Monthly Archives: April 2013

Blog roll with snark and snark and a bit of extra snark on top. Read these blogs damn it.

I’m still not entirely sure what a blog roll is. It sounds like something you would force an enemy to eat. But in reality, its pretty much the exact opposite. A blog roll is where a blogger promotes other’s blogs.

There’s lot of ways to do it, I’ve been “rolled” a few times and it’s pretty awesome, unlike how it was in the 1920s when it meant you were literally rolled, on the ground, as punishment. Today getting rolled is so awesome I’m going to do the same thing but I’m going to point out the things that annoy me about my favorite blogs because I feel like it.

My complaints are more like pet peeeves, (all these blogs are really good) that note pointless little things that don’t matter to anyone except me.

You see, besides confessing my poop misadventures (and a lot of you wrote me privately that you loved that story … sick fuckers), surfing the latest advancements in boob photography and well, drinking beer, I like to read me some blogs.

Everyone knows I have an online-erection for Oh God My Wife is German. I’m totally out of the closet on this fact. I’d literally go gay for this writer because he’s just that funny. But neither of us are gay and he has a wife who, it turns out, is German.

What is it about Oh God My Wife is German that pisses me off? Moderated comments.

This is what will happen if you try to make unmoderated comments ...

This is what will happen if you try to make unmoderated comments …

Excuse me, Mr. I Hate Free Speech. Is it too much to ask that a reader comment without the heavy hand of censorship. How am I going to drunkenly and anonymously litter your comments with boob jokes, Nigerian scams and offers to sell your readers discounted Viagra, if you keep fucking moderating speech there like the speech-moderating MONSTER that you are?

And how the fuck do you get ads on your blog, dick? You sold your soul to the devil, didn’t you?

What I do like, is he has a “like” button. This allows others to effortlessly (and sort of pointlessly) indicate they like his latest update. Be sure to like this update too.

Unlike GiGi Eats Celebrities ,who has NO “like” button.

Actually, I don’t even know how I came to know about GiGi Eats Celebrities. I like to think I posted an update with the word “boobalicious” in it, and like an ancient incantation spoken by a wizard, she appeared. That’s not likely what happened, but it really doesn’t matter, because once I was on her blog, I crushed hard.  Damn it, look at her.

I don’t even know what the fuck GiGi Eats Celebrities is about to be honest. There were dancing giant leeks with faces drawn on them during one of the video blogs I watched, for fuck’s sake. All I know is that she’s fucking hot. She’s boobalicious in a way that boobalicious can’t even describe.

Sady, Gigi doesn’t literally eat celebrities because when I suggested she snack on Halle Berry, she didn’t even reply to my email. I will follow up with an Angelia Jolie suggestion, I’m not picky with that sort of stuff.

Enough GiGi jokes. Besides being “foxy”, “easy on the eyes”, “a cool drink of

See, totally hot and nuts.

When you say “work the pole,” what exactly … oh never mind

water” and other out-of-date-references for a very-attractive person, GiGi is fucking funny and awesome. In her “About Me” section she says, “Every Tuesday, I will be jumping into pools of maple syrup, rubbing pork fat all over my body, making baby-food cupcakes, working the pole, chopping cabbages, sucking on lollipops, and oh so much more.” That’s all total bullshit because I have been looking for that maple jumping and pork fat stuff a lot and never seen it even once. Don’t get me started on the shocking lack of pole working. I cry foul!

GiGi’s blog is more of a “vlog” which is awesome cause she’s hot.  It’s about eating right and points out which celebrity this week has done something dietary, for good or for ill, on that topic. She’s critiques the diet of the people on the show “Survivor,” for fuck’s sake. She’s not only hot, she’s brave. Only the retarded and the brave watch “Survivor.” Seriously, when that show is on in our house I hide.

