Monthly Archives: February 2013

One hundred bottles of blog on the wall! Our 100th beer, I mean blog update

So here we are, the 100th update at

Let’s fist bump in celebration. Go ahead and “blow it up” if you feel the desire. It’s that kind of party after all.

What our fist bump might look like if we were complete douches on The Bachelor.

What our fist bump might look like if we were complete douches on The Bachelor.

Seems kind of retarded doing another milestone update for this milestone, considering the Happy Birthday blog was just a month ago, but who cares? One hundred is a big number, and it’s a round number. Holy shit, it’s a BIG ROUND NUMBER! Actually I think “big round numbers” was the subject of a Dilbert cartoon that noted the only thing really special about 100 is that it’s big, and round — like boobs. 

But instead of looking back (again) on this craptastic crapfest of crap, I thought it might be better to thank a few people. I’d like to thank them mainly because they rock, but also because they help me suck less, a lot less, in fact.

Let’s start off with Fn Rotton which sounds kind of like Sex Pistol Johnny Rotten, only less cool. Fn Rotton, aka Fran, is my editor and she basically does everything she can to make me look like less of an idiot.

She's also threatened to stab me in the hand, through the computer, over hyphen useage.

She’s also threatened to stab me in the hand, through the computer, over hyphen-useage issues.

Clearly she’s only moderately successful, but look what she had to start with. Between yelling at me about my multiple spaces after periods; my retarded use of the single quotation marks (which this post was riddled with, you ass. ~ Editor); and words I think I made up, but are actually already words (or when I actually do make up a word, but I somehow still manage to misspell it), I’m not sure why she volunteered to edit this thing. She must be driven by some sort of sadomasochistic psychological abnormality. I would submit she could experience the same level of pain if she actually did pluck her eyes out, something she repeatedly threatens when I aggravate her. The closest I ever came to understanding why she edits this is when she told me, “because it’s ridiculous.” After that explanation, I learned some questions don’t need answers.

The original ad said "Fat Bastards" but the Society for the Protection of Fat Bastards was offended. Sensitive fat bastards.

The original ad said “Fat Bastards” but the Society for the Protection of Fat Bastards was offended, the sensitive fat bastards that they are.

Then, there’s Jesse. And let me be very frank — I don’t exactly know what the fuck Jesse does here. I only know that since he’s been doing it a lot of chicks on Twitter want to have sex with me. I also know I’m fat. I know I’m fat because at the Had A Few Beers Facebook page ads selling dieting information keep popping up. Fuck you Jesse, I’m not fat, I’m drunk.

Actually, Jesse works tirelessly to build an audience for this collection of dick jokes, boob references and who-knows-what. He does this, he explained to me, by stealing.

So, as with Fran, sometimes it’s best not to ask. Just trust, there’s nothing wrong with trust.

With any luck, by this time next year I’ll be able to thank Kevin. I’ll thank him by flying him on my private jet made of gold to a secluded island inhabited solely by beautiful, big tittied naked women. In the weeks, or maybe months to come, is going to move off of the WordPress servers and onto a self-hosted server, thanks to Kevin. I’m doing that because I want to run advertisements here and make a boobillion dollars. If that’s not feasible (and oddly enough, some folks think it’s not), I’d at least like this endeavor pay for itself..

That seems like a reasonable goal, and we all need goals beyond the usual, “I will now drink that beer in 8.75 seconds while in the downward facing dog position.” (That’s why my beer love has sustained all these years. Me and beer like to mix it up)

I promise the ads will not be a distraction, and will only infect your computer with photos of my testicles, because unlike Fran, Jesse and Kevin, I care about you, the readers.

My all-time favorite GG Cleavage shot.

My all-time favorite GG Cleavage shot.

And last, but certainly not least, I have to champion GG. Ain’t no fucking way I can forget GG. She sends me on-demand cleavage shots for use here. Like Fran she yells at me a lot. GG even had her own stalker her who was angry I referred to her boobs as boobs and not breasts (link, read the comments). For me, having an on-demand cleavage model already makes this blog a success. How many blog do you know that have one? That’s right, none! BOOYA! This shit is so tight it has an on-demand cleavage model! Thanks GG, and thanks the twins for me too, will you?

I wasn't kidding anyone was I? THIS is my favorite GG cleavage shot.

I wasn’t kidding anyone was I? THIS is my favorite GG cleavage shot.

