Monthly Archives: November 2012

A Thanksgiving update … ‘cause I was too drunk, I mean full of turkey, to do it two days ago


I’m pretty sure there was something about Thanksgiving I was supposed to write about here.    Whatever it was it sure as shit seemed like it was funny at the time.   In fact the boss, not even my immediate supervisor but the B (with a capital B even) oss even said, you should put this in your blog.

To which I countered, “give me a laptop and I will right now,” because beer makes me enthusiastic about bad ideas.

I’m glad it didn’t happen.  Look after 40 beers things like, “Of course the USSR’s geo-political influence in the oil embargo of the 1970s cannot be ignored but that line of thinking only serves to minimize, I like boobies” comes out of my mouth and no one deserves that.

Also what the fuck is the Boss doing reading this crap?    Anyone else asking themselves that question?  Shouldn’t she be reading some sort of public affairs foreign policy think tank wonky shit?

I fear that during the next staff meeting she’ll utter something like, “And I want to really leverage our social media efforts on this, get with Jason and talk to him about his initiatives in that area, tell him you have my full support.   Also boobies.”

Anyway whatever the joke was … it was, trust me, funny.      I mean not as funny as getting whipped in my boxers wearing a cowboy leather jacket in front of a friend – that’s kind of a high-bar, you know?

But still it WAS funny.

If I told you right now, you’d totally be laughing.   So even though you’re not laughing right now rest easy in the knowledge that had I remembered you’d totally be laughing your tits/balls off at this very moment.

And really, isn’t it the thought that counts?

I mean I, having forgot what was so funny that night, still thought enough of you

and now for something...turkey

and now for something…turkey (Photo credit: atomicity)

to do this update. Without the fucking joke mind you, I wrote this all in an effort to make sure you knew that if I had remembered I’d have shared it here, for your enjoyment, because I love you fuckers just that much.

Tis the season and all.

I also want to point out that I have just wasted almost an entire Microsoft word document page writing a big joke about the joke I forgot.   I mean that’s also got to count for something.   Three hundred and forty- four words to explain “I forgot the joke” … I even amaze me.

Anyway it was a good fuck thanksgiving.  I know I personally led the competition on broken beer bottles (Todd 3, everyone else 0), making an ass of yourself and inappropriate remarks for $200.   So that’s good stuff.

I was reading, on some internet message board today, stories about extended families annoying each other during Thanksgiving and being overseas I sometimes wish I could annoy the hell out of some family but, it’s not to be.    More so than other holidays, namely because it is such an American holiday, American’s living overseas I think tend to congregate into clusters for Thanksgiving.

And cluster we did.

Before we had Thanksgiving dinner a baby puked on me, which is only noteworthy to people that don’t have babies, like me.  Take that, other non-baby having people!   In. Your. Face!

The family that hosted us does that ‘everyone holds hands for grace’ thing.   My family was more the join your hands together to pray kind of deal.

“No one touch anyone else damn it, we’re about to pray” was a very common phrase during our families’ Thanksgiving celebration.

Both, in my retarded opinion, are pointless but why should we make a giant circle?  Does God like that more?  If so why?   God’s weird I tell you, weird.  It’s as if Gods thinking, “Well I’d totally bless your family and keep those guys in harm’s way safe but you’re all not holding hands in a giant circle so, fuck that.”

Maybe it’s a thing where if you have more than one person doing it, it’s got more power?   That’s the issue with prayer, there’s no way to measure how effective it was.    We had like 20 people holding hands in a circle prayer.   What if the cut off is 21 people?  As in 20 people has just enough ‘pray-power’ to ALMOST get to God but not quite.   With 21 you’re a solid in.

It’s thoughts like these that got me removed from most Sunday Schools when I was little …

We had a no crap, honest to god, German at our thanksgiving.   She’s dating one of the younger guys I work with (I think they’re TOTALLY having sex – don’t tell anyone) and came to Thanksgiving.  Turns out she lived in New York for years so this story is kind of pointless.

Joke

What the fuck WordPress?  This photo is tagged as joke, why?  You know here I am trying to do this fucking retarded update, looking for a photo and you fuckers show me a semi-hot chick.   So I get distracted because, she’s semi hot and barefoot.   Why the fuck is this labeled joke?  You people suck.  Also happy Thanksgiving assholes in the photo-tagging department, I hate all of you.(Photo credit: PitsLamp photography) 

Anyway happy belated Thanksgiving all, this would have been a rockin’ Thanksgiving update if I had just remembered the joke.

I have glitter on my hands and I smell like hooker — stay out of your coworker’s desk


I smell like hooker.

In fact, I have glitter on me.

Don’t tell my wife okay?

Thanks.

Why I smell like hooker and have glitter on my body is best described with a photo …

There were issues … I still smell like coconut chickness and I’m starting to like it.

Yeah that. That right there. That’s the issue. Coconut Carmel Whip hand sanitizer and girly girl co-workers are the reason.

They’re at fault. Not me. No sir.

Earlier in the day I purchased two bags of “Bigs” bacon-flavored sunflower seeds because they’re flavored like bacon.  How anyone can pass them up in the store remains a mystery to many of us.

