No offence to all you born-and-bred Rheinland people (or the "immigrants" who try really, really hard to fit in), but I just really can't take Karneval. I'm not a fan of loud, drunk groups of people in the first place, and those same loud, drunk groups of people take on a whole new dimension of crazy when they're dressed up.
Yes. Karneval is like mostly all the things I hate in the entire world mashed together into one week of debauchery.
Drunk groups of people making a ruckus? Check.
People dressed up like wackos? Check.
Schlager? Check.
Clowns? Also check.
I suppose I sound like a real downer (and I suppose I am), but the last time I dressed up for Halloween (which is as close as we Canucks get to this sort of clusterfuck), I was twelve. I mean, unless you count the time I went on a pub crawl when I was nineteen and put on a pair of shorts, a skimpy top and a cowboy hat to call myself a "sexy cowgirl". (See the link -- NSFW -- of other "sexy cowgirls" who highlight the fact that, as long as you're wearing a cowboy hat, you are a cowgirl. Full stop.) But anyway, I also don't like clowns. Or having to watch my step on the street to avoid vomit.
Normally I flee. Preferably to Canada. Really, though, I'd go anywhere. But, for a multitude of reasons, I find myself stuck here over the weekend.
So, after work at one job all day and then a meeting for my other job, I headed to the grocery store to stock up on provisions since I'm locking myself in my flat until Tuesday. Standing in line before me was a mouse buying pizza, and behind me were two dudes in bear suits buying a couple bottles of beer. Those were those same bears I saw on my walk home peeing on cars.
Ah, Karneval.
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