The trouble with GiGi is she doesn’t offer me a way to pointlessly “like” her updates with a pointless “like” button. Way to be pointless, GiGi! How about adding a fucking “like” button so I don’t have to do this kind of a blog update again, OK? I want to be lazy and you’re fucking that up!

Go read/watch her stuff. Seriously, she’s awesome.

Also GiGi, call me, (but don’t tell my wife) ’cause you’re totally hot.

A few bloggers follow me and aren’t funny at all. They never blog funny boob jokes and make very few penis references or mentions of poop.

I don't want to alarm you Brit but it seems someone left an abortion on your head.

I don’t want to alarm you, Brit, but it seems someone left an abortion on your head.

One example of a blogger who’s awesome, hot and DOES mention all of the above is Brit in Bavaria. She also has unmoderated comments and a “like” button. But she’s wearing a stupid hat in her profile photo. While I love her take a British citizen living in Bavaria; her humorous look at naked Germans; and insightful post about the German culture, I hate her hat.  I want to kill it with fire. Brit’s totally cute, but she’s totally cute with a crappy hat.

That’s it for this blog roll, but there will be plenty more down the road because there are a ton of awesome blogs out there.

Hiding shame from your spouse; an adventure of craptastic proportions

If there’s a vice out there I fucking love it.

Drinking? Check.

Tobacco? Yes I’ll have some of that please.

Gambling? Sign me up.

Heavy heroin usage? Well, we all have our limits.

Truth is, just a few short weeks ago I blogged about quitting smoking. I’ve since fallen off the no-smoking wagon, and while that’s not at all that exciting, the way I fell off the wagon is a tale of disgusting disgust filled with poop, shame and in a word, “poopshame.”

Last Friday, well last Thursday if you have to know the truth (you don’t), I fucked up. I purchased a pack of cigarettes and went to heaven because smoking is heaven if you’re a smoker. Its address is on a pretty little culdesac at 1 Smoky Lane, McSmokertown, USA. All smokers are welcome. The Jesus himself welcomes you back with a clean ashtray and a beautiful view to look at while you enjoy your smoke.

Blue Lagoon of Comino

Hi, I’m the Jesus.  Welcome to McSmokertown.  Here’s your clean ashtray and please, enjoy the view.  (Photo credit: Davide Schiano)

Let’s just leave the dirty, “I’m smoking again” details of my failure there. The point is — Friday morning I had cigarettes, glorious wonderful cigarettes just waiting to be smoked.

Dagmar left for work early so she can do her normal insane, bat-fuck-crazy-makes-you-feel-like-a-lazy-fucker exercise routine, and once she left all I could do was run outside like a little junkie and happily puff away on a cigarette because I suck and have no self-control.

(Stop judging me. Go read, if you want to do that shit. Pink-lunged Assholes!)

As I sat on the steps of my front porch sipping my coffee and happily puffing away my life I felt an urge many of us feel in the morning. A bit of gas, flatulence, the vapors — you know — a fart.

Of course I knew that after the cigarette I would have to go Number 2, but my mind was playing tricks on me.

“Hey buddy, we still have a few minutes, enjoy this. That’s not poop, its just gas. We’re alone, no one has to know,” my mind, heretofore known as “The Saboteur,” said.  “Go ahead and cut one. Then you can finish your wonderful cigarette and cup of coffee and start your day. It will be magical. Its, after all, just a fart.”

So I happily lifted a butt cheek to aid in the process and continued my secret smoking there on the stoop.

But instead of the small, “pooft” I expected, what happened next was nothing less than a HAZMAT spill of epic proportion.

To be clear, this was not some inconsequential, oops. Nope. It was a “holy fuck I might have just stained the patio I’m sitting on, I must get inside and to a toilet right now,” moment.

We’ve all been there right?


Suddenly, I was in the throes of one of those moments when you’re not really in control of your body. My colon said, “Ha fuck you, I’m doing my own thing right now!” And from my backside spilled my poop-colored shame at a rate that could only be slowed by my hand. Jesus Christ! Where’s the Little Dutch Boy when you need him!

