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04/03/2021
Cravache
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Cravache
Top Review
Hasi to Boris: I don't speak Swiss anywhere!
Our fellow parfuma Hasi, called Hasi, has been a groupie of Central African dignitary Becker Boris since her youth (remember: in Switzerland, the family name always precedes the first name).
At the latest since the Becker Boris homage by Bongo&Bruce (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=03FnBFscMVM), nota bene a star hour of British dance, Hasi can no longer be stopped when she sees her idol on the early evening program of the Bavarian Radio. Especially since the above-mentioned song, in addition to Becker Boris equally praises the disc jockeys and monkeys - quasi brothers in spirit, comrades in eavesdropping.
Therefore, Hasi Becker wanted to visit Boris in time for April 1 in his mailbox domicile in Zug. A larger place to stay than a mailbox Becker Boris can not afford anyway in view of the salted Swiss real estate prices.
And so on April 1, Hasi moved out, heading for Becker Boris' chamber (on a broom, of course), with a carrot and the diary in his pocket. And accompanied by valiant fellow parfumos: the daughter of Klaus & Klaus, Ole W. and Polyester.
[Note: for readers of German native language subtitles were inserted in brackets]
Excerpt from Hasi's diary (PS: thank you, dear Hasi!)
1. April, 7 o'clock. Dear Diary. Friesian daughter lost in one-way street. Residents tell us to sweep (turn around) on the spot. Miserable cleanliness fanatics, the Swiss.
Sign discovers: "Abösser gestattet" (residents free). The Friesian daughter and I treat the eight cheeks some sun. Police comes, wants to fine us (fine for misdemeanor). Polyester in the white feather vest is thrilled. Want to meet Vachcra at 8 o'clock.
08.00 o'clock and 1 second. Meet guide Vachecra. Points out our typical German unpunctuality. Such a Fetznschädel.
9 am. Vachecra insists on Znüni (meal between morning meal and lunch) in the bakery with café. We reserve all the seats with our DFB towels. Vachecra says the Schwöbli (sweet roll) is not resch. He should really be nicer to polyester!
11am. Arrival in Zug. Walk through the town on foot. Frisian daughter, polyester and I are well received by the Zug people. Ole W. gets a beating from a red-cheeked farmer's daughter. They were just following the instructions on the sign at the traffic light: "Pedestrians press".
12 o'clock. All hungry. Vachecra suggests restaurant by lake. On sign says: "Today we sit outside" (restaurant garden open). The boys find it convenient, I disgusting. We go on and want to go to the family restaurant to the Tell. Was however a Popoclub and no restaurant! Had Fotzelschnitten (poor knight; both word components have no anatomical resp. anthropological reference in Switzerland; Fotzelschnitten can be found in every cookbook) on offer. Another local ordered a stuck-in (sandwich).
2pm. Finally want to meet Becker Boris. Come past furniture store. Have stand lamps (floor lamp) on sale. Cute that the Swiss install genital lights for high holidays!
4pm. Vachecra invites for Zvieri (meal between lunch and dinner) next to horse pasture. He thinks the horse apples taste (smell) good. I don't think so at all! Polyester orders tap water (tap water), is also disappointed.
1630 Hours. Found the Zug mailbox system. 100,000 mailboxes. But which one does Becker Boris live in? The others are supposed to help me. But where are they? A local says they are whoring (squatting, kneeling; not ambiguous) on the ground in the city park. Am very indignant and move on alone.
5pm. Becker Boris can no longer afford the mailbox either. He now lives in the city post office. On top of the pile of packages that no one has picked up. And he smells like that too.
Seven o'clock. Dear diary. What a day. The Swiss confuse me. And so rudely unfriendly they are. But how did Becker smell Boris? [big pink heart]
After application, I smelled brackish nail polish remover and homebrew from blind Uncle Mareczek. Plus a screeching Bongo&Bruce orange that goes through your marrow. As natural as the color of Trump Donald. An orange slowly rotting in time-lapse under a plastic bell with imprints of fat fingers. At its heart, the orange is adorned by a thyme-scented tree and the sole of new Converse sneakers from Axel Oxenstierna's old Volvo. And a heavy spray of toilet spray lavender punches right into the bunny nose. Finally, the rotten orange rolls around penetratingly in a dirty pool of Bhopal wood.
Becker Boris is an unholy blend of Office for Men, Nautica Blue, and Boss Orange Man. A generally and specifically mean synthetic muff combined with penetrating, chemical lavender toilet spray stench. Subtle as a first date boob grab, subtle as the oeuvre of Bongo&Bruce. Fragrance notes with contours of slimy octopuses on a basketball court.
