Monthly Archives: January 2013

Art … I give you “ART” with capital letters and explain why I suck at TV

The first thing we need to discuss in this:

This is the most brilliant thing posted on Facebook in at least the last six months.

This is the most brilliant thing posted on Facebook in at least the last six months.

It was drawn by a friend from high school and posted to Facebook with the following message:

“I got paddled and suspended for drawing this work of art with a friend in the third grade. Can you believe I would do something like this? Me?”

The message was followed by an invitation to use the drawing for my blog.

As if I could resist. How a sad-puppy photo can generate hundreds of thousands of likes, and this – dare I say it – this “masterpiece,” only warrants eight likes and a few dozen comments, is beyond me.

Art is truly dead, I say. Look at the damn thing if you don’t believe me. Its got wieners everywhere! The only thing that prevents me from asking for a signed copy to hang is the man cave is it lacks boobs. Had it been boobiful, in addition to dickalicious, I‘m certain it would be in the Louvre right at this very moment.

The omission is understandable, however. We were in the third grade then. Girls had cooties and we had no clue boobies were a favorite pastime of older brothers and/or fathers.

LOOK at it again and recognize a THIRD GRADER created it. Its awesomeness overflows the boundaries of the page, I tell you.

Now, I want to talk about TV and how much I suck at it, because I suck at it very much.

I have a TV. I’m not some retarded hipster drinking a PBR and wearing hipster clothes, claiming I don’t have a TV. I don’t even have glasses, prescribed or not. I like news far, far, far too much to not have a TV.

It’s all the other TV that I suck at. Literally, every other bit of it. Name the show and I’ve never seen it, don’t care to see it, don’t know what it’s about and don’t know who’s in it. I suck.

I can stomach some Mythbusters on occasion, I like that Bear Grylls survival show because I like being prepared for situations I’ll never find myself in, and Tosh.O.

Other than that, I suck.

And I’m not talking about those retarded “Who Wants to be Americas Next flash-in-the-pan Celebrity Sensation” or the completely, obviously scripted, “reality” shows like Storage Wars (you realize that they literally put the expensive stuff in the storage locker before the show right?). Those shows are shit and all of us know it.

I mean the good stuff that I can’t fucking get into.

What the fuck happened to me? Was a dropped as a child? I must have been. Damn you Mom (or Dad, could’ve been Dad)!

The last “series” I actually watched was Rome. Rome ended in what, 2008? See I suck.

At this very moment my wife and some house guests are eating up some Breaking Bad. I was asked, begged even, to participate. Hooks were tossed into my pond with tasty worms on them. “It’s really your kind of show,” my wife said. “I know you would love this,” said the guests and I probably would have if I …

… If I gave a fuck. It’s not just Breaking Bad either, sadly. I know there is a lot of quality stuff out there that I should like, but I, and this gets very scientific, can’t be asses enough to care. I probably should care. Good stories are good stories. Good writing is good writing. I just can’t be bothered to watch anything. Because, again, I suck.

This character flaw makes me useless at water-cooler talk (even more so when you realize I don’t follow sports. I’m doubly retarded.)

Boss: Hey Todd did you catch the game last night?

Me: There was a game on last night?

Boss: Yeah there was. Hey did you watch (great cool show here)?

Me: Totally didn’t see that either.

Boss: Well, small talk is over.

Me: Damn it!

I used to worry my disinterest would leave me barren in the blogging department, but after this stellar contribution, I realize I can blog about nothing.

Had a Few Beers is getting a smart phone app, as soon as apps have lasers.

Facebook private message:  Jan 25, 2013

Todd Oliver to HAFB’s app development manager Kevin:

(18:30) Todd:  OK, dude, you offered a while back to design a Had A Few Beers smart phone application and I think I might have an idea finally about what the app needs to look like and do.

I do have a few questions first though.

Sadly, we can't have lasers.   Because Kevin sucks.

Sadly, we can’t have lasers. Because Kevin sucks.

Can a smart phone application be used to cause someone physical pain? I mean, not kill them or send them to the hospital, but, you know, give ‘em a really bad shock, first-degree burn or maybe a temporary-blindness kind of pain?

(18:37) Kevin: No. However, it’s important to note I experience most of the sensations you listed to varying degrees just reading your blog. So, I think we’ll still be achieving the goal.

(18:38) Todd Oliver: That’s been the goal all along, but I fear people aren’t experiencing it enough while doing things like driving, showering and not reading the blog.

Also, what about lasers? Can we have any sort of lasers? Both the shooting-down tie-fighters and the freaky-stoner light show kind of lasers?

(18:45) Kevin: Lasers, yes… That’s a brilliant idea. Oh wait, no it’s not. How familiar are you with apps in general? Maybe we should start there.

