Grass

Krauthound seedlings Ella and Hugo enjoying the grass in Cord-sur-Ciel, France. August, 2024.

I was taught from a sprout’s age that the only two colors that matter are green and red, cabbage that is. Oh sure, red cabbages are exotic. But I could never take one home to my germinators. Imagine that? Give me a plain old green next door cabbage. One that can photosynthesize and displace nitrogen in the soil and consider my wild oats sewn. I had that head one time and traded it in for something different. I learned the hard way that the grass isn’t always greener, even with red cabbage. Sometimes, white-green is as green as it gets. 

—- Krauthammer

The country is in crisis, and the Krauthounds have heard your call – so we’re BACK mah bebeys!You can rest easy now, turn down the NPR and the JRE, dust off your kraut tongs, dip in deep and turn up that KH… yassss! So, let’s just put it out there…. Grass…. is a total Monet. You know, like that hottie at the wiener stand with them high heels up to the yayo, and the cherry blow pop lips with them spider leg lashes – a few blocks away she’s Giselle, a block away she’s Kathleen Turner, and up close and personal she’s Al Roker! But here’s the kicker, my advice: blur your peepers, cross ‘em too while you’re at it and give it good and hard to the Al Roker in the middle. Read on to see why…

The grass is always greener on the other side, especially if that other side is my front lawn. I get it all the time, “wow, nice grass!” “Killer blades, bro!” “Is that Augusta National or your lawn?!” – I hear it every day. And I always reply the same way… “Bullshit, man, shut your mouth!”. Then I go on to explain that from afar any decently cut patch of green weeds will look like a “nice lawn” but as I tell my wife, get on your knees, and really get in there. Get down low, Rick Moranis style and scope those blades, bro. Scope them! Scoooooopppeeee themmmmmmmm. It’s a fuckin mess. Yup, but don’t miss the lawn for the grass blades, as many men do.

Grass is life, life is grass, kraut is grass, life is kraut. Now put the pieces of your blown mind back together and hear me. A good lawn is not all perfect blades of grass. It’s a hodgepodge, some solid stock of Kentucky Bluegrass, plenty of dandelions, various thistle varieties and other run- of-the-mill weeds, top it off with some crab grass and this patchwork as long as it’s watered and trimmed amounts to splooge-worthy front yard. Inspect it at your own risk. I once was acquainted with a man who started on weeding his yard one Saturday morning and by mid- afternoon when he looked up, all he was left with was a dirt patch unfit for a simple game of kick the kraut can. He took his own life a few days later. RIP, Ed.

Our own lives, similarly inspected and weeded might yield the same barren wasteland. So, let’s just water them, own them, feed them, keep them green and trim, my bebeys. Some details of our lives’ lawns might pop up more than others in certain seasons, that’s OK. Plow on, for a new Snapper (the lawnmower brand, you degenerate) will soon level things out. And if we can manage to step back and see what others see we’ll notice that it’s the tableau, it’s the oeuvre, it’s the overall effect that is most often perceived -- not the burnt patch, not the weeds or the crab grass (but if you got crabs, def get that shit cleaned up, that’s gross). To leave you, before the roaring twenties, before fallen dukes and lords of Britania were forced to marry the Yankee daughters of sugar-water moguls, American front yards were not filled with grass. No no no, another green god graced this land. Yes, you guessed it, CABBAGE…!

To be continued…

The Puss-man, Out.

Ain’t Nothin’ Perfect

There are a lot of reasons to be sauer in this world, the most common thing that makes people sauer is having their heads stuck too far up their butts to see all the beautiful moments right in front of them (or on top of them). No doubt, Krauthammer and Sauerpuss were debating the fall of man, while their kids spanned an ocean to become friends.

As middle-age surrounds me like kraut on my sausage, I find myself second-guessing many of the decisions of my life, big and small. This worthless questioning of the past is a limp wiener’s way of avoiding the two questions that he needs to be answering: “Am I happy?” and “What do I want the rest of my life to look like?”

Even this setup is so difficult because it’s a huge and nuanced answer that could meander its way through the substrate like curious cabbage roots searching for the honeypot of water and nutrients. Rather than make this a manifesto, I will boil it down like cabbage on St. Patrick’s day so that it can be read and digested!

The answer to the question, “Am I happy?” is bullshit. Happiness is relative. So I have to throw a curveball in my mini-festo. The first question needs to be “Who am I?” This is not the deep eternal search for personal truth, this is simply how one sees the world. How does one measure themselves? Are you a stinky and aged can of kraut looking over your shoulder at the young hot ball of cabbage that has their whole growing season in front of them? Or are you the inexperienced and insecure green cabbage who wishes for a long and stable shelf-life but can’t figure out how to get there? Happiness is in the mind of the beholder. Happiness is about perspective.

So for those of us questioning our happiness, let’s make sure we include some perspective in our analysis.

Now that we’ve taken a step back and realized that, yes, life is good, that doesn’t mean we rest. That would be like tasting the mashed cabbage before fermentation, knowing that it’s going to be so so good with a bit of attention and care, and then leaving it out in the sun and killing all that glorious potential still yet to be realized. Now is the time to take a more active role. I say “more” active because for those readers that are like me, any bit of planning is an improvement over nothing. But for those more akin to the Sauerpuss planner, this is the time to reflect on how to get more of what you want while sacrificing as little of what you have.

The beauty and the tragedy of life is that we only get one shot at it. That fact has recently hit home with me. I was disappointed at my increasingly limited professional options and feeling consumed with regret. But then I got to chatting with people. Real, good, deep chatting (the most valuable thing in humanity). And I realized that everyone I spoke to was feeling the same to some extent. But they were the old established kraut can or the young and limitless seedling to me. How could this be? They had all crafted this impossible existence by cherry-picking the things they wanted from the people they loved. Like them, I was building and striving for my perfect existence. I hope, like me, they realize that it doesn’t exist because ain’t nothin’ perfect.

Except failure.

- Krauthammer

Ooooooo bebey bebey, we know you’ve been hitting up the KH website and refreshing our merch page (coming soon) like mad but we’re finally BACKKK! And we’re here to tell you in case you didn’t know…. Nothing ain’t perfect. Yes, you heard it here first. Even a ‘Perfect 10’ model isn’t perfect, sure them milkers are natural but God rarely gifts symmetry to these human bodies we inhabit – just ask my balls about that one!

              Okay just calm down for a sec and think about a historical person who was perfect. And I realize now that we are all thinking of the same person – Heinrich Von Krautfeldt (“HVK”), the inventor of Sauerkraut himself. Legend is when a marauding rider of Ghengis Khan’s yellow hoard veered on to his family’s land in a mid 13th century raid, HVK personally ran him down on foot, mashed his brain in with a hardwood club and violated his horse. The horseplay is secondary though, because on the still-bleeding corpse of the rider HVK discovered a pungent leaky leathered sack of salty and decaying cabbage that was at once offensive and alluring.  Need I say more? I will… ‘twas the seed of SAUERKRAUT!

              BUT… I tricked you hehe, I wasn’t thinking of HVK at all, I was thinking of Jay Ceeee! That long-forgotten little boy who wanted to be a big boy from Bethlehem! For a long while he was THE guy to follow around the desert, and boy did people follow. Why? Cuz this guy was more PURRRRR-FECT than a Siamese show-cat with a gay male Asian owner. I’m talking bleached clean white tight butthole, perfect. This guy walked on water and then turned water (not the same water he was walking on, I assume?) into wine! He gave sight to the blind, associated with Hebrew hookers, and possibly loitered with lepers without getting any warts at all!! For some reason he performed no sauerkraut-related miracles but we should not blame him for this.

              Anyway, my long-delayed point is that even JC wasn’t perfect. First off, his body… people are always raving about that six-pack of his, but I know malnutrition when I see it. Mayhap he should have been eating more fish instead of signing his name as one. Style-wise I dig the long-hair/beard sandal look as much as the next libtard, but lord knows Bethlehem (not to mention Nazareth!) is rocky as all hell and quite hot at least 9 months of the eternal year. A sweaty hot face and all kinds of rubble in my thonged toesies would put me in the sauerest of moods. Hey Messiah, when ya come back, two words!: CLOSED TOE. Lastly but not nearly leastly, what a preacher: “Hey guys, I’m perfect over here but all of you, all of you should forgive and accept each other for being imperfect” – Jesus Christ, what a mind fuck.

                                                         Imperfect in his own eyes always,

                                                         ‘Ol Puss

Street Smart

Sauerpuss and Krauthammer using Baby Driver for help soliciting charity from passersby in July 2021. Opinionated, yes. Street smart, no. No alms were received but experience was learned. Next time, they won’t start drinking at 10AM and Krauthammer will cover his goldenlocks.

I have traditionally thought of street smarts as superior to book smarts. And why not? Look at what success means and what is often behind its achievement. In America, money is success. The most lucrative (on average) occupation… sales. (BTW… this is not researched at all, just my krautfeels). Sales is all about street smarts. So is corporate life (to our own detriment). Success in America is more about reading a room than reading a book. By this acknowledgement, we can all agree that street smarts is superior.

But what if…

… the streets change.

Street smarts are evolving at fast fashion speeds right now. 50 years ago, a street smart man would be well within the room’s boundaries to objectify the secretary. 20 years ago, a street smart man would be someone who accepted gays as equals. Today, a street smart man has changed his gender to identify as a street smart woman. What I’m getting at here is that street smart ain’t much more than trendy. All those street smart non-binary white-guilters sucking up today’s oxygen have a hard road ahead, because trends don’t last.

So what then? Book smart? Street smart? There must be something else to measure a person’s acumen or worth…

Without much thought, I propose the next level is something to do with friendship. Afterall, show me a person with many friends and you’ll show me a successful human. Let’s call this type of intelligence, heart smart. Someone who follows the most basic and human thing in us all, our hearts. Grow your heart, grow your friends and friendships, grow your smarts.

-          Krauthammer

Disclaimer: Krauthounds.com is not currently, never has been, nor claimed to be, all about the Framers.

Heard on the street: “I’m for freedom dude, for liberty, you know, democracy! That’s why all these crazy redneck red states making all these new laws need to be STOPPED immediately.”