Anyway, after happily munching bacon-flavored sunflower seeds at my desk all damned day long, I’d worked my way thought every drink I had at my desk. I drank an old can of Citra found in the desk drawer, the Gatorade I bought with the sunflower seeds, a carton of old milk in the office fridge (bad decision). I was contemplating collecting the dew off plants outside when I finally broke down and went to the Shoppette.

The Shoppette, for those of you unfamiliar with military life, is basically a convenience store.  They have lots of convenient products, it’s never very clean and the cashier only has like $20 in the register.

An IV for my tongue (Salt fucks a tongue up!) was what I wanted. I considered buying a bag of ice and just sucking the cubes, one after the other.

I don’t understand how something so manly, with the name BACON right in the title, leaves me feeling so very, very dirty!

After asking my co-workers what they wanted, because I’m an awesome guy, I struck out on my five-minute endeavor. Because I’m quite the clever guy, and because I am basically a lazy bastard, I decide to also buy some beer for later when I get home.  I bought two Gatorades, a bag of chips for the boss and two, four-packs of Bitburger because nothing says you have shitty taste in beer like Bitburger purchased in Germany.

Proudly, I step up to the counter and engage in small talk.

I am fine today sir, just fine and you? Ah that’s splendid.  Busy?  No?  Well sometimes that’s good, my friend. Yes, yes I would like to hear about your special …. Wait, what’s all this fucking liquid.

Thankfully the store was empty, because as the cashier bagged the beers up it became obvious that one of the beers had a hole in it. It was obvious because there was fucking beer everywhere in little tiny puddles.  All over the counter, all over the bags, and a glistening trail on the linoleum leading up to the register.

I can only assume the cashier also has a long history with beer. Perhaps he has a blog called Ilikebeer.com, we may never know.  We both immediately sprung into action trying to locate the culprit. (To discover which beer can has the pinprick hole in it, one must firmly squeeze each can.)

Can you see where this is going?  Yeah, me too.  NOW I can.

I, of course, located the wayward can and when I gave it a firm squeeze, a pressurized stream of beer shot out all over my arm. Actually, it was worse than that, it shot back into the aisle and covered not only my arm, but my shirt and hands in the process.

I replaced the four-pack, paid for my order, then desperately looked for something to clean up with. The search proved futile. I’d have to stay beer-soaked until I got to the car where I had a bottle of, I’d soon learn, empty hand sanitizer.

A good 45 seconds of cursing later, I said fuck it and drove back to the office covered in drying beer.  Which, I think most of you know, smells like ass.

Throwing my boss his bag of chips, I looked for and located what appeared to be a bottle of hand sanitizer. I plucked it off my (absent at the time) coworker’s desk and applied a liberal dollop to my hand and to my arm and commenced with the sanitizing.

But in addition to the alcohol-smelling, germ-killing goodness, I was treated to stripper glitter, coconut and caramel whip, whatever the fuck that is.

So male friends this is the lesson. You can grab anything off a male coworker’s desk and use it for any manly purpose you so desire, but reach into your female coworker’s desk and come away smelling of strippers, bad decisions, and coconut.

Finally, damn it, is humanity just breaking down? There was a time that hand sanitizer just contained alcohol, some gel shit and it smelled like dead germs.    Who is the asshole who started adding glitter and coconut to this stuff?   Used to be that prisoners would take this hand sanitizer and light it on fire during riots, what are they doing with it now?  Exfoliating …

Things about having a blog that piss me off, besides calling it a blog I mean.


I’ve wanted to do this for a while, basically since day one, but saying that blogging sucks on the first day you blogged makes you a giant whiner. I am not a giant whiner, I’m a smallish whiner damn it.

So let’s get started with the whining, shall we?

This first one is directed at the people who run WordPress, hosts of this hadafewbeers.com thing. None of you are to blame for this issue (unlike the other issues, which we’ll get to, you bastards) but I felt like I had to share it.

When I write something, I make sure there are tons and tons of grammatical errors, misspelled words, run-on sentences, incoherent thoughts and finally lots of missing

See, see it happened again … damn it wordpress.com, why does this keep happening?

Then I hit a button, literally a button that says, “publish.”   Every time I hit this button I remember something I needed to do before I was ready to publish, (you know, like make a joke about boobs, include words in the update, remove that photo of my testicles that I found really, really funny last night but not so funny in the morning) so while the computer and the “internetz” are working together toward publishing the update I’m busy yelling out in my kitchen, “FUCK I FORGOT TONS OF SHIT I WAS GOING TO DO … FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!”

Dagmar loves that last part especially.

The retarded joke two paragraphs up aside, when I hit “publish” what I expect to happen is I’ll still be looking at the exact same screen I was looking at when I hit the button.

Not with WordPress, oh no. With WordPress, you get a retarded, “Congratulations, You’ve posted XXX number of updates” screen. Truth is I’ve only done about 75 of these “updates,” “blogs,” “posts,” “making an ass of myself,” whatever you call them, so maybe it’ll stop someday. I can’t imagine more senior people doing this getting a “Congratulations you’ve posted 42,136 posts,” screen but who knows.

I defer to sweet mother here, I defer and pray that someday it stops.

Next up, sex, and by next up I mean right f’ing now baby!

