Here's the view from my "smoking room" at the moment. I woke up this morning and it had indeed begun to look a lot like Christmas. My "smoking room" is actually a broom closet in the stairwell, where I smoke because my girlfriend is a non-smoker, and I don't like her apartment smelling like a holding cell. And I actually rolled out of bed around noon. Other than that, everything's as I said, I think.

I think I'm still a little high from paint fumes. The apartment's finished, except I still have to mop the foyer. And give my landlady the keys. And relish the steam that shall pour from her ears when she realizes she traded hardwood floors for white walls and this:

(Closeup)

An excellent use of linoleum, to be sure. Germans have a slight problem with seeing the big picture sometimes; they're a little too detail-oriented.

Facts and Figures:

87 Liters of White Paint
65 man-hours
92 sq. meters of ceiling painted
3 m wall height
4 painting extensions, 2 of which broke
2 pairs of jeans
1 pair Addidas tennis shoes
1 pair Reebok running shoes
2 Lextite full-body condoms
6 brushes
5 rollers
1 man lost to illness, presumably malaria
1 man still missing in action

300kg of wood flooring disposed of, along with 1 old German lady's illusion that when an American offers you an all-or-nothing deal, he's bluffing.

Augie hits the crapper.

Rube admires the Hetzfresse's (sorry, still no link) spackle-moves.

After a week of painting, even the most unqualified handymen can afford to show a little painter-butt.

In abject frustration, Rube decides to paint the rest of the apartment with his sizable head.

In this case, 'experts' being a clever euphemism for 'Oompa-Loompas'.

Rube (R), in full painter regalia, prepares to rawk this house. White.

Ack!

Sorry, guys, I know you're all jonesing for some sort of anti-retard rant or something, but I'm painting my apartment this week. That means no TV, no radio, no Internet, no standing on the reload button hoping against hope that Velociman finally posted that picture of the pustule he promised us a while back. As primitive as can be, as they say.

There's also no heat, as long-time readers may remember. You see, I'm not really painting my apartment. I'm painting my old apartment, which I moved out of about a month ago. So you know it's done with love. Good lord, the paint-job looks like ass, despite what my esteemed colleagues have done to make it better. At 25 degrees Fahrenheit, paint neither dries nor covers the walls very well. And the unheated water that comes out of the tap does nothing to clean the brushes. FYI.

Keep the faith, my friends. There are pictures coming.