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A NETFLIX ORIGINAL COMEDY SPECIAL
Please welcome to the stage, live in Cologne.
Hazel Brugger!
Thank you very much, Cologne.
I'm glad to be here.
I'm also glad my set is finally being recorded
so people can watch it at home on their screens.
I love watching things on screens.
As a child, I loved watching TV.
My two older brothers and I couldn't watch much TV.
Our parents forbade us
because they "love" us and blah, blah, blah.
They always told us to go outside…
Talk to each other…
Go carve something fun out of a carrot…
But we wanted to watch TV. At some point, my parents reached the age
where they started to test their limits.
Parents get to the point where they ask how far they can go
before the kid says, "Stop, that's enough."
And one of these limits was this one rule they set.
My brothers and I could only watch TV for as many minutes a day
as pages of a book we read that day.
What a demented rule!
You take the most beautiful thing in the world, TV,
and pit it against the worst thing in the world, reading.
And we were only allowed to watch as many minutes
as the weakest link in the chain had read.
We always sat like cheerleaders around the weakest link.
Read faster! Read faster!
Lick your fingertip so you can turn the pages faster!
We could always watch one thing, no matter how much we'd read,
Wetten, dass…?
We watched Wetten, dass…? every time it came on.
I grew up in a suburb of Zurich in Switzerland.
So Wetten, dass…? was my gateway to Europe.
For a very long time,
I thought Germany is a county full of people with totally useless abilities.
But instead of being ashamed of their weird abilities,
they would celebrate them in front of an audience of millions.
And if you don't know Wetten, dass…? it's the best show ever.
Thomas Gottschalk walks in,
this tall, blond curly-haired Bavarian
in a dazzling suit like a proud, tropical German bird.
He comes in and greets the crowd, "Good evening. Hello. Servus.
Hello, Bruce Willis. Hello, welcome.
Yes, it's a big sofa, I know. It's the biggest sofa in all of Ger--
Eat the Haribo. Eat the Haribo now."
Bruce Willis sits there, clearly confused and thinks, "Okay.
I've heard lots of negative things
about the German entertainment industry,
but this is shittier than anything
I could have ever imagined."
Bruce Willis, this is Jürgen!
Jürgen is from Villingen-Schwenningen,
and Jürgen can tell by the taste of toilet paper which brand it is.
The confusion on Bruce Willis's face gives way to profound disgust.
He puts his finger in his ear
because he just can't believe what he just heard translated.
In walks Jürgen.
Jürgen is a 45-year-old civil engineer from Southern Germany.
They managed to convince him in the changing room
to please not appear in bicycle shorts.
They negotiated with him, and now he's wearing those pants
that, using a zipper, you can…
adjust the length.
The audience is thinking, "Jürgen, what's wrong?"
You're on TV for three minutes.
What's the plan? On one side…
hot pants, the other, capris? What are you trying to tell us?
Up top Jürgen has darkened swimming goggles on,
taped over with two miniature toilet paper rolls
so that people watching at home with the sound off
or people who simply don't understand much in general
are able to see what's really important in Jürgen's life.
Thomas and Bruce begin to discuss,
"Can he do it or not?"
Thomas says, "Of course! He's from Villingen-Schwenningen.
If anyone can identify the brand by taste, it's Jürgen!"
Bruce Willis says, "No, he can't.
Just let me out of here. Make it stop. No."
Jürgen courageously eats roll after roll of toilet paper.
Of course, he can do it,
and as a punishment after the show, Thomas Gottschalk
smacks Bruce Willis three times square in the face
with a dead trout.
That was Wetten dass…? It was the greatest thing ever.
Way better than reading.
I was always sure as a child
that I would be Thomas Gottschalk one day. My biggest dream.
I wanted hair like Thomas Gottschalk, an attitude like Thomas Gottschalk.
I wanted to go on TV.
And then I did go on TV, and I…
still sometimes go on TV, but…
Behind the scenes on TV, it's always the case
that in every room there are about two people too many
who dropped out of their sociology degree too late.
And every conversation is boring.
So I figured I'll just make my own show.
With my colleague, Thomas Spitzer,
I made a YouTube show.
I had a late-night show in my living room in Cologne.
I thought, "Who could I invite as a guest?" because…
you need guests.
Long-term, it's a bit of a cry for help
if you're always just talking to an empty chair.
I contacted people I think are cool. I thought about who I think is cool.
I think Anke Engelke is really cool. She's a gifted, funny actress.
I asked her, "Hey, Anke. Do you want to support me?
Come to my place. We can't pay, but we have M&Ms.
You have no say in how it's edited. Sorry. We retain all rights.
Are you in?"
Anke Engelke said she can't picture it being a good fit.
I thought, "Too bad for you that you have such a weak imagination."
The second option was Barbara Schöneberger.
Barbara Schöneberger, a very likable,
a very present German TV host.
She has long blond hair and really big blue eyes.