Fortunately these days I get more hits per day than the WordPress “stats/search terms” link indicates.  Meaning, it shows me the most popular search terms that brought a reader here, but it’s less than the actual readers who, presumably, read here.

Which is a good thing because the search terms make even me blush. I, at one point, (when they were the only hits I got here basically) encouraged it, but not anymore. If you’ve read here for more than 9 months you know what they are.   There is a new one though, a new one that makes no sense.

People are coming here because of beeg.com. Don’t fucking go there. Really. I mean it. And don’t come back and later say, “Well you can’t expect me to not go there when you said, ‘Don’t go there!’” Because, yes, yes I can expect you to not go there. First off, its silly. It appears to be the Huffpo of porn, meaning there’s no original content, just postings of porn from legit porn sites. My antivirus program caught on fire two seconds into my own visit. While I searched, and really it was a search – as in why are people coming to my retarded blog from here—I realized that if Dagmar walked in my legitimate research would not be easily explained.

Dagmar:  Are you looking at porn?

Me:  Well, technically yes, but it’s for the blog so its okay. In fact it’s kind of like work!

Which every husband knows, is exactly how that conversation would go.

This leads to my next issue … the fucking cat. Listen cat, can you stop leaving mouse heads on the door step? I mean look at that thing. It looks like a mafia warning. I realize this has nothing to do with blogging, boobs or with beer, but fuck, its gross kitty. Stop it.

Finally, I’d like to thank most of the world. You people rock. This retarded endeavor gets hits from all over the world and wow, that’s cool. I mean countries I would never expect to have a readership here …. have a readership here. I’m looking at you Canada with your 1,272 unique views – all of which were probably achieved by some chick named Whitney hitting control F5 over and over again – but still, you Canadian’s rock.

But Uruguay, Isle of Man and (this is a country?) Brunei Darussalam I need all

Come on Isle of Man … wtf?

of you to pick it up a bit, OK.   Each of you are in the single digits for visits. Step it!

I wouldn’t have thought I needed to remind ‘Isle of Man” about this sort of thing but, here we are.

Every time the Petraeus scandal is updated in the news, this happens in my head


A few people, and not ALL of them are in my head either, asked why I was so quiet about the Petraeus scandal.

Someone even thought it was (drum roll … ) on purpose.

English: Official photo of David Petraeus, Dir...

Powerful, older man, has sex with hotter younger woman that finds powerful older men attractive?  No … this doesn’t happen.  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s not.   I mean I’ve been sending most of you topless photos of myself for months now and I haven’t been called by the Huffington post at all.  What gives?   Also some of your comments about my photos were really, really mean.    I think comparing my abs to a plucked chicken breast was a bit out of line.

But still why aren’t I talking about it?   Because every time I start to think about it the following conversation occurs in my head.

This is the stupidest story ever.   Why do you insist on thinking about it …

Look, we’ve got a super-powerful man that has slowly, methodically worked his way up to a position of national importance that’s married to a frumpy-looking, yet dedicated and by all accounts loving, wife.

Check. 

So then the powerful man meets a pretty lady that thinks he is, ‘super cool’ and wants to tell the world how, ‘super cool’ he is via a biography she eventually pens.   They both also rub their genitals together for ‘the sex’.

Sure, unfortunate but otherwise fairly normal.   Isn’t this actually the plot line to like hundreds of romance/suspense movies?

There’s also a third woman.  Which …

Okay now we’re getting the crazy levels up, we’re adding some spicy spice to the damned sauce.   Go on please.

The third woman, who coincidentally thinks, though reality says otherwise, that

This is honestly the only funny thing about this whole train wreck. Fake or not, and I suspect fake, it’s hysterical. Thanks for sending it to me Alex.

she’s somehow, and this part is sort of unclear, entitled to diplomatic protection services even though she’s A: not a diplomat, or employed by the department of anyone and B: is bat-fuck nuts.  It will become clear why she feels she’s entitled to this in a moment.

That’s fucking weird, how the hell is she the third woman, did he do her too?  Was it like an awesome threesome?

No he didn’t do her too.   Just wait a moment, I’ll tell you.   Seems the biographer chick he was doing somehow got pissed off at the ‘not a diplomat but thinks she is chick because – it’s fucking Florida’ and then biographer chick sent her ‘threatening emails.”

Like “I’ll drive-across the county in a diaper” threatening emails that the astronaut chick sent?  Cause I loved that story.

Almost but not quite, this one is almost as good though.

Back to the threesome, was it a hot threesome?

There was no threesome, you made that part up.

Well then how did the biographer chick find out about the other chick?

Through emails, somehow.   I think she had access to his email.

Friendster ... come for the friends, stay for the hot biographical chicks?

Friendster … come for the friends, stay for the hot biographical chicks?

So basically the two hot chicks are fighting over the powerful guy.  Wasn’t this on desperate housewives?  Are you sure you’re not confusing this with one of those shows?

No, now shut up.   This story is fucking awesome but I need you to shut up so I can tell it.

Fine, go on.

So fucked up diplomat/not a diplomat chick, here after referred to as Dip, gets threatening letters from crazy-hot biographer chick.   Being concerned with the nature of the emails Dip turns to a friend in the FBI and asks for help.  Help means, according to the FBI agent in question, ‘send me shirtless photos’.

