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