There have been six different guest bloggers (not counting Fran – who runs the place) and I’d be a total asshat if I didn’t thank them all. Without exception, each of their pieces made me laugh, and now 100 posts later I’m envisioning what a tickle fight between the three female writers would look like. I’m envisioning it happening in bras and panties. Maybe just panties. Are you envisioning that too? Good.

Anyway here’s a list of each of their contributions and an exciting poll!  Vote for your favorite and vote for that favorite often!

Hot Blonde chick hates Valentine’s Day

Dude tries spicy lemonade diet, fails miserably

G-Gank Ganks the Gank

Shaezychick‘s not fond of boy in orange banana hammocks 

Hot Brunette chick’s pissed off at valentine’s day!

Guys and Gals can be friends!

Finally to all 60k+ of you that have read this thing so far, thanks. Seriously, it’s a lot of fun but if no one was looking, you can bet I wouldn’t bother.


F’ you skiers, F’ you snowboarders and mostly F’ you February …

Too much snow to continue

Too much snow to continue. Earth to retards, any snow is too much snow to continue. Too much snow … (Photo credit: will_cyclist)

If February was a person and I had the chance to kill him I’d do it. I wouldn’t draw it out either. It would be a quick and painful death. Mostly quick though — not because I give a shit about February, but because I hate this month so much I just want it dead.

February is a bullshit month and we should all just stop recognizing it. You fuckers with your skies and your snowboards are all insane. When I’m king you will all be exiled to the tops of mountains where you can bother us sun lovers no more. I’ll build one of those ski lift things, but it will only go up. I’ll make sure you have adequate sustenance, but you’re verboten from ever coming down because cold stuff sucks. And therefore, you do too.

Really, you people who get excited about frozen water falling from the sky so you can strap planks to your feet and barrel at breakneck speed down mountains are beyond my (admittedly dysfunctional) comprehension. You’re all freaks.

There. I feel better.

See, it’s the end of February and I am ready to put another fucked-up winter behind me. February is the worst month too because it’s so close to spring, yet so willing to fuck you over with freak snowstorms and cold temperatures.

Two more days February and you can kiss my ass goodbye for another year.

As a way to break up the cold winter, my wife and I begin planning a warm vacation for May or June. Huddled in the living room cursing the vile snowfall outside, we ponder the pros and cons of vacation spots like Italy, Spain, Greece, the Canaries, or Croatia.

First-world problems, I know. Fuck you.

But it gives the mind something to relax upon as the snow accumulates on the car and I endure another chilly morning commute.

 Like this, only with fewer tree stumps.  (Photo credit: got sound)

“Cheer up dude, in just three short months you’ll be roasting your buns on a beach somewhere on Malta,” I tell myself.

Vacation planning gives me a glimmer of hope on this shitty frozen tundra (I considered saying TURDdra here, but thought it too high-brow) overrun with psychopaths spouting about fresh-powder and black runs. Again, you are all sick, sick individuals.

But, no vacation planning this year. Nope.  Even though we’ve had the vacation time scheduled for months, “Anal Alice, ” aka my wife, can’t decide on where she wants to go.

Is Portugal nice? How about Spain? We loved the Canaries, why not go back there?

“Shit-or-get-off-the-pot” doesn’t even begin to describe my thoughts. I even offered up Hvar, Croatia because, A: None of you have ever heard of it and B: You can totally rent a boat for the day there and that’s level cool 0ne million.

Indulge me for a moment as I take you through our trip to Hvar — We check into our small hotel room, I talk to the clerk to determine how to rent the boat, and then I rent the fucker. The following day, after a good night’s sleep, a European breakfast and a quick shopping trip for beer, we’re launching our little boat into the Adriatic Sea. Drifting about in the ADRIATIC SEA (Take that classmates at Desert Sands Junior High in Phoenix, Ariz., where the evil Tanya tortured me daily) we’ll discover a secluded  beach where we will frolic naked as the sun bakes our glistening (albeit middle-aged) bodies and we pound beer, after beer, after glorious life-affirming beer.

All I want is the firm knowledge that, “Yes, we are going someplace where its warm, there’s a body of water and, again, it’s warm.”

We’ve been in Deutschland more than 10 years.  I no longer care to visit “Castle Crappenstein” (Would you believe Todd misspelled Crappenstein – “Crapenstien”? Well, he did ~ Editor) built by Baron Krause Von Balllicker. Seen it, took the crappy tour filled with Japanese tourist. It was all cold and drafty.