So wait, what?  The FBI agent, after talking to Dip and seeing the threatening emails decides to send her shirtless photos as a way of helping?   That sounds more like a secret service kind of thing.

Well, did I mention Dip is pretty hot?

Proceed sir. 

Well she is and here’s the better part of it.    From all accounts she was also married to a doctor and the two of them, once the media shoved a spotlight up their asses, are dead broke but, and get this, portray themselves as rich socialites but they’re fucking broke.   Even better they have a charity which basically blew the donations on parties and travel and shit.  She also had some bullshit title like, ‘social engineering liaison with the embassy of the …

What’s the charity for?

How the fuck should I know?  Who cares?

I do.  What’s the charity for?

Fuck, I don’t know.  It’s for kids that poop out their ears … it’s not important.

That’s not even a real thing.   You’re an asshole.

Do you want to hear the rest of this or not?

No, not really.

Well fuck you, you’re going to.

Fine …

So while Dip is a complete fuckstain of human life the FBI agent, in between sending topless photos of himself, turns the ‘case’ over to the FBI computer geeks and, I don’t know magic happens.   Bam the guy in question turns out to be the director of the CIA.

Great can we get back to talking about boobs and beer, this story sucks.

This story has boobs!  Have you not been paying attention?   I mean they’re implied boobs but still.

Implied boobs are the worst kind of boobs …

Shut up, we’re almost done.

So turns out during the course of the investigation a general, a Marine four-star general mind you, serving in Afghanistan and Dip have been exchanging what was first called ‘flirtatious emails’ and then were called the ‘email equivalent of phone sex’ messages.

Wait what?

Just what I said, the ‘email equivalent of phone sex.’  I read it on Foxnews.com!

How the fuck does that work?   “Oh baby you’ve got me so hot.  I hold you close to me, we kiss deeply” <send> <wait 6 hours>   <read reply> “I feel your cock throbbing in your pants with my hand” <send> <wait 2 hours>  …  that’s kind of fucking stupid.

But that’s like two powerful men getting ready to fall because of this bizarre sex scandal.   Isn’t’ that fucking crazy?

No you idiot it’s the oldest, stupidest, most retarded story ever told.   Powerful man falls because of hot chick, gee what a novel fucking concept.   This has NEVER happened before … OMG how crazy.  

Let me boil this whole thing down to five words.  

Man fucks crazy, crazy happens.

No dude this story has so much more too it! It has …

… No, no it doesn’t.   This story, in those five simple words, could be used a cautionary tale for generations.  Hell I think it IS a cautionary tale that has already been told for generations.  

Maybe you don’t understand the ramifications, the consequences, the world changing implications …

Stop.  It doesn’t matter if I do or not, it’s the same fucking story.   Powerful man with loving yet frumpy wife at home fucks crazy chick.  Crazy chick then goes crazy.   There did I sum it up?

You’re a dick.

No you are.  You thought somehow that you’d add some wise-cracking fun into what is a national security story about a powerful man fucking a crazy chick who then, and here’s the crazy part, goes crazy.   What the fuck could you possibly add?

Fucking you I’m going to bed.

I’m coming too.   Can we at least watch “girls gone wild?”

Only if it’s the girls gone wild diplomatic corps edition.

Deal.

Had a few beers gets hit with the crazy and I liked it.


Hey there …

How are you?  Comfortable I hope, I mean I hope you’re not reading this on a mobile device while being yelled at, made uncomfortable or otherwise pissed off.

But if you are then I hope this helps ease the burden …

Metaphorically I mean of course, not physically.   If you’re on fire at the moment then obviously reading this will not help with the searing and blistering pain.

Laughter, in this sort of case, is clearly not the best medicine and you should also put the fire out you idiot.

Geeze.

When I started this blog I considered two things.  I liked beer and chicks might send me photos of their boobs.

Nate fucking Silver I ain’t.  But I was half right.  I do like beer.

beards

See I had a beard, I liked beer and loved boobs, I was READY to start a blog.

It’s been an okay success though.   I mean I had a beard and a shitty cat video when I started this blog so how hard could it be?  Drink some beers, say ‘fuck’ a lot, put some plastic army men and dinosaurs on a BMW hood, set the blender to ‘evaporate any hints of professionalism you have left’ and serve chilled.

I gotten a few phone calls, a few emails, a few private messages and a few comments from people saying they really enjoy reading it and that’s all this is about.   If you laugh a bit while reading this then that’s all I want.  If you’re having a tough poop while reading this in the crapper and it ‘helps’ I’m happy.

The first, well in my mind at least, popular post was the one about visiting America after so many years in socialist … err I mean Europe.     It was so popular someone posted a mean comment which hell if that doesn’t equal read by 100 people I don’t know what does!

Then I got in trouble once at work about a few updates last summer so I knew I was hitting it big time because …

(Legal Team:  This is the, and I hate that he makes me do this, “The Had a few beers” legal team, which is stupid because I’m one person.  I, I mean We, have to interject here, Hadafewbeers and his employer entered into an agreement where both parties agreed to never mention the subject of said ‘blog post’ or ‘blog posts’ again.  It was further determined that the subject of the agreement never actually, conclusively, displayed his genital at any time during the incident.  I owe Todd a lot of favors because one time in Vegas …

((…  Hi, this is the Had a Few Beers Legal Team’s Legal team:  Look legal team, we’re not going into ‘the incident’ here, the Vegas incident of note is still under investigation and any mention of said ‘incident’ is out of line.))