(18:46) Todd: I’m asking the fucking questions here!  Fine, lasers are out then.

What about sending people photos of my balls at inappropriate times?  You know weddings, funerals, baby announcements, Wednesdays … it that more ‘app’licable?

(19:10) Kevin Downey:  No. No, it is not. Anymore app puns and we’re through.

(19:11) Todd: Fine no more app puns … I’m not sure you’re worth the money I’m paying you though.

(19:15) Kevin:  You’re not paying me anything, I volunteered.

(19:16)  Todd: Whatever.  Back to my balls. Say a sweet girl from high school updates her status to announce she’s getting married and bam a photo of my balls shows up on her update. Maybe it could have some funny catch phrase, “You’ve been balled!” Or something …

(19:45) Kevin: Right, I see where you’re going with this…. No.

(19:46) Todd: And we’re going to also have to figure in boobs somehow … I’m not sure how yet but, yeah, boobs.

What about super-annoying sounds?

(20:01) Kevin: I see my developer career crashing fyi… Also, no to your last suggestions.

(20:02) Todd: Well, OK mister “no” man. What CAN a Had a Few Beers blog app do then?  How about

(20:34) Kevin: WTF? This is what happens when you mix friends and business… Now I’m the bad guy that has to explain why all of your ideas are dumb and probably illegal?

edit: *dumb, impossible and probably illegal.

(20:35) Todd: Don’t worry about errors that’s why we have Fran involved, to edit stuff. Sometimes I leave in crap like, dog rape Hezbollah eat face and feven just to piss her off. (I wasn’t comfortable editing this, so I did the bare minimum with punctuation. I can’t really edit a conversation that actually happened, shithead! ~Fran)

(20:40) Kevin: This is all stupid, and again, probably illegal nonetheless.

(20:41) Todd: You’re just not an “idea man,” like I am.

We’d make the app usable only to those that are 18 and older obviously. We can verify that by adding a “button” that they have to click that says their over 18. No one lies about that shit.

OK, look, how about an app that “helps people” Mother Theresa? Something to

An app without boobs is no app ... Shakespeare said that.

An app without boobs is no app … Shakespeare said that.

do with beer maybe, or with boobs, definitely boobs if possible.

(20:47) Kevin: Easy champ. How about a beer finder and we forget about the death ray, auto redirects and self-portraits nobody wants

(20:48) Todd: So, no boobs? The app would be sans boobs, but would help people find beer? This is acceptable. What if when he arrived AT the beer he received some sort of boobatory prize?

(20:49) Todd: Kevin?

(21:16) Todd: Kevin?

(21:32) Todd: Kevin?

(22:07) Todd: Fuck.

Please send me a working trash can and other fears about going on a business trip

There is a public-information campaign for the U.S. Military that aims to help servicemembers returning from long deployments adjust to living with their loved ones again. The gist of it is, shit may have changed while you were gone, stop being an asshat and deal with it.

In simpler terms, “expect change.”

I’ve, in a previous life, deployed twice in service to my country (as has my wife) and I fully realize that this sort of information is both needed and useful.

Things do change when you’re away for a year or more, and that’s OK.

But — and this “but” is an all-capital-letters BUT — how the fuck does my wife expect me to predict the level of fuckallery that she inflicts upon our house every time I’ve gone on a trip that lasts more than two hours.

I travel a moderate amount for work. I used to travel all the time. There have been six-month periods that I was away on business trips more than I was home. Thankfully that’s slowed down a lot and now I’m only gone a few weeks every two or three months.

Still though, the decisions made while I’m gone for 10 days are baffling, shocking and bizarre to me. I don’t know about your marriage (or domestic union, or shack up, or polygamist cult), but generally in my household decisions that affect both participants are a committee kind of decision. An idea is put forth. If there is opposition, a counter argument is made and, generally, I do whatever the fuck she wants me to do.

I’m not talking about decisions to buy a new tablecloth or replace the towels with a new pattern, (actually our towel collection should really, really be donated to a home for the blind and mentally disturbed. It’s a mishmash of vomit, earth tones and some sort of cloth weaved by a not-very interested person in a refugee camp circa 1820) those kinds of decisions I could give a fuck about because I have a penis.

Kellogg's frosted flakes lipbalm

They’re magically delicious. Now with lip balm!(Photo credit: Valeri-DBF) 

Really, during this most recent trip, my wife replaced a lot of our dinner plates. My interest registered on the “husband gives a fuck” scale at a two. Something scientists in a famous 1978 study defined as, “Is she happy with the decision? If yes, shut the hell up.” She showed me the new plates and I asked myself the following: Will the plate hold food? Yes. Is she happy with the plate? Yes. Therefore the plate is fucking great. If it were not for her I would be eating cold Frosted Flakes out of the box, happy I had remembered to buy Frosted Flakes in the first place.