She always looks a bit surprised, like this…
As if she can't quite believe she made it on TV once again.
As if she's looking for something,
maybe for a contact lens that's in her own eye,
or in a thought.
And Barbara Schöneberger didn't respond at all.
So I thought if no people want to come on my show,
then I'll just ask animals.
Because the good thing about animals is that they have very few rights.
Animals have so few rights that in ten years,
we as a society will be ashamed of
how little we took advantage of them back when they had so few rights.
I called an animal talent agency in Cologne:
"Angelika's Film Animals." You know this is a pro right away.
You know who: Angelika. You know what she does: film animals.
And Angelika…
Angelika was a classic Cologne girl.
Colognians speak Kölsch.
I didn't even know it was a real thing before I got here.
Kölsch always sounds like, "Et kütt, wie et kütt. Et hätt noch immer joot jejange!"
As if the tongue blew a 0.2 breathalyzer, but the body is already at work.
"It comes as it comes." "It's always worked out."
No one working intellectually would think that.
No one stands in a chemical laboratory and thinks,
"It's always worked out."
Lithium, water, "It's always worked out."
And I asked Angelika.
I asked what would it cost to rent a goose?
I'd like to rent a goose,
then bring it into my living room to interview-slash-insult it.
And Angelika's mood shifted.
The happy Rhinelander was gone.
She talked differently. She said, "Listen!"
Are you nuts?!
A goose?! That's how Colognians talk when they're angry.
Aggressively shoving the first syllable forward
and backing off the second syllable in horror. "Listen!"
"Are you nuts?!"
It's best to exhale when going forward
and inhale when going back. "Are you nuts?!"
"A goose?!"
If Disney made a movie about a bellows with aggression problems,
he would talk just like Angelika.
I asked, "What's the problem with geese?"
She said, "Don't you know the first rule of show business?"
No geese on set! Geese fuck everything up!
Then she hung up. I'd never heard that.
I immediately googled, "Goose fucks everything up."
I was presented with hours of video material
of geese who broke the arms of four-year-olds.
And if you know that,
if you know this information about geese,
then you can see it in the goose. A goose…
looks a bit like a shabby swan,
like an RTL 2 swan.
Is it even okay for me to look at it? Like a teenager looking for trouble.
Often a four-year-old is standing around in his free time.
Four-year-olds have nothing but free time.
So at any random time, he's doing four-year-old stuff.
I don't know what four-years-old do. I'm not part of their community.
But it's a retro four-year-old. He's there with a yo-yo.
I'm four!
If anyone asks, I'm four and a half
I just turned four yesterday, whatever!
And then a goose comes along,
in an Uber.
Geese don't give a shit about small businesses or the environment.
She looks out the window, sees the four-year-old and says, "Sergei!
Sergei, stop!
A four-year-old!
Now there's trouble.
It's now… trouble o'clock. Let me out.
The goose gets out-- Hey, look, geese!
Yeah, yeah, dive into the Rhine, you bums.
Okay, I'm pretty satisfied with everything now.
If you'd told me six months ago,
"You're going to record your set,
and 20 geese will fly by right on cue," I would have said, "I don't think so!"
Then the goose gets out of the Uber,
walks confidently over to the four-year-old,
breaks his arm and gets back in the Uber.
The four-year-old, in tears, didn't see it coming.
His arm is now a meat sack filled with bonemeal
from which a yo-yo dangles gently in the wind.
His mother sees this, hadn't noticed the goose, and thinks,
"His own fault. Went too hard with the yo-yo,"
and slaps him on the back of the head.
The goose sees this act of violence,
is happy about it, lights a cigarette,
gives Sergei a 5-star Uber rating.
And that's just too negative an energy for me.
I don't need that in my home. So I called Angelika back
and said, "I'm sorry.
I didn't know geese were psychopaths. That changes everything.
What other birds do you have?"
She said, "I'll send you a kauz."
I said, "Great."
I was desperate. I didn't know what a kauz was.
The kauz is a…
tremendously disappointing animal.
No other way to put it. It starts with the optics.
A kauz looks like an owl that was washed too hot.
If you go play outside with your owl and it gets dirty,
gets chewing gum in its feathers. You try to take the gum out
with peanut butter, mayonnaise, nothing works.
Now you just have a really dirty owl,
with gum plus peanut butter plus mayonnaise.
Then you go to good-question.de and write,
"Hey, I need help with my dirty owl."
And instead of constructive criticism,
you only get passive-aggressive hate comments,
"Why did you even go outside with your owl at all?
Everyone knows that you don't do that with such a magnificent bird!
People like you are what's wrong with Germany.
That's why I vote AFD!"
And you think, "My God,
I just need a little help with my dirty, dirty owl."
You close your laptop,
read the tag on the owl,
"Hand-wash only," and you think:
"Hand wash? I'm not my great-grandmother!"
And you briefly put the owl in the washing machine.
Twenty minutes at 90 degrees.