… and five kittens died!)

… so I put my penis back in my pants, even though I didn’t want to, and signed the form.

So one full page of bullshit intro later, let’s talk about comments.   The bad comments I mean and by bad I mean weird and by weird I mean what the fuck.

Word press does a good job of weeding out the spam, I get to see them and they’re sort of funny but not really.   Dick-pill jokes only go so far you know?  If you just laughed at that last sentence I love you.

Other than that, when starting this I gave very little thought to comments other than, delete idiots, try to engage everyone else.

But I was unprepared for 32@yahoo.com … you can’t prepare for someone that considers a username and picks a number I realize but still I failed totally.   I just, when I saw his comments, hid them from you and I was wrong to do that .   I don’t know if he would have come back to talk to us, I think of him as a simple bird sweeping over this little blog while pooping, eating, scratching and then flying off.

On October 11th he, using basically a different username for each comment (but the same email address), made a series of HYSTERICAL comments that I stupidly hid as spam.   I don’t know if I had engaged him if he would have reengaged with me.  I just know that in retrospect, he was fucking bat-fuck crazy and I miss him.

Luckily they’re still there, I undid the did and now (I think) they’re visible.

The story about vacuum cleaners was what first attracted his brand of crazy to the Hadafewbeers.com wall of fame and he chimed in with an amazing four comments, under four different usernames in the span of 20 minutes.   I’ve never done the math on that until right now and all I can come up with is ‘good fucking job.’   Not even I’m that crazy about vacuums and I wrote words about them.

So let’s dive into the crazy shall we?  To ease some of the confusion, I’ve left the spelling alone and have bolded and italicized 32’s comments.

Sex, booze and vacuum cleaners … life in the middle lane

He wrote as Herold:   “Compliments and an evaluation are two words that are not synonomous.”

Which I don’t even know what the fuck that means but it gets better.

Regarding the same update, vacuum cleaners mind you, but with user name, The Half-Hearted Hardy Boy, he left the following comment (in a new font and type size I should add) that said:

 “Just because a woman already knows that her bosom is large does not make it O.K. to insult a man who tells her she is stacked, she ought to accept the compliment anyway, even if she knew it beforehand, thats the lady-like thing to do, thats called manners, something more women on our planet should have been taught.”

We can deconstruct “Just because a woman already knows (cause they don’t

generally know?) that her bosom (you mean tits right?) is large does not make it O.K. to insult a man …” later, the crazy gets SO much better.

This time as Kyle Mile but again in response to vacuum cleaners we have:

It’s not O.K. that women overreact and bellyache everytime somebody says something nice about their bosoms and rearends, thats childish, improper conduct thats not befitting true womankind or mankind. And an opinion and compliment are similar and somewhat different, but compliments have nothing to do with evaluation, an evaluation means being tested and judged,how can giving someone a compliment have anything to do with that? Why would I want to evaluate you with a compliment, notice how ridiculous that sounds in the same sentence those words combined?

It was after reading that I began to suspect a friend was fucking with me until the next comment, still on vacuums mind you, by Don Juan (a name he will keep for two comments and about a different post) wrote:

I could phantasize about what it would be like if my penis got caught in the middle of that bosom, couldn’t move, stuck between

did I mention I like boobs?

Dude, you want to do what to the who?  Jesus fuck! Look the photo was sent to me and I didn’t even have thoughts as debauched as yours … you fuck.

that deep cleavage, shot a load in the middle of her bosom, if it was with her bosom covered with a sports bra, that would look and feel heavenly.”

The fuck you say?  That one is one of my favorites.  It’s got it all and the crazy really comes to the top in a delicious layer of ‘what the fuck’ separated only by an undercurrent of ‘dead hookers in the basement’.   We’ve got his penis, sports bras and ejaculation.   It’s a trifecta if I ever saw one.   A lot of you ladies are going to be asking me for more info about Don Juan after that one, I’m sure.

Next Don Juan not only finds a new post to comment on, he educates us.     I feel better, hopefully you will too in a moment.

“Why do over half a million women have to act like boobs, by calling their breasts boobs all the time? Why not call them breasts instead, thats what they are, their not boobs, boobs would sound more like birds. And whats wrong with saying things like, dear, mademoseille, sweetcheeks, etc.? Overreaction to whistling men by women is not O.K. Women overreacting to compliments about their bosoms and rearends is not O.K. All compliments should have been O.K. but overreacting to compliments is not O.K. and to hassle men with those overreactions should have become a crime.”

This, THIS is an awesome comment.  It’s got oddly specific numbers (half a million) followed by some lessons in ornithology and concludes with some pondering about future U.S. Law.  Also all you bitches, I’m sorry all you mademoseilles, it would seem, have been put on notice.

Understand sweetcheeks?

