Tag Archives: Hannover

10 Activities a Man Simply Cannot Perform While Retaining Any Semblance of Masculinity

A man eats a chocolate ice lolly while walking past the wall.

“Yep. That just about covers ’em all.” — Image Credit: Garry Knight (https://www.flickr.com/photos/garryknight/) — Subject to CC 2.0 License.

Masculinity is a tricky subject. We all have different ideas about what makes for a “real” man, but in our fervent scramble to attain perfect, inoffensive political correctness, we can’t even be sure masculinity is a desirable trait at all anymore. What I can tell you — as a man who has lived in two different countries — is that being seen performing any single one of the following ten activities will not only destroy your sense of manhood, but will make you look like King Titties of Pussy Mountain:

#10: Drinking Through a Straw

Image Credit: Bradley Gordon (https://www.flickr.com/photos/icanchangethisright/) -- Subject to CC 2.0 License.

“Hell YES I want to go drive some motorcycles! Let me just finish this drink first…” Image Credit: Bradley Gordon (https://www.flickr.com/photos/icanchangethisright/) — Subject to CC 2.0 License.

A man can drink from a coffee mug or a beer stein — really anything with a big, fat handle — but the moment he puckers his lips together and starts sucking on that straw, his testosterone levels drop down to zero. Imagine a huge biker thug at a dive bar. He’s drunk and hassling someone. “Hey pussy, change the channel back to Duck Dynasty. No one wants to watch that queer golf shit.” And then he wraps his mustachioed lips around a pink bendy straw and takes a dainty pull of strawberry daiquiri. Masculinity destroyed. (But that would actually be kind of awesome, so let’s table this one for now.)

#9: Wearing a Backpack (While NOT Camping, Mountain Climbing or Parachuting)

Image Credit: FaceMePLS (https://www.flickr.com/photos/faceme/) -- Subject to CC 2.0.

“So awesome, this bitch makes me TWICE as wide.” — Image Credit: FaceMePLS (https://www.flickr.com/photos/faceme/) — Subject to CC 2.0.

Camping, mountain climbing and parachuting are all manly things to do. So manly, in fact, you don’t even have to be male to look badass doing them. But wearing a backpack for almost any other purpose makes a normal man look like his body is comprised of 100% doofus. Whenever I see a dude sporting a backpack in Germany, I am forced to conclude he is one of the following: a student, someone backpacking around Europe, a homeless person, or a fashionless nerd on his way to a well-deserved ass kicking. Personally, I wear a flaming red backpack every day on my way to the gym because I’m married and I don’t give a sweet holy shit about looking cool anymore. (That, and I like to pretend my backpack is a turtle shell, and I’m going to sharpen my sweet ninja skills with Master Splinter.)

#8: Licking an Ice Cream Cone

Image Credit: Rachel Kramer (https://www.flickr.com/photos/rkramer62/) -- Subject to CC 2.0.

“Bro, don’t think I can’t start shit just because I’m holding a cone.” — Image Credit: Rachel Kramer (https://www.flickr.com/photos/rkramer62/) — Subject to CC 2.0.

Little kids, old people and hot chicks are about the only people who can get away with this one. But a dude in his physical prime — testosterone seeping from his every pore — simply cannot retain any sense of manhood while tonguing a double scoop of Rainbow Sherbet Hokey Pokey. I’m not saying a man can’t enjoy his ice cream — far from it — I’m just saying while he does it, he looks like a prancing nincompoop.

#7: Riding a Bicycle (Unless You’re Racing)

Image Credit: Alper Çuğun (https://www.flickr.com/photos/alper/) -- Subject to CC 2.0.

“So manly it’s crushing my balls.” — Image Credit: Alper Çuğun (https://www.flickr.com/photos/alper/) — Subject to CC 2.0.