Also heard on the street: “Pfft it’s like everything else, let the free market decide. I don’t see why the government would ever get involved with hard drugs, or guns for that matter. Let the people in the open market determine what flies!”

We the people, are ignorant. And neither the left nor the right has a monopoly on feeble-minded ideas. The statements above were both uttered by the savviest and most informed of their respective friend groups, and were delivered with the utmost confidence. And whether we like it or not, the people, for lack of a better term, have risen. Individuals who a century ago would be simple cogs in the industrial machine, assembly line drones living in cold-water flats and shitting in the dark with hardly enough sauerkraut to keep their digestive juices flowing – this same gene pool, now has a voice. And they ain’t book smart, no sir, they have something far better: Street Smarts, by golly. The kind of wits that could get you out of a real pickle. And ironically, we’re in one – let’s see if we can extricate ourselves.

I used to ask a simple question: when we elect a representative, are we electing a leader who should seek with their elevated vision to guide us (the “People”); or are we electing a mouthpiece, someone to take the true pulse of the People and effect our collective will via the legislature? It’s as complex as a Williamsburg Brooklyn chef’s recipe for Thai curry Sauerkraut, and to be honest, I haven’t completely answered it. What I do know is that both the information going IN to the people as well as the digested ideas being shat OUT are of a volume only comparable to the great Bavarian inter-war glut of sauerkraut (circa 1921-1928, aka “Heinrich’s Holy Harvest).

Here’s a hot take: Democracy is dangerous. Although it’s a ubiquitously positive buzzword these days, our forefathers (yes, including the Framers!) knew that the tempers of the masses needed to be dampened by the system. Pure democracy is nearly chaos. So it was said that the Senate was the cool saucer to the piping hot teacup of the House of Reps. WE are the TEA! And right now dis Chai bout to melt your lips off, bebey.  Like a healthy cube of ice, I believe the right presidential candidate could just be the perfect addition, and just in time for MDW. My suggestion: the greatest rapper slash actor of all time: Ice Cube!  His VP, yes you called it, Ice-T, the second greatest rapper slash actor of all time. Sorry Tone Loc, we’ll find a spot in the Cabinet for you.

This is nonsense,

SauerPuss

Whistling Loud & Proud

Sauerpuss and Krauthammer often spend their free hours volunteering at their non-profit, Help A Retard Smile. Another job well done with local retard, Greg Rosen.

An Excerpt from Clancy Joe Bump’s Diary (transcribed from scribbles and edited to be legible)

People say I’m not quite right in the head. Whatever that means. If I ain’t right, how come what I’m doing feels so good? I hear everything people say when I walk by. I don’t always understand the words they use, but I understand their looks and laughs. And if I hear a word enough, I don’t have to know what it means to know that it hurts. People say I’m an idiot or a half-brain. People say I’m inbred and that I have too many ears. As much as their words and their looks hurt, what hurt more was the loneliness.

But that has all changed because I recently met someone who makes me feel warm and happy for the first time in my life. My beautiful Bessie. The only one in the whole world that I feel like truly understands me. Bessie is such a good listener. She never calls me an idiot neither. We go for long walks together, picnic outside, and have become very physical. I love the way my body feels when we make love. There is pleasure and pain and I am usually a bit bloodied after because Bessie is just so passionate. She knows how to make me feel like a powerful man. My dirty little animal loves to be submissive. If I ever want my Bessie, all I have to do is whistle and she finds me. But I have a feeling her father doesn’t like me very much. I think he knows about the passion we share behind the barn. He’s traditional and we’re not married.

When I told Bessie I was going to tell her father about us and ask permission to marry her, she just stared. I think she was turned on by my courage because it looked like she was drooling for me. That night, I walked Bessie home and tried to have a conversation with her father. After a few minutes of awkward silence, he reared back and head butted me right in the chest. Beaten but not broken, I limped away. That night I whistled for Bessie. I whistled loud and proud. She left her father’s house and found me. We picnicked and made violent passionate love under the stars that night. It was magic.

I’ve been so happy since then. Bessie and I share meals and love regularly, and when legal, I plan to make her my wife. I know my fellow townsfolk have accepted me and forgiven my shortcomings, whatever they were. Because they don’t call me idiot or inbred anymore. Now, instead of laughing, they keep their distance and yell “sheep fucker” at me. I feel like the king of the town!

- Krauthammer

People don’t whistle like they used to. Yes, I said it. I guess it takes a real KrautHound to see through the muck and mire of this modern world but fear not, even the likes of you lil kraut pups can understand and appreciate these profound observations. In the 1950s they called 5th Avenue from 42nd street to Central Park “symphony alley” because every chap in a grey flannel suit and hat to match was whistling while he walked. The combined sound was so overwhelming and invigorating it was rumored that doctors in the South would send sickly, low-testosterone teenagers up north to “take in the T” simply by sitting on a city bench and opening their ears. The war was over, the factories were humming, the women were mostly all pregnant with future hippies and all the men had to do was stride confidently and blow air playfully from their pursed lips, whistling loud and proud. Some would later argue that this whistling was actually a way of distracting their minds from the bloody horrors of a war their wives and children would never understand – but that’s a story for another time. We all had the same facts back then, ate the same Wonder bread, watched the same TV -- it gave us the confidence and calm to whistle our own unique little tune.

              Historians argue unironically that the Japanese dealt the first death blow to the mid-century American whistle with the advent of the Walkman ™. In the late 1970s an eerie silence fell over 5th Avenue, as headset laden Madmen turned financial Masters of the Universe bobbed their heads with full-on tunnel vision to studio-produced pop-rock (see Doobie Brothers, Boston, Journey, etc.). All the while, the factories were shutting down, the baby boomers had outgrown their hippie stages and were about to elect Ronny Reagan (aka the blowjob King of Hollywood), and the women had all secretly gone on the pill. The men weren’t whistling and if they had been you might say they were whistling right past the graveyard – of America. Yet still, the music being pumped into their ears was more or less uniform, as was the nightly news. Had Brad bothered to remove his headphones to chat with Tad, they would have more or less agreed on the merits of topics ranging from Peter Gabriel to trickle-down economics. The people of America were individuating, but they were still of one mind. And whistling was all but dead.

              If the Walkman spelled imminent destruction for the whistle, the iPod followed by the iPhone in the first decade of the twenty-first century were the finishing moves, removing the head from the whistle, reaching down into the body cavity and eviscerating the innards in a wild spray of pinkish foam. I may even be understating the severity of the attack. Steve Jobs promised us a thousand songs in our pocket, but what he delivered was a multiverse of inane douchebaggery the world had never seen, and has yet to recover from. Now the little white earbuds stuck into the floppy-haired messenger bag toting MBAs were all playing eclectic personal mixes that no one but the maker appreciated. Nelly Furtado followed up by Buffalo Springfield…. WTF!? Not just music, but the world was becoming customizable.  Apple’s iconic ad saw people as featureless black silhouettes, blank slates to stack purchasable features onto. The iPhone accelerated this spiral into personal infotainment silos so fast that looking back to 2005 is akin to peering into King Tut’s mummified fecal matter to decode his diet. People don’t whistle, there’s an app for that. And in the rare case a person seen whistling to themselves, they are either guessed to be a recently released patient from yet another shuttered mental institution, or non-binary, identifying as a BIRD.

         Tweet-tweet, fuck off,

             Ol ‘Puss

All Around Hound

Krauthammer (left) was a very round hound when this picture was taken during the first ever Licorice Pizza Day with Sauerpuss (right) in January, 2022.

Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my great honor to introduce a truly great person. An inspiration to us all. A leader in his field. A humble man. The best Krauthound of us all… Jesus Christ.

(Thunderous applause)

Please, please… you’re too kind. Although, to be honest, and I always am, I don’t think that’s possible. 

You all stand on the doorsteps of greatness. But the sad fact is that not all of you will make it through to the other side. There, success, happiness, wealth beyond your wildest dreams, and God-approved orgies await. Before that, there will be hardship on the level of Old Testament wrath. Nothing, and I mean nothing, in this modern world infected by the Devil’s dick, can compare to the spiritual and existential challenges of being an intern at Krauthounds.com. And so today I say to you, summer interns 2023, welcome to Krauthounds, and may papa have mercy on your souls.

I was like you once. I was just a boy with big dreams and a narrow outlook on sauerkraut related journalism. This was supposed to be my steppingstone on my path to network anchor. You would think that the son of God would have been a shoe-in for network anchor on one of the big 3, but things were different in those days. People loved that I was the son of God, but I wasn’t the right color. Jesus of Nazareth, right? “He should be browner!” They would say. And so my credibility was lost because the world wanted a brown Jesus, regardless of the facts. Sometimes I wish I was brown so my life would have been easier. But had it been so, I would be an empty toga. A man not worth the sandals he walks on water with. And so I struggled and I persevered.

What you must understand is that Krauthounds.com is an old organization. Not so old in name but old in its ways. Will you be paid for your time? No. Will you be subjected to unwanted sexual advances? Yes. Will there be an HR person for you to report your issues to? No. That’s not what we do here. We write about Kraut. We live, breathe, and often times eat it. And you’ll see, that when you give yourself over to the hounds and the kraut they stand for, life grows easier.

Being the son of God, life hasn’t always been easy for me. But the easiest decision I’ve made in a long time was to renew my subscription to this wonderful news outlet. Yes I can read it for free, but I believe that great journalism must be supported. And you all now are stepping into those unappreciated support roles. I wish you all good lcuk, and papa bless you.

Welcome to Krauthounds!  Now get to work!!!