Regarding the same topic, but with a name change to The Overreacter to compliments of the Breasts, not boobs, which he will keep until his tirade is concluded (I.e. two more comments) we learn  

“Why do so many millions of people throughout the world waste their hard earned money on harlots? Why do that many women, which is half the population think they need a free hand-out of money that usually is one hundred sixty dollars for a massage and sexual intercouse? That just cheapens the experience.”

I can answer this.   Because unlike you they don’t keep any live victims chained up in their basements?  Am I right?  I’m right aren’t I?   And what’s this $160 bullshit dude in downtown Frankfurt right now for like 50 euro you can … I’ve said too much.

Sadly only two more to go folks, believe me I miss him as much, if not more, than you.

Regarding the same post, I was ranting about the Secret Service’s ‘hide the salami’ fiasco down south, we have:   

“Our planet would have been a better place without harlotry,police,feminists,judges, and courts, as well as no armies of soldiers, and women who like to critique and critisize the compliments they get all the time even on this machine they can’t seem to keep their comments to themslves, who would have been as a race if we didnt have liars on our planet, including those who lie about compliments received.”

Okay dude we need the police and judges and I’m sort fans of both harlots AND feminists (the hot kind at least).   The crazy here has gone up to eleven, clearly.    And well shit if you dump the police and the judges then sure, get rid of the courts but … wait, you’re just fucking crazy aren’t you?

He is.

The last comment was made on a post that I absolutely, positively pulled straight out of my ass while drinking.   Ruth Sternberg, wife of a dear friend and a dear friend herself, once told me in a very personal manner (she posted it to my facebook feed) that Hemmingway allegedly said, write drunk, edit sober.   Sage advice except the post about what should happen at my funeral (I stand by all of it) was written drunk, edited drunk and published drunk.    Regardless the jokes just flew past dear The Overreacter to compliments of the Breasts, not boobs.  

Remember this is a post where I basically set the most outlandish, might as well have my funeral underwater, set of instructions for what should happen when I die.

“Why would he want anyone without shirts and brassiers on at his wake for, thats an odd request isn’t it?”

Yeah.  That’s the odd bit Overreacter, that’s the odd bit.

I still miss him.

German driving tips … you can do it naked, while merging and while peeing. Just don’t pass on the right.


It occurred to me today, while driving of course, that I’ve done a disservice to fellow blogger, nay friend, Oh God My Wife Is German*.   You see he just moved to Germany, from Seattle I think, to join his wife.   If not Seattle then from the U.S. anyway and I, having lived here for the past five years should have offered him some driving advice.

I’m sorry OGMWIG, truly sorry.  I hope this makes up for it.

So as a public service announcement to anyone reading this that might find themselves driving someday in Germany and to OGMWIG I offer the following tips for driving in Germany.

Tip one:

Always, always collect photos of funny words on license plates.  In the European Union, well in the German part of the EU at least, license plates always consist of three or four letters followed by three or four numbers.   The numbers are rarely funny.

But the letters, they occasionally lead to hilarity.

You’ll find a good number of ‘ass’ ones and the occasional ‘fuk’ or ‘fuc’ and I always laugh at the ones that say ‘shit’ because really how funny is that?

But the winner goes to a good friend and co-worker.

He found the “klit” and to steal his own joke.

Trust me, though fuzzy, it says Klit. I’m just shocked it was found.

“I found it .. I found the Klit!”

Tip two:

Never pass on the right.

Seriously, the Germans while otherwise an understanding and caring society lose their shit over this.     I used to do it, no more.  Really if it means I need to go 5 KPH in the right lane so that I don’t pass the retard doing 6 KPM to my left, I’m a driving 5 KPH.

I could tell my German neighbors that I am only sexually aroused by male puppies that have been ritually shaved by midgets that are then lit on fire… they would respond with kindness, understanding and tolerance (seems something bad happened here back in the 30s and 40s, I don’t know) but should I confess to a right-lane pass of a vehicle, BAMO – I’d be beaten with sticks in the road and kicked.

So don’t pass on the right.

Tip three:

If there is room enough, literally room enough, for your car to merge in front of another then merge away.

You’re going to have to develop some seriously attuned spatial-reasoning skills because Germans can park, merge or otherwise cram their cars into spaces the size of shoeboxes.    Which fits the National stereotype nicely I think but still baffles the American psyche sometimes.

We’re Americans after all.  We’re used eight ‘god blessed and usually backed up’ lanes of super highway outside of Los Angles for the love of god.   Our parking spaces would be cattle grazing fields here.  In American when I merged I demanded, DEMANED WITH CAPITAL LETTERS, two football (American football at that) fields in front of me and one behind me.  Further I expected the national anthem to play when I put on my turn signal on four miles back and usually anticipated that angels would sing too me as I slowly, ever so slowly, drifted into the other lane.

Not here.

Here it’s all

“Can I make it?”

“Go!”

Countless times on the Autobahn I’ve been driving a safe and sane 250 KPH approaching a semi on the right lane with a four-cylinder plastic car behind it.

Now that driver has to calculate, as I head toward him at speeds far exceeding my IQ, how long I will have to stop, can he jump into the left lane fast enough to give me enough warning and am I currently writing this blog on my phone while driving?

The fuckers always always do it.   One minute you’re rocking out to Lionel Richie’s ‘All night long’ and the next minute everything from the backseat is hitting you in the back of the head, the breaks are on fire and you’ve, again, pooped yourself.

