Die Modden Squadden, or a Lesson in Bad Taste

There were coffins, toilets, underwater landscapes that had everything except Mario swimming around looking for coins, a box file, a bikini babe and this thing. Honestly, wherever I go in my nightmares, Hello frackin’ Kitty is there, waiting. Pass me the chainsaw, Helmut, and make it snappy: I’ve got a whole gallery to get through.

A couple of large Germans were behind a desk, drilling holes in casings, doing unsexy things with astroturf and screwing soccer boots to places they shouldn’t have been. I went in search of a Berliner Pilsener. Make it a large one, please, boys.