I saw the picture of a little monkey in a coat strolling over a parking lot. This made me crave for a glass of Schnaps, what triggered the memory of castle Schnapsfürmich, what leads us directly to Bretzelburg.
Bretzelburg is a German-speaking country in Europe, next to Maquebasta. The capital, Krollstadt, can be reached by Schnellzug via Paris-Brussels-Zürich-Krollstadt in just a few hours. Sadly neither Krollstadt nor Maquebasta are on the web – even Molvania made it! -, while the Bretzelburg-forum-site (in French!) could use a bit of maintenance. Bretzelburg, one of the last constitutional monarchies in Europe, is known for some strange political meandering in the 60s of the last century, depicted in FRANQUIN‘s (Ger., Eng., Fr.) QRN sur Bretzelburg (Ger., Eng., Fr.). The bad boys in those days drove a black Mercedes (see here), and just to the right of the poor sad monkey, who triggered all this, we see the back end of a black Mercedes – it can’t be a coincidence.

Home is … whatever …

Besides the obvious, a private bathroom and a wine cellar (or at least a well sorted superette a few side streets away) the best thing when returning home is the fact that the internet flows out of the box in the wall, and does not drip onto my screen via stick blop by blop like bird shit – splat: the news; splat: an image; nothing; nothing; splat:  a blog … you get the idea.
The wine cellar – ah, whom do I fool here: The dirt cheap supermarket 5 minutes away that sells the cheap plonk, where the alcohol departement is as large as cleaning products and canned food combined, and where you can ask nearly anytime a panel of experts on the difficult pro and cons of white, red and nondescript hooch, swill and rotgut; said institution right at hand is also a big plus for home, because the area where the book mines are located is dry. Something with responsibility and giving example and whatnot for the learning youth. The good thing btw is that it gets really enforced, there simply is no booze in the institution and that is that. Drink or firing squad.
Other things may depend. I mean in the mines I can go to the mensa and get fed with what one calls Hausmannskost, all very biological and kindgerecht. Did I mention that it’s an agricultural institution, they grow most of the food themselves, are extremely well-connected and all – sell them crap and your business is a nice memory. Looking at the cans in the superette … no details, bucket please.
Another big plus for home is silence. The learning youth is noisy, and – when over 18 – noisy on wheels. And because enlightenment hit the small earldom hard in the 18th century the main country roads (chaussees) are still today cutting in direct lines through the area: Wer bremst, verliert. M.SCHUHMACHER, legend.
Exactly, the man knows what he’s talking about, maybe he learned the trade in Middle Franconia. Riding on a bus sitting 170 cm above ground is nice. Just today I was chitchating with the driver about forensic details on the B13, when we were nearly hit by a fool in an Audi, and by an inch we could have had first hand material for an autopsy. My driver reacted cool but was angry because he nearly had rolled his ciggy and then had to start anew. But by now we had to go over twisting country lanes – his timing would have been perfect, damn Audi drivers …
The books around myself here are in my possession. But to whom do they belong? Sometimes I think they and all of their confratres do own me. The book mine belongs to the institution, but was neglected for a long time. The library shows first signs of resuscitation, and starts to gnaw at me; I think it will come alive and possibly suck me in. I heard through the grapevine that there are ideas to install it again in an historical building, a bit outwith the main buildings / yards / campus, where the learning youth mainly makes noise. I think I have to pen a project description of sorts.
This can wait. Right now I have to stagger through Bloggsville and leave behind important comments. I start with this joint …




That is what Amanda’s fine shark-kidden reminded me of.
It is by Franquin, the creator of Gaston Lagaffe, from an album “Schwarze Gedanken / Idées Noires“. The german wikipedia-article is not bad. Sorrily I found no examples of his “black thoughts” available on the web.