment came: it came as a total surprise to everybody when, one day, and in the middle of harvest time at that, he stood in front of the altar with Miriam at his side.

From day one she made it clear to a not really surprised Hermann that there was no way she was going to play farmer’s wife and, perhaps, later even wipe his bottom.

Miriam had other plans and saw to it that she was immediately entered into the register for Hermann’s farm in order to, at long last, get the loan from the Grieskirchen bank she needed for fulfilling her life’s dream: opening a bar in Wels!

Her counsellor at the bank had, during very personal conversations, drawn a very rosy picture of the goldmine that was sitting here waiting for her if she was willing to approach the affair with him and the right power, provided she did not allow the always tired little Hermann to interfere.
The farm as a security made everything possible, the industrious gentleman from the bank assured her. And Miriam, outfitted in her nice Dirndl dresses, did her best to keep him in line!

However, the initial euphoria did not last long: to be sure, the Dirndl dresses were still looking pretty good, since she mostly worked only wearing her underwear or even less, but the bar dream had become pure fiction and she had received quite a few not too nice ’scars’. Thanks to her youth, however, said scars were still something one could camouflage if nicely dressed and wearing full war paint.

Besides, Miriam was not stupid. From her bank consultant, she had learned between all the cuddling, sweaty moaning and the occasional slab in the face how, even through heavy waters, you could find a safe haven for your nest-egg in various tax paradises.

And, soon after the strange bank guy, Dario, whom she had first met in the Linz ’Rosenstüberl’ showed her all the things she could do with her nest-egg in Southern Spain.

Since Hermann’s shabby farm had never brought the profit he had predicted, it was only fair that he now remained back having to deal with the debt!
When Dario gave her an ultimatum about delivering and eloping with him, she called to Hermann that, for her, time was definitely too precious to waste her best years with his kind.

Looking at how he, Hermann, ran his farm and made one mistake after the other, she was sure that, even in a hundred years, he was not going to make a success of this ’pigsty of a farm’ – those were the words she hissed at him as she stood in the front door wearing her red pantsuit. Meanwhile, Hermann was busy on the farm throwing the freshly produced dung in ever higher arcs onto the dung- heap – and, as always, he said nothing!

“Why don’t you throw yourself after the dung right into the dung-heap, Hermann? After all, that would be the right place for a loser like you”, she screeched hysterically before driving out of the farm in his old Mercedes. All that was now left on the farm were three pigs, two old cows, one sheep and some remaining straw that also already started getting mouldy; all other income had been sold immediately after the harvest in order to at least pay the most pressing parts of the debt to the bank.

Deep in his heart, Hermann actually shared Miriam’s analysis, although seeing her leave in such a shabby way cut right into his heart.
Without much thought, Hermann simply tried to continue as before after this disaster with Miriam: during the day, he moonlighted for some people he knew in the neighbouring villages as a mason, and in the evenings, he crawled through the shabby remainders of his farm with little enthusiasm and in an even worse mood.

Once in a while, at least his sister Annegret came for a visit. She did his laundry, cleaned his kitchen and, twice a year, cleaned the windows in his bedroom and the big living room. Without her, he would have drowned in his own dirt.

The only light at the end of the tunnel of this sad existence for Hermann was – Miriam’s Paula – who, for some strange reason had taken to him. Or maybe she simply wanted to make her stupid mother angry!

Fact was, Dear Paula, as he called her, still appeared on his front door in Grieskirchen every few months and stayed either a short while or a little longer, depending on how she liked it. And grumpy Hermann would always suddenly feel better: he even shaved, washed himself, wore a clean shirt and one of the two pairs of jeans he owned and drove to Natternbach with Dear Paula to go shopping. After all, she would always cook something delicious for him in the evening and afterwards sit with him over beer and egg liquor.

She also merrily told him about her work as a hairdresser, asked extensive questions about his ailments and watched whatever nonsense he wanted to see on TV.

And three times a year, she even persuaded him to have his hair cut by her – a procedure that always ended with terrible fuss and laughter, especially when, regardless of his most intense opposition, she relished in treating the abundance of hair in his ears and nose.