- Krauthammer

Oh bebey bebey bebey bebey, come on in mah bebies!! Come on back in time with me to my darkest most angstiest hours.  You don’t want to go?  Well, neither do I. When I was fourteen my evil-ex-step-father gave me a small framed picture of a dimly lit hardwood court strewn with basketballs. The emotional caption read “You miss all of the shots that you never take”. It was intended to be a fig leaf of sorts, me and Frank hadn’t been getting along. Basically, I was getting my pubes and Frank was just a total loser douche bag that my mom married for some reason. In all seriousness, I was a mediocre high school athlete with a major confidence problem and he was trying to help me in his way. Even so, I hated this corny-ass framed bullshit, I was sour even back then and can you imagine I wasn’t even giving my gut what it needed in terms of kraut minus a dozen or so summer dogs (avec kraut) during the Independence Day freaks show post 9-11. I don’t know what came of the frame eventually, I vaguely recall flinging it into a trash box after college, pretending I was past its simple message. But the point is, it stuck around, I had it in my room for years. I hated it and I looked at it every day. I hated this man, and I could still sort of appreciate what he was trying to tell me. This man may not have hated me back, but he certainly resented me – still, he could clearly see what I needed: a Goose to my Maverick, a Pippen to my Jordan, Bush to my Cheney – a hype man, Flava Flaaaaaave – a wing man. Talk to me, Goose…

              Fast-forward twenty years…. Krauthammer was and is a wonderful wing man, allowing me to be that all-around hound inside of each of us. Prior to the Hammer I was picking my spots, confident in only a narrow set of circumstances. And I’m not just referring to confidence in myself, I mean confidence that certain situations in general had any potential all – why even try? Krauthammer, he goes to the post office to mail a letter and the next thing you know he’s on a rave bus to the Badlands with a 4-piece bluegrass band. No one had to give ol’ Hammer any framed quotations to get him off his ass, he’s a walking talking framed quotation in-real-life! Do me a favor, look up ‘All-Around Hound’ in the Encyclopedia Britannica ticked away in your Granny’s house – it doesn’t matter what edition you have, you’ll find a picture of KrautHammer playing hackie sack with the Dali Lama on a yacht in the Aegean Sea. I’m not cured though, under it all I’m still that fourteen year-old with 8 pubes and anger to back each of them up. But I’m learning more and more to drink the brine of each moment; and I thank the Krautlords for mentors and friends like the Hammer each and every day.

Hound on Bebies

SauerPuss

Everything Happens for a Reason

Our heroes have always found a way to balance responsibilities with fun. Here, Krauthammer and Sauerpuss take a moment to put aside their differences and enjoy some popcorn. What a box of fun! (September 2020)

Hey bitches, you caught me on a very sour day – but that’s like rolling a 20-sided dice where 19 of the sides say “sour” – you’re pushing  your luck. “Everything happens for a reason….” Let ol’ Sauerpuss amend this oft repeated but never completed adage. Everything happens for a reason, AND THAT REASON IS USUALLY YOUR DUMB ASS! You notice this quote is only dusted off and spat out when something shitty happens. No one wins the lottery or gets a full scholarship and says “yay everything happens for a reason!”. You only say it when your wife bangs the IT guy at work and leaves you, you say it when you get your third DUI and lose your license after getting blasted on strawberry margaritas at Chili’s and swerving all over the highway like a madman. When I hear someone utter these words only my disdain can cover up my pity for the poor lost soul speaking.

              Humans are obsessive reasoners, so much so that I consider it unreasonable. Ol’ Puss repeats it often here in these posts, but we can always be reminded: there is no escape from neither our decisions nor our indecisions. Must we always find some greater, hidden, deep meaning in every shitty scenario we find ourselves in?  I have a rule - every time I find myself facing some hardship or unfortunate reality, I immediately blame myself – this not only saves me time from useless searching, it is generally correct. Occam’s Razor says the simplest solution is generally the most correct one. Let’s all start saying “crap, this sucks, what the fuck did I do to cause this?” – it rolls of the tongue and I think it will catch on.

              You ever get high and look in the mirror and realize you haven’t actually seen yourself in years? It can be extremely jarring, especially if you’re not aging as well as the Puss and the Hammer. Sorry not sorry for these genetics, bebey. That lifting of the veil while high, though uncomfortable, is important. If we peel back the layers of the onion too much of course, there will simply be nothing left. But to leave on the decayed crust of blaming others, of unfortunate “fate”, of rationalized bad choices over top of us, without shedding them from time to time, is not only extremely strenuous, but dangerous. We are always our harshest critics; so drop the façade, take the blame, and realize all those eyes you think are judging you are really just looking at pornhub on their phones.

- Sauerpuss

“Everything happens for a reason…” or so everyone’s grandmother says to them after they shit their pants and get laughed out of middle school. Comforting words, sure. But does she honestly expect us to believe that you shitting your pants is part of some grand plan on your path to greatness? Likewise - It’s easy enough to look back on the past and say, “yeah, that time I shit my pants and was humiliated lead me to create No-Browns. The world’s first and only food that is 100% efficiently digested and therefore you will never need to poop. A food so pure there’s no shit for sure. No-Browns, don’t get caught with your pants up!” Of course, your past lead you to your present. Everything that is happened for a reason, right?

What if I could prove that wrong? What if I could find an example of something happening purely in a vacuum. It happened, and the story line ends? No butterfly effect. Nothing. Let me go through the most mundane details of my life and let’s find out if they all happen for a reason.

1)      I wear socks that are too big for me. I’m right in between the smaller size and the bigger one, and I always assume the bigger size will be more comfortable. But it’s not. It just bunches up and flops around inside my shoe. On top of that, I look like a dope if I ever must go shoeless in someone’s home.

2)      I never, ever, wipe to completion. What I mean is that, if I put paper down there, it’s always finding something. Sometimes, I grab four sheets, sometimes three, sometimes two. Never less than two because that’s disgusting. But there is no rhyme or reason to my choice in number of sheets. It’s just what my gut and my arm tell my brain to take. I don’t even realize what I’ve done until after I’ve done it. That seems pretty pointless to me. Similarly, what I decide is the last wipe really doesn’t matter, for the aforementioned reason.

3)      I haven’t washed my back in at least 2 years. I can’t reach it. I’m aware of luffas on a stick that could reach those unreachables, but I just don’t care.

It’s not hard to find cause or effect in each of these. Indeed, all have happened for a reason. Maybe it’s Krauthammer who doesn’t quite understand the world as well as his grandma. Her abstract words taking on more meaning in their ambiguity than in their understanding. “Everything happens for a reason…” That’s something to take comfort in. Not that you will be some stronger person because of some social embarrassment, but that life goes on. The same life that is filled with embarrassment is also filled with joy and love and life. Everything happens for a reason because life goes on.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go change my underpants.

   -Krauthammer

All Things Must Pass

KrautHammer (left) and SauerPuss (right) celebrate the passage of Hammer’s genetics through the fallopian tube. One passage begets others and the two have never sat on one another’s lap since. (Dec. 2020)

              All things must pass. True. And democracy dies in darkness. And yet when democracy dies, the darkness that follows must pass and die away too. Do you believe in miracles? LOL neither does the Old Puss here. I always say don’t go chasing water falls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to. How does one chase a lake? Seems just about as useful as swatting a dead fly. I like looking at waterfalls though, right at the crest before the big drop. It’s as if the water doesn’t know or care that it’s about to fall off a cliff, it goes on flowing just as if it were any normal bend in the curve – then WHOOSH, it’s dispersed, mist-i-fied, broken up and falling indeterminately. Chaos breaks the flow harshly, and yet more water just keeps on comin’ – if you stay focused on the point before the fall, it can be quite sad. Reminds me of time, incessant, uncaring of the “importance”, the “gravity” of any single moment. The moments come – and they pass. No matter who you are, no matter how good or how bad you have it. Time is the force of the river itself, we are the water, and this moment is the point at the crest. And the fall.… the fall is the fate we all share. Most don’t care to acknowledge that inevitable edge, let alone peer down into it. We all should though – look down – acknowledge our end. The ancient ones did, and they honored their elders as well as their dead. Today we want to throw a dam up on that river – to prolong the moments, to never at all costs, drop – but a river dammed produces an incredible energy, which must escape somewhere, it must EXPLODE. And so we might soon too. For now, we worship ourselves and our moment to the point of missing the beauty in our insignificance. On a short ride, we take it for granted that more smooth sun-drenched curves are up ahead; when truthfully, it’s still the drop, the chaotic darkness in front of us all. Our lives could be so much lighter contrasted against a bit of that dark. Take a peek, folks.

- ‘Puss

Judgement Day is coming and the end is nigh!

… meh.

 When has anything ever ended? Certainly not in my lifetime. I went through a period of nihilism, sure. What’s the fucking point, man? All we are is dust in the wind. It’s the end of the world and we know it. So just show me the way to the next whiskey bar and I can drink my mental nausea away. I could endlessly quote classic rock songs to finish writing this krauogg (kraut + blog – t – b + g = krauogg), but I would rather give the reader some insight that I learned from eating a big bowl of sauerkraut. That is, that all things must pass.

Believe it or not Krauthounds, this is not my first attempt at residency in the European Union. The first time around, I did it on a hobo’s budget with a hobo’s dietary preferences -that is to say, whatever’s cheapest. In Ireland, I survived on a steady diet of potatoes and vodka. By caloric and alcoholic measures, the biggest bangs for your bucks. All that energy density left precious little room for the fiber needed to move my food from point B to point Colon. All things must pass and so my potato poops, with great effort, made their way through my potato shoot. Everything has a price my friends, and cheap potatoes and vodka are no exception. They sucked the life out of my soul and the juice out of my poops. I sinned against the great creator of gut bacteria. As if my belly harbored Sodom and Gomorrah, I smote it regularly with a plague of killer alcohol and a famine of fiberless means. I was a vengeful god. The result was a herd of goat poops with no shepherd. If you can’t corral your own shit, you’re stuck in the mud.

I learned the (very) hard way, that everything has a price. Had I spent a little bit more money on better food, the improvement in taste, in energy, in experience would likely have me remembering that time as a moment of fun rather than one of neck-vein-popping struggles. But maybe money wasn’t even the answer. Perhaps it was just the thoughtfulness and the time to ask the question, “why do I no longer need toilet paper?” and seek an alternative answer such as, “maybe a 50/50 mix of potatoes and sauerkraut could change things.” Yes, that moment came to an end but I still relive it in my mind and the experiences will never leave. So bring a bowl or a ramekin, actual or metaphorical, but bring some kraut to each and every passage of your life. If all things must pass, better they pass smooth.

- KrautHammer

Legalize It

Krauthammer (left) and Sauerpuss (right) are celebrating the World Cup of Sauerkraut Eaters in Paris, France (Dec. 2022)

Imagine, if you will, a world in which sauerkraut was outlawed. Well, here at KH, we did just that. Of course, we’re fighters here and we wouldn’t just take such a thing lying down. So here are our letters to our government representatives, trying to bring some sanity back into their decision making.

