Monthly Archives: October 2012

What happened last night, German cross dressers, beer and fun


Everyone from Facebook remember this pic?  It was literally last night so …

Hello and welcome to oour hotel

Hello and welcome to our hotel

This is the backstory…

This never happens to me.   Really honey, it doesn’t.   Maybe I was nervous? I mean there’s a lot of pressure here to perform!

Didn’t know how to write this but I think it needs to be written so let’s just do it in sequence.  Also I’m working with a lot of hard-core military types at the moment so there will be a lot of phrases like, ‘in sequence’, ‘on order’, ‘move to grid square xyz’ and ‘can I borrow your exfoliating gel.’

Deal with it.

Story starts, time now.

Date:  Yesterday morning.

Time: 0650

Situation:   Linked up with head mofracky in charge, hereafter referred to as ‘the boss’ to conduct and execute road march to dining facility (DFAC).  Conducted safety briefing which focused on how many bacon pieces were too many at DFAC and did she or did she not have a hot set of ‘sweater kittens’.

Side note to all military wives: Yes she did, but not as hot as yours.

Time: 0700

Arrived at DFAC and executed operation “fill our bellies with wholesome goodness.”   Casualties included my dignity and most of the pork selection.

Okay enought of that.

The boss and I met early, went to have breakfast and on the way back to the office we stopped at a convenience store for coffee.   When we stopped Dagmar called me so I didn’t go inside, the boss agreed to get me a coffee while I ‘took care of business’ with the frau.

Dagmar and I are moving so it’s a conversation a bit above, “yeah it sucks we’re apart” and has some detail to it, meaning I was really paying attention outside the store.

I was really paying attention until I looked inside and said the following to Dagmar, “I have to go, right now.”

I wish I had photos.

I’ll try and do his version justice but just know that when I turned around, while on the phone with my wife, I saw what appeared to be milk shooting my boss in the chest.

You can see why I had to hang up.

Mister former infantry went inside to get the coffees and discovered a group of Romanian soldiers milling around the coffee pots getting coffee for, in his words, everyone (for non military reading this he means coffee for LOTS OF PEOPLE) .

Undeterred by this obstacle and because he likes a bit of coffee with his cream he ‘plans out his attack’., he’ll fill his cup with creamer and sugar while the Romanians are monopolizing the coffee.

A good plan if I ever heard one.

Because I like my coffee like I like my ladies, bitter and black, I am unfamiliar with the mechanics of cream and liquid sugar dispensers.   They are, to my limited understanding, simple devices meant to dispense to the customer cream and sugar in rationed doses.   But the devil is always in the details because according to him, most all dispensers require that you push the handle in to dispense the product.

This one you had to pull.

Realizing this fact, my boss and former infantry officer if that adds context, pulled – with typical infantry officer retard strength, and ripped the nozzle off the dispenser shooting ‘cream’ everywhere.

Some other officer came to his aid as the Romanians were too stunned to react to the epic level of awesome they were witnessing and I was at this point hanging up on Dagmar so I could, well laugh, as coffee creamer shot everywhere.   It quickly filled up the cup he was holding and the on the unsuspecting captain handed him.   He quickly jammed the nozzle back into the device but by now the damage was done.  He had committed a creamer atrocity that no amount of free napkins would fix.   As we left, with our coffee, he told the cashier, I made a bit of a mess back there and as we exited the store two junior soldiers commented, “man someone had some fun here didn’t they!”

Yes, yes they did.

The rest of the day was boring work shit.

You’re reading this so I assume you realize I like beer.   It’s in the name of the blog after all.  What you do or do not know is that left to my own devices I’m very, very anal about what beer I drink.   Currently I drink bit burger, go ahead, laugh it up.

Point is that a swarm of locus had descended upon the store, the same store that had been creamed, and purchased all the bit burger in stock except for the little retard kegs.   The one in the photo, go ahead and look, I put one up for you to see.  See it?  Yeah who buys that thing besides retards like me and 21 year olds.

I bought it.  I like bit burger, don’t judge me … STOP FUCKING JUDGING ME!

