You won’t be able to pay for your heating this winter as it is? We’ll help out by adding an additional tax to that. Only we won’t call it a tax, of course. We’ll call it an Umlage. That means contribution, share, levy.
It’s what we do here in Green Germany. It’s for the greater good or something.
Germany Slaps Levy on Households to Spread Pain of Gas Surge – Government allows industry to pass on prices to consumers.
Germany’s government said households will face additional annual costs of about 290 euros ($296) to pay for natural gas as the burden of Russia’s squeeze on energy flows to Europe is redistributed.
German of the day: Tradition. That means tradition.
“The Führer gave a holiday to any woman who bore at least one child, the men he sent to the front! What an asshole, we see yet again.
The man had to conquer Father’s Day laboriously himself. His choice fell on Ascension Day, a movable fest, lying around quite meaningless in the calendar anyway. And lo and behold, the choice was good! Outside it’s already quite warm and the annoying relatives haven’t taken over your place like they do during Christmas.
Now all that was left to do was fill the event with content. The choice fell on a classic of male leisure activity: DRINK UNTIL YOUR PUKE TASTES SOUR! In addition, howl around like an idiot, piss everywhere and tell dirty jokes. Virtually paradise on Earth, in other words.
Aware of being the stronger of the sexes, the man can also afford to run around dressed like a complete dumbass. He doesn’t get gussied up on his holiday like his haughty wife does on hers, oh no, he puts a buffoon’s hat on his red beet head, wears rolled up corduroy pants and screws a bicycle bell on his walking stick. Dressed like that, anyone can easily see that he’s been transformed into a complete idiot while he and his fellow idiot companions stagger through the forest like containers for Pawian shit.
But because a man is a man, he needs a task. In this case: Pulling a little wooden wagen. On it stands the fuel for the drunkard horde: 50 liters of Pils, 10 bottles of Appelkorn and 30 rubbers, still originally packed from the previous year.
By noon, the weakest are already beginning to flounder, the green slime oozing out of a body orifice that once was called the mouth. All the wagen wheel nuts are loose and the only thing that keeps them going is their sense of duty. That is, to drain the last 20 beers down their swollen gorges.
The greatest joy still awaits the man at the end of Father’s Day: Call home to have his battle axe pick him up from the jungle, drool all over her new dress while she carries him in to dump him on the sofa, and throw the puke bucket at the stupid cat.
Because this is the ONLY day of the year where father belongs to himself. And the rest have to shut their traps!”