An Open letter of Complaint and should I have to use a hammer to shape my dinner? More Chronicles of an African Anarchist in Germany.

Today I worked very hard. Up at the crack of… me hitting my own face as one the sneaky mozzies must have got through the fag hole I accidently burnt in my window shield. Then it dawned on me, it was time to wake up and I immediately got cracking.

So, it was the crack of dawn (hah-hah, stupid idioms), and after getting organised, such as peruse my sales, listen to the wails and moans on SKY News (enough to make you desire to amputate Andy Murry’s legs off – and why not, they seemed to be very tired attached to him – let them simply walk away from his complaints), and mounting Die Hard, set out for my next destiny with anarchy.

Unfortunately, it all went rather smoothly, besides the fact that after we loaded the trailer with enough dry sticks to make a really great bonfire, I flatly refused to drive.

It turns out that the entire load was for a fence and the brake lights didn’t work on the trailer.

As an honest ex-copper, I didn’t quite like any of this information. I thought I worked for an honourable firm! I wondered if my partner’s real name was Uriah Heep because he was certainly old enough.

It was explained that the wood was for us to MAKE a fence - as in a barrier between two properties. Oh no, not again. Two weeks ago, doing that nonsense, I was hit on the head by a giant stick, had my nose smashed and staggered around with blood pouring down my face. (That story is still in the making.)

Besides. Recalling the Rhodie ‘Good Old Days’ - didn’t White Bwana stand around drinking beer, chatting with the properties owner, whilst occasionally shouting at his faithful labourers to dig deeper and faster, pull wires tighter because the sport’s club opens at 4.30.

Whatever. One furious argument later, the ancient cretin decides he will drive even though he shouldn’t. He gets dizzy spells. Me thinks – crash = compensation and there is the hope the airbag saves my stunning looks.

Well, besides the relic rotting from the inside out, resulting in the most amazing tunes of bacterial redemptions of Bavaria’s scary composer Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana  everything went, well - ‘cool beans’

Extremely disappointed that nothing out of the extraordinary had happened to me today besides a job well done (yawn), I toodled home in the autumn heat and pondered what I should have for my din-dins. The first din I put on was Trance Radio. Excellent to turn your mind into mush and write mushy stories.

(WARNING – the term ‘Mushie’ down here is a pet name for a fur burger. I was caught out many years ago when asked, via my translating German girlfriend, if I enjoyed my meal which had been made by her mother. I had been invited for din-dins because they wanted to actually meet the mad man who was skewering their daughter as a version of a Rhodie kebab. Chirping up – ‘Tell your Mom the meal was Mushy, and did she make it herself?’ - started a long war.)

Anyway, after checking out how many plonkers have been saying nasty things about me via the ‘Socialising Networks’, Email, Amazon etc etc, I popped two chicken legs into a pan with mushrooms and onions (Oh No, I just remembered I forgot the peppers! They are going a bit soft. Can’t be arsed – I am writing a story.)

But, what was I going to have with them? Now, this is the bit where this mad anecdote is building up to. Check out this picture – It is entitled – Grill- & Pfannen – Kartoffel

Now, you neither have to understand German or be a half wit to understand what it shows on the box cover. It is very simple. Nicey-nicey, sort of mashed potatoes riddled with spices and stuff, shaped like oval mini cakes that are easy to grill or fry. Job done.

 

Imagine my horror (oh-oh, you are all saying – now what?), THIS is what I found inside – (see picture).

Me thinks – Bloody hell, I have been shafted or the firm are complete idiots. WTF? Not being a complete simpleton, I sniffed around with my eyeballs (bulging with hatred) and checked out the small print on the side of the box. I was stunned almost speechless (which isn’t hard because not even my ‘friends’ Skype anymore.).

There, the liars, explain in very small print (so small I had to use the magnifying glass on my Swiss Army knife), that contrary to what it shows on the box, you have been conned into buying two potatos cut in half and sprinkled with a smattering of weeds.

I nearly had a hernia. I thought maybe there was some mistake and I had forgotten to pick up the cake shaper and a hammer to beat them into some resemblance of the picture on the box. But no. I paid a fortune for two mangy potatos.

I mean- like. I work for a very professional, well respected firm. It runs as smooth as StP car additive until, erm - I am the additive. But they tolerate that…still.

It is like, they show you this –

You, the customer sign his/her life savings away and is rather upset when he/she gets this! And when they moan – they are waved the small print in their faces.

No, I will not take this standing up. I will sit down and send a strong worded letter to this firm, that ironically, is just down the road and my youngest was born in the town. He hasn’t spoken to me since…

Shower time and then beat potatos into shape – stay well and stay tuned for another episode of – FAME, remember my name – Eish.

Disclaimer – On a serious side. This is another bit of pure satire and ‘piss-take’. It is what I do. I intend no harm to individuals or corporations. I just like to make people laugh. My antics are based on the truth, but, highly exaggerated. (In case you didn’t clock...)

(Written in three hours, unedited, based on what happened today.)