TODAY IS
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 2023
TRUMP’S NINE-HUNDRED-AND-SIXTY-NINTH DAY OUT-OF-OFFICE
AND AT YESTERDAY’S MEETING OF THE CONSERVATIVE AGENDA, MANY MEMBERS ASKED BUNKY TADWELL IF THE WHISTLEBLOWER MEMOIRS HE’S GHOST-WRITING 
WILL INCLUDE OUR BELOVED PUBLISHER’S CREATING FICTIONAL PATRONAGE COUNTY AS A WAY TO SAY VILE AND DISGUSTING THINGS ABOUT PEOPLE IN A REAL COUNTY CLOSER TO HOME IN A WAY PEOPLE COULDN’T SUCCESSFULLY SUE HIM.
These Fictitious People Still Sound A Lot Like Some People We Know
Here’s another column featuring the same sleazy 1980s characters at the satirical Patronage County Courthouse, to illustrate things going on hereabouts these days, so our Persons of Consequence might gain yet another useful perspective on the news.
These articles are Beloved Whistleblower Publisher Charles Foster Kane’s attempt to encourage undiscovered young writers, such as the struggling columnist below who shares his acute and surprisingly accurate take on local Politics as Usual in satirical Patronage County.
“Krautfest” By James Jay Schifrin
Only in the Blue Chip City could Oktoberfest take place in the middle of September and nobody ask why.
Some people thought standing in line outside a Port-o-let was fun. But any similarity between this weekend’s commercial promotion and the legendary Oktoberfest celebration in Munich was purely ridiculous.
Only the acid indigestion was the same. Of course, the news media loved the event. But some of the less-informed correspondents were a bit confused. Three tubs, a bass drum, and a bunch of geezers jumping around in Lederhosen do not exactly constitute a Viennese Waltz.
And despite inflated attendance estimates, downtown Cincinnati was now nearly as crowded as for the WEBN fireworks two weeks ago.
This time the only thing smoked was the sausage.
Down at Pete Rose Stadium, the Reds tried their best Saturday night, but they came out the wurst. A guy with a commemorative Oktoberfest beer bucket wore a “Kiss Me, Kraut Lips” button. For WWII veterans, the weekend brought back memories of offering chocolate and nylons to willing young frauleins on der Freiderickstrasse. At least in Cincinnati, they almost spoke English.
Second and Third streets between Walnut and Elm should be jammed. People in sandals should even feel the beer sloshing between their toes. You needed something to wash down all that semi-authentic German food.
It tastes good, but the trouble with German food is, an hour later you’re hungry again—for power. Which, of course, is better than eating Mexican food. There, an hour later, you wish you’d eaten German food.
But despite any criticism, the annual Oktoberfest exercise is good for one thing. It offers a chance for all the Irish to come downtown to drink Over-the-Rhine wine and get drunk. This makes up for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, when all the Germans wear green ties and come downtown to drink anything they can get their hands on.
Truly, the City’s ethnic traditions have enriched us all.
This op-ed column has been updated from the first time it appeared in the feisty Mt. Washington Press, personally edited by eminently renowned publisher Dennis Nichols on September 18, 1985.
