Dr. Cocoa Puffs

Vollidioten labern lassen verhindert Kapitalverbrechen

Monday, October 30, 2006

Oddities on the Net

Just when I think I can't stumble across anything weirder on the internet, I find this:

What makes it weird is the description.
More Boomer pics here.

Shaking my head in amazement...

Saturday, October 21, 2006

Dr. Klass and Good Service in the Vaterland

First things first: I was able to finish the sewing project with no further catastrophes. I'm now in possession of a pair of cords that don't drag on the ground making me trip over my own damn feet and look like more of an ass than usual. If I were more talented or the owner of a digital camera (hint, hint birthday and Christmas gift buyers!), I'd post some pictures of my sewing talent. Yay me!

Secondly, my junk food addiction has revealed a new, positive side of Hamburg to me. The other night the Guitar Hero dropped by a little sports bar/restaurant next door for some mozzarella sticks. This place, Paco's, has the best mozzarella sticks around and the Junk Food Slut in me was craving some. We've had some problems with them not having them in stock in the past, so imagine my horror when I discovered they no longer had them on the menu. Not on the menu! We asked the waitress if they really, truly didn't have them anymore. Luckily, the manager recognized us and our mozzarella dilemma and came over to explain the situation. The sticks, in all their delicious deep-fried goodness, were expensive, Preis-Leistungs-Verhältnis, yada yada yada. Long story short: the owner used to drive to Lüneburg, an hour's drive away, just to get the sticks. In a bold move, unlike anything I've ever experienced in the Vaterland before, the manager offered us a brilliant deal: if we give them a week's notice, they will pick us up some sticks for us. We don't have to live a mozzarella stick-less existence or lower our standards for lesser sticks. I've heard of fancy schmancy restaurants doing things like this for really expensive items like truffels but a neighborhood sports bar doing it for mozzarella sticks? That, my friends, rocks. I have a restaurant (in Germany, for God's sake!) willing to go the extra mile to load me up with junk food. And that is why I'm the Doctor with Klass!

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

The Doctor and a moment of dumbness

So for the past few days I've been mentally motivating myself to do a sewing project, one that actually requires the use of a sewing machine. Several years ago, while looking for a new hobby, I took a few evening sewing classes at the local Volkshochschule. Surprisingly, I didn't completely suck at it (anything involving hand-eye coordination is generally NOT my forte) and found it fun enough to invest in a sewing machine. As I'm not a Rockefeller, however, I only invested in Aldi's best. I tried the machine out once, then got the acting call, and it's resided in its box on our bedroom floor ever since.

Three years later, bringing us up to the present, I decide to hem my cute but incredibly long Gap corduroy pants using these great internet instructions. Last night I decided it might be smart to hook up the ole machine first and have a practice run, being as I was never a Naturtalent at anything except random TV trivia.

Problem number one involved threading the bobbin. Let's just say it was pure dumb luck that finally helped me after half an hour of trying to get the Obergarn to hook up with the Untergarn. As the evening wore on, I did however have plenty of opportunity to thoroughly practice those threading skills due to problem number two.

Problem number two was, in a nutshell, the fact that the damned machine wouldn't sew. As in, everything was threaded properly, stitch length and tension were correct, and all I ended up with were knots. Let's just say that at this point I was ready to throw Aldi's best in the trash. Which I mentioned several times to the Guitar Hero. Who was by now forced (yet again) to listen to my bitching. No matter what settings I changed, nothing would sew. Yet another half an hour later, as I'm flipping through the instruction manual I stumble across the page with all of the accessories included with the machine. And realize that the Nähfuß (ha, sewing foot in English) is missing. The Nähfuß is the little doohickey that holds the material down and guides it, therefore making a line of stitches possible. A little light bulb went off in the dumb Doctor's head. Maybe this could be the problem... However, in looking through the cute little box of accessories, I couldn't find the standard Nähfuß which was supposed to come assembled to the machine. I bitched some more to the Guitar Hero, who in his brilliant and patient way found a hotline for the company that makes the machine, called them and ordered a replacement part (for 15 EUR). Sounds like a happy ending, right? The Doctor's so dumb it took her over almost two hours to realize an essential part of her sewing machine was missing, but it's replaceable and everyting works out.

No, here's where dumb Doctor meets even dumber Doctor. After the Guitar Hero calls the hotline, after the Guitar Hero orders a replacement part, after the Guitar Hero goes back to his internet world - only then do I have the bright idea to check the box the sewing machine came in to see if the Nähfuß might have fallen off - the box which, by the way, had been lying open on the floor next to my feet for the past two hours! And there it was, that little bastard of a Nähfuß, the one that caused hours of anguished cursing on my part.

To his credit, the Guitar Hero, upon receiving said news, did not make a point of kicking the dumbness out of me, which I would have been tempted to do were the roles reversed; instead, he calmly cancelled the replacement part order and put me to bed. We agreed that it might be in everyone's best interest for me to postpone my project until he's out of the house.

Monday, October 09, 2006

The new millenium brings us the slanket

Wouldn't it be cool to be the proud owner of a slanket? You would no longer have to endure the indignity of cold arms whilst lounging on the couch perusing serious news, chuckling at the subtle humor of Germany's best television or enjoying a platter of pommes frites. And that, my friends, would rock. Totally fucking rock. A blanket with sleeves - that surpasses the revolution that is a pancake-wrapped sausage on a stick.

Do you even wonder that I groove on the slanket? I crossed the line into sloth long, long ago...

Monday, October 02, 2006

Ode to Junk Food

Okay, so posts about this have been roaming around the net recently. The Guitar Hero was appalled at the thought of pancakes wrapped around sausage (ironic, considering this is the same man who dreams of vegetarian corndogs). My response: That would have made Saturday morning breakfasts so much more convenient when I was a kid. I could have continued to watch cartoons without the bothersome interruption of using eating utensils. Pancakes and sausage on a stick - it's revolutionary!

As an American living in Germany, I catch a lot of flack for the amount of junk food Americans appear to consume. Such accusations always put me on the defense, and for years I would deflect them by pointing out how awful I thought junk food was and how much attention I placed on eating healthily, and, oh god, how horrible those nasty fat Americans are for buying their kids Happy Meals and taking them to Chuck E. Cheese for their birthdays and feeding them the aforementioned corndogs. But here's a big secret. Deep breath as the Doctor comes out of the closet: I love junk food. Love it. And no, not as in, once in a blue moon a plate of fries hits the spot. In my case, a plate of fries would hit the spot everyday. Bean burritos from Taco Hell, Sonic burgers, Ben & Jerry's, Doritos (mmm, Doritos), hot fudge sundaes, tuna melts, onion rings with ranch dip, and the ultimate in white trash, tater tots with chili and cheese - this is what I crave. I am a junk food slut. However, due to the fact that I am also a fashion slut, I have learned to control the junk food cravings as I would find no pleasure in no longer fitting into my wardrobe full of H&M's best. So there you have another big secret: it's not fear for my health or well-being that keeps me from eating luscious, luscious deep-fried goodness on a daily basis, but fear of becoming/looking like a fat ass. That, and the fact that many of my secret sins are unavailable here in the land of 1000 Wursts. At times Germany does have some advantages.