They sway again. Zunden joyful. Shouting such strange things as "helau" or "alaaf". And they are in this autumnal overcast time prefixed storer of our rising fallende-blatter-depression: carnivalists, fools, faschingsfanatiker drive muffel of the organized gladness – to which I confess myself since primeval times – into the humorous underground.
However: cursing before the fasenacht is not. A glance out the window of the editorial office falls on the construction site of the german carnival museum, the fools’ landmark falterturm is the daily sight when flying into kitzingen and in the newspaper it is already swaying up and down.
What has helped in the meantime is the mellowness of age. When the TV remote control is in someone else’s hands, he even makes sparse jokes bearable in televised public events. In addition, a dear colleague has taken away the oversensitivity of my humor by running a recycling plant for jokes from the early days of mankind – and also by constantly making the veterans of the laughing world obey him.
What we learn from this? Humor is when you laugh anyway. Which one may advise even the people, who settle the carnival bureaucracy and which once a spabvogel from the butt called gladness fossils with pension claim. Which was taken up at that time by the concerning with little humor and the fossil critic first times to laugh in the cellar condemned.
But enough of the negative tongue-lashing: compared to politics, where fools make confetti out of tax money, carnival is a labsal even for self-confessed grouches: because it’s over on ash wednesday and even spab brakes – provided two beers are in hand – have something to laugh about there.