This always beats snow.  It just does.  You know it, I know it, they know it.

This always beats snow. It just does. You know it, I know it, they know it. (Source: Wiki)

How about a visit, Todd, to the giant cathedral built entirely out of foreskins by Monsignor Luigi “Come Here Little Boy” Russo in 15-who-gives-a-fuck-0-6? Couldn’t give two shits about it in the winter, and when a beach is nearby and the temperature is over 90 degrees outside, well then, I couldn’t be bothered to give even one shit. Been there, done that. Where’s the beach?

Seriously, there’s lots of “behind the scenes” research that goes into these trips. Plotting the route to the nearest beach is only the tip of the iceberg … wait fuck icebergs … tip of the sand dune.

Where’s the nearest bar? What times does it open? What’s the national beer? Does it suck? How long will I likely have to wait each morning for my first cup of coffee/beer? Where’s the nearest nude beach? Does it have a bar/store, (I’ll let you write your own, “Where do you keep your wallet at a nude beach” joke here. Go ahead, I’ll wait…. Did you write one? Was it funny? I hope you enjoyed it.) and how close to the hotel is that beach?

But even without the specifics of where the hell we’re going, I at least know it’s going to be warm, warm and wonderfully warm. Hot even. Unlike this godforsaken month where the sun rises whenever the fuck it want and sets in time for an afternoon nap.

And yes, that’s it. This is the shittiest ending since Mister Shitty ended his shit with some shit. Yeah, I did that shit. You might be asking yourself, “Did he just start talking about why he hates winter, segue in some bizarre rant about how his wife can’t pick out a vacation spot and then very lazily go back to hating winter in what might be the worst tie-back ever?” Yeah I did, “Fuck you very much.”

Also, when the fuck is it going to get warmer, goddamnit?

Guest Blogger Bron: Guys and Girls CAN(‘T) just be Friends!

“You know guys and girls can’t be friends, right?” I said to her, my eyes narrow slits of condescension. This happened last week on a Seattle ferry boat ride.

Red flag and I have a bikini!

Red flag and I have a bikini which I think is code for I’m bat-shit nuts.

“I have a lot of male friends.” she said with an eyebrow arched. “I don’t play well with women. I’ve gotten really good at the platonic thing now. Really, I have.”

In my mind, a flag pole started to grow up and out of her perfectly coiffed hair and a red flag started to sprout toward the sky.  It waved at me loud and proud.

My wife’s friend Candy must have noticed my flummoxed expression because she was looking at me the same way a cat looks at a baked potato – curiosity mixed with irritation. My God, had she never seen the classic film When Harry Met Sally?  She’s in her mid-to-late 20s for Christ’s sake.  That was when I asked myself why have women still not come to a consensus on this issue?

It’s obvious. Did I have to explain it to her?

At this point, you might ask yourself – why then – is the title of this entry:  Guys and Girls CAN be Just Friends? Let me tell you why.

Part of it has to do with search engines (as in porn, lots of internet porn) and also the whole “guys and girls CAN’T be friends” issue has been done to death in blogs, movies, literature, and YouTube.  So, let me get to the gravy on how this works.

It’s situation based — as all relationships are.

Here are the three situations in which a guy and a girl can be just friends:

Friendzone or gayzone?  Whichever.

Friendzone or gayzone? Whichever.

Situation #1
When either the guy or girl is 100 percent gay. Not 50 percent. Not 99 percent. They have to be 100 percent gay. Fag hags have proven this theory to be true since the dawn of disco. They often form quite close friendships with gay men which can last for decades. There are also lesbians who have true platonic friendships with heterosexual men known as dyke tykes or Dutch boys or dyke Mikes or lesbimen (depending on where you live). I must note, however, that a real hetero man will still be waiting for a moment of weakness, so “watch your six,” girls.

Situation #2
If you’re coworkers.  It’s still debatable whether or not work friends are real friends to begin with, but I’ll save that topic for another day. The one caveat to this situation is that you must work closely with him/her daily within the same department. If you work in a large corporation and you meet a girl in marketing that you will never have to interact with, it’s game on. Try to avoid the friendzone as per usual.

Situation #3
When you are a married couple and you hang out with other married couples. If you double date, then you are friends with the guy and the girl. As long as everyone involved is committed to their relationship you should have no problems. Swinging couples play by their own rules and they are not part of this situation. Friends don’t let friends blow their husbands, but friends with benefits do.