I had to DO math in the store, well almost math, stupid-guess math in fact.   Will this fit in my hotel mini-fridge, if not am I fucked?

Answer yes it will and yes you would have been, had you been wrong.

I bring this up because nothing shout’s I have a drinking problem like ‘mini-keg’ purchased by a 40 something guy on a business trip.  I mean really that last sentence should be in a recovering alcoholic’s email signature block.

Flimsy rationalization is about to occur but bear with me.   We all like to relax at night, right?  I know I do.  A few times in Afghanistan I remember literally going back to my bed and literally having to lay down so I could get up a few hour later and hit work again, no time for anything, LITERALLY anything, beyond going to sleep.

When that happened I always felt cheated.    I like to have a bit of time ‘off’

I have a small keg under my arm and am trying to get to my room, five cross-dressing germans are in my hallway, they’ve just offered me a shot. Let’s see where this goes …

mainly now so I can type this stuff but the point is the same, we all need a moment or two to unwind, part of mine is to have a beer and do this.

So the boss and I leave the office late, 9 p.m. late, and because he is constantly, epically, always and forever eating, we hit the restaurant/hotel.   Slight problem, there is a birthday party going on.   It’s a German hotel and restaurant and it’s packed, they seat us in some back room.  Literally the entire restaurant is filled with what I come to understand are people celebrating a birthday, of someone.

In the special short-buss room the boss and I are fed and drink beers and eventually agree to part ways.  I still have to fetch the “I’m a drunk keg” from my car’s trunk so as he leaves I go to get it, secure in the knowledge that I’ll soon be cocooned back here in my room, safe with beer.

I get the mini-keg from the car’s trunk once the boss is safely out of site.  I’m going to have a quiet drink I think.   I have a full beer in my hand and the keg under my arm and enter the hotel via the side door and run into five men dressed in drag.

I’m holding a mini-keg of beer and there are men dressed in drag in front of me.

 I lose my shit.   I see them and just start laughing.  What would you do?

I asked them for a photo.   Which they agreed too.

There are shots, here with men, dressed as chick. Okay, but only one for me.

Then the shots arrived.   Literally right after I took the photo shots arrived.   I mean what would you do?  Okay you’d have gone to bed because you’re not an idiot like me.

I did the shot.  Game on.

I should have gone to bed.   I know this.  I’m sorry.  It ended with an accordion playing and me staring at some old ladies boobs in a traditional German, ‘here’s my cleavage’ shirt thing.   That should have been hyphenated but I’m tired.

Moral of the story … there is no moral.  If you meet cross dressing men in your hotel stairwell, do shots.  That’s the moral.

This is literally how the night ended and I think there are lessons here to be learned. Kids, don’t follow strange men dressed as chicks into parties in hotel’s you aren’t familiar with.

I didn’t die! Send cleavage shots! Happy birthday to me …


I have some good news.  I’m not dead.

I managed to survive another 365 days in a row without being hit by a car, beaten to death by a topless gang of over-endowed women or liver failure.

Yeah. It’s my birthday.

It might be a sign of age when you have to, for a moment at least, think about how old you are.

I literally had to pause for a moment and do, ‘math’.

Okay I was born in 1970, that’s an even number and it’s the year 2012 that’s also an even number, I was forty not that long ago …. Shit I’m what 42?  No that’s not right, it’s always +1 to the year in October dipshit.  You’re 43.

Fuck, I’m 43.

Which I guess is a deal, only it’s not.   The last major milestone was being old enough to be the president and I have to admit that birthday goal just blew by me unnoticed.   The last birthday I gave a crap about was the 21st because beer is good.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.  We will get to birthday milestones in a moment.

As you will come to understand, I think birthday celebrations for anyone over the age of 21 are stupid but I have no issue with scamming the birthday system for personal gain.

Moar Boobs!

I didn’t die, send boob shots!

To every well wisher, well every well wisher with boobs, I have a birthday request, I want a cleavage montage.   Want to wish me a happy birthday?  Then send me a photo of your cleavage.  Nothing will make me happier than a photo of your cleavage.

It’s what I want.

It’s my ‘special day’ after all.