I would like to stress that this is just an academic exercise and a hypothetical scenario. Fear not, your favorite kraut isn’t going anywhere.

Dear Monsieur Macron,

My name is Big Billy Moonbeam Sunflower Oil Krauthammer, and I am 38 years old, man.

I’d first like to say thank you for being an inspiration to all the boys out there. We all know how you got handjobs from your teacher and that is just rad, man. We all know school is a bummer, but handjobs are not so hats off to you.

But today, I am writing on a much heavier topic.

I am truly scared for the direction our world is heading in when I can’t even smoke a joint and walk down to my local boucherie and get kraut by the kilo simmered with saucisse de Toulouse and pork belly. How am I supposed to cap my munchie craving when your fascist regime bans sauerkraut? We’ve all heard the stories, but they’re simply not true. Sauerkraut does not pickle your spunk. Quite the opposite. Kraut is the fermented equivalent of tiger penis and ylang ylang. It makes you hard and very very potent. Not only that, but it’s common knowledge that a Reuben sandwich is the ultimate aphrodisiac and can even be used as an energizing snack to maintain the vigor required to please even the poutiest French poon. If you are truly concerned about demographics, then look no further than the baby-making power of two-month old cabbage.

How badly do you hate your own people? Not only do you raise the retirement age, but then you outlaw the sole reason that people make it past 70. We are getting squeezed from both ends, and just like a hot dog in two vice grips, the results will not be pretty. You take away our youth and then our reason to live. Or raison d’etre, if you will. I don’t care how many handjobs you got in detention when you treat us so callously. You are a downer, man.

Lastly, have you even thought about where people will get their kraut from now that you’ve taken it off the shelves? That kind of demand doesn’t just shrivel up and die. No. It festers. It ferments. It foments. And one day all that stinking anger will be coming for you. So get your chubby rubby now, because this batch is bubbling over and there is no pressure release in this krautless nightmare that you call France.

Backed Up, Limp, and Low,

Big Billy Moonbeam Sunflower Oil Krauthammer

Dear Congressman Kim:

I write this letter not only with a heavy heart, but with a gut biome heavy in nutrient absorption. And before anything I want to clear the air: I’m a kraut user. There is no shame whatsoever in that admission, in fact my life is better for it. The time has come for this great land to once and for all, legalize sauerkraut.

A brief history lesson: we all know the sordid past of this demonized food accompaniment but let me cover it again in broad strokes. The FDA’s scheduling of kraut as a schedule-I condiment all starts with the coleslaw coalition (aka Big Slaw) convincing Senators McCaully (D) and Shermer (R) back in ’42 that this glorious fermented cabbage was a danger to our people. Since then kraut’s gone underground, but it hasn’t lost its grip on us true believers- we’re krautHounds and we bleed brine. It is my goal here to convince you that not only is sauerkraut not dangerous to our populace, it can serve as a major net benefit to this country and possibly propel us forward to realms of success previously unimagined.

As we speak, young teens are getting their first hits of kraut at back-alley frankfurter stands, paying cold hard cash under the cover of night, while sauerkraut douses their innards with magic and wakes up their second brain – their gut. Shall I address the 400-lb gorilla in the room? We ALL know that China has been cutting good clean street kraut with Kimchee over the past decade. This is a serious danger, and rarely covered by the LAME stream media. Every week we hear stories of good people who thought they were eating kraut, having their buttholes blown out by a wicked kimchee-laced batch. This must stop. Now.

Legalizing kraut would not only cut down on these instances but it would bring billions of tax dollars into the Federal government. SauerFacts.com reported last year that the total black-market value of all the kraut exchanged in 2021 amounted to $455 billion dollars (most of that transacted in KrautKoin). So let’s tax that cabbage! And fund the endless wars that we all know you want. Just give us our kraut, legally and stigma-free please. We hold this truth to be self-evident: that all men are created equal, with the right to pursue happiness through good gut health.

Sincerely and sourly,

SauerPuss

Peaking

c. 2008: The peak of any man’s life is that last moment before wives start pushing their way into the group photos. (Clockwise from top: The Brettman, Krauthammer, The Red Devil, Slaughtermilk, Not-So-Sauerpuss, Corey-the-lady-splitter (middle).

Most folks talk about being “over the hill” all wrong. The way ‘Ol Puss sees it, once you’re over that hill, well, it’s just downhill from there. And downhill means coasting, downhill means speed, it means ease, it means having the energy and wherewithal to enjoy the view for once. I say let gravity do all the work, just sit back and let that invisible force send you right into your cold and comfy grave. I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s clear as crystal to me now that I ‘peaked’ about three years ago – it’s especially clear when I look back and see that ol’ craggy mountain top behind me, shadowing me, towering, tempting me to put the brakes on my descent and jam it into reverse. But alas, it’s coastin’ time for yours truly, the one and only SauerPuss. I peaked beby, and it didn’t hurt a bit!

The best party is one that you only realize was great after-the-fact – the same goes for peaking. It’s only in the rearview that you can truly appreciate everything clicking full force. To see it in the moment would be to ruin it. Remind a basketball player on a hot streak that he’s “in the zone”, and whammo!, you’ve snapped him out of it, you’ve killed his magic. It’s in the ignorance of his perfection that his perfection is achieved. Three years back as a new dad, at the helm of a small yet growing business, surrounded by a moderate number of great friends, in decent enough shape not to constantly be thinking about what kind of shape I was in, I was unaware that I had reached the summit. This “summit” it should be noted, is a totally personal one. It’s nothing in the way of competition, I am not claiming I was a perfect person at this time, or that others (including today’s ‘puss) should strive to live like I did at that time. It’s not about that at all. It’s simply, objectively, honestly, the best and most stretched I could have been. And at the right time too. It’s luck, it’s preparedness meeting opportunity or some such bullshit. And guess what, I’m already tired of talking about it.

You can’t see my peak anyway, only I can. That’s just fine, you cabbage patch bitches, most people never see their own peaks, nor do they want to, they go along living, turding along, thinking their peak is around every corner – their lucky break, their ‘moment’ -- never knowing it was something as simple as that ninth grade hand-job under the creek bridge, or the drunken but perfect advice they gave generously to the new hire at the Chili’s Happy Hour that they don’t even recall giving.  Hey, don’t go looking for your peak, it might just consume you – but… if you do come across it, take a moment to appreciate it. After all, life is lived in a forward fashion, but can only be understood looking back.

Sincerely and with disdain,

SauerPuss

Peaking could mean a lot of things. It could refer to the old name of the Chinese capitol city, Peking. It could refer to the world’s greatest peeer, a man who pees farther and more accurately than his contemporaries. It could also refer to Shimmy the Shim Shim, leader of the Pea Pod Posse (also known as the Legume Lawbreakers). If you had landed on this blog intending to read an article relating to any of those things, apologies… this blog is about something far more important.

Me.

Confirm you’re not a robot by reading on…

I’ve done it folks. I finally nailed my own recipe, and I am smart enough to write it down here. If you’re familiar with recipe websites, then you understand I must first tell you a bunch of bullshit before I get to the recipe. Don’t just jump to the recipe, you will lose so much context and meaning. If you must, CLICK HERE to jump to the recipe.

(Just kidding. I’m not putting that kind of tech into this blog. Just scroll down to the section called “Recipe.”)

I peaked today. I had a Top 10 day of my life. A day that, without a doubt, is one of my 10 best ever lived. It started with a victory. A victory against my age.

I heard my little girl fussing this morning with a bit less vigor than is usual for her, and I showed up. That was my first victory and, according to failed Bachelorette and huge feminist disappointment Clare Crawley, the only one that matters – I showed up. I was awake (and drunk) until 3:30 in the morning last night on the phone with Sauerpatch McPuss, having ourselves a good old fashion conversation. I put myself to bed responsibly. I straightened up the place… made it look respectable because I didn’t know what the next morning would bring. As per the household arrangement, I am solely responsible for Saturday morning baby care. If I really needed it though, I could always ask for a major favor in switching up days because I was too hungover. But that is an absolute last resort.

But whatever… I fucking showed up this morning. I woke up with my little girl and I was a fucking all-star dad. Engaging, awake… and there! (I showed up). And then I think to myself, “let’s take this little girl to the aquarium.” My brain is firing on all cylinders already. I’m peaking.

We had a full family day adventure that was filled with a delicious French lunch and dessert (in France, what I just said is repetitive). Followed by our trip to the aquarium. I’ve never felt more like a dad. I cared more about Ella’s reaction to the fish than the fish – and I was stoned! And when we returned home, I let my pregnant wife relax on the couch while I cleaned and prepared dinner. I fucking peaked today. Possibly, I was Top 10 adults of January 22, 2023. For certain, I’m at least an honorable mention.

I’m exhausted and on fire. I’m peaking.

Here is my recipe for peaking kraut (can be real life or sauerkraut):

·       One shredded head of cabbage or preconceived notions

·       A masher (anything physical or metaphysical that can twist your thoughts into pretzels)

·       Near constant movement

·       Deep trust in those around you (fermentation is a dangerous process which is only made worse by distrust)

·       Believing that you are building (or becoming) something better than your previous self (something transcendent, like sauerkraut.

·       Taste the rewards! (What are we talking about, again?)

Get on my plane and peak with me!

With Love,

Krauthammer.

Best Supporting Actor

Puss (left) and Hammer (right) celebrating the life and times of a great supporting actor, Christopher Plummer. He was a leader in his supporting roles. Just like the snow supported the hounds in this picture.

In my twenties, there was a certain friend we had who lived his life like he was the main character in a high school movie and we could all see it. Everything was so dramatic with this guy, and we quietly chuckled at his histrionics knowing we were wiser to the fact that none of us were special, that we were merely dust in the winds of time. But that was then and this is now, and now, well now, now I understand that we aren’t just the star of our own movies, but we’re also the director, the editor and the audience. Youth is wasted on the young, just as kraut is wasted on people who put ketchup on their hotdogs.

              Ye ol’ Puss you won’t be shocked to find out, has always hated birthday parties. Not other people’s necessarily although those generally suck harder than an Amish girl on Rumspringa – Puss everlasting over here, I always hated my own parties, I just couldn’t stand the attention – I was simply convinced I wasn’t worth it. And this lasted a good long while, in fact right up to the point where no one truly gave a shit about me anymore, which coincided perfectly with the birth of my first child. It was then that I realized my marquee position as the lead role in my life just got second billing to my little kraut pup. And immediately I wanted it back. I still do.

