Creeping Land

Actually, the little one didn’t do much at all. Whilst we were preparing for our parental leave, she simply turned ‘Greece’ into ‘Creeping-land’. With that, she’s once again provided the perfect setup for satire and a justification for her wit. A country is crawling towards its end. I never thought we’d get this far. But here we are. As the American said in the business section today: “There’s still plenty of good left in your lovely Germany.” Thanks! The Romans surely uttered exactly the same line in Germania 2,000 years ago – before they “redeemed” us with pizza.

I pause to reflect. I’ve never actually been particularly proud of being German. I saw it more as a medal for reliability in over-regulation and failure. Every traveller worldwide usually showers you, mostly unasked, with a slightly euphoric-smelling mass of positive adjectives: “Reliable. Punctual.” Done! Wipe it up! To the entire southern hemisphere, however, Germany still seems to be an anagram of “paradise”. For the time being, I’m obviously degenerating into an illiterate.

Being able to read is important for getting a good job. That’s what my mum said. I was a good reader. That’s why I had a wonderful job for a quarter of a century. I was a web designer. The creativity of my brain fed me. For a while, I even had a bit of a belly because of it. My vocation made me proud and my clients happy. But thanks to artificial intelligence, I’ll soon no longer know how to make a living in the land of poets and thinkers. That’s why I’m thinking a lot at the moment. Unless I’m still standing in a rather dense queue outside the baker’s at ten in the morning, waiting for the four AIs in front of me to buy their rolls.

All that density doesn’t help, of course. I’ve been suffering from AI-induced brain drain for three years now. My brain is slowly leaking out the more I use AI. At first I thought it was just a cold. But as soon as you spot the first signs of synapses in the snot on your handkerchief, you just know for sure how the rabbit runs. After consulting the AI, of course. And you also know where the rabbit goes to poo. The other day, a kind soul asked me, “Who’s been shitting in your brain?”. Thanks to AI, I was at least able to offer him a sincere “Thank you!” in return for his kind expression of sympathy.

With every minute of artificial intelligence, my brain becomes a little drier and slowly shrinks within my skull. One might say: “Good. At least we’ve gained some crumple zone and thus safety.” The only problem is: once the brain has been so dumbed down by AI that it runs into every glass door, I no longer really consider it “systemically important”. Soon enough, we’ll have a red flashing warning projected straight onto our retinas anyway: “Warning! Glass door ahead!”. Then comes the Tesla effect: the AI shoots you through the glass door at full throttle. “Astalavista, baby!”

This isn’t a joke. It’s deadly serious. No matter who’s laughing. When all you want to do is cry, laughter is often the best remedy. My dreams died with my job. I’m still alive. I just don’t know what for anymore. Or what I’m living on. So I need a new purpose. It should be “to make people laugh”.

Fortunately, there are lots of genuinely funny things in the world today. Numbers alone are rarely funny. People’s reactions to them, on the other hand, often are. Israel versus Gaza? 2,000 : 74,000 dead. Or the odds on Betandwin? 1:37. Russia versus Ukraine? 335,000 : 120,000. Betandwin factor? 2.8 : 1. For every Israeli, 37 Palestinians died. For every Russian, however, ‘only’ 0.35 Ukrainians. Russia has long been excluded from the ESC. No one complained. Poor, evil Russians! In the 2026 ESC, only Spain, Ireland, the Netherlands, Iceland and Slovenia did not take part in protest against the ongoing genocide committed by Israel. The rest apparently have no problem with it.

Do you get the joke? The ESC is the biggest music competition in the world. In the ESC logo, a heart forms the V in ‘Eurovision’. The ESC claims to be an ‘apolitical’ music competition. Therefore, Israel shouldn’t be excluded either – says the ESC. Unfortunately, however, I’m a stats freak. Numbers are my thing. Numbers define, with terrifying sobriety, the difference between genocide and war. But not for the ESC. For me, the ESC defines eligibility to participate based on effectiveness in killing. Russia? Yes, bad boy. But unfortunately not effective enough at killing. Out! Israel? 37 dead Palestinians for one dead Israeli. Very effective! Celebrate a festival of love with us! These are the jokes that make me laugh out loud.

In the spirit of yet another year in which the world reminds us Germans of our true worth, I wander, frustrated, through my 2,000-year-old hometown. A couple of US millionaires disembark from one of the four Danube steamers moored in the immediate vicinity of the stone bridge. Their shoes squeak uphill under the weight of their drastic excess weight. They’re Birkenstock Arizonas. This very shoe is pretty much the last thing Germany has ever had to be ashamed of – or ever will. Birkenstocks are more German than Germany itself. Without them, you’re not German. Or weren’t.

A portly millionaire to a fellow traveller: “I got them for just $100!” I’m absolutely delighted for him. I trip him up. He crashes onto the tarmac, leaving a crater one and a half centimetres deep. I hold out my hand: “Thank you for declaring Birkenstocks a ‘must-have’ for every rich US citizen.” Then I steal his sandals, because I simply can’t afford them myself anymore…