Then the owl comes out, and, poof, it's a kauz!
And the kauz can do exactly two things.
Every kauz can do exactly two things. First, it can look
as if it's watching a very flat and slow tennis tournament.
And second, it can also look as if it's not quite sure
whether the ball really touched the line or not.
The kauz arrived. It costs 400 euros to rent a kauz.
For another scene, Thomas and I needed…
We need me, topless.
I was supposed to briefly show my boobs, but to quote Thomas, "Just ironically."
I said, "No…
How can somebody show their boobs ironically?"
Thomas said, "Yes, people shouldn't find it sexy.
They should laugh."
And then I said, "No, I won't do that.
I'm a strong woman. I won't do it. I don't have to.
I don't have to show
my skin, my body, just to generate clicks.
I know what I'm worth and what I can do.
I don't have to. I'd call myself a feminist.
I don't show my boobs."
So…
I called a stripper.
Because that's what it means to be a strong woman.
Being a strong woman means
recognizing weak women as such
and standing out from them by having more money.
I had the stripper agent on the phone and asked,
"Hey, how much to get a woman to show her boobs for a second?
Don't worry, just ironically! Just once, quick up and down.
You won't see her face.
No need to reduce the woman unnecessarily to her face.
Just a quick…"
He said, "It costs 400 euros."
I said, "Are you crazy? I can get a kauz for 400 euros.
And the kauz is not only topless. It's also pants-less.
For 400 euros, I get a butt-naked,
highly motivated kauz who's never heard the word union."
Then I asked an actress
if she would like to play a stripper who plays me.
For 50 euros, she was in.
A little life hack for all of you. If you have to do something
you don't feel like doing, just ask an actress
at the end of the month, "Hey,
would you be interested in playing someone
who helps me change?"
I'm off the pill.
I'm not doing transitions today, by the way. Not to confuse you.
We have no time for transitions.
If this year's taught me anything, it's that we have no time for transitions.
Also, sorry if you expected more criticism of the system from me.
Not sorry for not giving it to you,
I feel sorry for you for watching a comedy show
to hear someone criticize the system.
I think you can criticize the system easily enough alone at home.
Just read the paper and think to yourself,
"Oh, this is our system.
What a pile of shit.
No, I'm criticizing it."
So I went off the pill, and I went to my gynecologist.
My gynecologist is a very old, very white
and insanely heterosexual man.
I figured I'd give this demographic a chance on the job market.
I have girlfriends who are bothered by that.
They ask, "Isn't it weird to have a male gynecologist?
Isn't there, like…"
-"Like a what?" -"Like a…"
-"Excuse me?" -"Like a…
sexual atmosphere in the room?"
And no! I mean…
First, he's so old that nothing even registers anymore.
It's more of a feeling, like an intuition about the general situation.
Second, why would it be better to have a female gynecologist?
I couldn't handle that competition.
If an attractive, highly educated woman comes in and looks at me…
And third, he's an absolute pro.
Nothing throws him off.
He only uses technical terms.
He only speaks to me in Latin. I don't even understand.
He's an old man from Zürich. He could say goofy things,
but he doesn't do that. He doesn't come in and say, "Mrs. Brugger,
how's Schnäggli doing?"
I'd love it! But he doesn't. He just speaks Latin with me.
So it's about 9:30 Wednesday morning.
I have no pants and no underpants on.
The old man speaks fluent Latin to me for half and hour.
This is exactly how I imagine a date with the Pope.
No, I don't think the Pope would go on a date with me.
I'm 20 years too old.
And a woman.
The first thing you have to do at the gynecologist…
This is more of an FYI for very young women.
The first thing you have to do is provide a urine sample.
I was there. I was highly motivated. But I didn't have any extra urine.
I don't ever go to a place for the first time and think to myself…
"The bus leaves in two minutes, my bladder is 3/4 full.
Should I go first or maybe bring it with me?
Maybe someone there will be glad to have it."
I go inside, the receptionist gives me a cup
and says, "Ms. Brugger, please give me a urine sample."
I enter the bathroom. I feel enormous pressure.
I manage to coax myself into filling the cup a quarter way.
Come on, Hazel!
It's asparagus season!
And then I put the cup in a little cupboard.
There's a little cupboard you can open from one side
and the other side too, like an Advent calendar.
Except just one day.
Every day is Christmas, and there's only ever pee.
And as you open one side,
you pray that no one has the other side open at the same time.
Mrs. Huber, do you still teach recorder?
That's at a good practice.
There are also places without this cupboard system.
You have to come out with your cup,
walk past everyone waiting.
Some women do it so confidently.
That's my goal in life,
to be one of those women who simply come out,
makes eye contact.
Hello.
The bar is open!
Then I come into the examination room,
a frigid, tiled room. My doctor looks at me and says,
"Hello, Ms. Brugger. Please make yourself free."
"Make yourself free." Such a nice phrase.
What a nice concept, "freedom."