Tip four:

The Germans are better drivers than Americans are.

By and large they are.  Get over it.  It takes like 20 years and costs the national debt of Greece to get a license here.   Also if you really want to have fun over beers some night ask an older German how Greece is doing.

Never mind, don’t do that.

Point is that, by and large, they are better drivers than we are because we learned from our dads and they learned from someone with a PHD in driving.

My dad:  “Son when someone’s riding your ass your best bet is to slam on your brakes and teach them people a lesson!”**

German PHD driving instructor: “Ven das car behind you ist too close you must maintain ze current speed und no vary your velocity!”

There are tons, tons and tons of antidotal stories I’ve heard about Germans being fucked-up drivers, most of them I can fully believe.   Can I believe a friend saw a German dusting the dashboard of his new car with an unused paint brush at 120 KPH?

You bet I can.

I think I can prove they’re better drivers, apart from the no-speed limit autobahn thing.

Let’s play ‘let’s pretend’ for a moment.   Let’s pretend the governors of California, Oregon and Washington State decided collectively that not only was a speed limit unnecessary on parts of I95 but that it should be declared an honest to shit race track.

What would be the result?

If your answer to that hypothetical was, ‘the 82nd Airborne division’ and ‘a state of national emergency,’ you and I agree.

But the Germans, those whacky Germans, they gave us nurburgring and the less famous hockenheimring, stretches of actual road that I’m led to believe are used by normal 9 to 5 commuters and people that want to drive their cars to level 11.

Grandma taking the grandkids to a kid movie and a new Porsche owner really working the gears, on the same road … the mind melts.

Tip Five:

You can pee anywhere you like.    Well almost anywhere.

All those little parking areas along the autobahn, you know the ones.  The ones with the picnic tables no one seems to use that are always populated by trucks with truckers sleeping in them.

They’re basically open air urinals.

Weird I know.

You never see whole families at these places, using the bathroom or even using the picnic tables (because they smell like pee).  You just see truckers sleeping and men in suits peeing …

Tip six:

And I saved the best for last man.

You can drive naked.    You and the wife can tool around the German countryside naked as they day you were both born.   I look forward to the stories.

Seriously I heard it from a German friend so it must be true.   Seems a German man during the one hot day a year in Germany decided that air conditioning was for suckers and that he’d be cooler (metaphorically and physically maybe) driving naked.   It was a great plan until the popo pulled him over and gave him a ticket for, wait for it, driving naked.

Later though, to the judge, he argued that he had every right to be naked inside of his own property (like his house) and that his car was in fact his own property so what was the problem?

The judge let him off.   So go ahead and drive around naked, I’m 100 …. Well … 90 … well 60 percent … okay check with an attorney first on that one.

* Read this blog.  It’s about an American that married a German and moved here, HILARITY.  Oh God My Wife I German is too funny, if you don’t read it I hate you, a lot with like extra hate.

** My dad was actually a driving teacher so that never happened.  His actual advice at the time would have been more akin to “Son we aren’t getting home until you get this car going off this hill in first gear.”  It took three weeks.

I get beat by a leather whip while wearing a cowboy jacket and pink boxers … I missed you too


I was going to make this update private, readable by only my wife, Gina, Maggie, Adrian, Marni, Todd B, Mike G (cause he’s cool), Carmen, Craig, Greg, Brian, Leila, Lynn, Bob, Jesse, Jill of course, my cousin Cory, some dude I met last Wednesday and my Dad.

Then I remembered I’m an attention whore and if it can’t be read by everyone why write it?

Boiled down, any story that ends with Dagmar whipping my ass with an actual whip, while I’m wearing boxers and a cowboyish leather jacket (yeah the one from facebook) should be used as a cautionary tale to others.

For those of you that hate me, there’s also head trauma so stick around.

This one

The Jacket that keeps on giving … me pain.

Really though the night ended with me getting whipped, by Dagmar wearing a leather bra and leather chaps, while I was wearing that abortion of a jacket and pink striped boxers.

Some back story is likely called for.

And don’t you hate that?  Someone is writing something crazy and they cut in with, “but before I tell you the cool shit, here’s stuff I want you too read cause, context is fun”.    Yeah I’d skip too the end too.   Look for the bolded part.

About a month ago Dagmar left me.   So call me ladies!   Okay, okay she didn’t ‘leave me’ so much as she took a new job up the road in a place where I will also be working soon.    We were both moving, she just moved first.

Through luck, chance and charm a good friend of ours just moved there.   She offered, and we graciously accepted, Dagmar a place to sleep at night so she would be spared the hour or so one way drive.

This offer, coupled with the fact that I was going on a three-week long business trip that consisted of retarded crazy hours meant that Dagmar and the cat were moving into our friend’s house until we were resettled.

We were effectively ‘separated’ only I couldn’t have meaningless sex with random bar chicks because Dagmar likes to split hairs.   She’s a total kill joy.

So after three weeks of cross-dressing Germans, creamer incidents and me not dying. I arrive home.

To nothing.

Seriously after three weeks of not being able to get away from anyone … of only having a 10-minute break at the end of the night alone I arrive home to an empty house.