I was shitting myself, in case you didn’t get that. Shitting myself in such a manner that all I could do was sprint to the guest bathroom.

Like this only with more poop and shame.  Mostly more shame.

I’m certain that I sprayed everything in the room. Even the ceiling was not immune from this unexpected eruption, and crap, literally “crap,” was everywhere. What happened to the floor? Answer: Crap happened.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been through a crap emergency like this or not. If not let me just say that once you’ve finished with the “business” of the situation, the cleanup of the crapterpiece you’ve left behind will, no shit, leave you saying, “Holy shit!”

Dirtiest bathroom ever!

Like this only with more poop and shame. Mostly more shame. (Photo credit: cinderellasg)

Weird shit happens when you witness the birth of the universe during an epic dump. Something inside me said, “As long as we’re evacuating the bowels; let’s evacuate everything but our socks.” I had peeled away my now poop-shamed boxers and jeans, but oddly my shirt was also off, crumpled in the same heap of mother-of-disgusting-clothes altar I had created. When I came too I was wearing nothing but my socks. I don’t know why.

I found Jesus during the ordeal and abandoned him at the same time. I cried. I laughed. I pulled my hair in frustration.

It was epic.

It’s tough to come to terms with this sort of situation. One minute I’m having a normal cup of coffee and a cigarette on the front porch and the next I’m in a liquid-turd prison.

And, even after the emergency is over, I was still faced with the pile of clothes that now smell like shit. What do I do with those?

Wash them now, I thought. Hide the shame of this event from the wife, wipe everything down, leave no prints, douse it all with bleach and if necessary burn down the house. We must never allow the wife to know this happened, ever.

If I admit this happened to my wife, she’ll consider every fart from here on out suspect.

Seriously, from now ’til eternity, any time I fart, I’ll be grilled, “Did you just shit yourself?!?”

We were married (cough)-(cough) and (cough) (That many coughs would indicate a year in the hundreds, Todd. Did you mean to do that? I can honestly say, that’s an exaggeration. As for the rest of this, I highly doubt it. ~Fran) ((fuck you I’m smoking again remember, I can cough if I want to~~ HAFB)) (Todd, you seriously didn’t think you could interject a comment here, italicize it like you’re the editor or something, and it would go unnoticed and unaswered? I’ll misspell all your shit ~ Fran) years ago and I will tell you this, on our honeymoon in Mexico, where I was bitten Montezuma’s revenge, I actually pooped the marital bed when I tried to fart. On our honey moon! Yeah I’m a romantic. This blunder resulted in no less than five years of every fart being questioned. Phppptttthhhh! Did you just shit yourself? Fthahhhhhty? Oh my god, check your underwear! Flttttthhhhhhht, I think you just pooped.

It was a nightmare I tell you, a five-year nightmare.

And that’s why I chose to wash my filthy duds before she came home. Avoiding the wife’s involvement in a sharting incident is always the better choice. You might have a different relationship and that’s great, but to me the choice is simple, take care of the issue!

So I picked up the mountain of crap-caked clothes and ran downstairs to toss it in the washing machine. Let me further set this scene for you: As I walk to the basement laundry room, my nearly nude body is still soiled, I am wearing only socks and I am holding a pile of befouled, disgusting, godforsaken shit rags.

I hit the light switch to the basement with no issue, stepped down the stairs to the basement hallway leading to the laundry room with no incidents. I turned the door latch to the laundry room with my elbow with ninja-like skill and, in socked foot, stepped into the laundry room.

There had been a terrific rainstorm the night before. I know this not because I’m a light sleeper — I could sleep though my own rape — but this storm woke me up.

What I didn’t know was the extent of how terrific it was until I stepped into an inch of viscous, blackened, mold-infested runoff from last night’s downpour. It smelled just as bad as the shit I was carrying.