If you cared, you’d do it.

Make it happen.

And NO cheating for the love of god, I want photos of cleavage taken by you for this special day.  No reposting some old shot you’ve had on Facebook for the last 15 months, I want fresh, new, exciting and fun cleavage taken for me because I didn’t die.

So cleavage shots are my special wish, picture me blowing out the candles on my birthday cake when I see them.

Do it now, I’ll wait.

Okay, are you back, did you post you’re cleavage shot?

Thanks.

English: Soldiers and Staff from the Robertson...

I want to slap everyone in this photo. (Photo credit: Who Cares)

Now that we’re done with that can we talk, I mean honestly talk about birthdays?  Mine, yours, that dude in the cube next to you, everyone’s birthday, can we talk about them?   Lewis Black makes a great point in pointing out that when you’re eight birthdays are awesome because you get cool shit!  He uses a wagon as an example and he’s right, to an eight-year-old a wagon is great, you put crap in it, you move it around and bamo, birthdays are cool.

At 16 you can drive and at 18 you can vote (but you don’t) and at 21 HELLO booze and then, what the fuck are we doing, really …

What. The. Fuck. Are. We. Doing?

After 21 you’re just not dying, really that’s all you’re doing.   Everyone is aging, every moment of every day, why celebrate some arbitrary point that, in the grand scheme of things, is meaningless?

I don’t get it.

I have friends that hate their birthdays because they, ‘got older’.   Here’s a stop of the clue-train friends, you got older reading this.

Happy getting older!

I’ve caught crap from people, for good reason, for making fun of Christmas and they’re right.  I’m an asshole for making fun of Christmas because stripped to its bare bones Christmas is just a winter festival.   It’s dark out a lot, the foods going away and ‘fuck’ everyone is depressed.  Let’s all get together, be happy, eat a lot and give each other a ‘I hope you like it present’ because this is the worst part of winter and it’s about to get better, spring is coming …

Easter is a festival that celebrates planting really and let’s be honest Halloween was originally about harvesting, all good holiday ideas then and now.

Birthday’s I don’t get though, really I don’t.  I appreciate the efforts friends and family go through to make it special, I really do.  I just don’t understand, at a base level, the point of any of it.   I was fully expected to live another year … I didn’t do anything extra-ordinary to get here, I just did.  Hell if my bar tabs are any indication I did everything I could to prevent this from happening.

Shit I’m a failure in fact!  I kid of course.

There is one thing about this ‘birth’, ‘day’ I’m proud of though.   For the last three of my four birthdays I’m spending it at the Joint Multinational Readiness Center working indirectly with Soldiers.  When I retired from the military there was this, ‘woosh’ moment that a lot of people go though I think.   I’m not in uniform anymore, shit!

After so many years of wearing it, it’s kind of weird, or was to me at least.   Suddenly you’re not really a part of the team anymore, sure they recognize you, they thank you but you’re no longer in their camp if that makes sense.

Fortunately right after my retirement Nick Sternberg hired me here at JMRC and I remember thinking, during my birthday, “if I have to work an 18-hour-day on my birthday, doing it helping soldiers is the best way there is to do it.”

I hope I have an 18 hour day tomorrow.

A boob/cleavage montage will totally make that 18-hour day … WORTH not dying!

Harlots, bosoms and Tucker Max …


I can’t give this blog the love it deserves at the moment because, work.  I’m on another business trip and sadly this one isn’t filled with strippers and angry Dagmar phone calls about said strippers.

Seriously I’m working crazy hours until Halloween so I’m not sure what I’ll be able to put up here.   Either it will be incoherent, half-sleep deprived, half-drunk rants like this one or you’ll just have to come up with your own boob and beer jokes.

Here is a free, non boob and beer joke though.

What do you call a deer with no eyes?   No eye-deer.

Okay I’m sorry I really shouldn’t do this when I’m tired.  That was just sad.

I do have two odd things and here they are.

The first, the one I hope to write about soon involves about ten bat-shit crazy comments I received here last night/this morning.  All by the same dude, different names but all the same dude.   I deleted them all because if anyone’s going to use the words harlot, bosom and sin on this blog it will be fucking me.    They were retarded but they COULD be funny because harlot, bosom and sin are hysterical words, if used right.