She also tamed the wilderness above his eyes! And as far as his sparse top hair was concerned, there were literally the most violent discussions and rounds of giggling about the appropriate length of every individual string of hair. And when, afterwards, his eyelids fell down from sheer exhaustion, she guided him into his smelly bedroom next to the big living room before taking her seat in her car and again making herself scarce …

They never talked about her mother – that was an unspoken, silent agreement that was strictly adhered to, no matter how much they had imbibed.
 
But then, after what felt like a hundred years – on a November evening – Miriam suddenly appeared in the big living room! She looked as bent as an old wardrobe and as dry as her already dead mother …

Hesitantly, she said:

“A good day to you, Hermann!“

The no longer slim Hermann – with a damaged hip and a hurting knee – lay on the sofa in front of the TV set in a strangely contorted way, glanced briefly at her, took a huge gulp from the beer bottle that sat within easy reach on the floor next to the sofa and kept looking exclusively at the TV screen…

“Do you no longer know me, Hermann?“

“Oh yes, I know you!“

“And you have nothing to say?“

“Naa…“!

“May I sit down …?“

“Take the stool near the oven.“

“Thank you, Hermann.“

“And help yourself to a beer!“

“I no longer drink beer, Hermann!“

“All of a sudden?“

“Aren’t you not going to ask why?“

“Well, I guess you will tell me!“

“I! – I – I – have cancer …!“

“Is that also my fault?“

“Naa – it is not why I am here …“

“Then why?“

“Because I do not know where to go?“

“Why?“

“Because I am ashamed – because of all I did!“

“Hark, hark …“!

“Well, you know, I am really ashamed, Hermann.“

“Before whom?“

“Before your siblings – and Paula – and all the others.“

“And not before me?“

“No, Hermann, not before you!“

“Aha.“

“Well, it is the truth …“

“Well, if that is how you feel?

“Yes, that is how I feel …“

“You do not look too well!

“I know, Hermann!“

“Are you hungry …?“

“No – I cannot eat normal food any more.“

“Where is the problem?“

“The intestines …!“

“Hm – I understand…“

“I no longer have any strength …“

“Me neither!“

“Stupid – with me, this is really true …“

“With me, too …“

“Are you going to send me away?“

“Naa – you can make up your bed in our bedroom, if that is what you want!“

“Thank you, Hermann“.

“I assume you know where to find everything?“

“Yes – Hermann…“

“I can help you if you want me to …?“

“Not necessary, go ahead and drink you beer …“

“Okay“…

When Miriam had made her half of the shared marital bed, she lay down in it, pushed the cover over her head and after this day never rose again.

And when, on Christmas Eve, she kept moaning and crying out loud with pain, Hermann patted her with his rough hands – until she became very still …

KH
(Translated by EG)

You know, even as a child, I rather liked Rumplestiltskin! It was such an exciting thing to listen how the fairy was dancing in front of the fire in the dark wood – and how it sang “Lucky me that no one knows that my name is Rumplestiltskin”. In fact, it was so exciting that I really cannot find words to describe it…

Yes, and then, a few sentences later, when the fairy self-exploded in front of the princess later in the story – that was just great! What a consistency and courage – to just self-explode! I never forgot this impressive image!

But here comes the moment of truth! This unappetizing “Rumplestiltskin Affair”. I am sure you, too read about it in the media: it is about an affair between the European upper nobility and a German Mr. Müller!

The kings and the Müllers are said to have behaved quite evilly and a lot of money was allegedly involved!

European money – of course!

To be precise, said Müller – i.e. a certain ’Soy-Bean Müller’ – who has the world leader soy bean mail-order house in his backhand, is said to have tried to make gold out of straw together with an extremely respectable European dynasty!

Mind you, this was regardless of the fact that he, Müller, does not even own straw. He only owns ’soy bean cake’. That is basically just the waste from soy flour production – but no straw!

However, for straw, the European Commission would have granted considerable subsidies from its agrarian fond. But not for cake, i.e. ’soy cake’!

Naturally, this was not good news for the soy flour mail-order house and its stock. In fact, it was actually a catastrophe. After all, stock, too, is just human, i.e. there are persons hidden behind the stock.

Persons with all their strengths and weaknesses. Just like with Müller’s small daughter Annegret who had always had a certain weakness for everything that smelled of royalty.

That is especially true for last year’s ’Vienna Opera Ball’, where she danced left-waltz with an extremely sweet young king. Left-waltz until she was dizzy and sank into the blue-blooded arms of the young king.