We all know mountain bikers, stunt bikers and those Tour de France guys are all badass — even if they are doped to the gills. When a man is riding a souped-up racing bike, cutting through the headwind with his head down and every corded muscle jutting out like steel, he looks powerful. That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about guys like me, who ride city bikes around town with a basket on the front to hold their groceries. Just cruising around with a big, dome-shaped helmet on, ringing the bell on their handlebars and waving to their neighbors. “Hi-diddly-ho! I’m off to the store to buy some more flour! My wife and I are baking Christmas cookies this year, and then we might even have sex! Missionary position sex!

#6: Drinking Wine

Image Credit: David, Bergin, Emmett and Elliott (https://www.flickr.com/photos/beglen/) -- Subject to CC 2.0.

“Lookout, John Belushi.” — Image Credit: David, Bergin, Emmett and Elliott (https://www.flickr.com/photos/beglen/) — Subject to CC 2.0.

Again, there’s nothing inherently wrong with this activity — drinking wine is fun — it’s just not possible for a man to do it while looking manly. I think it’s the shape of the wine glass which really destroys the masculine aura, especially if you stick your pinky finger out like I do. But it’s not like you have a lot of options here; you can’t just grip the stem of the glass in one meaty fist and slam it back like a viking. You’d need a drinking horn for that move. So assuming there are no alternatives, just go ahead and sip that wine, but remember: in that moment, you have all the masculinity of a training bra.

#5: Eating (Unless It’s with Your Hands)

Image Credit: sean_hickin (https://www.flickr.com/photos/sean_hickin/) -- Subject to CC 2.0 License.

“No no, Bob, you start with the little fork on the OUTSIDE.” — Image Credit: sean_hickin (https://www.flickr.com/photos/sean_hickin/) — Subject to CC 2.0 License.

I want you to picture a big, hairy-knuckled man, ripping into a half-pound burger with his teeth and slamming it back down so he can grab a fistful of fries as a chaser. Gross, but respectable, right? Now picture that very same man eating with silverware. Thick fingers wielding a knife and fork with the dexterity of a gentle surgeon. He lays a piece of food in his mouth with his fork — tongs up, like a gentleman — then sets it back down so he can dab at the corner of his mouth with a fine linen napkin. The immediacy of his hunger — his borderline desperation — was wiped out the instant he picked up the silverware. There is one way to use silverware and look sort of manly, however: you order a steak, stab it with a fork in one clenched fist and then violently saw it in half with your knife in the other. Yes, you’ll look like a caveman or pretty much anyone with a reality show on TLC, but at least you won’t look like a pussy, right?

#4: Picking Blackberries (or Pretty Much Any Berry)

Image Credit: David, Bergin, Emmett and Elliott (https://www.flickr.com/photos/beglen/) -- Subject to CC 2.0 License.

“I’m gonna bake this pie so hard…” — Image Credit: David, Bergin, Emmett and Elliott (https://www.flickr.com/photos/beglen/) — Subject to CC 2.0 License.

Farmers of any gender are cool. Tough, hardworking folk, and I respect them. What I find a little harder to respect is a full-grown man picking berries while on a walk through the local park on his way back to his apartment in the city. There’s a world of difference between someone picking berries for a living, and someone doing it for shits and giggles. There’s something about the delicacy of the act; it’s just so… dainty. Moving your hands slowly to avoid the thorns, trying not to get berry juice all over your nice polo shirt. Christ, my wife looks like more of a man than I do when we pick berries. No, this is task better left to professionals and small children. That said, you’ll score massive dad points if you pick berries with your kids, so just remember to bring along your favorite child if you want to come home a handful of mangled blackberries.

#3: Walking a Small Dog

Image Credit: FaceMePLS (https://www.flickr.com/photos/faceme/) -- Subject to CC 2.0 License.

“What? She’s 1/16th pitbull.” — Image Credit: FaceMePLS (https://www.flickr.com/photos/faceme/) — Subject to CC 2.0 License.