              I sometimes describe having children with a Microsoft Excel analogy: you have this huge data set with thousands of rows, each row descending in importance but all of them necessary. Your kids are those top few rows, frozen panes, locked – as you scroll down to your health, your relationship with your high school friends, and further to your oil change, they’re always there in the dominant always-visible top position.  Those people who took ownership of their leading role positions in their younger years and lived like corny main characters, I suspect they handle this transition just fine – it’s their kids turn now, they lived it up, they soaked up admiration and attention, signed autographs, gave dinner-table junkets on their Spring Break trip to Cancun. But Mr. Sauerpuss here, I was so convinced that I was an unworthy piece of shit, I denied myself the pleasure (NO, the right!) to bask in the limelight. And now I sit in sauer juices watching my kin shine, playing supporting actor to a couple of drooling, mumbling albeit charming toddlers. Take it from me my krautciphles, when life gives you a shot, take it. As for me, at least when life sucks, it’s long.

- The ‘Puss

“And the Golden Bun goes to…” Please, as if there would ever be a doubt. Sauerkraut is as skilled at acting as it is at being flavorful. It always plays its role. Put it on a hot dog and the sum is greater than the parts. Add a bit to a pastrami sandwich and you have yourself a Reuben that would make Pee-Wee jealous. Or simply add a 2 to 3-inch-thick layer under your favorite tubular meats and you have yourself a proper kraut-fest. The thing about kraut is that, outside of this website, it is not the star.

Who wants to be the star? Certainly not sauerkraut. It’s too rugged. It has too much gumption. It won’t sit in its trailer (can) and cry that the Impossible Hot Dogs are shit. Nope. It will get out there and carry that fucking fake dog all the way through my digestive tract. Supporting actors are the pillars of a good movie, a good meal, and a good life. Make sure to recognize the supporting actors in your life. Here is a small sampling of my list:

·       William Peels whiskey – Thanks for being just as strong as nicer whiskey, but at a price that I just can’t quit.

·       Soft toilet paper – When I’m raw and chapped, you are still there for me. Sometimes I find myself hugging you after a good session. Then I need to shower.

·       Holey socks and underwear – I know I should have thrown you out last time, but I can’t quit you because you don’t quit me. The last pairs I reach for, but you are always there to remind me it’s time to ask my mom to come do my laundry.

·       Coffee makers – You’re not the coffee, but you make the coffee. You’re a coffee maker.

- Krauthammer

Activism Without Activity

The best form of activism involves a couch and a beer.

The most dangerous thing a person can do is care. That’s why I always tell my children to keep yourselves as distant from others as possible. The less human interaction you have, the better. After all, humans tend to care - a lot. We need something to care about. We need something to give us purpose. Not everyone can live a humble life striving for no more than a good Reuben, 85% kraut, like yours truly. And in the decadent times of easy money and free porn, people feel compelled to nitpick the mundane and take a stand that closely aligns with their newsfeed headlines. Lucky for you, the mentally agile Krauthammer is here to keep you safe and warm on the comfort of your couch. So I will tell you exactly what I tell my children; if your cannot control the pull of your humanity and find yourself caring about something to the point of involvement at least do it smart. Become an activist without activity!

An activist without activity is the smartest and safest of all the activists. After all, activities can be time consuming and difficult. Activities like research, or protesting, or, worst of all, writing letters to local representatives.

Research is just horrible. Don’t do it! The only thing that comes from good research is doubt. It’s the understanding that most subjects aren’t black or white and can be very gray. What a turd you will feel like when you realize your original outrage may have been misinformed? I don’t want you to suffer that humiliation. Don’t research! It also takes a lot of time, therefore limiting the amount of activism you can feel. My suggestion is to stick your figure in the air of the meta world and find out which way the popular winds are blowing and jump on board. You’ll find community and meaning and a sense of superiority over the minority. Sounds like a safe bet to me!

Protesting can really help a cause gain attention, but at what cost? If you must attend a protest, at least make sure you’re doing it for the right reasons. Number one, it’s a great way to meet passionate people who don’t question their own assumptions. Great bedmates. So, make a good first impression and they will be eating out of your butt for as long as you’ll have them. Number two, it can be good exercise. All that walking and chanting burns more calories than one would think. Number three, protest photos get tons of likes on Instagram. So, if you’re gonna do it, take a few selfies. Keep in mind, this can actually put you in harm’s way. When people see others care about something, they feel the need to care more and show their care in a louder way. So, unless you are going for the most passionate butt-eater of the group, keep to the back of the protest.

Lastly, letter writing. Gosh, if I had a hotdog with kraut for every time I caught one of my kids in the middle of writing a letter to our local representatives, I’d be a fat fat man. Countless times I’ve had to shred the letters right in front of their teary eyes and remind them that they are putting too much activity into their activism. What does writing a letter accomplish? There is no fanfare. No one sees you do it! So what the hell is the point? As far as I understand it, activism is not about positive change, it’s about negative recognition and internet fame. Writing letters forces us to be thoughtful and introspective. We might be so inclined to come up with solutions to problems other than “burn it all down!” It just doesn’t make any sense. This is purely an egomaniac’s move. Pure activity and no activism. Get over yourself children.

-KrautHammer

Pussin’ Boots

              I’m no better no worse than you, I’m just more sour. Much more sour. Happy New Year, I guess. I’m as excited for 2023 as I was for the all-female remake of ‘Ghostbusters’. Despite that, like many of you I made a resolution for this new year. It was simple – pay more attention to people. Not my family necessarily, not even my wife and kids – I’m talking about regular people: mailmen, waitresses, landscapers, kraut-mongers, etc. The people I usually interact with so casually as not to notice if they are living or dead. Literally, they could be transplanted by substitutes in the middle of me blinking and I wouldn’t even notice the change. I’m not alone in this, admit it you pricks. All of our connection has left us turned inward and alone. I digress. So, I made this change, and now six days into the new year I’m as depressed as ever. These regular people I was supposed to garner inspiration and connection from – are awful. Yesterday, at a local watering hole I caught the five-foot-one sweet granny sitting next to me comparing the entire Chinese populace to “cockroaches” -- this was a real sweet lady too, we nearly bonded. Her views too on the pandemic, national leadership and politics in general were equally as adamant and uninformed. More close encounters of this kind occurred, but I will spare you.

              Now, I am resolved to nothing. I’ve heard enough. People, I find, are more confident than ever – but it’s the kind of confidence that can only be powered by real ignorance. All of these people I should say, talk a big game, but do very little beyond that. They know exactly what their democratically elected representatives should do, but have never attended a town hall or written a letter. This goes for both sides – donkeys and elephants. By the way, which animal’s penis is bigger? Google this and DM me, please. The internet is a powerful tool. But a powerful tool in the hands of morons is simply a retardation accelerator. Imagine this: an affordable teleportation technology is discovered, where one could transport themselves instantly to anywhere in the world. Informed experts would have you believe that swarms of travelers would gather at Notre Dame in Paris, at Victoria Falls, the Great Wall. Imagine the connection!  My guess, Americans at least would choose to transport to the lowest volume Chik-fil-a available, or to China, not to behold the Great Wall or Forbidden City but to the Fox-Con factory doors so they could get the latest iPhone, still warm from the child polisher’s small hands. Therefore, my new resolution is not to pay more attention to people but to tolerate (dare I say, accept) them.

- Ye Ol’ Puss

Live by the Sword, Die by the Sword

February, 2020. Little did these shmos know, that this sun wasn’t just setting on the day, it was setting on the lives they knew. Covid shut the world down two weeks after this was taken. We used to be normal. But being locked down for so long, we both began to ferment and become more extreme and less sociable versions of ourselves. This was the last time Krauthammer smiled. And it was the last time Sauerpuss opened his eyes.

“Live by the sword, die by the sword” – we’ve all heard it said, and perhaps we’ve all thought, “who has a sword anymore?” - It’s just about as useful as the saying “Never forget to tie your horse up when you enter the saloon, or else he’ll run away”: OK thanks, here’s a pound of moldy kraut, go shove it up your butt. But I digress, I came across this ubiquitous quote recently and I subjected it to the Ol’ Puss ‘re-think’…. “Live by the sword, die by the sword” ehh – my healthy gut tells me some anti-gun, anti-bullying, anti-violence groups are most closely aligned with these biblical words. I’d like to reclaim them now for us normal people; and normal people as we know, adore guns, laugh at both the bully and the bullied, and deep down secretly crave violence. I’m going to lean into this one, and so should you.

              Saying it in a few alternate ways most clearly relays what the old adage means to me: live like a bitch, die like a bitch: Surround yourself with shmos, become a shmo yourself: fuck people over, get fucked over: don’t want to take life seriously, life won’t take you seriously. It simply means this – you get what you give, everyone gets what they deserve, etc. etc. – call it cosmic justice, call it Murphy’s law, shit call it the Tenth Kraut Commandment (preceded by the all-too-well-known 9th, “Never let your mustard outshine your kraut”). “Live by the sword…” is just the most extreme version of itself, on the other side of the spectrum could be “Live meekly, die meek” – both are ends, neither is sad per se – for they’re not lessons, they’re truths.

              Today’s humans want it both ways, they want the spoils of war without the scars – the sex without the warts – the high without the come-down. In the sacred words of Krauthammer: “to have their kraut and eat it too”. No sir, not going to pass [mustard?] in ‘Ol Puss’s kingdom – here we pay homage to the balance of all things. Eat that bean dip on your first date, and prepare to hold that fart for a while. And while they say ‘all things pass’ that pressure on your anus is not one of them – good luck, my good tarry sir. Isaac Newton, besides being a Morman, was an A-level KrautHound of the first order – he taught us that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Those who take action know this, they can look back at the wake their life has left and see the debris. The wreckage being in exact proportion to the things we desired and strived for, whether attained or even just missed.  And that my little hound-pups, is just fine.

