Hazel Brugger: Tropical (2020) - full transcript

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