Tiny, yapping lapdogs are for two kinds of people: old women and gay men. There, I said it. Hell, when I see a yoked out gay dude carrying a Chihuahua, I almost respect him more because he clearly does not give a fuck. The annoying dog still sucks, but the man retains his masculinity. Old women can get away with it because, well, they can get away with anything; they could walk down the street shouting racial slurs while smearing butter in their hair, and people will just feel bad for them. Young women with tiny dogs look like entitled princesses, but no one will think less of them for it (assuming they’re hot). But straight men — even old, decrepit ones — all look like shameful tools when seen walking small dogs. I think it’s because the assumption is they’re walking their wife’s dog, which is somehow more emasculating than if they just proudly sauntered about town with their own shitty little Lhasa Apso in the crook of one arm.

#2: Wearing Crocs

Image Credit: Peter Dutton (https://www.flickr.com/photos/joeshlabotnik/) -- Subject to CC 2.0.

“Maybe it’s just the deathly white legs…” — Image Credit: Peter Dutton (https://www.flickr.com/photos/joeshlabotnik/) — Subject to CC 2.0.

People have been making fun of Crocs for over a decade now. They’re an easy target, especially when worn by men. Personally, I think the problem is the exposed ankle coupled with covered toes; you just don’t expect to see a manly man — from his thick, round head down to his powerful, sculpted calves — adorning his feet with foam clogs. It’s the opposite of masculine, and it just doesn’t work. It’s like when your buddy is all excited to tell you his favorite joke, but in the end it just totally sucks and no one knows what to say: “A giraffe walks into a bar and orders a high ball, and the bartender says, ‘from the looks of it, you already have two!’ ” And just like a man wearing Crocs, friends like these should be mocked openly and without mercy.

#1: Playing the Flute

"No." -- Image Credit: Darinka Maja (https://www.flickr.com/photos/darinka/) -- Subject to CC 2.0 License.

“THIS guy.” — Image Credit: Darinka Maja (https://www.flickr.com/photos/darinka/) — Subject to CC 2.0 License.

…and these guys…

:)

Thank you for reading and have an awesome new year!

 


 

Gardening in Germany: When Your Rhododendrons Won’t Bloom for Lack of Testicular Fortitude

Planting-Growing-Baby-Rhododendrons-Germany

“Alright, which one of you is MAN enough to fart out a pretty little flower?”

My wife and I live in Hannover, Germany, and back in 2014, we moved from an awful apartment building in the city, to a lovely house on the outskirts of town. Having a house with a yard gave us enough space for a garden, which I’ve discussed a little bit in my earlier rant about growing tomatoes in order to overcome my murderous hatred of them.

This past summer, my wife and I did a lot of gardening and landscaping. We were out there pretty much every day, leveling a hill, building raised beds and planting all sorts of things — including 4 tiny rhododendrons. We pampered those rhododendrons like colicky babies; they got the very best soil, perfect access to sunlight and copious amounts of fresh well water to get them started. We gave them everything, and 3 out of 4 of them showed a little gratitude by growing and blooming. The 4th one, however, just sat there doing nothing — like that weirdo brat at the daycare center you just know will grow up to own a model train store.

Planting-Rhododendrons-in-Germany

“Why can’t you be more like your fabulous brothers?”

My wife and I devoted more attention to this ungrateful little bitch than any other plant, until eventually we just shook our heads in resignation. Maybe I didn’t use enough planting soil, I thought to myself. Maybe I should have dug the hole deeper or something. And then my wife finally broke the silence, saying:

“Maybe it is a numb-nuts.”

 


 

Fish Allergy Facts: Why I Can Eat Tuna Without Dying (According to My German Wife, Who Is Not a Doctor)

fish-allergy-tuna-school-sea

“Filthy, slimy, angels of the sea.” — Image Credit: TheAnimalDay.org (https://www.flickr.com/photos/theanimalday/) — Subject to CC 2.0 License.

I was born with a pretty wicked allergy to fish. My parents first discovered it at Disneyland when I was just a little kid; we were tossing chunks of fish to the dolphins and the juices ran down my hands and arms, causing redness and swelling, which earned me a hasty trip to the emergency room. “Oooh, look Mom! Flashing red lights and a siren! This is WAY better than Pirates of the Caribbean!”