So, by change, I don’t mean the simple changes that serve to turn the feces-strewn, half-naked-poster-girl-riddled cardboard box the single me would call home, into the comfortable, charming place I now live in because of my wife’s awesomeness.

Oh no, I mean the completely irrational, logic-defying, who-in-their-right-mind-would-consider-this-an-improvement kind of change.

Changes that make no fucking sense whatsoever kind of changes.

Which are my favorite kind of changes.

You probably want examples. I would too, honestly. I mean, a guy can’t just make wild claims about his wife making these kinds of changes and not back it up with a few examples can he?

Lucky for you I have examples*.

We no longer have a trash can.

I don’t mean the little ones you and I all have in the bathroom that collects tissue and cotton swabs. Nor do I mean the ones we all keep in our bedroom collects “Oh that’s fucking GROSS, NO!” I mean missing into the abyss was the central trashcan of the house. Yours is likely in the kitchen as is ours … as WAS ours.

While I was gone the decision was made that all refuge will be place in little

plastic bags awaiting recycling

Clearly these are better than the $80 trash can with the spring loaded lid you had to have last spring. Clearly.(Photo credit: EvelynGiggles)

convenience store bags (of which we have eight million stored) and then when full (and they are always full) they will be removed from the house.

Now look, in addition to being a major contributor to the house’s trash-making capability (beer cans), I am also the authority on taking out the trash because she decreed it so eons ago. That part is fine, it’s not a household chore I mind and really it’s pretty easy. I’ve even been taught to check the liner after the bag is removed and, if dirty, to spray it with cleaning solution and wipe with a paper towel.

I mean I have this shit down.

So how was this decision made? Saying nothing about recycling. How did we go from having a respectable clean receptacle for our trashcan to using 7-Eleven type bags? That’s like deciding not to use the dishwasher when you have a working dishwasher.

Yeah. We’re no longer using the dishwasher.

I’m pretty sure my wife was abused by a dishwasher as a child. I suspect it’s a repressed memory. Nothing else describes her fear and loathing of the dishwasher doing its job. Its been an ongoing battle.

“Honey, just use the dishwasher,” I’d say.

“I like doing them by hand, it’s relaxing,” would be the reply.

Then two weeks later when it becomes more aggravating than relaxing (which in my stunning brilliance I predicted) I get, “Can you help me wash the dishes?”

Yes, honey, yes I can, by loading the dishwasher.

* I could write a book with examples and may still…

Always underestimate the power of a hummingbird

A friend recently told me a story about a biker he met in a bar once who had an electrolarynx (one of those thingamajigs you hold to your throat when your voice box is damaged by cancer, disease, etc. I had to look it up, otherwise I’d have called it a thingamajig).

He said the biker told him he used it because of a tragic hummingbird accident.

Some Dutch dude tried to smuggle hummingbirds into French Guiana in September 2011! He apparently didn't know those little peckers near his big pecker could really cause some damage.

Some Dutch dude tried to smuggle hummingbirds into French Guiana in September 2011! He apparently didn’t know those little peckers near his big pecker could really cause some damage. (Source: Daily Mail)

A group of us were standing around at the end of the night saying our goodbyes and began telling weird animal stories. I shared the time I hit a wild turkey and then a mile later had to dodge a turtle. (That poor turkey was trying his damnedest to make it across the road, saw a car coming in the other direction and ran into my back tire — while the slow-ass turtle survives? That’s one for Aesop or something.) Another person talked about hitting a deer. There was some discussion about the fact that kangaroos can’t jump backward so if they’re mid-jump and a car comes, its lights out.

And then Mark (name changed to protect the gullible) pipes in with the hummingbird story.

“I met a biker once who had a thing in his throat and he got it because he hit a hummingbird when he was on his bike,” he said with awe.

Everyone oohed and aaahed.

“Wow, that’s crazy,” my boyfriend said.

And then “Fran” happened. She’s a real cynic. An ass, if you will.

“What!,” I screeched incredulously. “That is NOT true.”

Mark froze.

“Huh? No, he told me. It destroyed his voice box,” he said, his face turning crimson. “I believe him, he was a big old biker dude.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly why you shouldn’t believe him,” I said, laughing (like an ass). “A big old biker dude who was sick of people saying, ‘Hey man, why ya got that thing?’ so he comes up with the tragic hummingbird story.”

More on the hummingbird story. I'm fascinated. I wanna smuggle hummingbirds now.

More on the hummingbird story. I’m fascinated. I wanna smuggle hummingbirds now.

Now, I don’t know if a hummingbird can actually hit a big old Harley riding biker dude in the precise spot on his throat that his larynx is irreparably damaged. I’m not a throat doctor. But I do know  that when I hear something that seems too incredible to be true, I suddenly develop Tourettes and yell, “Bullshit!”

