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What is happening to the world? Is there no way to get rid of all the sad, dreadful things that corrupt our everyday life, turning friends against friends, neighbours against neighbours, lovers against spouses, dog against dog? Will there not come someone one day that is pure and mighty enough to bring about justice for us all – if not for all of God’s wondrous creations, then at least for the innocent and naive followers of the Great Dane? Hear me, dear readers: I say, there will!
The Great Dane cried today. Turned his face into that of a crying monkey. Flushed out all the salty water in his mighty body, so that it flowed over the streets of Berlin. Never had the city been so clean and shiny before. Not even after the last economic crisis and the subsequent public thunder and righteous political rain had the sewers of Berlin been flooded so heavily with rubbish, stinky bollocks, itchy bitchy feelings, lice catching dogs with wet ears, nagging women, poor lonely devils, ever changing winds from government bottoms, Swedish furniture, aching feet, morning pimples, phantom backaches, selfish dog owners, reckless cyclists, angry drivers, spoiled children, stale beer, cheap cigarettes, substitutes for fat and sugar, old news, public repression, political scandals, tiresome commercials, thieves, thugs, rapists, bankers, insurance brokers, landlords, real estate developers, professional beggars, wannabe-artists, babbling bloggers, lying Catholics, radical Muslims, narrow–minded Jews, depressive Protestants and their work ethic, and sellers of too small shoes.
And it happened to the stunned surprise of all Berliners. The reliable and holy weathermen had an especially tough day, having blessed the poor but sexy people of Berlin with the promise of punctual German sunny weather and no sight of teasing clouds. Hiding under the same umbrella on the day of the flood, they formed a shrill choir, calling the phenomenon Every Prediction Goes Down The Drain, advising every fertile soul to find a suitable partner and spend this Day of Judgement in bed. Meanwhile the business channels, seeing the possibilities with a calculating eye, advised their viewers to invest in producers of boats, pumps, umbrellas, buckets, rainwear, diving equipment, liferafts, life jackets, hair dryers, triple layer toilet paper, cleaning services, rescue services, salvage services, and tour operators specializing in destinations with long dry seasons.
Also, the never ending soap opera, the New Berlin Airport, was eventually flooded. All those behind the stage saw now their chance to soap up for a good old coming-together washing of hands before they crawled to safety in their sink-proof bureaucratic limousine boats. Later, sailing cheerfully in champagne-soaked circles around Brandenburger Tor, they triumphally announced the forthcoming opening of the New Berlin Public Welfare-Bath with special blinking underwater-lighting, stewardess bikini water shows, plenty of tax-free shops, and exclusive diving trips to some forgotten utopia airport ruin – of course with a reasonable reduction in price for all good taxpayers. It rained so much that the hospitals reported instances of the rare Chinese Sponge-Effect – normally only experienced in the Year of the Jellyfish by Chinese men working in the rice-fields – in which testicles exposed to water for long periods of time swelled up to unbearable sizes, causing terrible pain and giving a new meaning to the expression He Got Balls. There were even rumours about an abnormal rise in birthrates of fishes, frogs, lobsters and snails born out of virgin wombs, attracting legions of hungry Catholic tourists in private water planes.
But the headline that made the day, and almost brought forth a smiling sun, was when Chancellor Angela Merkel showed up to her briefing with The World Press in a wonderful new deep-brown bathing suit, declaring: Welch schönes Wetter! and answering all questions concerning the political consequences of the flood with: Nur ruhig! Ich bin eine sehr gute Schwimmerin!
And then there was the question, that everyone tried to find an answer for: Why did the Great Dane cry? Had he been fatally hurt? Was he still boxing with bad love? Was it because of global warming and the insecure future of all beach owners, the threat to the Pacific Ocean atolls, the smell of sweaty Eskimos, the fate of all the innocent baby seals? Or was it something even more terrible and devastating? The truth is that the Great Dane did not know himself. It just felt good to cry, and for him, that was reason enough.
Illustrations © Sally Wilde