Back on the ferry, I asked Candy more about her “friends.” She eventually admitted they were a herd of men she could talk to at the drop of a hat. Many of them she had slept with in the past. She said they were satisfied now with just “hanging out” as friends. We all know that last part just isn’t true, don’t we? The Friendzone is better than the NOzone in their case, I’m guessing.

“What I’m saying is – and this is not a come-on in any way, shape or form –  is that men and women can’t be friends because the sex part always gets in the way.” – Harry Burns, When Harry Met Sally, 1989


Beers note:  That video is HYSTERICAL.  Watch it.  Talk about telling …

Scientology isn’t really that retarded when compared to every other religion ever

NOTE:  If your collective knowledge of Scientology is non-existent you might want to skip this article or read this  Scientology wiki for a quick summary of the belief system.  If you don’t brush up on the basics, much (perhaps all) of the following will make very little sense.

I confess that I bought Lawrence Write’s “Going Clear,” a look at Scientology, because I wanted to “LOL” at science fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard’s thetans,  OT levels and spaceships that look like DC-8s.

L. Ron Hubbard in Los Angeles, California.

“Look, this e-meter shit will make tons of money,”  L. Ron Hubbard never said. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yeah, yeah Scientologists believe some wacky shit — much wackier than the bit of snark in the opening paragraph — but it’s hard to get all frothy about a HOLY-BATSHIT-FUCKING-CRAZY bunch of ideas when basically nothing they believe is any wackier than what’s in the Bible. Scientology’s thetans by another name might be the soul… and who fucking cares ’cause it’s all bullshit — is what I ended up typing instead of a long list comparing biblical stories of miracles to Scientology’s description of fuckallery.

Bottom line: They’re both bullshit. Maybe Scientology is bullshittier because of devotee Tom Cruise’s antics, or groupie Kirstie Alley’s ginormous ass. But basically which story is more bullshit – that some dude turned water into wine or the thetans were dumped into volcanoes by Xenu’ – is the question.

They’re both bullshit, is the answer.

OK, the Xenu one is “funnier” than the walks-on-water party trick, but on a base level, both belief systems, in my mind at least, are based on a whole bunch of nothing.So, I fail at buying books to laugh and blog about, sort of.

While their belief system ultimately ends up no more retarded than any other belief system, I can totally laugh about the how the church functions right? The heavy handedness, their cult-like behavior, the extortion of its members, … Oh for fuck’s sake, that shit’s all the same too.

When you break it down, most modern religions have done much, much worse than Scientology has ever done. I’m not saying that given free rein Scientologists wouldn’t do exactly the same sort of evil stuff that other “reputable” religions have done in the name of salvation. What I’m saying is, they haven’t yet had the chance.

Then I read about the money Scientology takes in and holy-holy of holy (I like saying holy, especially in this blog) they take in some serious cash.  In fact, they absolutely rip off their flock (just like every other religion does when it comes to money) and are worth an estimated $30 uberillion dollars.

You could argue they are even being persecuted, just like most religions were at their start. Need I remind you of Jesus’ gruesome fate? I say persecute away. Toss John Travolta into a ring with hungry lions. We could do it during next year’s Super Bowl half-time show. Sure there’s a zero-percent chance of a Janet Jackson boob flash, but still … John Travolta vs. hungry lions. Come on.

Think about it.

One portion of the book, or rather the religion (cult?), that did make me laugh out loud like crazy was the Sea Org. If you’re not familiar with Scientology, thank you, but let me explain what Sea Org is.

Todd always thinks he makes up words, so I did an image search for douchebaggery. If anyone made that word up, it's these guys. ~

Todd always thinks he makes up words, so I did an image search for ‘douchebaggery.’ If anyone made that word up, these guys did. ~ Editor

It is in one word, “douchbaggery,” which is a word I just fucking made up because our language doesn’t have a word for the level of idiocy and childlike naivety that these induhviduals display. It’s the military for believers who wanna be extra, extra cool in Scientology but lack Greta Van Susteren’s deep pockets or Tom Cruise’s deep pockets coupled with a batshit-crazy ability to believe his own bullshit. So, yeah, Sea Org is just like the military, if you joined a military run by retards.

From the book I learned many, many fascinating things about Sea Org. By fascinating I mean, of course, fucking retarded, and by fucking retarded I mean, I want to join Sea Org, raise through the ranks, fix all the bullshit and then reveal afterward that I care fuck all for any of it and bail, retarded.