Since then I’ve avoided fish as if my life depended on it, because… it kinda does. Salmon, halibut, cod, catfish, herring, anchovies, trout… all of them cause a rapid allergic reaction when they touch my skin — especially my lips or the inside of my mouth. And the sensation is truly unpleasant, like swelling, throbbing, burning, itching and aching all wrapped up into one perfect pain. Like it was designed specifically by God himself to punish me for being a naughty 8-year-old boy who should have known better than to burn all those tiny little ants with a magnifying glass.

swollen-fat-lip-allergic-reaction

“… so that you may know the anguish you have inflicted.” — Image Credit: Kate Brady (https://www.flickr.com/photos/cliche/) — Subject to CC 2.0 License

But the real danger would be if I ever ingested enough fish to cause my entire body to freak out and my windpipe to swell shut. That’s called anaphylaxis, and I don’t know about you, but I think it sounds like just a barrel of laughs. Luckily, I could never really consume enough to cause such a reaction unless I decided to chug a glass of fish juice or swallow a fistful of fish oil capsules. And that wouldn’t be an accident at all; that would be suicide.

Oh sure, I’ve flirted with fish a few times over the years. You know, just to see if I was still allergic. Like, at a friend’s house, I once touched half a fish stick to my lip only to spend the remainder of the evening looking like a 5th grader with the world’s most aggressive case of oral herpes. And then one time, during a work meeting in the mid-2000s, my entire office went out to lunch at a Japanese restaurant. We all ordered miso soup, and I’d never had a problem with it in the past, but this time it was made with real fish broth. It tasted so good I drank that shit right from the bowl, and about one minute later, my upper lip swelled up and stuck out so far I looked like a Simpsons character.

Planked Alaskan salmon and asparagus

“Planked Alaskan succubus with asparagus.” — Image Credit: Jessica Spengler (https://www.flickr.com/photos/wordridden/) — Subject to CC 2.0 License

To this day, I really don’t know what fish even tastes like — especially salmon. That stuff looks delicious, but it’s supposed to cause the most intense reaction of them all, so I leave that sexy bitch alone. The one kind of fish I can eat, however, is tuna.

I was about 25 years old when I discovered tuna didn’t mess with me. It happened by accident: One day, I thought I was holding a chicken salad sandwich, but when I bit down, it turned out to be tuna fish, and oh… my… CHRIST was it delicious! That weirdo tuna meat all mixed up with relish and mayonnaise? I was in heaven! It was like discovering a whole new set of taste buds! Crazy taste buds — and they were having a freaky bondage sex party right inside my mouth! And later I discovered I can even eat raw tuna, like at a sushi restaurant! (But if it bumps up against my wife’s sashimi salmon, the party’s over and I’m headed straight back to Fucksville.)

tuna-fish-sandwich-photography

“You beautiful creature… where have you been all my life? Oh. Literally RIGHT in front of my eyes.” — Image Credit: thebittenword.com (https://www.flickr.com/photos/galant/) — Subject to CC 2.0 License

So I’ve been a pretty zealous tuna lover ever since. Wouldn’t you be, after avoiding a delicious type of food over two thirds of your life? Now, I make sure and buy at least three cans of tuna every time I go to the grocery store. It makes an awesome snack, especially if I’m in a hurry. That’s why, the other day when I sat down next to my German wife on the couch to start a movie, I confessed to her I’d just eaten an entire can in like 30 seconds. She laughed and said it’s weird that I can eat tuna but no other fish. Then she went on to speculate as to the reason, saying:

“Maybe tuna is not really a fish. Maybe it’s a water chicken.”

 


 

Dr. Tomatolove or: How I Learned to Stop Loathing and Love the Tomato

I hate tomatoes - flipping the bird, middle finger

“You know what sucks about you guys? EVERYTHING.”