Due to the low stock-exchange rate, those same arms need much persuasion before they led her to the marriage altar. It did not come as a surprise that not only the love of these two doves immediately grew, but also the stock exchange rate of the ’soy flour mail-order house’. Did they grow, or what?

Consequently, it took only a few days until this activity caused a grumbling in the world of the financially potent oligarchs and a so-called ’Rumplestiltzkin ’ appeared. Nobody knew who it was and where it came from and what its name really was.

But being an industrious person, said ’Rumplestiltzkin’ had no problem getting the delegates of Romania, Bulgaria and of the newly wed kingdom to vote in her favour at the European Commission. Consequently, a majority supported the concept that ’soy-cakes’ are to be declared straw in the future and thus they are gold-coated with EU money!

It is unbelievable what Rumplestiltzkin can do and it is certainly a good thing that nobody knows its real name…

The news that the Austrian rum producer ’Straw’, too, allegedly was part of the deal in that he is said to have delivered a considerable amount of 85% ’Straw-Rum’ to the president of the European Council Junker and thus also acted in the role of Rumplestiltzkin is only one of those fake news from Russia. After all, we all know that Russia constantly aims at destabilizing the European Union!

Which, under Putin, does not come as a surprise to anybody!

The same applies to the news that the newly married ’soy flour queen’ was now allegedly impregnated by this suddenly appearing Rumplestiltzkin – rather than by the European High Nobility?

What additional shameless defamation! Those lousy Russian hackers were not even kind enough to give credit to her handsome Pilates coach in their disinformation campaign against the young queen. It is truly something that could give you offspring!

Which is exactly what happened.

But this evil pregnancy defamation is at least a good explanation for Rumplestiltzkin by all means wanting to get hold of the new-born child of the young queen, isn’t it? Of course, it is because it does not want a paternity test, and it was not at all eager to pay alimony for an entire Rumplestiltzkin life on top of having acted extremely beneficial. This is absolutely clear!

The queen was in a similar situation: she wanted to keep her new-born child without proof of paternity. And she did not hesitate to rub Rumplestiltzkin’s nose into what she wanted via twitter, along with 10 million followers!

Maybe she should not have done that. Being nobility and all! Twittering all the time! Because the Russian secret service read it all and then threatened the allegedly Russian Rumplestiltzkin with filing suit before the European Court of Law for prince robbery …

What is not really believable – and for me personally, this is rather a disappointment – is that this unknown Rumplestiltzkin is said to have angrily self-exploded afterwards. Just like the one in the fairy tale!

And they say it happened right before the blue eyes of the soy-floury queen who did not want to let go of her child. Isn’t it awful? Just self-exploding and ending up in two parts. From top to bottom. Atrocious!

After all, today, after 300 years of cultural evolution, you can do the job far more elegantly by tying an explosive from the internet to your belt!
Such a method would also have been far more media-friendly!

And we all would have certainly been able to download the atrocious event in no time through our smartphones from some video supervision camera or other immediately after Rumplestiltzkin’s self-explosion. In other words: we would all have been there – in fact, all Europe would have been there!

Thee usual stereotypical condemnation of the deed by all the politicians, too, would have been noticed by far more citizens – than this silent, ego-maniac ’Rumplestiltzkin self-exploding’!

Even the IS did not find it worthy of claiming responsibility!

It really is a pity! What a pity that Rumplestiltzkin failed so miserably! Everybody would have benefited from a proper explosion? I mean You, You and You! All of Us! Europe would have been truly united by such an explosion! At long last, what belongs together would have come together. What a pity …

KH
(Translated by EG)

Klaus Hnilica
Thursday October 12th, 2017

Failed Emancipation

Carl and Gerlinde (Instalment #54)

“Waiter – please bring a double cognac as fast as possible …!“,  Carl cried out excitedly while he was literally gulping air …

“Under way”, groaned the waiter while hurrying along his table. Thick drops of perspiration were building on his broad forehead.

“Whatever is the matter with you, Carl? Is it really necessary that you start filling up on cognac this early in the morning, when morning has hardly broken?”, Gerlinde irritably asked while taking a small sip of her freshly pressed orange juice with a worried expression on her face.

“Fear thee not, Gerlinde, I only need something really stiff to digest the news I am just reading in the paper here!“

“So – what sort of news is it?“ Gerlinde asked with raised eyebrows.