Trust me it will be funny, they’re deleted but saved.   All you harlots have been warned.  I suggest you wrap your bosoms up into brassieres and just fucking wait damn it.

The second, less funny but interesting thing, I want to talk about is Tucker Max.

Tucker Max

Tucker Max (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yeah, yeah get it out of your system now, 42 year old Todd finds Tucker Max interesting what a tard.

Fuck you, this is why.

Tucker, while funny and juvenile and <insert adjective here> is still Tucker there are, and I’m sure lot of fans know this, the moments where he’s really in the zone.   You can see a lot of his influences and you can really appreciate what a great fucking writer that dude is.

This is what I just read,

“The rules your parents teach you to live by are very different than the rules the world actually runs by.  Most of the conventional wisdom is not only wrong, it’s a lie told to us by people who want to control us.  It doesn’t help us, it helps them.”

English: Hunter S. Thompson, Miami Book Fair I...

By the ticket take the ride …English: Hunter S. Thompson, Miami Book Fair International, 1988 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If you’re a Hunter S. Thompson fan and don’t see a lot of HST in that, try harder.   I’m starting to discover I love rereading Tucker Max, just as I love rereading HST.  Each time you reread it, you find something new.  His stories are funny at first glance but, maybe more so in the later books, they have brilliant bits.  I think I read that he was influenced by HST, and that fits, but …

But …

But …

But I need to go to bed, early mornings and all.

Also boobies.

Ah Sunday, relaxing Sund … A lesson in reading your spouses insane side.


Are you the early riser in your house?  If so you and I have something in common.

Go us!

You and I look forward to the few peaceful moments that come with getting out of bed early and enjoy the  precious few quiet moments we have in alone in the house.   If you watch TV in the morning you’re careful to monitor the volume.  You might even be selective about which lights you turn on in order to not disturb the other sleeping people in the house.

You’re, like I, am trying to milk every precious second out of the serene, tranquil morning that you can.*

I like to turn the coffee pot on, tip-toe into the living room and, because I live in Europe and get the American Forces Network on my TV, watch yesterday’s evening news – this morning, while surfing on the iPad.

Weekdays I get a half an hour tops.

But on weekends I typically get a lot more.   So much so that I might even, don’t tell the wife, take a quick 15 to 30 minute nap.   Because life in the 40’s is just that fucking exciting!  Don’t tell the kids …

Then two hours later she wakes up and berates me, while wiping the sleep from her eyes, for not having done ‘anything’ for the past few hours.

Read that last bit again, I’ll wait.

I, fool that I am, thought this Sunday would be like all the others.   True my suspicions should have been ‘hyper-level 10 million level’ when she not only woke up at the same time I did but literally ‘feet hit the floor’ before mine.

Still though no cause to worry, right?

I drifted down stairs to find her brewing tea and the coffee pot already on.

Full-disclosure, though I am awake earlier it does not mean I am in any way capable of making a decision more important than, “should I scratch my crotch or not” for at least 4 cups of coffee and/or 30 minutes.

But not Dagmar, oh no, not her.

She can go from dead asleep to let’s go run a marathon.  Literally, let’s go run, put your stuff on, screw it lets just run in our pajamas, come on let’s go, let’s go!

Her, and you people that are like her, scare me deep, deep inside.   I cannot understand you and I’d be sympathetic if I wasn’t so full of rage toward you.    Slow the fuck down Sparky, we got the whole day ahead of us.

Normally after this many years my morning ritual, when she sees it, is

Well who needs coffee now?

My mornings are … wait huh. Okay I had a point when I start … boobies. Photo shamelessly ripped from Newscorpse.com

respected.   I’m afforded an opportunity to drink coffee, blow my nose, scratch my crotch and make sneering gestures at Fox news anchor Sheppard Smith (an unfortunate consequence of AFN is that during the 6 to 7 a.m. time period it’s him or Piers Morgan – even in my foggy state I pick Sheppard over Piers because Piers just sucks. Plus side note, I predict it’s only a matter of time before Sheppard is caught having dude-on-dude sex somewhere embarrassing, like Florida.  Side note to the side note if you Google “fox news anchor” and select images (if you’re a guy) you’ll thank me … hello ladies!).