I have hated tomatoes as long as I can remember. Even as a child I cursed the name of that imp from hell who decided tomatoes should go on everything: cheeseburgers, salads, sandwiches, pizza — all ruined by this filthy vegetable. If a tomato touched one leaf of my salad, I didn’t just disregard that particular leaf, I jettisoned the entire quadrant. If there was only one pizza to be eaten, and every single piece had a slice of tomato on it, I would grab one and use my napkin to wipe that mother down until the crust showed. In college I tried to eat a cherry tomato at a party and wound up dry heaving in front of a bunch of hot chicks. Hell, even at 2am — drunk as tits and baked like a cake — I would still pick the tomato chunks out of my Taco Bell. I haaaaaaaaaated tomatoes. HATED THEM.

It’s wasn’t just the taste, and it’s wasn’t just the texture; it was the one-two punch of taste and texture. I mean, tapioca pudding has about the same mouthfeel as fish eggs and glue, but it tastes awesome. And Brussels sprouts taste like straight up poison, but they feel like baby cabbages dying inside your mouth, so they’re kinda fun. No, tomatoes ruined my day in every way they possibly could; by tasting like bloody, organic battery acid with the texture of jellied eyeballs wrapped in foreskin. God dammit! What a perfectly engineered adversary!

tomato-close-up-cherry-health

Son of a BITCH.

But in order to truly hate something, you have to be at least a little bit afraid of it, right? Isn’t that how loathing works? I honestly don’t know what tomatoes ever did to me to earn such scorn, but it must have been awful. Like, in some alternate universe, I’m probably stuck on a planet populated entirely by tomato people, and they just love to smear themselves across my naked body all day long and then fart in my mouth. It’s how they celebrate Christmas.

The point is, I’ve avoided tomatoes my entire life… until now. This past summer, I finally decided to get serious and shake hands with the red devil. And it’s not just because I moved to Germany; it’s because my wife and I live in a house with an actual yard in the back, giving us enough space to have a garden where we can grow our own vegetables. Oh, I know what my fellow tomato haters are thinking about now: “Here comes the part where you tell us fresh, vine-ripened tomatoes are different from every other tomato we’ve ever eaten. And that is stone-cold bullshit.”

You’re right; if you really can’t stand the sumbitches, it won’t matter where you get ’em. Do you know how many times my friends and family members have told me that if I just ate this one, special, super organic, jerked-off-by-Mexicans, magic tomato, it would change my attitude forever? Millions. Okay, not millions — probably closer to 5 or 6 times — but still. I understand your pain.

I’ve tried to like tomatoes. I wanted to stop fighting the good fight, but I just couldn’t do it. They were too gross. Then my wife and I started a garden, and I made two decisions:

  1. I would eat one tiny piece of tomato every single day until I learned to like it.
  2. These tomato pieces would only come from our own garden, because that’s supposed to make them taste less horrid.

And that’s exactly what I did. I slowly acclimated myself to tomatoes like a sickly goldfish in hot water. At first I was like, “NOPE. THEY STILL SUCK. THIS SUCKS.” But gradually my knee-jerk reaction weakened. I stopped gagging and was able to actually chew and swallow small pieces of raw tomato. And you know what really made the difference? The fact that when I plucked a ripe tomato right from the vine in our own garden, brought it inside, cut it up and ate a piece, it tasted sweet. Sweet like sugar — I shit you not. I’d never experienced that before! Not even from fresh tomatoes picked in the exact same way and placed in front of me at a friend’s house. Eating my own tomatoes was the key, and it actually became a pleasant experience.

Another thing which really helped were my wife’s Caprese salads. She loves ’em, but I could only ever eat the mozzarella and basil before. Now, I eat the whole thing, and the best part — I can’t believe I’m saying this — is the tomato. It’s what really ties the dish together. I’ve even graduated to eating burgers and salads with tomatoes on them, and they don’t even have to come from our own garden! (God, I seriously feel like a heathen or a traitor to my country or something.)

