“Gosh,” the Czar exclaimed to his lovely wife, “Gormogonicon 2019 is just days away, and we still don’t have a venue!” As long-time readers know, we are loath to host our annual get-together at the Castle because (a) the Castle is appalling and (b) it’s not much of an annual get-together since we all see each other at the Castle pretty much every day. As a result, it’s much more fun for us vastly rich people to see how entertaining you little, poor people are. So we like to get out in the world once a year.

This time, however, Dr. J. was unable to attend, alas, because he would be Khyber crystal shopping in the Outer Rim, and would’t make the jump through hyperspace or whatever bullshit.

Since the Chicago area would be hosting the event, our wife recommended a place convenient for all our celebrities and spouses to meet; maybe Rosemont. Hey, maybe that German place near O’Hare Airport.

“Oh, yeah…Hofbräuhaus,” the Czar said. He remembered having lunch there fifteen years ago and thought the beer and food were pretty good. The Czar suggested it to Puter, Volgi, GorT, and Mandarin. “We all like German food,” Mandarin said, “Because it’s 99% meat.”

“Indeed,” ‘Puter agreed, “Even German salads are 99% meat.”

And so we met, except for the Czar’s wife, who volunteered to help some sick kittens find homes and thus backed out at the last minute. It’s almost as if she knew what was going to happen. “It was great of your wife to suggest this place,” ‘Puter said later, “…and then not show.”

Because, it turns out, Hofbräuhaus in the evenings is in a state of perpetual Oktoberfest. With a German onslaught musical act that plays German oom-pah polka versions of everything from Jimmy Buffett to the Baby Shark song. Oh, and you’ll be pleased to know they play that “Olé, Olé, Olé” song on an alphorn for about twenty minutes straight. Once every two hours.

Sounds fun? That’s because you’re a goof. We also thought like you do; in fact we thought Oktoberfest there would be like this:

Turns out, it’s actually more like this:

Since the Czar went stag, he decided to arrive in his usual style: on a palanquin convertible with a boatload of women, who were terrified of the alphorn. They left, and the Czar realized he’d have to drag that stupid chair down the shoulder of I-294 at closing time.

But the Czar can see why the virgins would be terrified of the alphorn. Seriously, this dude would walk around with the alphorn and play that horrific “Olé, Olé, Olé” song. He blew this straight into Volgi’s face, spraying the Volgi with saliva until ‘Puter paid him money to go away. The Czar was two liters of beer down in the men’s room at that moment, and missed out on paying the dude to leave. Which ‘Puter let him know several times in a row.

The music was far too loud for Mandarin:

GorT finally said it was time to leave, as it was already 10:30pm, we’d been there for for something like five hours, and no one could hear ourselves talk. The Czar had the valet drag his chair out for the long drag down the interstate.

Even so, we decided to end the event by roasting ‘Puter. Which we did over a fire.

The Czar of Muscovy

Божію Поспѣшествующею Милостію Мы, Дима Грозный Императоръ и Самодержецъ Всероссiйскiй, цѣсарь Московскiй. The Czar was born in the steppes of Russia in 1267, and was cheated out of total control of all Russia upon the death of Boris Mikhailovich, who replaced Alexander Yaroslav Nevsky in 1263. However, in 1283, our Czar was passed over due to a clerical error and the rule of all Russia went to his second cousin Daniil (Даниил Александрович), whom Czar still resents. As a half-hearted apology, the Czar was awarded control over Muscovy, inconveniently located 5,000 miles away just outside Chicago. He now spends his time seething about this and writing about other stuff that bothers him.