What else do you do with something like this? I just said, FUCK IT, threw the clothes on the floor, stripped off my socks, and slowly backed out of the hellhole.

Already late for work, I showered with bleach and went downstairs into the cesspool of a laundry room with a plastic bag and tossed the entire filthy lot inside. One instance of illegal poop-clothes-dumping-in-a-dumpster-near-the-house later, I was free.

U.S. Army WTF Moments, WTF? Really, WTF?

Do you have a favorite author, television show, radio personality or whatever that you just love, love love, but who did something that really, really made you go what the fuck?

I have a love-hate relationship like that with my penis.

Naw, I’m kidding, I love my penis. He has never made me go WTF — except one time in my 20s when I was “experimenting,” and another time when I met this really hot girl in a bar and he failed to “raise to the occasion” after I finally got her home.

Both those situations were indeed, “What the fuck moments.”

Another thing I love is the U.S. Military. I love it so much I gave 20 years of my life in service to it and continue to “fight the good fight” in service to our brave Soldiers as a Department of the Army civilian*.

I also fell hopelessly in love with the Facebook page “U.S. Army WTF Moments.”

But like all things we love, you risk finding they’re not as perfect as you first thought.

If you’re familiar with that page or its blog, you might being going, “What the fuck,” yourself right now. You’d be saying WTF because you know that I’m basically a commie liberal who wants to mandate gay baby seal adoption with gun-banning U.N. reeducation camps. As shitty as that description of my political leanings is, it’s freakishly accurate. I’m pretty fucking liberal, and “U.S. Army WTF Moments” is loaded down with photos of Obama next to Hitler stealing guns from the hands of God-fearing Texans.

Liberal it’s not.

Seriously it can be funny, and by funny I mean, FUNNY

Seriously, it can be funny, and by funny I mean FUNNY.

But I am able to look past that stuff and appreciate the ever-present undercurrent of very, very funny stuff.

The site is run by a band of U.S. Soldiers and they comment and post mocking memes and pictures related to the military and its ways. The stupid signs in bathrooms about flushing, yes we have those. People with very funny names, yes, when your last name is always on display funny shit happens, and beer tanks (please click that link, it’s a no-shit beer tank. Go ahead. I’ll wait) which I think fully explains why I love, love, LOVE with capital letters, “U.S. Army’s WTF Moments.”

Until, in my estimation, they fucked up.

Cutting to the chase, and in an effort to not further bury the point of this fucking blog, one of the page’s administrators, Dave, decided to do something that I found appalling and which I don’t understand at all.

What they did felt a bit like watching your best friend butt rape a kitten.

“Hey, best friend, stop raping that kitten and also, why the fuck are you butt raping a kitten?”

Actually, it’s more complex than that. Butt raping a kitten is really pretty straight forward for all parties involved. The kitten is helpless and the rapist is a rapist.

What the administrator in question did was upload a screen capture of an alleged** U.S. Army Soldier broadcasting on a pornographic webcam site his use of a butt plug and a cock collar that delivers electrical shots to his testicles. He wasn’t only playing with himself for viewers, he was soliciting “donations” for “special requests.”

Well … I’ll just let Dave describe the details. He and I spoke via Skype last week.

(To be transparent — I’m a fan of Dave’s. I’ve been a fan of his work on “U.S. Army WTF Moments” for a while now. He gave me a “tone check” on the blog update about the potential cuts to tuition assistance a few weeks back, if that helps describe our relationship. Again I like Dave. I still do.)

Here are Dave’s words.

“Oh man, well, I was in our chat room and I’m about blitzed dude. I mean, I’m three sheets to the wind. And someone that frequents our site and the chat room said, ‘Dave you gotta look at this shit,’ and she throws up a link to a ‘Chaturbate’ room, and I’m like, what the fuck is this shit? I’d never heard of ‘Chaturbate’ before this. I clicked the link and made an account.”

