The reason I wasn't sleeping well lately was the bunch of misguided gangsta birds fighting late night rap battles in the trees outside my house. They seem to have taken over the night shift in my hood from the local gang of nocturnal motor-scooter teens. Not too long ago, it had been them who ruled the darkness and gave my street its busiest time at around 1am. They would hang out under my window, race their little bikes up and down, make out and do other unspeakable things to each other and the street. But since it had become colder outside, their attention seeking hoots and the machine gun noise of their two stroke engines had been replaced by the evil twitter of MC Chirrup & Da WarBirds. At least I had thought that the reason was the falling temperatures. Only very recently I found out that the weather wasn’t to blame for the shift in the balance of power on sleeping Avenue E.

That night I came home late from a soiree hosted by one Indian chef, when the parking spot in front of my house was taken. Of course I was upset, rightfully so. Over the past year my car had gone to great lengths in marking its territory with a pronounced oil spill in the shape of a big black N, even blind people would have noticed, painfully. Still, that Renault Twingo had managed to completely ignore the ancient laws of the art of parking and blocked several spots, including mine. But since it was late and my usual contact at the police had probably long bedded his head on the pillow covering his gun, I bit the bullet and parked in the main street. When passing my neighbours’ houses on the walk back to mine, I noticed the blue flickering of running TVs in the windows. Normally that wouldn’t have caught my attention, but this time the same blue light emerged from every window in the street. As you know, peeking into other people’s windows has never given me a guilty conscience, so I climbed over every fence in the neighbourhood and pulled myself up to each window sill and took a look inside ...

... And there I found the scooter teens. Every single one of them. Each behind their window. Sleeping on their couches in front of their TVs. 104-button remote controls topping their stomachs, majestically rising and sinking to the rhythm of their breath, and dusty ashtrays sitting at arm's length on the glass'n'wood coffee tables. Their slumbering faces clearly showed the still unfamiliar burden of Responsibility, peppered with a good portion of Confusion. Their scooters, they had shrunk them to model size, so they would fit on top of the mantel shelves, where now they were meant to rest and rot and ring of riots past.
Kids no more they were. Evolved they had during the last month, from adolescents into adults.

Nonsense, you might say. One cannot grow up in a couple of weeks. But it’s perfectly possible, if you think about it. You know what these times are like and the kids of today. Everything runs so much faster than back when we were young and annoying. I’m certain nowadays the average boy starts shaving at age 13 to lure a beard. Girls probably even earlier. Cause hairy legs might cost you the popularity vote and Santa Claus doesn’t come to the ugly kid. And when they turn 16 they take daddy’s guns and head out to school to make the news. Yup, that about sums it up.
Anyhow, the scooter teens had suddenly grown up and when I reached my house, I got my gun and shot the noisy birds that had taken their place. I didn’t leave a single one alive and after it was done, I disassembled the rifle, religiously cleaned every single one of the 8 pieces and stowed all them all back in the black case on top of my wardrobe. It was the first time I had taken the gun down since my retirement in 2003.

Nach menschlichem Versagen ist Batteriesterben die häufigste Ursache für alles und dies und jenes.

Gerade ist ein Norweger meine Ausrede, mich nicht der ueberfaelligen Durchsicht einiger ueberfaelliger Dokumente anzunehmen. Der Mensch telefoniert nebenan und sein Gesang hypnotisiert mich.
Aber das Problem liegt tiefer. Tiefenhypnose wuerde eventuell Schreckliches an die Oberflaeche schwemmen. Beispielsweise koennte sich herausstellen, dass mein Vomeronasalorgan trotz scheinbar einwandfreier Papiere von einem norwegischen Spender stammt.

jobangebot nach nooffice lektuere im internetcafe

Kannst Du mich mal?

Mein erstes Golfturnier gewann ich auf einem 1-Wasserglass-Platz aus Holzdielen, 32 ueber par. Das war gestern abend.
Einige Stuenden spaeter schlug ich Vijay Singh am Abschlag mit einem 10er Eisen.

When I woke up this morning, roused by the sweet, silvery countertenor of that happy little rooster that used to sing songs of love and promiscuity in front of my window back home in Germany, but died a sudden death of prostration last winter, while celebrating the marriage to a young, sateless biddy, and now only lives on in a recording on my alarm clock ... well, when I woke up this morning and glanced out of the window with one dozy eye, I saw the trash collectors picking up the bags and I wondered if there's any female garbagemen (resp. garbagewomen) in Europe.
Later, while the refuse lorry drove off into the rising sun and I found myself absorbed in that thought, gazing into the void, I decided that it was a good thought to begin the day with.