Sea Org, still retarded to the OT level retarded.

Sea Org, still retarded to the OT level retarded.(Source Wiki)

You know, though, what most (hell, I’ll go out of a limb here, ALL) modern militaries no longer do? They no longer make you do bullshit like scrub cans with toothbrushes, lick floors clean, sign a billion-year contract or other bullshit because – and here’s the brilliant bit – things like that are clearly counterproductive.

In the book, some of the Sea Org members stated they joined to, “make a difference,” or that they wanted to be, “one of the best.” I, of course, read those statements and laughed all the way to this blog update and rated them “OT level who the fuck cares.” Hmmmmm, if only there were legitimate organizations dedicated to, I don’t know, being the best of the best and making a difference out there.

Anyway, if any of their heavy-handed tactics are to be believed, I’m about to be followed by private investigators, photos (I hope off my balls) will be disseminated, and/or I’ll be sued.

Thus, if after this update you don’t hear from me assume I’m either A) being probed by Tom Cruise in Uranus as a means of “Going Clear”, or B ) I’m drinking beers in the basement and reading about the Mormons.

Diamonds Are Not Forever … A Tale of Valentine’s Day WHOA!

This cute little story has “parts,” and by parts I mean a beginning, middle and an end. Just like a real story. Rest assured, when the end happens it will indeed be exciting and full of hilarity or pain, likely pain.


Twenty-years-and-some-months ago I married my wife because masturbation had begun to lose its charm and I was tired of eating nothing but bologna sandwiches. I  knew our marriage was off to a good start when both she and I  considered wedding bands an unnecessary expense. We agreed to not start our marriage off with a few thousand dollars in credit-card debt and said, “Fuck you, meaningless gesture!”

That’s how I saw it, at least. The wedding ring means literally nothing. Nada. Zilch. It’s a symbol, sure, but let’s be honest, when you boil it down, most symbolic things are pointless. To a newly married couple the wedding bands, in my mind, are pointless.

Thus, in the last two decades we never wore rings EVER because we never got them.

Does anyone see where this is going?

At the urging of my bride’s friend and daughter, I bought Dagmar a diamond-wedding ring for Valentine’s Day.

Shopping for diamonds:

diamonds: its to die for...

Stop taking photos and dig up more diamonds for chicks to wear on their fingers. Diamonds, are, it seems, to die for. (Photo credit: Todd Austin (ReTodd))

As mentioned in the “prologue,” (wow, this is just like “Lord of the Rings,” isn’t it?!) it was her friend who finally talked me into spending my hard-earned money on the exploitation of a fourth-grader somewhere in Africa. I asked her if it was appropriate to inquire of the (blood?) diamond vendor person how many people were wronged in the process of unearthing the worthless chunk of carbon. She was not amused. I suggested that instead of carats, diamonds should be valued in lives – like, a five-life rock would be the equivalent of 2-carats. A 500-life rock, the Hope Diamond. She was still not amused.

I was even less amused when I Googled diamonds to discover their actual, no-shit value is estimated to be, “who the fuck knows,” because DeBeers ruthlessly controls the market or something. (If you Google this you’re forced to deal with words like “fungible,” so I recommend against it.) I also learned its common practice to swap real diamonds with synthetic diamonds and no one ever knows. In my opinion, when you place value on something that’s bullshit it becomes much less important if it’s the natural bullshit or manufactured bullshit.  So again, I think diamonds should be valued by their human cost. Did three orphans die in a pit mine in Africa for the diamond?   That’s actual value.

This argument with the friend led to the following response. “Shut up, they’re pretty okay?”  It’s hard to top that really, so let’s go buy a diamond.

To justify my spending oodles of cash on a worthless (real or fake) bit of carbon, I recalled reading somewhere that the price of goods and services are reflected in what the market is willing to pay for said goods and services. In this case, my willingness to pay is dependent upon how willing I am to make this problem go away?  The “problem,” in this case, is diamond shopping. That shit is BORING.

I’m a guy, so to me bigger is better, just like my penis. I thought we’d go into the store, find the biggest diamond my wallet would allow and BAM, I’m done and guzzling beer 20 minutes later. Not so. Dagmar’s friend explained to me that a  simple band with a sizable rock looked like a “starter” ring. Something a new bride would have, I was told. I was baffled, honestly baffled.