The link had taken him to a webcam that at first showed an empty room. Dave said there were telltale signs that a Soldier lived there.

Well who needs coffee now?

The paragraph to the left of this photo really needs a photo of a hot chick to “offset” the pain a lot of heterosexual readers are feeling right now. Also, in the smaller offset photo on the bottom right. See that shit? Is she picking her ass? I think she’s picking her ass. Who’s with me?

“There was (an Army) fleece, a rucksack and an assault pack. You could obviously tell this shit was a barracks room.The fucking door frames were metal … then he comes in butt-assed naked and I’m like ‘Oh God’. And then, the next thing I know, he sits down and puts this collar on his ball sack. It looked like a dog harness, but made for a cock. It shocked him,” Dave explained.

“Ah dude, it was like a train wreck after that. I was taking screen shot after screen shot.”

Dave, a 30-year-old non-commissioned officer in the U.S. Army National Guard, said he knew what he was seeing was wrong. This wasn’t a private citizen selling sex on cam to the general public, it was a Soldier doing it on post from his barracks room. The United States Code of Military Justice clearly prohibits this type of behavior. Debate those rules if you like, but if you’re in the military they are the rules you agreed to live by.

But Dave’s an NCO. Even if he’s not — hell, even if he’s a four-star general or a lowly private — he’s in the military and the person doing this on camera on the internet is a fellow Soldier. What, if anything, you do with this information is tricky no matter your rank because the subject is a comrade in arms.

Thankfully, Dave has the “no-balls rule.”

“The thing is that, when I first saw it I was like,’What unit is this guy in?’ Because one, its barracks and he’s obviously surrounded by U.S. Army-issue gear and equipment, performing sexual acts on himself on webcam with no age verification (on the site) and I’m looking at it and I’m like what the fuck? I’m just going to tell these Soldiers, ‘There’s this guy,’ ‘You don’t need to be doing this shit,’ blah blah blah. Then I got no ballsed*** into posting the picture,” Dave said.

This is where I think Dave became a fuck. Its where I wanted to ask Dave, “Fuck dude, what the fuck? You fucking fucked the fuck up, you fuck! I see your point that what’s happening is fucked, but you’re just fucking up the fuck. What the fuck?”

But when I got him on Skype I was a lot nicer because, again, I like Dave. He’s a smart fucking dude and I “kinda” got what he was doing. “Kinda” being a word that indicates I wasn’t fully on board.

To be clear to everyone reading this who is questioning where the fuck I stand on this matter — what Dave did, in my opinion, is completely fucked up. Put aside for a moment the U.S. Army’s Values, the Soldier’s Creed and even the NCO’s Creed. The freaky guy whose picture you plastered across your Facebook page was in-fact a fellow Solider, a fellow human being, and your inability to think through the potential harm that could arise from the decision to widely distribute a screen capture taken from a little-known webcam broadcast leaves me clawing around in a vain attempt to understand just what the fuck you were thinking.

Sure, I would never put anything up my ass and shock my balls on camera for money (because my wife would kick my ass and I’d only earn like $2 or something), but at the end of the day if you want to, more power to you.

Unless you’re a Soldier.

If you’re a Soldier, don’t fucking do it. It’s just that simple. You signed up for a job that dictates, “Here are the values we collectively agree to follow. You don’t have to like them, you don’t have to think they’re great, but you do have to abide by them.” And upon signing the dotted line, this fuck with a ball-shocking cock cuff, agreed NOT TO DO THAT.

But really, they post this kind of stuff. How can you stay mad at them?

But really, they post this kind of stuff. How can you stay mad at them?

But Dave, on the same level, is really, really a fucker too. I love him, and only a person who respects and admires you can say they love you like this. But I think he too failed as a Soldier, as an NCO and as a leader. None of that says he’s a bad person. It just says that he swung and missed.