I’m not saying tomatoes are the greatest thing in the world, but it’s really nice not to have to pull them off everything I order at a restaurant. It’s like I’ve been at war my entire life, and I’m just now experiencing my first ceasefire. I’m not fool enough to stick my head up out of my foxhole and declare my love for the enemy just yet, but I’m not going to snipe their commanding officer either.

To be fair, I still can’t bite down on a cherry tomato without a good old fashioned dry heave — oh my Christ, the seeds just spurt inside your mouth without warning, like a rude sailor — but maybe someday I’ll get there. Maybe. In the meantime, I must grudgingly award tomatoes with a slightly nauseous 3 out of 5 Merkel Diamonds:

Merkel Diamond from Angela Merkel, Prime Minister of Germany

Thank you for reading and have a great day!

— OGM


Funny German Expressions: Why You Should Always Carry a Little Money in Your Pockets

broke poor empty pockets

“But if you don’t have any money, some lint and a hairball will do just fine.” — Image Credit: Dan Moyle (https://www.flickr.com/photos/danmoyle/) — Subject to CC 2.0 License.

Remember that post I wrote a while back about visiting Konya, Turkey? This week’s denglish lesson — courtesy of my lovely German wife — took place during that trip, and it was a real doozy. In fact, it came so unexpectedly I was actually stunned into silence… right before I started laughing.

It was our first day in Konya, and I was wearing one of those hidden travel pouches to carry around our money and passports. You know the kind I’m talking about? They clip around your waist, beneath your regular belt, just north of your pink parts. Usually they fit in there nice and comfortable, but because I’m a total genius, I decided to carry my entire wallet around in there too, so it bulged out as if I were sporting the world’s most dangerously impacted colon.

So basically I was the designated bank for the remainder of our trip; whenever we needed to pay for something, I would casually turn away from everyone in the vicinity, reach into my pants, unzip the travel pouch and pull out some euros. WARNING: It is impossible to do this in Konya without looking like you’re about to piss on a mosque — an act which would be infinitely more dangerous than just raising a fistful of money to the sky and declaring, “Hello Muslims! I am a white man with retarded amounts of cash on my person and precious little common sense with which to protect it. Would any of you care to kick me straight in my American balls and take it?”

On a side note: I think I’m way more likely to be robbed back home in Portland, Oregon, than I would ever be in Konya, Turkey. In Konya, the scariest thing I encountered was a squat toilet. (And while they may be ergonomically correct, they are also ergonomically disgusting.)

037-turkish-bathroom-squat-toilet

“Nevermind. I’ll just hold it until I die.”

Anyway, toward the end of that first day, after I grew tired of pulling money out of my underwear, I tried to convince my wife it would be okay if she carried a little cash too. She didn’t want to at first, but she finally relented, holding out her hand in the middle of a busy Turkish market and saying:

“Ok, maybe you can give me a €50 so the dog doesn’t pee on me.”

*From the German expression, “Damit mich der Hund nicht anpinkelt,” which translates literally to, “So that the dog does not pee on me.” In all honesty, this expression doesn’t make much sense. At first I thought it was kind of like when a bird shits on your head — you know, just a random instance of bad luck — but my wife said it has more to do with, “not having empty pockets, so you don’t seem like a homeless person… because, I guess, a dog might pee on a homeless person.” (Then she explained it’s just a stupid expression which doesn’t mean anything and I should leave her alone so she could go get a snack from the fridge.)

And if you’d like to read more about Konya, Turkey, check out these two posts:
Discovering Konya, Turkey: The Top 10 Preconceived Notions Dislodged from My American Brain
— and —
Visiting Konya: Pictures and Videos from Our Trip to Turkey

 


 

Funny German Expressions: How to Say Something “Makes a Lot of Sense”

learning-german-confused-man-with-puzzle-pieces-fit-together

“Wait… German doesn’t make any sense at all!” — Image Credit: David Goehring (https://www.flickr.com/photos/carbonnyc/) — Subject to CC 2.0 License

My wife is a very busy woman. She’s a Gymnasium teacher here in Hannover, Germany, and she works long hours both at school and at home. She puts in some serious overtime grading tests and organizing her lesson plans each night — in part because she’s German, and obsessive attention to detail seems to have a stranglehold on her DNA — but also because she’s just really passionate about her subject. (She teaches philosophy, and she has a major she-boner for Plato.)

