The plagues of summer

We in the north are particularly badly hit by our long winter and above all by the long gray period in which the weather cannot make up its mind. After the New Year we sometimes wait for months in the drizzle, in the fog, in the gray pale light of the absent sun behind the kilometer-thick cloud cover.

Then, when the first warm days arrive sometime in early May, it’s as if we’ve held our breath underwater for too long, and with the last vestige of life inside us, we spring up to breathe.

We no longer rush from entrance to entrance to do errands, but – like the people of the South – we enter the streets to walk and linger, we sit in squares to see and to speak and to search every opportunity to gather in the open air.

But the plagues of summer are not long in coming. Once the warm weather settles in, they pop up one by one:

First: insects. In the form of moths, mosquitoes, wasps. These pests are manageable, you can easily defend yourself against them by killing them with a slipper, for example.

Second: The dog season begins! Already more difficult to manage since every dog ​​you want to beat to death with your slipper still has a human appendix attached. The combination of human and dog is a weird one anyway. People lead dogs around and they take the opportunity to immediately knock off as much urine and feces as possible in urban areas. The psychological meaning of this I suspect is: Dog owners like to urinate and defecate in public. Since this is associated with social disapproval, they have extracted her anus, placed it on a line in a kind of running buoy, given it an innocent name like “boatman” and are now taking it for a walk. With this simple trick, they hardly ever have to comply with the applicable stool regulations. In other words, they walk their own ani on a leash, allowing them to dump digests almost at will. It should be noted that a person with a dog is always a person with two assholes.

The biggest nuisance of the summer, however, is purely of human nature, it bears its name like a threat: bikers – more precisely: Harley riders.

Harley riders are their own offshoot of the male gender, which is inherently a perverse offshoot of the human gender. Harley riders are the crowning glory of this aberration of creation: rich, older men with a passion for freedom. They mistake the attention they receive when they drive through the inner cities of this country with an average sound level of 110 dB (ie the volume of an airplane taking off) with admiration. In fact, they believe that all the people who look at them in shock, irritation, annoyance, fear, or even disgust, do so out of respect, adoration, and interest. They enjoy their appearance and find it justified that all living beings in the vicinity of 500 meters around them can neither hear nor communicate for the time of their emergence, everyone should kindly keep quiet when they appear.

It is said that such men have small penises and have to sublimate their inferiority complexes with big machines. I do not believe that. I think that’s cheap, tasteless irony. I can’t laugh at jokes like that. Harley riders have ordinary penises, some of them might even be very nice ones. The problem is – their bags! They have disgusting fat full sacks lurking between their legs like vicious toads.

Attempt at a physical categorization: Their torsos are huge, brute towers, they appear powerful, massive, and are bursting with souped-up male organs, glands, muscles, tendons and, above all, spermatic cords. Harley riders produce lots of adrenaline, lots of testosterone and above all lots and lots of cum in their massive toad sacs. They are pumped to the brim with their own cum. The term sperm tanker seems appropriate because they could inseminate entire cities with one dump, even at the risk of drowning the residents. When they sweat, for example while training in the Harley Biker Center, their own sperm flows down their foreheads. When they have a cold, it runs out of their noses. And when they hurt themselves, sperm spills out of their veins. When Harley riders are sad – they cry sperm.

You have to be careful when touching them because they are always a little sticky and can fertilize instantly with any touch. This may sound positive and life-loving, but their fertility is complemented by their enormous aggressiveness. If possible, they want to beat first and then fertilize. I prefer to kill them first, but then fertilize them. So that the semen penetrates the egg when the inseminated person dies – erotique paradox.

In order to protect people from such an insemination exit, we should – like in the film “The Rattlesnake” – declare an entire city Harley-Town, a city that fits this image well. You could build a big fence around the city and lock up all the Harley riders in the world there – tens of thousands. And they could then drive endlessly in circles in this city, in a gigantic maelstrom, until they and the city – already completely insane from the infernal noise, the numbing exhaust gases, the bestial stench and the rivers of sperm – finally explode in an ultimate crescendo would. My suggestion for this city would be: Düsseldorf.

ROLLING STONE presents:

The big Rocko Schamoni Show 22

Our columnist is going on tour with his new album “All Ein”, playing new songs and reading his “Stupidity as a Way” lyrics. Also in Dusseldorf.

Fri 26.08. Barmstedt cultural cobbler’s shop
Tuesday 30.08. Cologne Gloria
Wed. 31.08. Dusseldorf Zakk
Thursday 01.09. Essen Zeche Carl
Sun. 18.09. Bremen slaughterhouse
Thursday 22.09. Hanover Pavilion
Wed. 28.09. Munich Volkstheater
Thursday 29.09. Vienna Rabenhof
Sat. 01.10. Hamburg playhouse
Sat. 15.10. Zurich cosmos
Sun. 16.10. Stuttgart Im Witzemann
Fri. 04.11. Goettingen Goettinger Literature Hebst
Tue. 13.12. Berlin Festsaal Kreuzberg

Author photo by Kerstin Behrendt