I’ve looked people – strangers even – right in the face and said, “You’re fucking lying.” Then were stare at each other for what seems like four days until they begin to backpedal, because I sure as hell won’t.

I’ve had conversations with schizophrenics on the phone (I work for the Fourth Estate, they call all the time) who  tell me the feds have implanted a tracking device in their nostrils and I’ve replied unsympathetically, “Listen, you’re nuts, you need meds.” I had one guy sigh sadly and say, “Ya think so?”

When bullshit starts floating about, I cannot help myself from saying, “Not true! Not true! Not true!”


Which brings me to the point of this blog. The world is full of people who believe EVERYTHING.

Look at Facebook. People constantly post alerts about missing kids who aren’t missing, viruses that don’t exist, eloquent quotes attributed to celebrities who are barely literate (when did Marilyn Monroe become Confucius?) and pictures that insist if you type “1” in the comment section something real exciting will happen.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of people type “1” in the comment section and I guaran-fuckin’-tee the only thing that happens is they instantly become a douche.

What is going on? Are there no critical thinkers left in the world? Is the line between fact and fiction so blurry these days that it doesn’t matter? Is it too much to ask people to actually read something, consider it and then decide whether they believe it? Or are we now a people who just take it all at face value and move onto the next bullshit story?

I’m not. I never will be. I spend most my time on Facebook Snoping crap and posting the links so people stop perpetuating untruths. And then the next day I come online and find a snarky reply from the original poster telling me it’s not who said it, but the principal ( I say that’s bullshit too) — and I discover that another friend has posted the same crock

Stop the madness.

If more people actually listened to what they were saying, I could stop getting into staredowns with idiots. And if I stop getting in stare downs with idiots, I can stop – at least in that respect – feeling like an ass. Consider it a public service.

And, if you lost your voice box because a 2-gram hummingbird didn’t realize it preferred nectar over whiskers, then I’ll type “1” in the comment section when you provide the proof.


Happy Bday Had a Few Beers. You’re one year old. Now get to work …

Happy beerday blog, you’re one year old today.

Today this craptastic collection of bad jokes, thinly-veiled, breast-fetish material and homage to alcoholism that I call “Had a Few Beers” is 1 year old.

Actually, I’m not really sure what day I started this and am really too lazy to look it up. It was January though, I remember that much. I was drinking beers in my garage when I thought, “You know what I should do with all these awesome thoughts I have, I should write them down so that the world can see how great they are.”

I should mention I was looking at a friend’s BMW parked in my garage for

Yes, early on at we staged, and by we I mean I, epic dinosaurs verses army men battles on a friends new BMW hood.   Why mandatory drug testing was not insisted upon at my work, I'll never know.

Yes, early on at we staged, and by we I mean I, epic dinosaurs verses army men battles on a friends new BMW hood. Why mandatory drug testing was not insisted upon at my work, I’ll never know.

the winter and thinking about the merits of tea-bagging various parts of it at the time.  So there’s that, if it adds context.

But here we are 89 posts later,  and I know that exact number because the dorks at WordPress insist on telling me “OH MY GOD! YOU JUST LOADED ANOTHER UPDATE” every time I, ya know, load a fucking update. I mean the last thing I want when I push “publish” is a giant pop up screen tell me about it. I have typos to fix and links to shorten. The nerds who  run this place need to actually DO a blog here.

Anyway, 89 painfully obvious updates and a year later, here we are. Hitting 50,000 views in the very near future (all of them looking for information about sauna boners it would seem if the search terms are to be trusted) and I’m ready to do some more — damage.

A quick rundown of the year would go this way.

Sgt. 1st Class Taylor’s updates were the most popular per day view with 1,276 views in a 24-hour period.

The first post to reach 100 views in a day was this one and I didn’t even write it (bitch!).

She was also my first ‘guest blogger’ … the first of four (and here they are).

The most popular search term with 1,425 hits is (do not follow this link, it’s a porn site and I honestly don’t know how or why it’s associated with HAFBs, if anyone can explain it I will pay money)

The second is most popular search term is, drum roll, “nude sauna.”

The nude sauna seriously has by far been the most popular over time.  A lot of people in ‘Merica are looking for nude sauna blogs, or they just want porn about saunas, I don’t know.

Look people it’s really, really hot in those things.  I know people in Europe are

See no one is slipping anyone a Mr. Happy ...

See no one is slipping anyone a Mr. Happy …

naked and there are mixed genders in there but it’s really, really hot in there. I promise no one is scrogging in a real sauna.  Just blinking is tiresome in there, for the love of god.

The first ‘500’ views (in a day) was Things you don’t know about the military until you get out of the military.