And that’s how I overcame my addiction to methamphetamines using nothing but a case of motor oil and a stick of butter.

See what I did there?  I used a joke about getting off track to refer back to the getting off track so we could get back on track.   I’m a geniou … maybe I should just get back on track?

So there I am on the couch yesterday morning, hot and first cup of coffee in hand and there Dagmar is with her cup of tea (when did you become British for the love of God?).  Typical morning really only she’s up of her own volition and the sun isn’t – which tells me something is afoot.

Then it happens, then the statement is made and it is matched by action.   Slamming the footrest back into the sofa without regard to ‘quiet time’ rules at all she jumped to her feet.  Her eyes were wild and her muscles seemed, at least would have seemed, were I awake, to swell.

She became Hulk-Dagmar and there would be action this Sunday morning, quiet time and coffee be damned!

It got much worse as the day went on but I couldn’t take any photos because I was holding televisions up, or something

There. Would.  Be. Action.

I think she was also wearing a green t-shirt which likely led to the hulk analogy, also I was almost asleep.

There are certain ‘thoughts’ expressed in this house that are vocalized but never really acted upon.   For instance in all our years of marriage we have never ate ‘rice and beans’ the entire month even though I’ve been told she’ll do it, she totally can do it, and if I don’t watch out, we will do it.

Hint:  She won’t but it’s fun to hear.

That’s an example of a threat that, made during a ‘discussion about money’, will never happen.  I think it’s called a Paper-Dagmar Argument or something.   I should have paid a lot more attention in class.

Then there are the others.  They’re not threats, they’re warnings.   Things we’re going to do this weekend.  “We’re going to go hike up to the castle”, “we’re going to go to Ikea”, “we’re going to clean the house to within an inch of its life” and “we’re going to go to the blah, blah, blah.”

Any husband reading this understands that probability factors in to each of these ‘statements.’   Yeah maybe we’re going to the event this weekend but you dear wife might, you might blank-percent might, change your mind.   Most of us agree (at the time) that the plan is a good one and start influencing however we can the odds back into our favor.

Our ‘favor’ is code for those of you that are interested for, ‘staying at home, drinking beer and maybe having a fire.’

It’s in the married guy’s bible, chapter II paragraph 4.5.  Look it up.

The one that scares the shit out of me though is the cleaning one.  I can’t predict it, I’m helpless when the cleaning beast rips out of her chest ala Aliens and I know it’s going to hurt me.    The cleaning one is brought up a lot but it’s usually just a light, once over the house, nothing heavy.  But once in a while I find myself moving furniture out of a room and fear for the cat’s life.

So yeah it was the cleaning one.

This is the woman that makes me lift the TV up so she can dust UNDER it.  This request is made and granted during ‘normal weekend’ cleaning.

Can you guess what deep-cleaning consists of?

She once vacuumed a large area rug then turned it upside down and vacuumed the bottom of the rug because German-Puerto Rican people are inside.

This woman once cleaned out and reorganized my toolbox because she wanted me to start a blog or because she’s just that nuts.  You pick.

Truth be known, between moving furniture and polishing the undersides of things I was allowed to listen to podcasts and at about 1 p.m. or so was authorized beer.  The warden has a heart.

To anyone, and yeah I’m looking at you, that says, “You’re the man of the house you do what you want” well I guess your situation is different than mine.   Maybe your dynamic isn’t the same as mine.   To me when she really, really fuck really, wants to do it I’m not going to stop her and I’m going to be a dick if I don’t participate.

Besides I’m too busy holding up the TV so it can be dusted under to really argue and have you MET Dagmar?

*  I have no idea how this works with kids.  I just assume they wake up, poop on themselves, set the pets on fire, eat sugar and yell.    I’m not far off am I?  I forgot only barfing right?  Oh and the cartoons.  Never forget the cartoons.