No wife, no cat, no anyone.

I had a hand-held radio for the three weeks I was there, it would call out at four a.m. “Wolverine 17 this is Beached whale 79, I’m at check point “I fucked your mom” and I think the training unit just committed a level one poop in the bed!”

I would yell out, ‘shut up!’ at the radio and cry in my pillow.   But mostly I would just turn it off and go back to bed.

I bring that up because even when I was alone, I wasn’t.   The radio brought me, even at 3 in the morning, constant updates.

So when I arrived home on Wednesday at about 5 in the afternoon I was thrilled that I wouldn’t see another human being until Friday night.

Yeah, so I was crazy for human companionship by Friday.  I was also crazy for a shave, a shower, a change of clothes and my ass desperately needed to get off the damned couch.

I can do a day alone, I’m cool with that.   Forty-eight hours though and I’m getting a bit ‘freaked out’.   At 56 hours I’m talking to myself in the mirror and I’m disagreeing with myself.

Luckily though I get to go see Dagmar, I just have to drive an hour and a half to do it.

Dagmar is full of instructions though before I can come see her.   Pick up sausage links, eggs, white wine that kind of tastes like summer and her new domestic-partner is no better, pick up two packs of cream cheese, make sure they’re blessed by midget angels — cause that’s the kind I like.

I mean I’m just screwed all around.   It’s typical German November weather, meaning it sucks.  I’m wet at every turn but I have coffee.

Did I mention coffee?

Every place I stopped had coffee.   I cannot, on a night like this, ignore coffee.

I think the amount of coffee I drank almost equaled meth before the drive.  Had someone gave me a no shit line of meth I don’t think I could have been more white knuckled during that drive.

Pouring rain, hopped up on java, I think I peed in a Gatorade bottle at one point but I made it.

People!  Interaction!  Friends!

But there’s my wife and there’s that slight bit of awkward haven’t seen you for three weeks, fuck you kiss me, you’re beautiful, time and here we are at the end of the party.  The dinner plates are being cleared, guests are being said good bye too and I’m wearing a leather jacket …

Yeah again ‘that’ leather jacket.

Bolded part starts now for those of you that suck ….

Everyone else but the three of us has left and for a moment I think Dagmar and our host has left too.

I find myself all alone in the living room.

The girls, and my memory here is hazy, disappeared.

I assume there was much giggling.

I’m not sure if I was confused, drunk or just happy here. But part of me realizes it could have been all three so…

When they reappeared, Dagmar was dressed in a no-shit leather bra, leather chaps and holding a whip.  She spoke in an over the top German accent about my, ‘misbehaving’ and then I, for reasons I cannot explain (it was beer) stripped to my boxers.

Anyone who knows me knows that it takes about 3.5 beers for me too get naked because … well it’s me.

Well after getting whipped by my wife while another person watched and laughed with great joy, the great, penthouse-crazy sex didn’t happen because none of us are in college, retarded and it was late, like 10:30 or so.  We’re also old; do I need to mention we’re old?

When I awoke the next morning I had a headache, which isn’t at all unusual but this one was different it was only on the right side of my brain.    Had the left side of my brain just fucking quit, had I finally killed it?   Why wasn’t the pain equal?

I had no time for such trivialities as ‘head-pain level 5’.   I was wearing pink stripped boxer, black dress socks and nothing else.   The headache would have to wait.  I could have asked Dagmar but that would have led to ugly consequences like the truth.   Better to investigate this mystery myself.    I suspected old-man Winter’s did it but the mystery van and Scoobie Doo were no were to be found so I followed my other hunch, they were downstairs.

I mean there’s a pounding on the right side of my head that would have left

Porn star Jenna Jameson at the 2007 Adult Ente...

I’ve just always wanted to include a photo Jenna here.  CALL ME HON!(Photo credit: Wikipendia)

Jenna Jameson impressed, I’m in boxers and black socks.

Solve the immediate problem first my reptile brain screamed, ‘find the clothes.’

I darted downstairs hoping our host was still fast asleep only to discover she was awake, well composed, drinking tea and completely un-shocked by a nearly naked man in her living room making wild claims about shirts, pants and shoes.

“They’re upstairs,” she replied, barely looking up from her computer.

FUCK!

I ran back up and there they were, sorta folded on a nightstand.   Dagmar is to blame, I obviously would have left them in a pile besides the bed … had I been wearing them when I went to bed.

“Does your head hurt,” came the question from the bed as I desperately tried to unfuck inside-out clothes.

Does my head hurt?   That wasn’t code from Dagmar for ‘do you have a hangover’, that question would just be asked straight forward.   What was she …

Oh shit now I remember and, ‘oh shit’ was exactly what I said when it happened.

I’d fallen out of bed that night and, as it’s a typical German house, there is no carpet.  My retarded brain collided, violently on the right side it would seem, with cold-unforgiving tile.

In my, admittedly flimsy, defense that bed is a head trauma nightmarish contraption of concussion inducing fuck all, it’ll be labeled by OSHA as a class one felony any minute now.   The top mattress is bigger than the bottom box spring and for a retard like me, pushed into the ‘danger zone’ by Dagmar, well gravity was going to win the fight.

My head still hurts.