Airmail

Ladies and Gentlemen,

when I arrived for the first time in Dschörmany, I was some kind of brmnschtrüdl. My Schnackenbroiler vastly intertwined with a cocktail I never had tasted before. This bunch of German motherfuckers call it «Airmail», or «Ehrmehl» as their awful tongue pronounces so puny.

German Englisch sounds like a Messerschmidt crashing soulfully into an Opernhaus. I had three of them.

When I woke up it felt like a dream. Was it really me that had vaporised three of them? Then have them toasted, get them wrapped and hung on their niggard market they call Soziale Marktwirtschaft?

«Good job». I said to myself. Having those unenergetic blond beasts packed and hung made them look fucking better, ‚gave me kind of a beatitude.

This was what I’ve been waiting for. I call it American Engineering with an Umlaut.

So I decided to live my dream right here in Germany. I said: «This is is a Mekka!» But one of the packed and hung Germans replied out of the box: «This ain’t no Mekka, man! This place is fucked!»

He was damn right, so I said: «You’re damn right!» I said it with my voice stressing the last three syllables. But nevertheless I deserted from U.S. Army to go on by myself. Why die for America if I can deep-fry these German potatoes here by myself like a real woman?

«And that’s what I do!», I muttered, stressing the ultima, penult and antepenult.

Now. What is it that gives you fucking kind of a great beatitude in Germany by roasting the hell out of these stupid motherfuckers, making a Whopper or a Chicken Wing or a «Neuner Nugget mit Hot Sauce» out of their wretched «Kultur»?

Say it, Kant!

Well, it is the Airlift, or at least, the «AIRMAIL». Did I mention that before? Whatever. What you need is Airmail. Ask for Airmail. Whenever you come to this soggy stretch of land they call Deutschland demand «Airmail».

CODE AIRMAIL! CODE AIRMAIL!

O.K. listen, you horny gas mask desendants. An Airmail Cocktail is made like this.

You take one Imperial Fluid Ounce (Imp.fl.oz.) of Rum. As you stubborn barbarians insist on your fiendish metric system I will adapt for you. But do not take that for granted, bastards!

So you take 3 of your silly Cilliliters of Rum. Then add 1.5 Cilliliters of fresh lime juice. 1.5 Cilliliters of honey sirup. Shake it on ice exactly 23 times and then strain in an iced champagne flute.

Got it?

Now, looser, it’s not finished yet. When it comes to champagne I always remember how we danced in your ruins with our Soviet sisters and brothers. These proud days are gone, so be happy that you can move freely and shut up, whiny German wankers!

Here’s some Champagne for you, Fontane. You finally fill up the glass with Champagne. And don’t be stingy with it, the war is over, you bloody know-it-alls. Cocktail finished. Thank you. I’ll have it.