In short, Floyd's evil twin, a toilet-spray-elirant plastic orange rat wafting through broom closets in massively synthetic expressiveness. Or in other words, the nastiest perfume I've ever smelled. Kinski would have shied away from scenting Werner Herzog with it.
At the latest since the Becker Boris homage by Bongo&Bruce (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=03FnBFscMVM), nota bene a star hour of British dance, Hasi can no longer be stopped when she sees her idol on the early evening program of the Bavarian Radio. Especially since the above-mentioned song, in addition to Becker Boris equally praises the disc jockeys and monkeys - quasi brothers in spirit, comrades in eavesdropping.
Therefore, Hasi Becker wanted to visit Boris in time for April 1 in his mailbox domicile in Zug. A larger place to stay than a mailbox Becker Boris can not afford anyway in view of the salted Swiss real estate prices.
And so on April 1, Hasi moved out, heading for Becker Boris' chamber (on a broom, of course), with a carrot and the diary in his pocket. And accompanied by valiant fellow parfumos: the daughter of Klaus & Klaus, Ole W. and Polyester.
[Note: for readers of German native language subtitles were inserted in brackets]
Excerpt from Hasi's diary (PS: thank you, dear Hasi!)
1. April, 7 o'clock. Dear Diary. Friesian daughter lost in one-way street. Residents tell us to sweep (turn around) on the spot. Miserable cleanliness fanatics, the Swiss.
Sign discovers: "Abösser gestattet" (residents free). The Friesian daughter and I treat the eight cheeks some sun. Police comes, wants to fine us (fine for misdemeanor). Polyester in the white feather vest is thrilled. Want to meet Vachcra at 8 o'clock.
08.00 o'clock and 1 second. Meet guide Vachecra. Points out our typical German unpunctuality. Such a Fetznschädel.
9 am. Vachecra insists on Znüni (meal between morning meal and lunch) in the bakery with café. We reserve all the seats with our DFB towels. Vachecra says the Schwöbli (sweet roll) is not resch. He should really be nicer to polyester!
11am. Arrival in Zug. Walk through the town on foot. Frisian daughter, polyester and I are well received by the Zug people. Ole W. gets a beating from a red-cheeked farmer's daughter. They were just following the instructions on the sign at the traffic light: "Pedestrians press".
12 o'clock. All hungry. Vachecra suggests restaurant by lake. On sign says: "Today we sit outside" (restaurant garden open). The boys find it convenient, I disgusting. We go on and want to go to the family restaurant to the Tell. Was however a Popoclub and no restaurant! Had Fotzelschnitten (poor knight; both word components have no anatomical resp. anthropological reference in Switzerland; Fotzelschnitten can be found in every cookbook) on offer. Another local ordered a stuck-in (sandwich).
2pm. Finally want to meet Becker Boris. Come past furniture store. Have stand lamps (floor lamp) on sale. Cute that the Swiss install genital lights for high holidays!
4pm. Vachecra invites for Zvieri (meal between lunch and dinner) next to horse pasture. He thinks the horse apples taste (smell) good. I don't think so at all! Polyester orders tap water (tap water), is also disappointed.
1630 Hours. Found the Zug mailbox system. 100,000 mailboxes. But which one does Becker Boris live in? The others are supposed to help me. But where are they? A local says they are whoring (squatting, kneeling; not ambiguous) on the ground in the city park. Am very indignant and move on alone.
5pm. Becker Boris can no longer afford the mailbox either. He now lives in the city post office. On top of the pile of packages that no one has picked up. And he smells like that too.
Seven o'clock. Dear diary. What a day. The Swiss confuse me. And so rudely unfriendly they are. But how did Becker smell Boris? [big pink heart]
After application, I smelled brackish nail polish remover and homebrew from blind Uncle Mareczek. Plus a screeching Bongo&Bruce orange that goes through your marrow. As natural as the color of Trump Donald. An orange slowly rotting in time-lapse under a plastic bell with imprints of fat fingers. At its heart, the orange is adorned by a thyme-scented tree and the sole of new Converse sneakers from Axel Oxenstierna's old Volvo. And a heavy spray of toilet spray lavender punches right into the bunny nose. Finally, the rotten orange rolls around penetratingly in a dirty pool of Bhopal wood.
Becker Boris is an unholy blend of Office for Men, Nautica Blue, and Boss Orange Man. A generally and specifically mean synthetic muff combined with penetrating, chemical lavender toilet spray stench. Subtle as a first date boob grab, subtle as the oeuvre of Bongo&Bruce. Fragrance notes with contours of slimy octopuses on a basketball court.
In short, Floyd's evil twin, a toilet-spray-elirant plastic orange rat wafting through broom closets in massively synthetic expressiveness. Or in other words, the nastiest perfume I've ever smelled. Kinski would have shied away from scenting Werner Herzog with it.
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