Turns out the ring the girl gets on her wedding day likely isn’t the ring she’s wearing 20 years later. See, they’re like Pokémon cards and the ladies are trading that shit up every day. Should my wife take it in, she gets the full cost of the ring deducted from her new purchase. I asked if the reverse was true: Could she trade down and walk out with some cash? Seems this question has never been raised and I was met with blank stares.

Buying the Diamond:

This part is very short. I cried, a lot. I cried when I swiped my credit card. I cried when I signed the receipt. I cried on the way out of the store. My wife’s friend cried too, but it was from laughing ’cause she’s evil.

I planned on presenting the ring on Valentine’s Day after work because my wife leaves the house at 6:30 a.m. and I’m far too lazy to get my ass out of bed at that ungodly hour. But foiling my plan, at about 2 p.m. my internet-detective wife phones me about a large charge on the credit card. Tap dancing ensued.

Physical violence was threatened, but eventually I talked her into unloading the gun.

“Honey just trust me,” I told her. All would be okay.

Presenting the diamond:

When my wife finally pulled into the driveway that night I admit I was actually fucking nervous. The five-beer bracer I drank was helping, sure, but still I was about to violate a central tenant of our relationship. For 20 years we’ve had no use for wedding rings, and while I thought she was cool with that, deep down inside of me there was always that nagging doubt. Did she secretly want one? Were her daughter and friend correct? Fuck, this is important. If she really wants one, I need to give her the ring in an important way. Crap, I need a beer!

She came inside the house and I did the traditional rose presentation because nothing says I love you like a gift that will be dead in a week.

Then I handed her a card and a gift bag.  She read the card, removed the tissue paper from the bag, extracted the little ring box and — told me I was fucking retarded. I laughed my dick off.

I honestly don’t remember the exact conversation, but it boils down to me demanding reassurances that she doesn’t value child exploitation or meaningless symbolism, and her reassuring me that, yes, even 20-years later, she still does not approve of child exploitation or find meaning in meaningless symbols. She didn’t want or need the ring.


Assorted cubic zirconias glittering in the sun

Please don’t buy real diamonds. Fake diamonds don’t hurt children and hurting children is what real diamonds are all about! (Photo credit: DanR)

Holy fuck! Returning diamonds is a pain in the ass. I concocted some half-assed funny story I could tell the clerk about proposing to the love of my life last night and being rejected. I plotted to make it more believable by asking where the razor blades were kept and if they had a do-it-yourself last will and testament kit handy. But it was the same lady who sold me the diamond.

“She didn’t want it did she,” she asked.

“Nope, we got a good laugh out of it though,” I replied.

“I had a feeling you were right all along,” she said.

Guest Blogger Thor: Still single this Valentine’s Day? This article is for you!

I’m a woman of a certain age. I’m single. I have no children. I contemplated naming my dog Malbec (“Gin and Tonic” was just a cry for help, besides being a mouthful). I have a weekly date with Downton Abbey.

In short, I’m a demographic stereotype.

1valentines_day_sucks1With that in mind, and Valentine’s Day and a blank sheet of “paper” before of me, you’d be safe in assuming that I’ll  rail against the coming holiday. And of course, if I were to rant, it’d be because V-Day is commercialized, heteronormative, patriarchal, and sappy. My rant would have nothing to do with that fact that on Feb. 14 I’ll be eating a Lean Cuisine of a TV tray while I catch up on celebrity couplings.

Nothing at all.

I love Valentine’s Day. In fact, it inspires me to look back at my (mostly online) dating history in the last few years, which I’ve conveniently distilled into some broad categories.

Uterus Shoppers: I like to know that a man values me. And if it’s because of an organ I have, all the better. I get sick of men asking about my beliefs, and my background, and what I do with my time off. Blah blah blah. Uterus Shoppers cut to the chase. Their emails are succinct. It may be, “I want a woman with a healthy body. Are you ready to start a family?” Or, a little more conversational, “I love children, and I want more. How are you?” I find this charming. I’m in no way creeped out by somebody I don’t know suggesting we are intimate, then participate in one of life’s most profound experiences which later results in a person!

– Bait ‘n Switchers: These fellas, they keep me on my toes! They’re very spontaneous. One minute they’re looking for a serious relationship, and the next, they don’t have room for anything serious in their life. My favorite part, though, is they’re always open to hanging out casually with no expectations. One might expect this devil-may-care attitude from men in their 20s, but when it comes from men in their 40s, it’s downright adorable.