But he really wants me to remove my pants and underwear,
which for me, has nothing to do with freedom.
I've never had the feeling that my pants restrict my freedom.
I'm never standing in a room with a man I don't know and think,
"I'm feeling good.
But these pants…
I wish I could take them off!"
If anything, I'd prefer to put more pants on, but that's not an option.
I go along. I'm a team player.
If I cooperate, it'll be over sooner.
I take off my pants and my underwear. On top, full outfit.
T-shirt, sweater, jacket,
ski goggles,
a helmet with a beer bottle left and right
with "I love Minnesota" on it,
and socks on my feet.
And I'm faced with a very difficult question.
Do I take off these…
socks?
Or do I put my shoes back on?
On one hand, taking off my socks says that I want him to feel at ease.
I want him to think that I'm happy to do it.
I'm here for fun. I'm doing it because I want to.
But what supports wearing shoes
is that it's a professional office situation for someone.
And it just looks silly
wearing no pants or underwear,
but then socks and boots.
That says, "Hey! I'm really into this.
But I don't have that much time."
I then did the only thing that seemed to make sense in this situation.
I took off one sock,
and put the shoe back on the other.
Then I stood there slightly slanted and said, "Okay, Doctor,
go ahead. I've never felt so free in my life."
Then it starts. No need to ask twice.
You lean back, a bit like at the dentist.
But with much less focus on the face.
Otherwise, you need a new doctor.
The dentist, that is.
And my gynecologist only gets chatty once he starts working.
When he starts his exam.
I don't want to make small talk in this situation.
I don't know what's allowed, what would be crossing boundaries.
People don't talk about this in public.
Can I…
Can I stroke his head?
Aye, aye, aye, Papacito,
Pero tú trabajas muy bien."
I don't know why I chose Spanish.
It's the closest thing to Latin that I know.
Because he has very little hair,
he could maybe give markers for drawing like for kids at a restaurant.
And then he goes to his toolbox.
He has one of those toolboxes
that he bought at an auction in the Soviet Union in 1890.
It's always 14 degrees colder than the rest of the room.
Don't know what that's about.
Then he takes out his favorite instrument.
His favorite instrument is some kind of metallic duck.
You press down on its belly, and then…
the beak pops open.
It doesn't really make that sound. You have to imagine it.
If it makes that sound with you, you are very sick.
The beak opens. There is an aspect ratio change from 16:9 to 4:3.
And first of all, he always looks at my copper coil.
As I said, I'm off the pill.
But I still want to use birth control,
and a copper coil is a very reliable contraceptive.
It's just like the name says. It's just a coil made of copper.
And it works as a contraceptive because sperm,
for some reason,
are terrified of copper.
I don't know what it is. Kind of a vampire-garlic situation.
Nor do I know who found that out.
Maybe in the Middle Ages, there was a teenager
who used to masturbate on church roofs.
A copper coil lasts seven years.
Then you have to replace it.
After seven years,
sperm aren't intimidated by the copper anymore.
Maybe the coil is so run down that it isn't taken seriously anymore.
Graffiti and tags everywhere.
Some crazy ovary has been throwing toilet paper around it.
And that's why the coil has a thread at the bottom.
The thread, my doctor explained,
"Ms. Brugger, the thread needs to be a certain length.
Because if the thread is too short, you can't get the coil out."
I don't know what you do then. I think you just wait more than seven years,
hope you get pregnant anyway, so that the baby,
on its way out…
Which is so deadly because the skull hasn't grown together yet.
What I'm saying is, it's a very delayed birth control method.
So a copper coil lasts seven years plus one pregnancy.
"You know, Ms. Brugger," my gynecologist continued explaining.
"This thread shouldn't be too long either. If the thread is too long…
it might disturb you in your daily life."
And then I thought, "Dude,
what do you think my daily life is like?"
Or maybe…
Better question, how long is this thread?
What are we talking? 1.25 meters?
Is that the contraception method?
That I'm just standing there with a massive thread
on the dance floor at the club.
The thread vibrates with the music.
Everyone looks at me and thinks, "Ick."
What is she, a balloon?
How will a copper coil restrict my everyday life?
Will I still be able to jog on the beach? Behind me…
the thread blows.
Gently caressing the sunburned ankles of British tourists.
When I ride a bike with my copper spiral, then…
it flutters in the wind.
It touches the spokes. All the kids in the village say, "Hey,
did you hear?
Hazel not only has a sensible contraceptive,
she also has a moped!"
On a right turn, the thread gets caught in the spokes.
I fly over the handlebars.
The bike in the bushes, the spiral next to it. I think, "No!
My expensive road bike!"
Plus, I'll probably get pregnant this afternoon.
"Stop talking immediately.
What you're saying is absolutely repulsive,"
my gynecologist interrupted me.
"I implore you. This is a serious office situation.
The scenarios you've described are downright slapstick."
"Of course not," he said.
There's a margin of a few millimeters,
maximum of a centimeter where it could be.