With a following of more than 250,000 people on their FB page, and an untold number of readers at their blog, “U.S. Army WTF Moments” holds vast power in their hands. I’d ask that in the future, they’d seriously consider the course of their actions. Just honestly question what harm could come if the photo landed in the hands of his mother, sister, family or a homophobic platoon mate? I agree it should not be there in the first place, but they were the catalyst for some potentially disastrous fallout. What is he kills himself? Could they sleep well?

That picture has 187 likes, 47 shares and 674 comments, the majority of which are also critical of the decision to post it . Yet it still remains.

In other instances, “U.S. Army WTF Moments,” has blurred out the faces of soldiers in ate up uniforms, or posers pretending to be in the military, but in this instance, there’s no attempt to protect the guy’s identity. The only censoring of the photo is a white box covering the guy’s junk. Why not be as considerate to him as they were to the others?

I asked Dave why he decided to post it.

“If you’re going to prostitute in an Army barracks you deserve what you get,” Dave said, later adding. “Well I know it’s fucked up. During the surge (in Iraq) a lot of people came in that should not have been let in. I myself am one of them. I came in with five moral waivers. But the thing is, the difference between me and these other guys is, I am trying to do the right thing. They’re not. If making these less-than-stellar Soldiers as in your face as possible helps out the Army as a whole, screw it. I don’t see the bad in that.”

The no-balls rule needs a loophole. There are times that something can be above the no-balls rule. “If you don’t shoot your favorite pet you’ve got no balls,” is an example of when the no-balls rule can be safely ignored.

The decision to post that photo just smacked of being a bully, a shithead, and an asshole.

But then I remembered, it is called “U.S. Army WTF Moments”****.

* As many of you may, or may not, know I’m employed by the Department of the Army, Department of Defense or the U.S. Government. Nothing I say on this blog ever constitutes an official statement by the U.S. Army. The above are my words, expressing my opinion only and should not be construed as an official statement of any kind.

** The guy in the picture is an alleged soldier because we don’t know yet who he is. Dave believes he is, and that’s good enough for me. Even if he isn’t, the thought process regarding the decision to post it remains the same.

*** No-balls is when someone says, “Dave, kill a million puppies.” Dave says, “I will not kill a million puppies.” Someone comes back with, “Dave if you DON’T kill a million puppies, you have no balls.” Dave kills a million puppies.

**** Holy shit this is a lot of *! Yeah, I didn’t link to the photo in question. If you want to find it, it’s not that hard.

What the #$%@ do you people want?

I bet this girl doesn't check her stats. She doesn't have to, what with her being hot and all.

I bet this girl doesn’t check her stats. She doesn’t have to, what with her being hot and all.

I quit. Really, I fucking quit. There should be a Blogging 101 class you’re required to take before you start this crap.  Lesson one, day one should read something like, “Stats are a fucking mystery to us all, we recommend sacrificing a virgin at dawn to ensure good stats.”

This blogging shit is hard because I’ve become addicted to stats. Fran (editor extraordinaire)  says I am a people pleaser. She claims I’m eager to do what ever anyone wants to keep ’em coming back. But I don’t even really know Fran. She’s just some broad in North Carolina who (brilliantly ~ Fran) edits this drivel into a fun easy read. (She hopes ~Fran)

I don’t know why I obsess about it.I get the same exact amount of nothing if one person or a million people read this, so my obsession is similar to following Justin Bieber’s career.  I mean, if his career tanks tomorrow, sure you’ll be sad (dork), but you’re not out much. Same here with this effort.

Still though, what the fuck do these numbers mean?

There was a big uptick in March. Why?  February was down — man, it was down!  Why did so few people come here in February?  Was it something I said? In December and January we were up, baby! We had a lot of hits then. What the fuck does all this mean?

