Paul had actually wanted to write off his wife as an extraordinary burden long ago, but she’s still there: “de Muddi”—both a deep-seated habit and a final boss all at once. He’s only contradicted her once. Ever since then, he can’t hear anything out of his left ear. No wonder, then, that even 30 years after their boozy wedding night, Paul is still coming to his senses. But after all, those who stagger get more out of the journey. By now, the two sleep in separate beds, yet the sacrament of marriage still hangs over their blessing like a curse.

So Paul finds himself stumbling through life alone more and more often. Armed with a solid foundation of half-knowledge, he assembles the IKEA bed even without the instructions, only to realize in the end that he bought a shelf. Not even his new “girlfriend” Alexa can help with that. So natural stupidity is better than artificial intelligence after all. Ultimately, though, a man has to do what a man has to do. Unless Mom sees it differently—then not. Soon the two will celebrate their “flower wedding.” Then she’ll have wilted and he’ll have vanished.

And even if alcohol is only a solution in a chemical sense, viewed soberly, being drunk really was better.

With “My Friend, the Drunken Saxon,” Thomas Kaufmann created a tribute to the late cabaret artist Olaf Böhme that had many guests in tears—both from laughter and from emotion. Now he’s taking Paul, the drunk Saxon, by the hand once again and bringing him into the present day. Of course, not without packing all those previously unmentioned treasures into his shopping bag. Because there’s still so much to tell: about knitted dresses and canaries, about lingerie and Tupperware, about vacations, cars, and other disasters.

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