“Why can’t a woman show hers, then? Where’s the equality in that? ” I said, gesturing at the screen. We were sitting by the water, rods in hand, the usual nightly chat rolling on.
Someone had just mentioned that several streamers got complaints for going swimming or taking vacations, and now the rules were stricter—apparently, only men could show their chests on stream. A woman doing the same was banned. “It’s total nonsense,” I said. “And I’m not even joking.
Why shouldn’t a woman decide for herself what she wants to show? ”
My fishing buddy shrugged. “They probably figure the male chest isn’t seen the same way as the female one. ”
“Yeah, but still.
It’s stupid. ”
The conversation drifted, as it always did. We ended up talking about Drachenlord—that infamous streamer who drew crowds of haters to his house. People stood outside his place constantly.
The neighbors lost their minds. Eventually, the house got torn down, and still people showed up. “If he ever came back, he’d get a massive hype,” I said. “But it’d just be people tuning in to mock him.
No company would ever work with him. He’s not exactly presentable. ”
“True. But the hate-watchers would be there in droves.
”
We laughed about Basti and Shanti next—that chaotic couple who streamed their insane lives. They weren’t popular because their content was good. They were popular because they were a disaster. She looked like a guy, they screamed at each other, he cooked bizarre food, and she sang horribly.
We joked about how they constantly fought on stream. “They’re genuinely in need of help, though,” I said. “I’m convinced someone was behind them, exploiting them and taking the money. They probably never saw a cent of what they earned.
”
“Maybe. But they’re still streaming, both of them. ”
“True. We’re all still watching.
”
The topic shifted to trash TV. I told them about my old colleague who took a bet and lost. His punishment was to appear on Big Loser. He actually did it and lost a ton of weight—you wouldn’t recognize him after six months.
But then the producers wanted him to lie, to say he had physical problems because he was mistreated by his family. He came from the most loving family you could imagine. “I’m not going to trash my own family just to get on TV,” he said, and he quit the show. “Exactly,” I said.
“It’s all scripted. I know a woman who was on Spiegeltochter gesucht. She was a great cook, but they made her open a can of ravioli on camera and acted like she couldn’t do anything. They pressured her the whole time.
They even brought in a son who was an actor, told him to say he liked turtles, and then brought actual turtle decorations to make him look like a weirdo. ”
“That’s how those shows work. They decide who you are and push you into that box. ”
“Yeah, and the problem is, some people actually believe it.
My mother watches that crap and immediately says, ‘See, that’s just like you! ’ I keep telling her, ‘Mom, that’s all scripted nonsense. ’ She also believes the accidents on Alarm für Cobra 11 are real. ”
“There are people who believe everything on TV.
”
“I know. There was a family in the next village that got lucky—they had two severely disabled kids and were chosen for a home renovation show. The crew worked on it for six months. But on TV, they edited it to look like they did the whole renovation in two days.
My parents couldn’t stop laughing. My dad said, ‘Look, they redo an entire kitchen in two days, and we need eight months. ’ I told my mom, ‘You spend two days just clearing out the room and tearing down the wallpaper. Do you really believe that?
’”
“That’s the difference between the real world and the TV world. ”
“Exactly why people watch us fishing. It’s all real. No script here.
”
We talked about the Truman Show, how Jim Carrey’s character slowly realizes his whole life is staged. I always loved that movie. Then we got onto Adam Sandler—how he stayed down-to-earth, showing up to award ceremonies in a tracksuit and a roll-neck sweater. “The guy’s great,” I said.
“That tracksuit probably cost more than everything we all own combined, but still, respect. ”
The talk turned to politics, as it often does late at night by the water. Germany, I said, has a problem. People complain online but never go out and actually protest.
The French, on the other hand, really know how to raise hell. They turn the whole city upside down, drag tractors in front of government buildings, and set cars on fire when they’re angry. “Someone told me that if things ran in France the way they do here, Berlin would be burning. ”
“The so-called ‘proper German.
’ Everyone talks about what should be done, but nobody does it because they’re scared of the consequences. ”
“Exactly. And then you have politicians saying absurd things. They announced you need a sick note from the doctor on the first day of illness.
After massive criticism, one of them said, ‘You don’t actually have to go to the doctor on the first day. You just need the certificate. ’ Yeah, right. And where do you get it if not from the doctor?
It’s like saying you don’t have to go to the gas station—you just need fuel in the car. ”
My buddy laughed. “There are memes about that now. ”
“And about the family subsidies—25 euros might not sound like much to some, but for a family that already has nothing, it’s a lot.
And the pension nonsense… none of it fits together anymore. ”
The conversation eventually drifted to surveillance and the East-West debate. My neighbor at the last barbecue was going on and on about Stasi methods in the East. I finally snapped.
“Look at today! ” I said. “Go to Cologne or Hamburg. There’s a camera on every damn lamppost.
You fart, and they immediately know who it was. So tell me—which era was more surveillance? The East or now? ”
She went quiet.
“My grandma said on the phone the other day that we’re slowly getting back to the beginning phase of the East, where everything you’re allowed to do is dictated. ”
Then there was the phone tracking thing. My foreman and I were at a construction site, smoking before the breakfast break. We got to talking about football—Ronaldo and Messi, recent matches.
No joke. At lunch, we got into the van, checked our phones, and there it was: a story about Ronaldo and Messi. Two minutes later, he got the same one. “That can’t be a coincidence,” I said.
“It’s the same with Google,” he said. “If you search for something near me, I get suggestions for the same thing because we’re sitting close to each other. You can turn it all off, though. ”
“Yeah, but it’s all on by default.
They just do it. ”
The stream was still running, but we were getting tired. It was around 2 a. m.
, and the sun would be up by 5:13. “I’ve got three weeks of vacation starting soon,” I said. “What am I going to do? Probably fish, to be honest.
”
I thought about the next day. The night was quiet, the water dark, and somewhere out there, a fish might be biting. But I was getting sleepy, and the lamp was hanging on its last power bank.
I figured we’d pack it in soon, go home, and do it all over again the next night.