-The Jokesters: I love these guys. From the men who make “sexually knowledgeable” a requirement on eHarmony, to quirky and lovable introduction emails – “Hi there! Here is a good topic, that seems able to get just about everybody to fly off their hinge and take a giant leap away from their good senses: Abortion. Not only is it a fun word to say like ‘guacamole’ or ‘incandescent’, but it’s a topic everybody loves to weigh in on. So, what say you?” – to the man wearing as his main profile picture a T-shirt that reads, “I am the man from Nantucket,” to the guy who picked me up for our first date wearing a Fender T-shirt that read, “Chicks Dig My Lick.” The absolute, hands-down  winner in The Jokester category goes to the guy below, with his witty profile headline. At the end of his profile he challenges women to get in touch with him to find out the punch line. As I’ve hung out with some sick, ribald and juvenile folk in my time, I knew the punch line- it’s about incest.


Other categories include The Sex Kittens: Yes, men, please post and/or send photos of you lounging about seductively!; the Hannibal Lecters: Any hint you might kill me really gets my blood racing; the Partners In Crime: All guys want this, apparently; and the Anti-Marketers: “I want somebody to sit around and watch TV with.” Of course, the categories are not exhaustive but I keep on keepin’ on because why settle down when I get all this?

Did you enjoy this?  You might also enjoy last years Valentine’s Day rant by another guest blogger: Why Valentine’s Day Sucks. Written by a person who hates Valentine’s Day.

Guest Blog: Orange Banana Hammocks Are Not Sexy!

I don’t understand why Hooters restaurants, as a concept, work.

OK, I can’t even write that with a straight face – of course I do! And that is because men are visual and like to peek at a little T&A. They feel like they are getting away with something a little naughty in their relationship (if they have managed to find a girl to be in one).

Men have an insane ability to see past the shimmering “nude” nylon-encased legs with scrunchy socks. They manage to ignore the ’80s-style bright-white sneakers and the ’70s-style orange shorts. They can look past all of these things because ALL they are looking at are the servers’ tits.Nothing else matters. Food? What food?

I'd like to order a half dozen tits. Oh, wait, I mean, chicken wings.Photo credit:

I’d like to order a half dozen tits. Oh, wait, I mean, chicken wings.
Photo credit:

I love the excuse that men often use to justify the trip to Hooters.

“But, they have such great wings.”

Um …. nobody is buying it. NOBODY. Just like no one believes dudes read Playboy Magazine for the articles. Pfft … for the articles my ass.

It would be refreshing, for once, to hear a man just OWN it and truthfully announce, “Shit, the only reason I go to Hooters is because the chicks are serving me HUGE cans … and I don’t mean cans of beer!”

What would happen if we flipped it and there was a place called Schlongs? The servers would be comprised of ripped men with eight packs, zero body fat, and ginormous penises packaged in tight orange briefs or boxer briefs? But, why is it we don’t see Schlongs restaurants popping up in strip malls across America? Oh wait — because that is just gross. No woman wants to see a giant penis coming at her, followed by a tray of food.  Not many women are going to wolf down a plate of fries and chicken wings in front of a man who looks like he just jumped off the cover of a romance novel.

Exhibit A - Even Sean Connery can't pull this off!

Exhibit A – Even Sean Connery can’t pull this off!

“Hey, Schlongs guy, thanks for delivering my food.  I am now going to ingest a month’s worth of calories. I hope you are a chubby chaser, because that is where I am headed (if I am not already there).”

You know what women want more than a hot guy serving her food? Women want a nice guy cooking her dinner at home and cleaning up the dishes afterward. Or she wants him to vacuum the carpets (for you male readers … that is NOT a euphemism). How about a man painting her house or cleaning the toilets or ANYTHING other than being in a strip-mall chain restaurant wearing a tight, orange, banana hammock and serving her food?

Besides, we are NOT stupid. Any man with all the above-listed physical attributes working at a place called Schlongs is probably gay.  And this is the reason why Hooters works and Schlongs is just awkward and gross. One is grounded in fantasyland and the other is based in reality — fundamental difference between men and women.

Trash Can Wars Part 2 … Crossing the Rubicon

I can’t do this anymore.

Rebellion, open and honest rebellion, is my only option. The oppressed must rebel.

I have no guns, mind you. No weapons, save a bayonet I bought for like $5 in Iraq years ago. But desperate times, my friends, call for desperate measures.

