perfidy

The sickest celebration in our civilization has just begun, an annual get-down so intense, so loud, so full of people, fluids, and animatronic lions, one must surely weep or, if you're not the weepin' kind, urinate. New Year's Eve in Time's Square, your wanna-be Animal House frat brothers, and surely your jerkoff cousins' lame parties are all eye candy by comparison.

It's September, people. September in Bavaria.

And that means Oktoberfest.

Oktober-fucking-fest.

At no time is the scent of beer stronger than the Munich autumn. The fest beer flows like water...who am I kidding?...it flows better than water. The Theresienwiese will be thronged with visitors, so many that they will quaff 1/3 of the annual production of Munich's six big brewers. There are also plenty of other brews from around Germany (myself, I'll take a nice Werner hefe-weissen wherever I can find one, although those are better with food, I find, and not conducive to the burly 1-liter mugs ubiquitous under the fest tents). Plenty of spirits are readily available of course, as are carnival rides for the kiddies. As are adults who went on those rides after they washed down their 4th stein of lager with a nice smooth Ratzeputz shot and end up vomiting in shady corners, contributing their own personal and intimate colors and bits of stomach lining to the already festive blues, whites, and yellows of the tents.

Ah...Oktoberfest. Ahhhhktoberfest.

I am not there, so I am wrong.

But at the very least, maybe I can talk Lady Lethal into a dirndl. She'd make St. Pauli's girl look like a tired Bremen sea-hag.