This is all great and wonderful. I’m very proud of her. But with so much dedication to work, sometimes the little tasks in life are put on hold — like writing thank you cards after the holidays. Personally, I like to get this over with as soon as humanly possible. We’re talking January 15th here, at the latest. My wife, on the other hand, approaches thank you cards with an attitude closer to, Fuck it, either my awesome American husband will do it for me, or they’ll just write themselves.

So after the holidays last year, when the thank you cards had been sitting on her desk for like 2 months even though I’d already written them and all she had to do was sign them, god dammit, she finally got around to it. She’d taken the time to write some really meaningful, thoughtful words of gratitude, and signed them all with a flourish. Then, when she handed them back to me, she declared:

“Sometimes I take forever to write something, but when I do, it has arms and legs.”

*From the German expression, “Es hat Hand und Fuß,” which translates figuratively to “It makes a lot of sense,” or “It is worthwhile,” but translates literally to “It has hand and foot.”

 


 

Weather in Germany: Watching the Seasons Change with the Davis Hill Weather Stick

The-Davis-Hill-Weather-Stick-Card-Front

The Davis Hill Weather Stick: A Dark Magic Gift from Satan Himself

My wife is German, and as I’ve mentioned before, Germans tend to be a very well-traveled bunch of squares. My wife has been all over the world, and she spent a lot of time in the United States. She even traveled around New England and made a bunch of friends there. One of these friends gave her a very peculiar parting gift before she returned to Germany: The Davis Hill Weather Stick.

Weather sticks are shaved twigs from balsam trees, and they’re supposed to predict the weather by bending sharply upward or downward. With absolutely no clue where to hang this goofy thing, my wife lugged it around from apartment to apartment for the next decade until she finally met me. After we moved into a house here in Hannover, Germany, I wasted not one second nailing this thing to the wooden divider in our back yard.

The-Davis-Hill-Weather-Stick-Cover-Photo-1

THE WIFE: “Take it down. It looks like a penis.”

Here’s how the magic works, according to the back of the card:

The Weather Stick, from the folks on Davis Hill, will tell you what the weather is doing. With good weather about they will point to the sky; and when things aren’t so pleasant they will point to the ground. We don’t know why, but the old timers had faith in them and that’s good enough for us.

Mount it outdoors with the nail up. Under an eave, on a window frame, or out on the garage wall. Anywhere where you can see it from inside.

These country Weather Sticks are harvested at the right time of year and carefully prepared and dried. When first put up they will take a short while to get used to your house so be patient with them and they will serve you well for a long time.

We’ve seen sticks that are fifteen years old so you won’t need another for quite a while. However, if you’d like another you can get one at this store or write us.

THE DAVIS HILL COMPANY
P.O. BOX 44, GREENSBORO, VT 05841
(802) 533-2400

Now, I can’t find an actual website for this company, and that address and phone number are so old they probably don’t work anymore, but you can totally order the Davis Hill Weather Stick online at Amazon.com or from the Shelburne Country Store. Also, this stick doesn’t have any magical (or even mysterious) properties at all; we know exactly what makes this thing bend up and down: humidity.

The-Davis-Hill-Weather-Stick-Cover-Photo-2

ME: “Look honey! The sun is giving it a boner!”

Anyway, once I noticed the stick bending exactly as promised — and looking like the thinnest, creepiest penis in the world — I started taking pictures of it. From the fall of 2014 to the fall of 2015, I took pictures almost every day for an entire year. Then, I stitched them all together to make the animated .gif below.

Check it out, and have a great week everyone!

— OGM

The-Davis-Hill-Weather-Stick-Animation-OGMWIG-Germany

In northern Germany, we don’t need devil sticks to tell us the sky is about to piss rain.