Some years after your fellow females had paved the way for the Russian Revolution in 1905, the 8th of March had even been proclaimed an official holiday (not just) for the working women, by that guy who now spends his retirement in one of the Saatchis' backyard. However, his sphere of control only spanned the realm of the Soviet Union and affiliates, which is why you spend this year's international day of the working woman ... well ... working.

Disclaimer: No animals were harmed or killed in the making of this text. The rooster was old and would soon have died of a swollen cockscomb anyway. And for the nymphomaniac chicken he rode in the moment of his passing and who he burried with his body, well, she's not a cold, dead hen, but managed to work her way out. A few hours later she fell in love with 3 of the neighbor's rabbits and still is to this day. Nonparous, but sexually satisfied.

According to Einstein's theory of relativity, the huge mass of a black hole can bend space and impact time. In a yet to be discovered annex to his groundbreaking paper, he proves the link between marshmallow consumption and the formation of black holes.

"I had no idea at the time that the pink glow my father had so admired in one of Bellini's paintings would be the inspiration for his famous cocktail," wrote Arrigo Cipriani in Harry's Bar: The Life and Times of the Legendary Venice Landmark. "Peaches are in abundance throughout Italy from June through September, and my father had a predilection for the white ones. So much so, in fact, that he kept wondering whether there was a way to transform this magic fragrance into a drink he could offer at Harry's Bar. He experimented by puréeing small white peaches and adding some prosecco [Italian champagne]. Those who tested this new concoction gave it rave reviews, and my father was encouraged to pursue his alchemy."
[aus Cocktail - Drink of the Week]

Dabei sei es doch ganz anders gewesen, wie mir ein befreundeter Bestattungsunternehmer erzählte, dessen Grossvater unter Guiseppe Cipriani hinter Harry's Bars Bar gearbeitet und eines Abends den Bellini erfunden habe.

Sonntags bin ich immer rastlos. Ohne zu wissen, wieso. Samstags nicht, nur Sonntags. Ich mag den Tag nicht. Würde ja gerne sagen, es läge daran, dass mich Untätigkeit stört. Doch zu tun gibt es genug, um die Einführung eines Jahres des Wochendes zu rechtfertigen. Sonntag ist so ein Tag, der kommt alle paar Minuten vorbei, bohrt dir den Finger in die Seite und nörgelt rum. "Wenn du nichts anderes unternimmst, dann hol' heute gefälligst die Liegenbleibsel der Woche nach!"
Es gibt Leute, die verschlafen den Tag bewusst, bis 16 Uhr mindestens. Leider kenne ich zu viele von denen, so dass ich dem Drängen des nervigen Sonntagskindes selten einen wichtigen Termin entgegenhalten kann. Also wache ich früh auf, vielleicht gegen 10, tue rastlos so, als ob ich etwas täte und fühle mich beobachtet. Mit geschäftig angestrengter Stirn verrücke ich Bücher, bemühe mich, den Eindruck zu erwecken, die Ordnung in meinem Regal stünde in direktem Zusammenhang mit dem Gleichgewicht der Welt. Wohin den dicken Wälzer stellen, ohne eine Kettenreaktion unabsehbarer Ereignisse auszulösen. Wer will es sich schon mit der Chaostheorie verscherzen. Drum erst einmal beiläufig wieder an den alten Platz, vorläufig.
Zwischendurch gehe ich in die Küche - eiligen Schrittes, offensichtlich ungehalten über die leider notwendige Unterbrechung - um etwas zum Trinken zu holen, in einem extra-kleinen Glas. Vor dem Fenster tut sich etwas. Ist sie nicht Teil der Schande unserer angereicherten Zeit, die Geringschätzung die wir alltäglichen Ereignissen entgegenbringen?! Der Wind rollt sanft die Verpackung eines Schokoriegels über die Einfahrt vor dem Haus. Am Bauch aufgerissen und achtlos umgebogen, gleicht sie für den Moment einer hässlichen Bananenschale und verschwindet, darob beschämt, wieder unter einem Auto. Ich spanne die Tränensackmuskeln an, knabbere an den Innenseiten meiner Lippen und gebe ein B-Film-reifes Gedankenverloren zum Besten. Das alles unter dem argwöhnischen Blick des Tages. Bis um 16 Uhr endlich die Welt erwacht.
Du, Sonntag, jetzt muss ich aber los.