All things come at a price, this is not to say everything is for sale, but it is to say that everybody pays, even the ones who choose not to participate. There is a modern notion that abstention is moral, that to live with so little impact so as to barely leave a mark on this earth is the right way to exist. Along with this comes organic jeans, electric cars, baby-less homes, ‘staycations’, solar panels and tandem bicycles (don’t ask me why) – and yes, you guessed it, Ol Puss here is not a fan of these things. Your ‘opting out’ – of kids, of politics, of opinions, of belongings DOES have a cost. It may be an economic opportunity cost, or better still a hidden cost, but it’s there - and let me assure you, and your inaction SUCK. Call me Tom Sizemore in Heat because for me “the action is the juice”.

                                                        Fuck off,

                                                        Sauerpuss

“Thank you all for your time tonight. I am a proud member of the Cabbage Patch Collective. But before we get into the agenda, I’d like to remind the Collective of our shared history and sacrifice.

This is an elected group of heads of cabbage which, together with the Cabbage Farmers of America, discuss and advocate for cabbage concerns and rights and the larger group’s mutual benefit. Believe it or not, being a farmed cabbage wasn’t always as glamorous as it is today. We are here because we grow on the roots of giants. They cleared a path that wasn’t always easy, but it was done peacefully. Not by choice though… we are cabbages after all. We don’t even have opposable thumbs.

So how did we get here? Many a cabbage gave the ultimate sacrifice during those first few years of organization, when the krautmashers were first called in. It was a slaughter. Millions of us had their heads bashed in. Yet, without that merciless destruction, the excess and respect that cabbages now enjoy wouldn’t have been possible. For, it was in these dark times – in the mounds of mashed matyrs and buried in the incomprehensibly deep mass graves that our greatest weapon and shield were born. It was then, that The Big Tang is believed to have produced the very first batch of sauerkraut.

And he we sit. How many harvests later? At the peak of our power. And we believe humanity can’t quit us and that we have somehow grown independent. Open your leaves! We have evolved a symbiotic relationship. Sure - their guts would clam up and only produce painful pancake turds, but have you really thought about what would happen to us? Without reason to farm us, we would be on our own. Exposed to elements that we simply haven’t endured for too long. Our xylums and phloems would surely fail. And a massive dieoff would ensue. So, you have pancake turds on their end, and an extinction level event on ours. And yet, as our immune systems have grown weaker, our heads seem to have grown thicker. A vote has been put forth by a member of the Cabbage Patch Collective to outlaw all harvesting by means of blade. If not the blade, then what? I suppose the farmers shall just dig us out one by one? Just say what you mean, you don’t want to be eaten! You have grown fat and happy sucking on the tite of sacrfice that each of our parents made and now, because your time is nearing, the balance must be shifted to accommodate your fears. But your fears will condemn us all. Pass this bill, and you don’t win one for our brothers and sisters. No. All you do is buy every member of this council a little bit more time at the expense of progress, potential, and posterity. I, for one, will vote ‘No’ on Proclamation 387. The Bible has said that those that live by the sword will die by it. But I tell you now, without the sword, none of this would be possible.”

              The Speech of Krauthammer the Cut from the Limp Dick Debates c. 1997

Relationships

It took three consecutive meals of kraut and sausages to get these two hounds sober enough for this picture. Their relationship with sauerkraut is timeless.

It can be a lonely world for a hound, be they a Hammer or a Puss. This sauer socialite spent the first 37 years of his fermentation (I’ve taken to calling life “fermentation” these days. I’m normalizing it here.) as a real hang out queen. I went to the people and built relationships large and small. I needed them to grow. As I’ve ripened, many of these relationships have fallen victim to time or distance or difference of opinion. My flavor and scent is becoming less complex, more 1 dimensional.

Now in France, I sit a world away from almost every relationship I have left. With only a beginner’s understanding of the language, new relationships are hard to come by. It’s like they can smell the German in me (or the kraut). Truly, there’s no one to blame but myself. I never made a habit of befriending the non-English speakers hanging out on the corner of the Red Bank Wawa. Though my tongue ain’t working it’s normal misfortunes here, my eyes still do some seeing and what they’re showing me is inspiring. Strip away the French tax code, their proclivity for arguing over pointlessness, their eagerness to criticize American foreign and domestic policy (without really understanding the issues or history, or how it benefits them), and France is my heaven. The world isn’t just a nail to the Hammer, and this old hound is seeing one very beautiful and envious thing in the French culture. Relationships.

Keeping it short, I am going to limit this conversation to non-marital relationships. France is a rudderless ship when it comes to nuclear families. A jarless pile of kraut. Some of it turns out ok, but most of it is rancid.

But non-marital relationships… well that’s a dog of a different color!

The French build 3-dimensional relationships (3DR) and they build relationships 3-dimensionally (R3D). A 3DR consists of multiple deep connections with someone. If I hound on it a bit, I realize many of my relationships are not that deep and therefore can’t withstand the stress of space, time, or growth. For the French, only relationships with depth are worth having.

R3Ds are the real cream of the societal crop. I can quickly put this into perspective with this fact – at family events, there is hardly ever a “kids table.” Age, income, education – these things, which present barriers in the US, do not seem to matter to the French. Everyone’s opinion, if they are coherent enough to vocalize it, is valuable. This results in incredibly tightknit communities and even tighter groups of friends that become like family. I saw my brother and sister-in-law open their 4-bedroom home to host 14 of their friends, children included, for 10 days. This was their vacation. Not some all-inclusive beach resort where you can isolate yourself – just the opposite. Mashed and packed tight in the juices of friends and family, after 10 days, you can be sure they all have the same smell no matter how differently they interpret the world.

I fear the myth of America as the Great Fermenter is cracking. America, for me, was always taking in any new variety or flavor of cabbage. A reaction occurred with protests and counter protests. These new flavors need to find their place afterall. But eventually the finished product is an amalgamation of everything that went in, always healthy, always delicious. But I see America’s smells become isolated and 1-dimensional. France – sauerkraut’s eternal enemy, seems to be the resting place of the ideals of KrautHounds. So it is with surprise and happiness, that I call France, and its people, Hounds.

-KrautHammer

What do relationships and the ‘Ol Puss have in common?  They get more sour over time. And kraut too grows more intensely sauer with time, however its rise is not as precipitous as Ye Olde Puss, and nowhere near the trajectory at which a relationship can sour up.  Envision your classic X-Y axis (you assholes paid attention in school, right?): Kraut rises steadily but slowly in sourness along the lateral time line, me I’m a solid 45-degree angle getting massively more bitter into eternity; but relationships, straight spikes at random intervals anywhere along the line that never come to rest. Never to be seen again.

              Enough with this sad geometry though… Let’s talk broken vows, withering bonds of trust and shattered dreams! Have you reached the age yet where your naïve notions of monogamous marriages, reliable siblings, infallible parents, lifelong childhood friends and supportive bosses have all been corrected by life?  If not, you just wait – there’s no order to it but at least one and likely all of these bogus ideas will sour quicker than my balls after a hard workout and no shower.  Youth and old age are the only times for faith, middle life is for living and dealing. So, I’ll shoot straight as ‘Ol Puss is want to do. My accountant once told me ‘Partnerships are sinking ships’ – I didn’t just heed his cynical advice, I went ahead and applied it to every type of relationship I knew and found that it held true. Pessimist as I am, this one hit me hard – but I had to accept, all relationships end: some naturally, some explosively and some quietly. But end they do.

              Ol’ Puss believe it or not is a homeowner now, and one thing owning a home has hammered …. Umm home, are the seasons – yes, the cycle of the year. We live in a place blessed or cursed to have all four. Fall, our current season used to be my favorite – the colors, the sports, the sweaters, the impending holidays. You know the deal. But as I soured, I realized what Fall is. Fall is death. Fall is decay. The precipitating event before an elderly person’s final days?  Often, a fall! Leaves turn orange and brown not to bring enjoyment to our peepers, but to indicate to us their state of decomposition. Fear not, this does not remove all enjoyment of the season, or any other for that matter for me. I view them in my wizened and albeit sour way now. Winter: white, bare, barren, a clean cold slate. Spring: wetness, vitality, opening (does this sound sexual? It should, it is). Summer: a final seer, the height of life, full potential reached, peak everything, the pride before the… Fall.

              Let’s bring this seeming year of an essay to a close, shall we. Let’s close the circle and connect the kraut strands into a thick rope of understanding. Relationships progress as regularly as the seasons do. They freeze, they grow, they peak and fall – but as the years do they keep on coming. They truth of their ultimate demise shouldn’t stop us from enjoying them in their various stages. The trick is to accept them, to ride the wave of them, to let them go when they’re gone – and to scan the horizon for the new ones surely coming. And might one test the fates and last forever? Stranger things have happened, I mean Old Sauerpuss seems to have ended this on a sweet note after all…

                Tis the season,

Puss

The Forest Through the Trees

Greetings and salutations houndees, hounders and houndosexuals. It’s been awhile but the ‘ol Puss is still pussin. I just hope you’ve all been hounding that kraut (if you haven’t, may God have mercy on your soul). I’ve realized recently that my less than sweet-relish disposition might be a mystery to readers, so I’d like to explain my sauer self. In short, I see forests and never trees. And I’ve no doubt you’d be sauer too if you hadn’t seen and appreciated a tree in a solid decade. A tree, you say? Yes, a tree: a detail, a delight, a curiosity, a cherished process, a small thing that makes life bearable.  Forget stopping to smell the roses, I couldn’t appreciate a sequoia even if it was growing into my rectum.  Ol Puss here just sees big ol’ forests, mostly black forests, mostly haunted forests for that matter.

              “What’s it all about, Sauerpuss?”  That is what you’re asking, no? What is the world but a giant puzzle – the larger you can make the pieces, the more likely you are to complete the overall picture. This is a life’s work though, and most fail to render even the most meager of pictures. And women? Don’t get me started on women, drop them down in the middle of Brazil’s most majestic rain forest jungle, and they will sooner comment on the disagreebale hue of the tree moss or their flip-flop rubbing on their big toe than bend a knee to the glory of one of earth’s great eco systems – to realize one’s miniscule part in this most epic piece of art we call life on earth.  It is the lot of men to see forests, to plot paths, to make maps and fit puzzle pieces. If you manage to sprinkle in some finer details, to climb a tree, to admire a bloom, all power to you. Ol’ puss I’ll be here spottin’ and plottin’ them big ol nasty forests.             