If this thread is too long,
it could disturb a partner of mine in a very intimate setting.
And I found that very touching.
That he was worried
about the intimate well-being of a man who I don't even know.
But then I thought, "Wait a minute. It's 2020.
I can't talk about being a strong woman,
use a boob body-double on the Internet and then be ashamed of my thread."
I think it's time to say, "You know what?
I stand by my thread. If it's my wish
to have a little more extravagant of a thread,
maybe two, three glass beads woven into it,
an Oliver Kahn trading card…
If that's my wish, then that's my right."
I'm getting older.
I turned 26.
It's not all that old, but for me, it's a record.
I don't notice myself getting older.
I notice it in my parents. My parents are slowly getting older.
They're not really all that old, but…
my parents are now at the point where…
if they're buying an expensive piece of furniture,
I'd like to have a say about which one.
But we have a good relationship. I see them every few months.
Always something new they can't do anymore each time I see them.
But they're so excited.
My parents will be grandparents. My oldest brother will be a father.
My parents can't believe it. They're so excited.
My parents love children, I've discovered.
And this kid already gets to do more than any of us ever got to do.
There are no rules, just love and candy.
As soon as he's born
he'll get to live on the top floor of my parents' house.
It's the only room with a private bathroom.
My mother is sure that this baby needs its own bathroom.
And I think, no.
The first three years, a baby wears a diaper anyway.
A diaper is its own bathroom.
If you wear a diaper, you always have your own--
I have my own bathroom here.
You want a urine sample, Doctor?
No problem!
I will now be dethroned as the family's baby.
Until now, I've been the youngest. But not anymore.
It's not as bad as I thought it would be.
I'm trying to use it. I'm trying to be more grown-up.
I'm trying to reassess my relationship to fun.
Adults have an odd relationship with fun.
I believe that adults can have fun without feeling a sense of pleasure.
The Middle Ages Fair, for example, is a very adult event.
Maybe you've been to a Middle Ages Fair before.
You get there, and it's a trampled field in Saarland.
You think, "I've heard a lot of negative things about this state,
but this is even shittier than anything I could've ever imagined.
Somewhere there's some guy named Björn in leggings and a bell costume,
playing some weird reed instrument. Everyone's thinking,
"Is Björn insane or is he a German Studies major?"
No matter where or when, at the Middle Ages Fair,
it always stopped raining exactly three hours ago.
There's soup in bread, and at best, everyone's having a middling good time.
Everyone's looks are middle of the road.
Everyone is middle-aged. That's why it's called a Middle Ages Fair.
Because it has nothing to do with the real Middle Ages.
That would be great if there were a zone
where the actual Middle Ages were taking place. I show up…
I don't know if my immune system is up to the task.
I'm a woman. I'm wearing pants.
Controversial subject, I'll probably be beheaded.
A grandmother lies there in her own vomit, dying.
It's time. She's already 39 years old. Now that…
That would be interesting, but how these fairs are now,
no one needs them. No one wants to go.
Not even someone from the real Middle Ages
would want to be at a real Middle Ages Fair.
If we had a time machine, and someone from the real Middle Ages
were catapulted into the Saarland in 2020,
they would get out and say, "What's this?
What's going on here?"
He talks differently. He's from the Middle Ages.
"Lo, fair maiden. What is here afoot?"
He talks like a Swiss guy who got hit by a car.
Slowly hit by a Prius, under 5 km/h.
He couldn't hear it.
What? Soup in the bread? We had nothing of the sort.
Where are you getting your information?
To think we'd have an excess of grain products
that we used to carve fun dish sets from.
No, it was either nothing, or soup or bread.
And we each had exactly one bowl
carved from our grandfather's spine.
And if the bowl broke, you starved.
I thought if I can't have fun like adults,
then I at least want to have no fun like adults.
Because adults can do that really well. Like, consciously avoid fun.
Be sensible.
Collect receipts.
Deduct things from their taxes.
I always have to be careful where I talk about this.
Three months ago, I performed at a drive-in cinema in Stuttgart.
I was almost pornographic at this part.
Ah, yeah. Deduct it.
Hit me with your probation papers, girl!
Real estate is also an issue where adults freak out.
I find real estate so boring. Real estate can't do anything.
Real estate is 100% static.
You have to savor that,
how little real estate can do.
Every piece of real estate can do two things fewer than a kauz.
And you don't want your real estate to do too much.
You just want it to be there and still be there in 30 years.
So that in 31 years, you can say, "Gisela, that's good…" Hey!
Must have been a Swabian…
You don't want your real estate to do too much.
Just to be there and still be there in 30 years.
So that in 31 years you can say,
"Gisela, it's good that we bought it back then.
We didn't have any money back then.
Now we have way too much, and soon we'll be dead."
That's the German dream.
And it's my dream, too.
And I went to a bank and asked them if they could buy me some real estate.
Because no one can just buy real estate.
Maybe in Switzerland, where I'm from.
