August 7th
Dad, Sabine, Micha and I went to the Beer Mile today. It’s a mile down Frankfurter Allee, where you can just stroll past stalls selling beers and snack food from all over the world.
It was absolutely packed, so we just went to this wicked steak house right next to it, where we had the best view on the things. People-watching is just the funnest thing ever. No other place will you find such fine specimen of Germans. You got everything. Mulletude. Socks and sandals. This place was a nest of Eurotrash. Some men were so drunk that they had to be held by their wives/mates/dogs. You can image how all that booze would hit the system with temperatures being in the 90s range.
My personal pet peeve (rather, pet shudder) is men in shorts. And when I say shorts, I mean tight hot pants, the kind they used to wear in the 70s/80s.
I distrust men in hot pants. A lot of them seem to stuff them with socks as well. It just freaks me out… but that just may be because of the handful of pervs I have encountered in my life, old men who felt the need of choking the chicken/spanking the monkey/beating the bishop or whatever you may call it on various trains in my presence. Some people tell me I should take it as a compliment, but honestly, who wants to be jerk-off material for some disgusting old gits? Anyways, many of these creeps were notorious hot-pants-wearers, so male hot pants set off all alarm bells in me.
Speaking of that, Thursday night on my way home I saw another of those guys. Typical scum, red spotty alcoholic’s face, cheap homemade tattoos, dirty tracksuit. Came in, sat down in my booth. And shoved his hand down his pants to readjust himself about 7 times in the space of 5 minutes. Needless to say I changed seats pretty quickly before things could get any worse.
God, I’m flypaper for freaks.
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