We’ve had some great cleavage shots because a chick I know rocks at sending spur of the moment cleavage shots.  (*mental note, do a cleavage montage update later).

Our favorite blogger has to be Oh God, My Wife Is German and he gave us our first “shout out” when this first started. He also gave us another shout out after winning an expatriate blogger award. He also rocks, so go read his stuff. He breaks electric razors for his blog.  All I’ve ever destroyed here is my reputation — you know stupid stuff.

We have a facebook like page with over 1,000 likes (and growing) that you can reach (and like) here or over on the left if you don’t like my link.

Anyway, it’s all right here in this handy-dandy end-of-year report by the good folks at Good job, nerds. You can see Marni Sandberg out performed Mmmmmags as the top commenter.   Though neither broke the 20 comments. Way to underachieve, ladies.

An old Army friend, Fran, came out of the wordwork and offered to edit this damn thing, something that (as you know) was desperately needed, and another friend has started trying to market it because I tweet like old people______ and ______.

Those two ______ up above are intentional.  I didn’t just start a joke and then not finish it and post it like that. I mean, I would, but I didn’t this time.  I did it because I want you — the person looking for sauna-boner information — to finish that joke. Finish it and leave it in the comments. If funny enough I’ll laugh, a lot.

This leads me to the way ahead with this thing. See I’m like a ship’s captain navigating the wordy seas. Arrgh maties! Thar be a heavin’ set o’ bossoms off the port side o’ the poop deck!  (Suck on that last sentence, Fran!)

I’d like to expand this thing.  I’d like to get more people involved, more writers mainly.  A lot of you are funny, funny, funny and if you want to try your hand at writing something let us know.  Leave a comment or send an email if you’re interested.

Because, more and more, this blog is becoming more of an “us” than an “me.”

I’m also a lazy shit, I don’t want to have to do all the work.

Seriously, in what is likely the worst casting call of all time if I’m calling on you for your “lolz!”

If you can type a sentence that doesn’t make Fran want to commit suicide,( and she’s strong in that regard. I’ve really tested her on this) and if you can make a joke that’s funny and want to give it a go, reach out. I can promise you, really promise you, that if you just want to try writing without having your name associated with it, we’re your blog. If we like it we’ll push it and your name will never be released. Most of the ‘mystery’ bloggers here are easily enough figured out because they know me personally, but I’d never give out a name without permission.

Finally, and this might be years, rather than a year down the road, I realize that

Finally a boobie free blog ... not this blog though, no way.   HAFBs will always have boobies.

Finally a boobie free blog … not this blog though, no way. HAFBs will always have boobies.

some people reading this who are otherwise very funny writers might not want their name associated with because of well, boobies, beer and the frequency in which I say fuck.

But I do have an idea, a totally new idea, that might be more appropriate. Something without boobs, without beer and without my politics… stay tuned.

Finally (really finally this time) thanks to Dagmar for putting up with me and reading this crap. Thanks to Fran for coming on board and editing (still hoping she writes something – she’s very talented), thanks to mystery social-media guy who honestly puts up with way too much of my shit, thanks to the mystery guest bloggers and thanks to you, whoever you are, reading this. I get a lot of joy out of doing it, but it would be very, very pointless without you.

Thank you.

My wife finally gets a smart phone. I get unsmarter …

So after years, literally years, of pleading with my wife that she get rid of the brick she referred to as a cell phone (purchased in 2005, I kid you not) I have, at last, achieved success.

While my appeals garnered responses like, “It makes calls, that’s all I need it for,” and “Phones are stupid, people shouldn’t have them,*” I was gobsmacked when she turned to me last week and said, with a straight face, “Would you get me a smart phone?”

Just because the phone is smart, doesn't mean I am.

Just because the phone is smart, doesn’t mean I am.

Why did the technophobe become the technophile, you ask? Her daughter, is the simple answer. Her daughter asked me last weekend why her mom didn’t have a smart phone and the bells went off in my head. This, I knew, was the perfect way to get my lovely wife away from her monochrome flip phone and into something more representative of this millennium.

“You should suggest it to her,” I skillfully replied (because if nothing, I have mad skillz at … stuff). If her daughter wanted it, mommy would do it.

I was right. Her daughter asked her to do it and she did it for that reason and that reason alone.

Dagmar is now the proud owner of an iPhone 5, which is a better phone than mine. I rushed right out and got it, lest her desire to own a piece of modern technology faded and she became once again enamored with that paper weight she clung too.( I promise you it had a rotary dial on it. She would dial a nine and have to wait five minutes for the rotary wheel to reset — and most of you didn’t get that joke did you?)

I think this is a good time to point out that I haven’t used the word fuck, shit or “that really bad word” once yet.  Have you noticed?  It wasn’t intentional at all. Isn’t that a hoot?