Some people can just buy a house like that.
They're so rich. They have other skills.
They live in a parallel world. They can snap their fingers like this.
And along comes a Lamborghini
and gives them a blowjob.
I never knew a Lamborghini could do that.
Yes, it's a hybrid.
But if normal people want to buy something really expensive,
they have to go to the bank and say, "Hey, Bank,
I heard you have a lot of money.
I don't have much yet. Can you please give me some?
I'll pay you back, I swear."
I went to Deutsche Bank.
Well, not Deutsche Bank, but a bank in Germany. I have standards.
I thought…
I'll go to a German bank
because I live half the time in Switzerland
and Germany for the rest.
If anyone from the tax bureau is watching,
I live 55% of the time in Switzerland.
But I thought I'd go to a German bank.
Because a German bank is like a training bank for a real bank.
A Swiss bank is very intimidating. Everything's made of marble.
The floor, the wall, the plants, the employees. Everything is marble.
And a German bank is more like a…
youth center.
You go in. There's a donated sofa in the corner.
You think, "Okay, you could get rid of that.
There's a stain on it that's moving. I'm not sitting on that."
And it's hard to say what I prefer.
If the bank is a lot nicer than the apartment I want to live in,
or if the bank is so fucked up that I would never want to move in.
If the bank is too nice, then I think
the people there will take too much money from me in the process.
But if the bank is too run down,
I don't know if the people there really know how to handle money.
I've noticed that Germany and Switzerland are very different.
I think the countries are extremely different.
Because the people there are very different.
People often pretend that they are roughly the same country.
Germans pretend that Switzerland
is just another hemorrhoid sack dangling from Bavaria.
The Swiss sometimes speak of Germany
as the big canton.
As if Germany were the biggest Swiss Bundesland,
which is completely megalomaniacal.
Calling Germany the big canton
is like a melanoma going to the doctor
and saying, "Doctor, I'm worried.
I have this huge white sack on my back.
Please help me.
I can't take it. It's starting to talk."
But Germany and Switzerland are very different
because the Swiss are very polite.
I don't think the Swiss are nicer, but they realized,
as long as they're polite, then the conversation will end quickly.
If you say, "Good afternoon!" The other says,
"Good afternoon!" Then it's over.
But if the one Swiss person says,
"Good afternoon!" And the other one says,
"Fuck your mother, you son of a bitch."
There's a need to clarify. He'll have to justify his words.
This difference in mentality is best illustrated
when someone is in the way. When this happens,
one Swiss person is here, the other next to him.
The first one wants to get around and says, "Excuse me."
You have to bend down slightly and frown like this.
"Excuse me."
And the German, in the same situation says, "Achtung!"
And both work!
Two very different solutions to the exact same problem.
The Swiss says, "Excuse me."
As in "Take the blame off me."
I'm aware of the guilt that's weighing on me
because I exist here, and you exist there.
And I'd like to walk past you if it is an option.
Please make it stop. It's so unpleasant.
Excuse me!
And the German says, "Achtung."
So that, for insurance purposes, he's verbally covered.
This can also be seen on the Autobahn. In Switzerland, on the Autobahn,
sheltered but still somehow stressful,
you can drive a maximum of 120.
If you drive three over, you will be caught.
The ticket costs as much as a house in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern.
It's not so, so much, but it's a bit much.
I said that once, and a guy from Mecklenburg was there.
He didn't laugh at all.
Afterwards, he wrote me a really angry Instagram message,
"You should inform yourself about the real estate
prices in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern."
So I did.
Long story short, I own four houses there now.
And on the German Autobahn, you can do more or less what you want.
It's like a computer game, but everyone knows
in the back of their head, "Okay, I only have one life."
At some point, you see a sign that has no speed limit.
When I saw the sign for the first time,
I didn't know how to process this information.
It's just nothing on a sign.
Why does nothing need a sign?
And nothing is crossed out five times. What does that mean?
It means, "Forget everything you know.
There are no more rules. Forget everything five times.
Whatever works, steer with your ass. The kauz can get behind the wheel."
The Swiss Autobahn is like a very sheltered, proper family,
always having dinner at 6:30 sharp.
The TV is off.
The radio is off.
Everyone holds hands.
Thank you, Julia, for setting the table.
Thank you, Daddy, for slicing the beans.
The mom calls the dad "Daddy," so as not to confuse the kids.
Not to make the kids think, "Wait a minute!
Who is Urs?"
And the German Autobahn is more like a single mother,
a frustrated, bludgeoned-by-life, exhausted
single mother of eight children,
who takes them to Europa-Park once a year.
And then lets them out of the car in the morning and yells after them…
"At 6:00 p.m., we'll meet at parking lot F!
And if you're not there, you're walking home!"
And secretly, she's excited by the idea
that maybe two or three of them
won't make it.
And every morning, people are simply sent onto the German Autobahn,
and they say, "All right, just do as you please.