“Just imagine, the king of Saudi-Arabia and his very ambitions sun Mohamed bin Salam actually now, in the 21st century, want to allow women to drive cars!“

“How come?“

“Well – starting on June 2018 – women in Saudi-Arabia will be permitted behind the wheel of a car even without the consent of their husbands. Isn’t that absolutely maniac?“.

“Great! But as I know these brothers, there will certainly be some foul exhortation idea behind the deal… “

“Perhaps – but before you judge them too quickly, my dear, maybe we should remember that in Germany, too, the husband had the exclusive right to say what his wife and children should do until 1958.“

“Hm – great! But at least the women did not have to wear veils, did they“?

“No, they did not have to do that – but even if men allowed their wives to work, they were the ones who decided what happened with the incomes!“

“Super – that is what pimps still do for their sidewalk birds, isn’t it? “.

“Correct. The world is still as it should be in this patriarchal milieu!“

“It seems to me that you really need more cognac, Carl! If you are under the influence of alcohol, you definitely do not talk quite as much nonsense …“

“Yes, but only because I mostly go to sleep immediately! But where is this incompetent waiter now with my medicine?“

“Perhaps the waitress is quicker”, said Gerlinde. She jumped up and set a not-bad-looking young waitress onto the path of the dreamy waiter.

“And besides, if their husbands had not consented”, Carl, who obviously now knew no peace, continued, “women were not allowed to open their own bank accounts until 1962. How does that strike you?“

“There you see, my dear Carl, that is exactly why I absolutely do not wish to marry. I certainly would not want that to happen to me!“

“However, my dearest Gerlinde, this precaution is not necessary, because ever since 1969, every married woman in Germany is fully contractually capable.“

“Wow – that means everything really went at breath-taking speed with respect to the emancipation of the females – I am sure the CSU was the absolute pacemaker …“

“You mocker”, Carl smirked. He was still waiting for his cognac and getting more and more impatient …

“You are really poorly off with your cognac, Carl! In the meantime, would you like to take a sip of my orange juice? …“

“Excuse me! Has the day come when we men can no longer even drink our own cognac ?…“

“Carl, I will soon break out in tears“!

“Yes, please do – because otherwise I will have to do it”, Carl moaned.

“But there is truly no reason for you to do that, my dear Carl – with the exception that your cognac does not arrive, you men have no reason at all to lament, do you?“

“Oh – oh – and what about the ’Female Federal Chancellor Forever’; she is not only Honecker’s Late Revenge but also the Revenge of all Women Against Men for suffered wrongs!“

“As always, you are exaggerating, Carl!“

“I am not exaggerating at all, because the ’Female Federal Chancellor Forever’ would even be elected by all the women and elderly persons if she were ’a mounted specimen’  …“

“You know, instead of talking such nonsense, you probably had better get your own house in order “!

“Why is that..?“

“Why don’t you look at all the ’male specimens’ – for example the wonderful Herrn Schulz – or the kissing Herrn Junker – or the divine Mr. Trump – along with the grinning Kim Jong Un – or the eternal Bavarian drooling Herrn Seehofer… or – or – or … compared to those honourable gentlemen, even a ’preserved specimen of the Female Chancellor’ looks like an improvement to me …“

“Well, unfortunately, and as an exception to the rule – and very reluctantly – I have to agree with you, dear Gerlinde: the guild of men currently active is really a unique example for the word pitiful!“

“There you see, Carl …“! – when Gerlinde said this she had enough tact to suppress all display of triumph!

“But still, God has mercy on us men, Gerlinde: because at long last, my very dearly craved cognac is arriving!“

In fact, the friendly waitress suddenly came scuffling from nowhere and placed a huge brandy balloon – into which Carl might actually have jumped directly – in front of him under a thousand apologies and manoeuvres for the endless waiting time. And before Gerlinde could look around properly, his head actually already hung in the balloon up to his neck…

This was the only possible explanation for the fact that Carl, immediately after the cute waitress had vanished as picturesquely as a gazelle, could come up with the dry statement that, regardless of all currently felt superiority of the females, nobody could seriously doubt that even this lovely waitress was still moving on a pair of ’waiting upper legs’  …so why would we need a superiority complex? When all was said and done, women were, like in all times, basically just ’a piece cut out of man’, weren’t they?

KH
(Translated by EG)