So apparently, once, a German party-goer with a complex chemical reaction unfolding in his stomach, gave up all hope of reestablishing contact with the world outside his cranium, and went fuck it, let’s bend this bender to its bendiest: here’s the glass of water Hans has been using as an ashtray, I’m gonna pour a shot of espresso into it and let it take me on a journey. That mas was the inventor of Club Matte. He is today a millionaire.
I tried his beverage because no-one else was drinking alcohol anymore and because like every poor sucker I want to know what Berliners know that I don’t. I still can’t shake it off, but I take comfort in the fact that Herr Matte is supposed to be so out of his mind on drugs and his own cigarette piss he doesn’t even realize he’s rich. He just keeps signing what they give him and his signature is a pulse graph of whatever beat is playing at the moment.
the Budafoki amended 