Wow. Did you buy the car here? Make it go vroom vroom."
Everyone just goes for it.
Usually a Mercedes from near Stuttgart at the front
and an Audi from near Munich
that compete in a 300 km/h race,
fatally colliding, causing an accident,
which creates traffic for the rest of the Autobahn.
Which in turn ensures that everyone else
can't drive as fast as they would like.
Which in turn saves their lives.
And that's why the system works.
So every morning, two people are simply
sacrificed to the gods of the German Autobahn.
And in Switzerland,
we just don't have enough people to do something like that.
So I went to a German bank.
And I thought, this is the most adult moment in my life.
I've never been more grown-up than the day
I went to two other adults
who aren't my parents to ask them for money.
I spent all morning preparing.
I tried to act like the most grown-up person I know.
I tried to be my own father.
Just saying dad phrases:
"No salami after 6:00 p.m.!
I'm the dad!
Where's the teletext?"
-Dad, it's an iPad. -I don't care. Where's the teletext?
That's how I thought I would go in there. "Hello, give me money!
Building loan agreement. I know words!
Where's the damn fox from the commercial?"
That's how I pictured myself.
But the moment my foot stepped over the threshold of the bank in Cologne,
carpet everywhere,
the marble of North Rhine-Westphalia.
In that moment, I was six and a half years old.
I no longer recognized my own voice. I waved.
Even though the people stood a meter away.
I just did this to them. They looked at me.
Hello.
Are you here all by yourself?
Yes.
I…
I heard you have a lot of money.
And I don't have that much money, and I thought
you could give me some money. And then I'll pay you back, I swear.
What do you want to buy with all that money, sweetie?
I want to buy a piece of real estate
because my oldest brother has real estate,
and he says it's really cool.
Your oldest brother, he has a salaried position, right?
He is very reliable.
He always tidies up his desk on Wednesdays in the office.
And when he comes home from work on Friday,
he takes his tangerine out of his backpack
if he hasn't eaten it.
He doesn't have such a brown drooly lump in his bag on Monday morning
that makes everyone ask, "Why does it smell so bad in the hallway like a…
Because your brother didn't eat his fucking tangerine!"
I don't want to buy real estate anymore.
I don't believe that
men can do more than women, or that women can do more than men.
I think there are very few differences between the sexes.
I think the main difference between men and women
is that the pockets of women's pants
are way smaller than the ones in men's pants.
A woman's pocket--
Nothing fits inside!
It's like a trailer for a pocket.
This summer, one pock-- Already over.
Nothing fits. You can put your fingertips in it.
Great if your fingertips are always freezing,
but the rest of your hand always sweats.
Maybe some men like it when you hide your fingertips from them.
Oh, my God.
She's so hot, so mysterious.
Does she have fingertips? Does she not?
Come try and find out.
That's the main difference. The second difference…
between men and women is that…
men are much better, really much better…
at sticking together as a team, acting as one
and collectively making sure that you don't expect much from them.
I notice it with myself. I expect more from women.
When a woman says something in public,
and it's not the smartest thing I've ever heard on the subject,
I always think…
"Who asked you? Just shut your mouth.
In three years, we'll have…
all the same rights.
Just wave. That's enough."
And with men, I don't care.
It may be the dumbest thing ever. It can be so vacuous,
I don't even perceive it as language.
It's just noises lapping against my brain,
and I think, "What did I expect? It's a man."
I believe that not only are women up for this pressure,
women actually like being under a certain pressure.
Women like to please.
Men prefer to enjoy. Men like to have a good time.
Not only do men like having a good time,
men like to watch other men
having a good time.
James Bond, for example.
James Bond movies only work
because men look at James Bond and think,
"Yeah, man. Badass dude. You got this.
You fuck that woman, yeah.
I can't right now, but you got this."
I love watching James Bond movies with my male friends.
There inevitably comes the point when James unbuttons his shirt,
removes his undershirt. You see his six-pack,
and my friends think, "Badass dude, has a six-pack.
I now have a six-pack by association."
And that doesn't work for me.
I don't have the feeling if I'm watching some model show
and some extremely attractive woman takes off her pants,
I don't think, "Badass woman, has long, hot, skinny legs.
I now have long, hot, skinny legs by association."
Instead, I think,
"Okay.
She has long, hot, skinny legs.
She's probably super dumb."
Until recently, there were discussions
about casting James Bond with a woman in the lead role.
And I wonder who wants to see that.
I don't want to watch James Bond
clearly being a better person than me.
Doing everything she does better. Way more intelligent, beautiful.
Some highly attractive British secret agent.
Super smart. She speaks fluent English
and fluent French, which nobody can do.
Nobody speaks fluent French.
Not even French people speak fluent French.
If you've ever seen the French news, it's always…
And they're always thinking, "Oh, fuck.
Is it subjunctive or not?"
But James Bond can. No problem for her.
Fluent English, fluent French.
Then she drives on the left side.
