“Our Mother, who art in Portland, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on everyone else as it is on the Left Coast. Give us this day our daily Trump tweet, and forgive us our air conditioning, as we forgive our parents for being white. For Thine is the vegetarian, feminist, woke kingdom forever. Amen.”
Warning: Game of Thrones spoilers. GTFO if you haven’t seen the whole thing through.
Many people have made much ado about the eighth and final season of Game of Thrones, which aired its final episode last Sunday, March 19th. Nobody that I have spoken to or seen commenting online has said, “Golly gee, that was exactly the ending I was hoping for! I’m sure not pissed off about wasting a decade of my life getting emotionally involved in people who aren’t real!” Frankly, it seems like everyone thought it sucked. And it did.
Well, I don’t know about you all, but I’m full of pie. And just food. Do you know what’s better than turkey and mashed potatoes topped with my own cranberry chutney and mopped up with my pumpkin challah bread? Fucking nothing except the very same thing topped with Debbie G’s Oreo pudding fluff crack and banana cream pie. That’s the state of my stomach tonight, kids. I’m full.
Okay, surprise, I’m not really dead. And I’m not planning on going anywhere for the foreseeable future. But you never know. You could get hit by a bus and wake up dead tomorrow. And in honor of Rosh Hashanah, I decided to do a little exercise in sorting myself out.
When I was in high school, I loved Rammstein. Actually, I still do. Some readers may recall that I went to see them in concert outside of Chicago last summer about this time. I always knew that I wanted to travel abroad and see strange places and learn new languages, but Rammstein made the desire for linguistic acquisition concrete. I had a present reason to learn: I needed to know exactly what Til Lindemann was growling about in their songs.