“Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must babble.” Squabble! Slobber! Splash! Twaddle! Hit, fall, wade, kick. Babble and blabber and talk loudmouthed twaddle. We gossip and gobble, prattle and quack, croaking like frogs a whole bunch of crap. At any time, oh what a pain! We stuff ourselves with what is insane. We talk rubbish and gab gibberish and squeeze incomprehensible shit like the true tittle-tattlers do. We waddle like ducks walking, and drink babble beer talking and talk politics like in beer tents and eat over-ripe fruit. We wobble and squabble and wallow in the squash. Anyone who is prattling and blabbering and blethering is truly blabberingly and bletheringly prattling. And all of that in a hangout exactly 295 long by 236 wide and 250 high, set up on Karlsplatz between brut and the Musikverein. It already feels quite gabbly. We are the biggest gibberers from here to Paris, from Paris to Texas, and our audience with us. And if we’re not just blethering ourselves, then the joint will naturally do the trick all night long. We will even be gabbling and gibbering on from 9:30 on Saturday night when DJ Opalia plays tracks in the brut on Karlsplatz. That will be a gab show of a special kind, a gabble and babble disco which we have invented our own wabble dance for. Then there will be squeezing and squabbling, wibbling and wobbling, skittering and groping and particularly incomprehensibly or foolishly jabbering to our heart’s content. Rosemarie, dear! How I sing the praises of your tittle- squidgy boobs! Twaddle! Now we are already in the puddle!

Text: Julius Deutschbauer