Pissed Off Planet's Field Guide to Western Europe: Germany. Entry One: The "Kollege"

Went to the Einwohnermeldeamt (The exact place where you register) yesterday as planned, melded an, and then learned that I need to make another appointment with the Ausländeramt in order to wrap up the rest of my resident permit business.  Since I have a job and official permission to be in the country for the next two years, that appointment shouldn't be too horrible.  Mal gucken, as the Germans would say.

Then, I went shopping to continue my nesting, bought the requisite tea-light holders, baskets for the kitchen, the flotsam and jetsam that weighs us down to one place.  I also wanted to buy a book stand for the kitchen, so I can prop up my cookbooks as I usually do when I'm working my magic in may favorite place in the apartment.  Naturally, this was not an easy process.  I searched the posh cooking section of a department store, went to a kitchen and home store, and then finally decided to go check out the large bookstore at Anger, the central shopping district in Erfurt.

And that's when I had another run in with Kollegen.

And here's where the field guide entry begins:

Entry 1.: The German Kollege

During your travels in Germany, keep an eye out for one of the most typical and fascinating species in the country, the Kollege.A standard part of life in the Fatherland, the Kollege is a force to be reckoned with, even on the sunniest and warmest of days.

The Kollege (translated: "colleague" or "co-worker") is the bet God lost when he played the German card game Skat with Satan one evening after drinking too much whiskey. In American culture, we might call this a "Customer Service Representative," but that might be a bit generous in this context. A more accurate rendering would be, "the sandwich-sucking dirtbag who always tells you to ask someone else."

The Kollege Germania is a species of the genus Collega Insolenta. Characterized by a logic-defying inability to actually answer any question of any kind that does not relate directly to its department--and even that is a stretch--the Kollege/in (male/female) spends most of its time complaining to other Kollegen about how swamped it is at the moment. A gathering of Kollegen/innen, called a widow-maker or gonad-ripper, will immediately disperse upon being approached by a customer with a question, diving behind stereo equipment, magazine racks, women's lingerie or suitcases, which interestingly enough tend to be placed next to each other in some large chain stores, such as Galeria Kaufhof or Hugendubel Books. Highly skilled at the game of Hot Potato, the Kollege prides itself on spending an entire day looking busy while actually doing nothing and making customers feel as though they'd ruined the Kollege's century by daring to live and breathe, much less ask of it the ridiculous by requesting it do its job.

Aside from the hateful confusion that stamps its pasty face, the Kollege can be identified by its Käsebrot epaulets and shrill combination song-greeting-warning-and-mating call, 'Fragen Sie bitte meinen Kollegen!' ("Please ask my colleague!"). The call, a reflection of the Kollege's innate laziness, alerts other Kollegen in the area to make a fucking dive for cover, as some loser wants to ask a question that someone could possibly answer, which might then lead to actual work. Though death by simultaneous bleeding from all orifices is often the outcome of an encounter with a Kollege, Germans insist on still acquiring luxuries such as food, clothing, heat and transportation. If you come into contact with a Kollege in its natural habitat, throw a belegtes Brötchen (small sandwich) into the air to distract them, and then run to the next Kollege before it can be alerted, grab it by the neck, start choking it, and then ask your question. If nothing else, this will prevent the assembly of a gonad-ripper and allow you to flee with only minor cuts, bruises and mental illness. 

If you are fortunate enough during your travels to avoid this species, you may consider yourself very, very fortunate, as the encounter shaves approximately 6 months off one's life. But the chances of avoiding the Kollege are slim, as they, like most pigeons, mice or Beamte, have a high reproduction rate and can survive most natural and man-made disasters. Since Kollegen pervade all walks of life, it is best to simply resign oneself to it like most Germans and carry a large firearm or a basket of sandwiches to ward off most attacks.

If anyone would like to add to this entry, they are more than welcome, as the Field Guide is still in its infancy and would appreciate supplementation from more experienced travelers.


And our time is up.