It means jack and shit. Nothing. It’s as pointless as changing your profile photo in support of a political cause. Which should mean SOMETHING to some of you, but likely won’t because no one reads this shit that deep except Fran and Marni … Sometime Maggie, but usually not and — fuck, what is this about again?

What the fuck is interesting to read here? Really, what do you find interesting to read here?

I didn't make this. I actually found it on a blog about gutters. A gutter cleaning blog by a gutter cleaner. He also wants people to read his blog.

I didn’t make this. I actually found it on a blog about gutters. A gutter cleaning blog by a gutter cleaner. He also wants people to read his blog.

I think we need a poll. A good old-fashioned honest to “jebus” poll.  A poll that not only says, “This is what I expect out of this retarded blog, but also, this is what I would like out of this blog,” because if stats have told me anything it’s all about you, and I’m fucking all ABOUT you, or at least making you happy.  That sounds funny but it’s really, truly, honest. (See, I told ya. ~Fran)

I want to write things you will enjoy and read.

So, in an effort to figure out the whys, we can and shall — I decree — take a no-shit poll.

It’s right there above this paragraph, can you see it?  For the first time in the history of “Had a Few Beers” we have an real poll. You can’t vote 12 times, you can’t vote for “I like ponies.” You can’t do anything but vote.

Like a good ol’ I-love-God-and-Country American, we’re gonna vote.

I’m curious to see the results. So please vote.  Or leave a comment, comments are also good.

Tax season is here and for the month of April, I’m a member of the GOP …

Well, here we are, tax season in the good old U.S. of A.

It’s always during these two weeks in April when I go, “You know maybe the GOP has it right?” In fact I’ll do you one better — every week during the year with the exception of the first and second weeks of April, I’m a rabid, communist-loving, ‘merica-hating liberal, then tax season hits and by hits I mean it hits me personally with the tax code, really hard, in the dick.

Paying taxes is required for both citizens and...

Carry the two and add 12% and then … god damn it. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

During these two weeks I basically find myself, screaming nightly at the federal government.

“What the fuck is a form 1099-obscure exemption-2, you fuckers,” and, “Why the fuck can’t I save this very important, yet only needed once a year, document as a PDF?!”

Cursing like a sailor, I am slumped over the table in my kitchen trying to piece together yet another opportunity for the government to tell me, “Yeah, we fucked up, sorry!  We need more money.  We’re bad at the maths.”

You fuckers can put a missile up a goat’s ass from fucking space, yet calculating my paltry contribution to highway maintenance and the continued failure of our educational system is too hard to figure out? Fuck, I know about how much I’m going to owe you on April 15th. I even fucking budget for it. Yet you fuckers can’t. I mean, can’t you even  look at what I owed last year, take that amount, divide it by 12 and charge me that much more each month this year?

SEE, HOW EASY THAT WAS? I’m basically retarded, and I figured it out.

It’s called budgeting, how can you not under … oh wait, I forgot who I was talking about.

Look, I’m not trying to sound like I eat steak off a hooker’s chest every night but I’ve paid about $6,000 in taxes every April for about the last six years. I’m not rich, I’m not a millionaire. Hell, I’m not even that stupid. My wife and I claim zero dependants and pay our federally mandated taxes every paycheck.

I'd feel better if my money went to things like this.  Sadly it never does.

I’d feel better if my money went to things like this. Sadly it never does.

Still, every damned year the government has a financial “brain dump” and the result is them telling me, “Well, we fucked up, again.  You owe more than we thought. Sorry, we’re fucking idiots, we need 6k more. Thanks, bye!”

I know, I do KNOW. I know there is income I receive that the government is unable to account for unless I tell them about it. Rental income and “investment stuff.” That money is not taxed when I receive it, and at the end of the year the “bill” has to be adjusted because there is income that they were unaware of, except for the last six fucking times I told them it was there.

It’s fucking maddening.

So that’s it for the next two weeks I’m a Republican. God damned libtards always spending our money on educating gay Mexican adopted crack babies!