Boobies! There I feel a bit better, not much but a bit.

Which reminds me, here I am in a hotel room without any access to images of boobs, save strangers’ on the internet, and all my lovely bride is sending me are fucking (wow I finally swore in a real sentence … I’m getting my  stride back) photos of the cat. Really honey, is it too much to ask for a little “bow chicka wow wow” at the end the evening?

So new iPhone in hand, out into the modern world she goes. I felt uncertain, at first, as if I had released a blind person from their curse. I can call blind people cursed here because blind people can’t read this. So suck on that blind people.

The first few days you watch a person with their first smart phone is like watching a toddler explore the playground. Sure they’ll eat some sand (send a text that reads “you are a butt thread,”) hurt themselves on the monkey bars, (send photos of their foot) and get pushed down by a 3-year-old but hey — that’s part of growing up!

I have noticed, in the past, when she wasn’t working, Facebook wasn’t quite the evil, retarded (it’s totally evil and retarded, honey) stop on the internet she always claimed it was.  Meaning, with a bit of leisure time and ready computer access she was quite the little commenter. She even did updates.

Even. Did. Updates.

A few of you who are friends with my her on Facebook may have noticed a slight uptick in comments from my lovely frau. You can thank the iPhone(though she still has that retarded kitten as her profile picture).

Boobalicious. I'm going to start saying boobalicious more often

Boobalicious. I’m going to start saying boobalicious more often

I will also, for the foreseeable future, not be making comments about your boobs, ladies. I’m totally kidding. I will still be totally be making comments about your boobs.

Here’s a few boob comments I’ve been “developing.”

That’s boobtastic!  You’re boobalicious! I’m boobcited about tits, I meant this.

I can’t wait for warmer weather. Can you tell?

So anyway I love boobs.  Boobs, boobs, boobs.

Oh shit, wait – this is about my wife getting an iPhone 5.

Honey, I love you. Text me baby.  Text me boobs!

* that’s an actual quote.

Buy this App and I get a free beer, if I get a free beer I’ll buy you a beer and … just check out this app

If the WordPress statistics page is any indication at all, most of you are here looking for information about sauna boners.

Who can blame you? I mean, if you get a boner in a sauna you’re going to be like totally embarrassed, unless its “that” kind of sauna, in which case, boner away.

However, if its not that kind of sauna, well you’re going to be freaked out. You could be so freaked out you might have to move. Like move-away freaked out. Which is really freaked out.

Sauna boners aside (and can you ever really put sauna boners aside – okay I’ll stop with the sauna boner references) I think a lot of the readers here are military or associated with the military and consequently move a lot. My last “professional-development counseling” with the boss (which had a lot of yelling about sauna boners, oddly) seemed to think so.


I’m pretty sure everyone needed a break from sauna boners so I stole this photo of a hot chick. (photo credit: I forget)

Anyway, as you remember I just accepted the help of a no-shit professional editor here and as you might recall she charges like $1 million internet dollars per update (the checks in the mail!)

So we have bills to pay.

Thusly, we’re going to pimp an app.

I didn’t write the app, obviously. If I had, it would randomly send you photos of my testicles during odd moments (birthdays, anniversaries, Disney visits, weddings) and I know I’d pay a lot of money for that to happen. Sadly, my computer skills are only matched by the cat when she walks across my keyboard.

Actually the cat’s are better. She could accidentally write some life-changing computer program that cures cancer.

I’m just going to keep writing this crap.

Anyway military people move a lot. And a good friend, I mean a GOOD friend, wrote an app that helps the MOVr. I’ll let him do the dirty work by explaining it.

Testimonial: I bought it and it no-fuck works. It helps you catalog your high-value items with a photo and a description and provides an “if those fuckers break this it will cost me this much to replace it” field. Really it’s pretty awesome.

But before I go I want to be clear about one thing, the author of this app is fucked up beyond belief about one thing. I don’t want to short-sell him, but really.   The best anything involving music does not include Guns_N’_Roses sir, no.  It involves everything about Jane’s Addiction’s, “Three Days.”

You’re welcome.

Make a fucking app about that.


It is simple art. There also appears to be no option to send friends a ball photo, sadly.

Now, the app

Apple just released an app of mine and **spoiler alert** it sucks. Full disclosure: I have no sales experience and haven’t thought out my pitch yet. But that’s kind of my point — to make an app, you have to be a developer for sure, but also a business person, graphics designer, marketer and salesperson all in one.

For example, one app released last week is called PCSr and makes it easy to catalog all your household stuff by pic, serial number and value.

While it applies to anyone who is moving or who wants to catalog their stuff, I geared it more toward the military. Whether I should have called it MOVr instead of PCSr to apply it to a larger audience, who knows, but that’s my best attempt at marketing it.