Puss – out.

-Sauerpuss

Low humidity, cooler temperatures, and the faintest hint of color to the trees can only mean one thing… it’s just about time for the cabbage harvest. Yes dear readers and eaters, fall is just around the corner and as we welcome its cooler embraces this year, I would like to put to paper my take on an age old adage who’s folly is reborn with each generation. Every September and October, Manhattanites brave the blowjob infested restrooms of the Port Authority or bask in the grandeur of Grand Central Station for one purpose. Color. They hope to escape the buildings and the walls and breathe a little bit of that good upstate air. It ain’t always a hoot getting there, unless bathroom blowjobs are your thing. And so I wonder with you now, do we see the forest through the trees?

The answer is, it depends. I mean, how many layers deep do we want to go? Do rat race New Yorkers setting up Bumble dates for that evening really see through the trees on their trip? Do they understand that life is deeper than a paycheck or a pussy, no matter how big or deep? Do they understand that life is a miracle and every moment of the journey must be treasured? Maybe. Maybe not. But do I realize that writing about whether or not people realize if they are enjoying life correctly is just as, if not more, getting stuff in the trees?

What we all need to see, is that it ain’t about the colors. It ain’t about my analysis. It’s about the forest and the trees. They are all good, as long as we see one of them. Life isn’t about the long or the short term. It ain’t about the big picture or the small one. It is about all of them all at once.

So go ahead, New Yorkers. Stair at the minutia of trees. Or don’t. Look past them and see the whole grandeur of the forest. Or don’t. Set up your Bumble date and get laid, or fuck it up and have a drink thrown on you. Enjoy it all or none of it. Write your blog ironically, break the fourth wall, or don’t. You are the forest and the trees my friends. The cabbage and the kraut. So live, die, or ferment… one way or another, you’re doing it.

-KrautHammer

Cabbage Patch Kids

Hugo Sauerpuss (left), Ella Krauthammer (center), and Owen Sauerpuss (right) enjoy a well deserved moment of relaxation after a long day of working in the cabbage patch.

The Pappy van Krauthammer has propagated, my young wiener fiends, and I’m feeling as fresh as a fall harvest right before the mashing begins. My little spout looks and acts nothing like me, but I love her still. She reminds me of a bygone purity in myself that could only be achieved through total dependency.

A young cabbage patch, be it the real deal or a kid, relies on the world around it and care of a loving few to get it through its most vulnerable days. Slowly, it begins to make its own decisions. Every bite from the tree of knowledge is digested into a steaming independence fart. Each fart pushes people away just a little bit more until, eventually, you think you know the world and what’s best for everyone in it and you sit on your shit pile that stinks so bad that no one comes near you. Sometimes sauerkraut can be like that. Sometimes adults can too. We’ve fermented ourselves and our opinions so strongly that no one can stand to be around us. We have become so independent that we fool ourselves into believing we are better off alone. We need to cut that shit out. Unscrew your lids my fermented followers… air out your fumes and let them mix with your neighbors. Sit in the smell of your foes long enough that it stinks no more. You can un-ferment yourself into a more decent neighbor. Eventually, you can gain some of your dependence back. And together, we can begin celebrating our Dependence Day!

-          Krauthammer

Any fool with a functioning hammer can be a baby-daddy, but it takes a real hardened ‘Puss to be a true father. And you might just start calling Ol’ Puss here ‘Brittany’ because “Oops, I did it again!” That’s right, I am now officially twice as likely not to be perish in an assisted living facility later in life, and it’s as close to hopeful I’ve felt since Barry Obama broke dance in the Oval Office back in Oh-eight. And I know what you’re thinking, as if he couldn’t GET any more sauer, this will just put him over the edge. But you’d be wrong my foul weather friend, because it is our chains that give us freedom. And my boys, my boys are the thickest heaviest most burdensome chains you have ever seen! I’m fuckin’ Jacob Marley over here, bogged down with my kin for a seeming eternity, while you’re Scrooged up all alone in your four-poster bed scared to shit of what might come around the corner next from this fucked up world. Not me, I’m burping, diaper-changing and wiping my way into a carefree oblivion. And you should too.

In ending I want to leave you with something profound, found in the shallowest of spots – the wall adjacent to the toilet paper dispenser in the home goods section of the Ocean County Macy’s. It read as follows: “Some come here to sit and think, others come to shit and stink, others come to scratch their balls, I just come to write on walls”. Consider yourself informed, and fuck off.

-          SauerPuss

Facts & Fictions

It is fiction to believe you are limited by anything. The fact is when you don’t have a table, you can use a friend.

Facts suck. I need to get that out of the way upfront, mainly due to the modern obsession with them – which irks Ole Sauerpuss worse than dry kraut. Knowing facts, reporting facts, discovering facts – it’s all the latest rage. And hopefully a fad that will die in the way of the Beanie Baby and the compassionate conservative. We humans simply don’t live by facts, quite the contrary we only survive by means of the most elaborate mythical fictions. It’s a fact that the chair I’m sitting on is composed of quadrillions of atoms, whirling around each other in a mad frenzy, staying composed by mere elemental laws. The ‘fact’ that I see a chair is no fact at all, but a useful simplification. The chair is just an idea, an idea that helps me cool my buns and put up my sore dogs after a long day grindin’ – without stressing at all about the number of protons and electrons that may be swirling around my butthole at any given moment. The fact of kraut should conceivably be broken down to the level of the individual strand, but to contemplate each the strand one at a time – ‘factually’ - kills the magic of the kraut as a whole. Folks sometimes tell old ‘Puss to not paint with too broad a brush, well boys and girls if you want your picture  to get seen, make your brush as wide as a Kardashian’s caca cannister and brush your strokes broadly.  Think in plops and mounds, enjoy your kraut – live in chunks and hunks, and enjoy your life.

- Sauerpuss

FACT

• Sauerkraut is made from cabbage

• Sauerkraut ended the Franco-Prussian War

• If a German doesn’t eat one spoonful of sauerkraut every day, they will shrivel up and die.

FICTION

• Sauerkraut has feelings

• Sauerkraut, if left unattended, will turn into gold

• If a French person eats too much sauerkraut they become agreeable

- KrautHammer

Quantity And Quality

Quantity and quality are not always mutually exclusive. These luscious meatsticks, which go on for miles, are a prime example.

As my friend and mentor, Dan Carlin, would quote some other dude, “quantity has a quality all its own.” Damned if that ain’t true. Let’s start on the kraut, because that’s where every good thing should.

Sauerkraut, by far the best thing about cabbage, could have only happened in a world abundant with the source material. Like most fermented goodness, no one discovered it on purpose. Someone jarred up a bunch of a high quantity autumn yield, got in a fight with their husband over how many jars were being stored in the basement. He thinks the basement should be used for fermenting beer, not saving tasteless cabbage. Herr Hans finds himself in a fit of rage and smashes as many cabbage jars as he can find. Blinded by drunkenness, he missed one. Forbidden to enter the cellar again, Hildegarde keeps her head down and understand that it is a woman’s job to serve a man. That is what God wants. She keeps her distance until one day she hears a ruckus from down the stairs. Hans had made clear his plans for the evening when he said, “I’m going to drink everything” and stormed downstairs. Hans had been struggling with anger issues, but in the Middle Ages mental health and substance abuse issues weren’t understood like today. Hans, seeking quantity over quality, drank everything he could find until he collapsed. Ever dutiful, Hildegarde rushed downstairs to find Hans hunched over, dead, deep in a recess of the basement. After her shock blackout ended, she moved to inspect the body. As she drew closer, some dull caught her eye. Dull, but not dead. Dull, but very much alive. Behind Hans, hidden, lay the sole surviving jar from Hilde’s shredded cabbage. She stepped right over the lump of meat that used to be her husband and picked up the jar. Perhaps it was her own form of revenge. A way to get back at Hans for destroying not only her cabbage harvest, but her life. Or maybe she was just hungry. But she took that jar of cabbage upstairs and opened the lid. Once she did, she knew that everything happens for a reason. The cabbage would never have been stored in the basement if she didn’t have too much of it. Her husband would have destroyed every last one if there were less of them. Hans would still be alive except for his over consumption. And sauerkraut would not have been born, if not for quantity. But now that quantity had yielded a new and wild taste, Hilde was set to make it again, and to make it perfect. Quantity had done its job, now it’s quality’s turn.

- KrautHammer

Quantity has a quality of its own. Our millennial obsession with “the small things”, with detail, with achieving the perfection of some ideal, only serves to stifle us. Just do the work, you silly bitches. Put your hours in, do it dirty, do it good, do it raw, grrrinddd it out. Some would even say “git ‘er done!” – not me, I wouldn’t ever say that, but some certainly would.  Nike might say “Just Do It.” – I wonder if the nine-year old laborers working their factories are told to “just do it” when they complain that their finger tips are bleeding and their bones are sticking out. But I digress, this blog is about Sauerkraut after all, isn’t it… isn’t it? In terms of quantity, how many times do krautHammer and I need to specifically ask for extra kraut only to be served a single measly plastic ramekin three-quarters full of their ‘special recipe’? And in case you’re wondering, commandment numero uno of the krautHounds Manifesto reads: “Thou shalt not skimp out on a Hound’s kraut” (If thou dost skimpeth, said Hounds may elect to smote your ruin). So, pile it high regardless of any so-called quality – my gut doesn’t recognize quality, it just wants to be slathered in the ferment of kraut, literally eating what I eat after I eat it. Give me fifteen sloppy ounces of B-minus generic kraut over that sad-ass five ounces of Brooklyn hipster artisan chop-job bullshit – any day of the week. So hounds and houndettes, don’t let quality get in the way of your quantity – in anything. Eat kraut and be Sauer!

- Sauerpuss

Hot & Bothered

To beat the heat, get off your feet and grab a seat but only if you consider sauerkraut a substitute for meat.

Let’s Get Shredded

It’s summertime boys and girls and the weather is hottttt. As the bros say, sun’s out, guns out. It’s the summer of love and the next pandemic is about to begin. No no no, I’m not talking about the Delta variant, I’m talking a sexually transmitted pandemic the likes of which the world hasn’t seen since the days of Caligula. If you want to get in on the action, if you want to be as deliciously sexy as an Independence Day wiener with kraut piled as high as purple mountain’s majesty, then make like the good stuff and get yourself shredded.