No problem, even though she's a US actress.
Then she kills some bad Russian secret agents.
Has sex with American secret agents.
Does not exchange phone numbers.
She's not afraid she'll be lonely in her hotel room later.
She'll just go back all alone to her hotel room.
Knows immediately, where to put the key card so it opens.
Opens the door, there's a pack of Mon Chéri on the bed.
She either doesn't open it at all, or she just eats one.
That's enough for her. No need to inhale the whole box.
And I just don't want to see that.
I think I have a disturbed relationship with women
because I have a disturbed relationship with men.
I think it's a disturbed relationship because I have two older brothers.
My brothers and I, we only ever beat each other up.
It was our only form of communication,
but we don't do it anymore. And I miss it.
Honestly, I miss it. I have no one in my life
who I can just smack.
It's always, "Police, police."
But the sad thing is, we didn't stop beating each other up
because we don't want to.
I still want to punch my brothers when I see them.
They still want to punch me. It's just not socially accepted.
Sure, at a funeral,
you can throw the odd jab.
"You're not really crying!" but…
But otherwise it's not okay.
At your aunt's 65th birthday,
a 31-year-old can't just punch a 26-year-old in the face.
As she's lying on the floor…
"Hazel,
is it a fart or a burp?"
You can't.
I have friends who don't understand it.
I have friends who only have sisters.
They don't get it. They say, "Hazel, why are you so violent with them?"
I want you to know I love my brothers.
It's clear, no need to even talk about it.
We know it. I love them. They love me.
Of course, we'll stick together. In 35 years, it'll be about inheritance.
Hopefully, we'll stick together.
I hope they'll get it together.
I'm the only one in the family who knows Excel.
But I have girlfriends who say, "Hazel, I have a sister.
My sister…
is my best friend."
When I heard that…
When I hear, "My sister…
is my best friend."
What I actually hear is,
"Hazel…
I have…
no friends."
Because your sister is not your…
I even think it's a waste of resources
to be too good a friend with your own siblings.
Siblings are like practice people for real people.
With siblings, you can see,
"How far can I go before the fist hits my face?
And once it's there, can I still articulate well enough
to squeal to my parents?"
Your sister… Maybe if you don't know anybody else.
You grew up in a cellar in Austria.
It's medically unclear: Is it my sister? Is it my daughter?
Who cares? Then…
Then it's okay, but otherwise not.
And my older brother,
who's becoming a father. It makes him very sentimental.
He is now trying to get into that non-violent communication stuff.
He came and stood in front of me and asked, "Hazel,
what should we do?
My girlfriend is eight months pregnant. Should I marry her?
Would that be romantic? Well, too late for real romance.
The Škoda Octavia is already bought, but…
It might be nice
if we tie the knot now before the baby comes
so we can be a team going into the world."
I just didn't know what to say.
I mean, my only honest response is,
"I'm not interested. I truly don't care."
Any conversation between my brother and me
that doesn't end after 20 minutes
with one of us having a flip-flop in the face
is a waste of time for me. And now it sounds like
I don't respect my brothers.
And that's because I don't respect my brothers.
I think "respect" is an overused word. It's a very big word.
Definitely too big a word for something as small as a big brother.
It's that important.
Respect is overrated. People act like…
respect for others is the most important thing.
I don't think so. I think tolerance for others is way more important.
Honest tolerance is worth much more than feigned respect.
Respect is like shooting sparrows with a cannon.
Respect is like running a marathon in under three and a half hours.
Yeah, super impressive, but I wouldn't have noticed
if you couldn't.
And tolerance is like being able to stand without falling down.
Not impressive at all.
But it sucks big time when you can't.
And I do that with my brothers. I tolerate them.
I tolerate you, which means I acknowledge
that you exist,
and I don't intend to actively change anything about that.
That's tolerance, and it's very important to me.
And my brother asked me, "Hazel, what should we do?
Should I marry her?" And I just didn't know
how I was supposed to react. So I did the only thing
that made sense to me in this situation.
I took off one shoe and one sock.
And on the other side, I left them on and stood…
at a slight angle.
I tried to smile at him as sweetly as possible.
Kindly waved at him.
He thought I was going to slap him.
He was faster.
And I felt his heartbeat in the palm of his hand
against the skin of my face.
And that, for me, is true love.
Thank you very much, Cologne!
Thank you for coming out.
Take care of yourselves.
Thank you so much.
And I'm singing a
Song for Cologne
And normally people would click Skip Outro by now
You ask yourselves, wait a minute How were so many involved?
What's an executive producer?
What exactly is he executing?
What does he even produce?
It's just a strange lady standing onstage
In a…
Nice outfit she clearly picked out herself
She has good taste
And has a very natural way with style
She probably did her own makeup, too
It probably goes really quick
Because she sleeps More than eight hours every night
And has clear skin
Thanks for coming I'm leaving now
The bar is hereby open
Subtitle translation by: Kristopher Brame