I speak, of course, of my wife’s retarded – I mean insane, I mean full-blown weird – decision to remove the trash can from the house.

Moar Boobs!

I honestly just blogged, twice about a fucking trash can. Everyone deserves some boobs.

I talked about it here. But if you don’t want to read that, let me sum it up quickly.

My wife decided, for reasons that escape any known or sane definition of logic, to do away with the trash can. The MAIN trash can, mind you (the one in the kitchen), has been removed from the house entirely. In the trash can’s place we are currently using – and I couldn’t make this up if I tried – convenience store plastic bags hanging from the door knob.

Don’t try and work through the “why” of this command decision. There isn’t any way to rationalize it. It is devoid of reason and without logic. There is no, it-helps-with-recycling aspect to it. In fact, I’m pretty sure it does the exact opposite since all trash goes into the same plastic bag.

Ease can’t be the reason for the change. The small bags fill up every time someone farts. The only purpose, I can surmise, is to annoy the living hell out of me. Something an actual trashcan never did.

A beer ad from Brazil! I was trying to find a trash can full of beer cans and instead found this. You are very welcome.

A beer ad from Brazil! I was trying to find a trash can full of beer cans and instead found this. You are very welcome. ~Fran

Trust me on this one – TOTAL pain in the ass.

Besides filling up at a rate of every second, my wife insists the handles of each plastic bag be tied before being removed from the house. Because obviously, an untied plastic convenience store bag holding coffee grounds, empty beer cans and egg shells is tacky as hell, or an affront to god.

Or something.

Anyway, rebellion, or something akin to rebellion, is brewing. Soon I’ll be meeting with like-minded individuals (the cat) to discuss in hushed tones the revolution.

We’re on the cusp of blood being spilled. Well, not blood exactly, but at the very least beer and that’s c0mpletely fucked up.

The following exchange just took place.

“Damn, Todd! If you would just take the trash out when it’s full, I wouldn’t get mad,” she said.

“You know what would make this a lot simpler, using a trash can,” I explained. “It’s an ancient invention that has proven its worth throughout the ages. Having little bags the size of a fucking coin purse to deposit our waste into is both stupid and stupid. It’s stupid twice. It makes literally no sense. Logic cannot be applied to the decision, that YOU made. It’s impossible to logically justify this decision from any firm standing.”

The Angry Eye

Your logic has logic in it. This makes me mad. (Photo credit: jcgoforth)

At this point she became pissed.

“I’m doing it because of beer cans!”

That was her answer. I can’t explain it. You can’t explain it either.

Her logic is that there would be  too many beer cans in the trash can if we used the actual trash can. There are too many, thus the trash can is no longer going to be used. I also might add that we have a newly purchased, fully functional trash can, that she banished to the basement some weeks ago.

Now… I’ll be fair, I’ll be honest, I’ll bare my soul here. This blog is called Had A Few BEERS for Christ’s sake, so yes, the receptacles that deliver beer’s sweet, succulent love into my belly are eventually in need of disposal. My love, nay, devotion to beer produces (gasp) empty beer cans.

In our last house it was verboten to even place a beer can in the kitchen trash (I used the one in the garage to dispose of my empties). So her argument holds no water, or trash, as the case may  be.

So I think I’m going to take a G-gank approach to this problem and

just put the fucking trash can back in place. When confronted I will tell her it’s there because it’s stupid to not have it there. I’ll also use phrases like, “Because I said so.” “Trashcans are not evil.” “Who has the penis in this house?”  And, “Please honey, can’t we have a working trashcan, please?”

I’d type a lot more of this, but I obviously have a tiny bag of trash to take out.

I have restored the trash cans to their rightful place in the Oliver Republic.  Much like Caesar I fully expect to be stabbed.   Oh well, the die is cast.

I have restored the trash cans to their rightful place in the Oliver Republic. Much like Caesar, I fully expect to be stabbed. Oh well, the die is cast.

Finally, to anyone reading this and thinking, but what about Germany’s recycling laws, I’d like to reply, yes.

A fast note to Had A Few Beers readers: Fran, the awesome person who edits this, recently had surgery for chick stuff or a rotten gallbladder, or circumcision, I wasn’t really listening. Seriously though, I hope everyone reading this takes a moment to wish her a speedy recovery. (Fran you’re awesome and I hope you feel better, sans gallbladder).