I was in the military and have a long trail of broken household goods scattered throughout Europe and Asia. I know something like this could benefit military members, so I went with what I know and clearly defined the app’s market.

Developing the iPhone/iPad app requires becoming familiar with Apple’s programming language Objective C. That’s kind of hard for sure, but Google “iPhone app tutorial” and you’re already on your way. It’s like learning guitar; learn a few riffs you want to play first like “Paradise City” by Guns N’ Roses (by the way, the last two minutes of that song are the best two minutes in all the world of music, starting from Axl screaming, “hooooooooommmmmmmeee.. “ and Steven pounding on the drums underneath… OK, sorry). It’s like learning guitar; learn a few riffs you want to play and then you go back and learn the basics because they start to make sense and it’s fun. After like a year or two of this, you’ll be on your way to playing the first four minutes of “Paradise City.” You’ll never be able play the last two. Don’t even try, I will be so mad.

You’re also going to need to design a logo for the app when displayed in the App Store and iTunes, you won’t be able to upload your app without this. Simple is best, don’t try to do too much. One design I’m proud of is my other app that Apple is supposed to release this week called distilr.

The last step is actually selling it. Apple mostly takes care of that, but since the App Store is so large and crowded, you’ll need all the advantages you can get. My way was setting up free Tumblr and WordPress blogs to advertise it and offer tech support.

You can totally find PCSr here:

Also it contains real human blood.

Nailed it.


542057_10151620238379202_215416928_nHey, it’s me again the guy that runs this Blog … I’m happy to say that I’ve passed this app to the Had a Few Beers smart-phone application advisory board and they’ve agreed to test it out. Two friends bought the app and literally are using it right now (while they are moving) so we’re going to have a review unless they get too busy moving or something (the selfish bastards) and don’t write back.

Hit like or nothing will happen… another rant about Facebook. Posted on Facebook

“Hit like or God smites a puppy with a hot curling iron on a farm in Wisconsin in 2.3 seconds, 2.2 seconds, 2.1 seconds, 2.0 seconds, 1.9 seconds,” or some such shit.

Yeah yeah, I’ve bitched about Facebook before, and will again, but I only do it because it’s easy it’s the patriotic thing to do.  If I don’t bitch about Facebook the terrorists win.

Also, that whole “If you don’t do X, the terrorists win,” thing is over right? How about crossing out words that show what you truly mean? Is that okay still? I heard it was over, but I can’t be sure.

I can’t keep this shit straight.

But yeah Facebook, fucking Facebook, here we are again with me bitching about Facebook.

I’m to blame, I know this. I do know that if I wasn’t such a friends whore this wouldn’t be an issue.  But I am a friends whore because currently it’s pretty much the only way this blog gets read (from my Facebook feed, I mean). So that means if you ask to be my Facebook buddy on the first date, I’ll say, “Hell to the YES!”

You’ll also catch a virus, but that’s what you get for friending a whore.


Are we even sure Jesus is on Facebook? Do they have wireless up there or what? Also what if I don’t like this? Does it count against me? What’s the official position on these sort of questions?

But fuck, really, come on. Most of you are fucking up Facebook with a passion I cannot conjure the words to describe.    I’m not even talking about those of you who change your cover photo to show a happy moment with your family or post status updates about a pregnancy.

That shit is honestly awesome and I love reading it.

I don’t mean the ones who go on about this or that current event.  Hell, I’m guilty of that myself. And I actually love reading other’s thoughts and perspectives on different issues.

The ones fucking it up are those fuckers who play games, invite me to games and share fucking retarded photos.

“Hit like if you love Jesus. Scroll past is you want to burn in eternal hell fire …” Eleventy million of you fuckers took a second to hit fucking like.

Anyone who has ever hit like on a photo telling them to like it or else should be grounded from the Internet for a day. Myself included.

Also can you go ahead and like this blog?  Here’s the link. If you don’t like it, no harm, no foul.  I should warn you though — if you read this and don’t like it, the nail on your left pinky toe will become infected in May and that’s like just in time for sandal weather so, I’m just saying, I’d like this shit if I were you.

Then there are the games, the fucking Facebook games. Who the fuck plays these things? Don’t answer that question, I don’t really want to know.

I’ve been playing computer games since 1991 when in the first “Civilization” you could wake up the settlers on the transports and order them to irrigate the ocean. Yeah that “Civ 1.”

To every reader who didn’t get that, which I think is like all of them, I’m sorry.

This is where I quit.  There isn't a machine gun or diplomatic advisor anywhere.   All I have is a purple pony and I'm pretty sure ponies are never purple.

This is where I quit. There isn’t a machine gun or diplomatic advisor anywhere. All I have is a purple pony and I’m pretty sure ponies are never purple.

Trust me though, had you played Sid Meyer’s “Civilization 1” in 1991, that joke killed.