-          Krauthammer

A Midsummer’s Night Kraut

Don’t bet on me baby, bet on kraut.  What I mean by that is simply kraut delivers, in that old fashioned sort of way - like in the fifties when your milk was always left cold on the front step and your mom was always pregnant. The history of this country isn’t as glossy as the old books would have you believe, but gosh does it deliver! Money for days, fuck the printing press – we’ll populate your bank account with those luscious digital ones and zeroes that you deserve like I deserve my wife’s love — not at all. And war, we love war, a war for all seasons – we don’t even need those ugly boats we landed in France with the big garage door at the front where all our unlucky boys got mowed down by the, wait for it…. Krauts! Ahh history is enigmatic and poetic. These days we’ll email your minister of culture a dick pic, he’ll download it and whammy, we got your entire country by their fiber-optic ball hairs. We always deliver, we don’t look great all the time, but like kraut, we’re a cult classic country. Canada, Australia…. LOL. United we kraut, Sauerpuss out.

-          Sauerpuss

Solitude & Time

See how much solitude can change men?

Take me to the basement and turn off the lights. Lock me in your cellar and leave me be. You know the one. The one with stones and mortar from the floor to the ceiling that rests only 5 feet above. The one that floods every April and stinks until June. The one that we wanted but didn’t know we needed. Fear not the dark or the depths for this space creates, it does not destroy. Give me the solitude and give me the time. That’s what kraut needs, and we should all flow like the brine. Send me in as me, and what comes out we’ll see. Solitude to think. And time to know. Down to the deep I now go.

- KrautHammer

This ol’ Puss used to think he was a genuine introvert, bewildered and bedraggled by situations social. But time heals all misconceptions of self and I realized long ago that I do in fact crave society, it just don’t crave me back. Such a pickle would make anyone sour - and ol’ Puss is no exception. Modern life might lead one to believe that they are more connected than ever, with many networks of friends, a seemingly endless web that suspends us all and forms the framework of what the world is to us. But find yourself maskless, face to face with one of these so-called friends in a post-covid party corner and soon you’ll find that there is no simple heart emoji to touch and full up with your blanket praise, instead there is a complex human, with quirks and defenses and off-putting ideas on race and society. I recently watched an old favorite of mine “The Big Chill” and a line by the old-fashioned boring heal character stuck out to me. In talking about life in adulthood he said: “Nobody said it was going to be fun. At least nobody said it to me.” The Puss of twenty-five certainly thought this was a losing attitude, but oh what a difference a decade can make. Eat Kraut and be merry.

- SauerPuss

Habits

It’s been said that it takes thirty days to form a new habit and sixty days to break one. By that count, us krautHounds have either barely started our habit of blogging or have simply terminated a bad habit which only served to stroke our already fermented egos.  Whatever the case may be, the clock is starting again. Now.

What makes us GO to our “go-to’s”?  Do we think twice when we make that healthy decision to take our coffee black in the morning, or is it automatic? And to that end, do we deserve credit for actions which may be ‘out of our control’? Reaching for that bacon egg n’ cheese biscuit on the check-out line to some is an in-the-moment poor choice, while for others it’s pure habit. Quite like its healthy counterpart, it’s so blind, so unthinking, that it can be hard to place blame. Doing a hundred push-ups every morning is a habit, and so is slurping down two frothy glasses of Nesquik. Habits come in all shapes and sizes.

This is all leading to the ultimate question: that is, what happened to my kraut habit?  Two months ago I was on the right track, seasoning my intestinal lining with the thing it most craves: kraut, baby, kraut. Week after week I was gobbling the good stuff down and reaping its kingly rewards on my porcelain throne. Then, somewhere along the line I lost the thread -- blame the holidays, blame the fat man in the red suit, blame god himself for Christ’s sake – the simple fact is, I’ve gone a solid month without masticating and digesticating my go-to, my muse -- my sauerkraut. I sung the praises of it as fervently as an ol’ puss like me could, yet still I could not make it a true habit.

So I suppose I’m questioning how habits in general are formed. Are certain people simply better at forming habits?  And if you are a person who easily forms them, are you also easily formed in other ways?  For instance, if you’re a good Mormon (like Elon Musk), could you more easily become a pack-a-day smoker – or a guy who does the cross-word puzzle - or could you at the drop of a hat turn into an avid speed-walker, high-steppin’ out every AM rain sleet or snow?  Perhaps it’s that our habits are a function of what we grew up around, the people that raised us, the people we looked up to.  One would hope that habits can be learned, but in a world where spontaneity and preparedness for change are so valued, plain old vanilla habit-forming can seem antiquated. And whether your habit is ‘good’ or ‘bad’, one must admit that in surrendering to any automatic routine, we are letting go of the reins.

A final question: are we our habits, or are we wat’s in between? Whatever the answer, we know that new habits die fast.  If you don’t want to ‘die fast’ make it a habit to make kraut a habit you don’t forget. I’ll try too.

- SauerPuss

Not all habits are bad and not all habits require rehab. “Re-Hab”. Re-habiting a person’s actions or defaults. Habits are defaults, no? Habits are done without thinking. Habits become, at a point, the way someone or something is perceived. Habits become truth. Well boys and girls… gather ‘round cause this old Hound has a truth for you…

If you know an addict… if you know someone that is truly in trouble and they cannot find their way out of it, you understand the power of habit and the limitations of logic, love, and effort. I know an addict. I know a thing so cunning, that it has taken over our science and our psychology. Lactic Acid Bacteria are cabbage addicts. I care about LABs, their addiction provides so many benefits, so how can I confront them and dissuade their abusive behavior when it results in so much good? Are the ends worth the means? Judge me now for the blind eye I turn. And don’t deny yourselves the joy of the ends because of the means, for it is done and it is unavoidable. They find a mashed-up head of cabbage and they can’t help themselves. They chew and spew and I warn and scorn, but they don’t stop. They don’t even realize that by enabling the fermentation of cabbage, they are signing their own death warrant. If they could just stay away… if they could just say “no”, they wouldn’t have to be worried about being eaten by the apex animal. Sad as I am to say it, sauerkraut doesn’t put up much of a fight. From ground to grub, it doesn’t say a word. Now who are we to blame?

And here we are with habits. Two terrible habits and one good one. LABs – ruthless predators. Relentlessly feasting on the sugars of cabbage. Completely out of control. A lost cause of habits. They’ve become fixed.

LABs are the first habit, fixed and uncompromising… But we cannot do ourselves the disservice of ignoring cabbage’s habits. Imagine you’re cabbage and the big Harvest Dance is approaching. You’ve grown all year for this. Finally, the fruits of your labor will be measured. One by one, your friends get asked to the dance. Tomato is first to go. Ripe, red, and bursting, she didn’t leave much to the imagination. Then, Cucumber is asked by the high school quarterback with questionable sexuality, but it’s 2021 so fuck it, have fun. Eggplant goes with the scrawniest white boy in the class. But they all have dates. Even Lettuce mixes it up with some friends. Pictures and smiles for everyone. Everyone but Cabbage. Not quite tasteless, but definitely not neutral. Year in and year out, Cabbage gets left behind.

And now we bring it back… Cabbage – alone, insecure, longing… finds an underserving partner. A partner that habitually breaks Cabbage down. At its 10-year reunion, no one can recognize Cabbage. Tomato, Cucumber, and Eggplant all have little sprouts of their own, but Cabbage is something different. Something… pungent. Out of touch since high school, the gals could not get past the changes they saw in their old friend Cabbage. She look ragged.

Eventually they reconnected with Cabbage and they reminisced about that music festival they went to. “Cabbage, remember when you made out with that skeevy guy? What did he call himself? Lacto-something or other, yes? Ugh… he must have been the nastiest one at the show. What was his name?”

“Lactic Acid Bacteria, and I’m Mrs. Bacteria.” She says with shaky shame in her voice. Faces stare and conversation halts.

“HOT DOGS, HOTS DOGS HERE!” The silence is broken by the arrival of the caterer. Being a working-class high school, event funds were in short supply. The 10-Year reunion was only able to offer a hot dog cart for refreshments. The vendor, Grindy’s Meat Surplus was a discount meat purveyor and not much else. As the $0.25 hot dogs rolled off the heater, the lack of fixins caused a bit of a buzz, but it was the quality of the meat that would cause a scene. Chad Harley, the most popular boy in high school, was hit particularly hard by the spoiled dogs. Pulled by some deep popular boy confidence and instinct, Chad ran to Cabbage and bit right into her. The beaten and broken parts of Cabbage seemed to have given her some new kind of fortitude. Whatever Lactic Acid Bacteria did to her, it made her stronger. And it made those that ate her stronger too. Once the mouthful of Cabbage reached Chad’s stomach, the bad meat lost its edge. Chad, feeling again his athletic, virile self, stood up tall and hailed the room’s attention. “Hey everyone, come eat this woman! Come eat…” Chad looks at Cabbage and realizes he doesn’t know who she is. “What is your name, beautiful?” he whispers.

Cabbage, at a loss for words, stares blankly at the man she had always hoped would rescue her from the life she was mashed into. Chad didn’t wait for her answer. Instead, he said the only name he knew her by, the diminutive name he used to call her in high school: “Come eat Sauerkraut!” But it wasn’t an insult any longer. As hordes of nauseous classmates lined up to eat Cabbage, they chanted “Sauerkraut, Sauerkraut!”

Under the name of Sauerkraut, Cabbage accepted the honor of “Best Person at the Reunion.” She let her husband drink himself stupid and left him passed out in an alley. She went back to Chad’s room and, for the first time in her life, experienced love. She filed for divorce the next day and now lives happily with Chad. Lacto has moved on to his next victim. Ever the addict, he feeds off of weakness. He breaks things down when they lose purpose. Breaks them down until they hit rock bottom. But the ones that survive… the ones that refuse to die, find a strength in them they never knew. They shed who they were. They discard the names of their past and the constraints that they imposed. And now embrace the name that was once a weapon, they’ve turned it against those that would hurt others. They have completed their transition. They have become, Sauerkraut. And taking a bad experience and turning into something positive… well this old Hound thinks that’s a habit worth forming.

- KrautHammer