The point is, I know computer games and I don’t get these games.

I’m going to pause right now (while I’m writing this, not while you’re reading this because how annoying would that be) and go try “FarmVille.”…………………………………………………

I tried it. I’m sure it posted 18 million messages on my Facebook feed about who knows what. Fuck, I don’t get it.

Thankfully you can block every Facebook game ever but the newest one.

But you know what pisses me off about Facebook the most?  It’s that the alternative to Facebook is Don’t even click that, it’s not a real link. But really, what is the alternative?  Google+?   Please, that shit sucks. Though to be fair, the absolutely hippest of my hip friends posts there and though I won’t name him, trust me the dude is cooler than cool and he’s there all day long.  But he’s also on Facebook, so what the fuck?

There’s some no-shit original good stuff on Facebook too though. Original funny stuff which is what I’m normally looking for.

Just to plug a few pages: WTF Army moments, the duffel blog and, because he’ll soon think I’m stalking him, Oh god my wife is German never fail to make me laugh . So add your own in the comments, I’ll read them and I’m always looking to follow something original and funny.

Anyway, enough about Facebook — at least until the next time Facebook pisses me off which will be like as soon as I’m done posting this.

Someone finally took pity on me and agreed to edit this thing: introducing Fran

Happy New Year!

Has the hangover subsided yet?

At this time last year I resolved to grow a beard because basically, as resolutions go, that was the easiest of my wife’s requests.

“All I have to do is not shave for a while? Crap this resolution is as good as done.”

The beard lasted like a month because I don’t like beards. That shit itches.

So, if anyone ever asks you, “Does that guy who writes the Had A few Beers blog like to grow a beard?” You can authoritatively answer, “No. He does not care for the feel of a beard.”

If you win any money in a bet situation with a question like that I’d like a cut, whatever you feel is right. I’m not greedy.

Anyway, HAFB is almost, but not quite, a year old. I do plan to do a first-year review but that’s a few weeks away.

So what I want to do today is introduce someone to you – my editor.

Yeah, I have an editor as of three or four posts back. I desperately needed one and am deeply, deeply thankful for her offer even though I have to pay her like $1 million Internet dollars an update.

 I’ve known Fran for like, crap, 24 years. We were both Basic Journalism students at Ft. Benjamin Harrison, Ind. The key difference between us is — she paid attention to stuff like speeling, gramer, and sentense structure, while I spent most of my time thinking about boobs.

I asked Fran what image she'd like associated with her and she said, just use that crazy bus driver lady from South Park.   Which fit perfectly in my mind.

I asked Fran what image she’d like associated with her and she said, just use that crazy bus driver lady from South Park. Which fit perfectly in my mind.

Fran started Facebook stalking me (and by Facebook stalking I mean undressing me with her comments WHORE!) about the same time I started drunkenly doing Facebook updates.  She’d swoop in and point out that “congradulations” was spelled “congratulations” and I’d read her comment, stew in a pot of “fuck her for being so right,” for five minutes and then move on.

Point is, she was correct, every time.

The bitch.

Then she graciously offered to edit and I desperately needed someone to edit.  BNecause without edit thing lke sentense this way happen way.

See, I need an editor.

Fran, no shit, writes for a living. Which I, no shit, admire. She’s snarky on a level I cannot always comprehend. She once told me I made her “see red rats” and I don’t even know what that means. She’s promised to occasionally do a HAFBs posts herself and I cannot wait. She makes me laugh on a level I cannot explain.  She also has a macaw*, because, and I quote, “I just want a bird that’s a friend.”

Don’t all of us, really?

We’re still working out the kinks, and I don’t mean kinks as in feather boas and gerbils, but rather how the hell do we do this? Do I email her a word document, load up the post in WordPress as a draft, send it to her via fax, what?

We will get there I’m sure, though.

Finally, I told Fran that I had a funny story to share about her when we were in training together. I was tanked during this discussion which helps explain why it wasn’t that funny at all, but here it goes.

We were in a student-break area when she recounted a time she was camping


Holy crap it has spots and its cute — aim for the head boys (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

with friends. She and a male friend were sitting in the camp, I’m unsure where the other friends were at the time, when a deer retardedly (this really had to be a retarded deer after all) walked into the camp and her male friend reflexively grabbed his rifle and shot it. She told me (or the group, I think it was the group) that she swooned when he did this and I experienced my first “bro-crush.” In my head I remember thinking, “Well, I’m not gay, but that dude’s awesome.”

That’s all I remember.  See not that funny at all.

There are a lot of people that I want to talk about (in a good way) on this blog, but Fran gets first crack because she rocks and she has a macaw.

 * Come to find out she does NOT have a macaw – even though she said she was getting one … filthy, filthy liar!