Monthly Archives: May 2013

Stuck in traffic with obscene graphics about why you’re stuck in traffic is … funny


Everyone hates traffic.

“Today was the best day ever! I was stuck in traffic for hours!” no one’s ever said. 

If by some odd chance you happen to know someone who does say that, please hit them in their stupid face with this blog.

Picture2

Is that a penis? I mean it looks like a penis. Really, is that a penis?

If there is a patron saint of traffic out there, and for all I know there is, (Saint Mario Andretti has a nice ring to it) we denizens of U.S. Army Europe’s Clay Kaserne (formerly the Wiesbaden Army Airfield)  have pissed him off something fierce. Traffic on post is at the throw-a-virgin-Mercedes Benz-into-a-volcano level of fucked at the moment.

In the kaserne’s defense, about a million new arrivals just started clogging up the roads and there is some construction on the main route that will, with time and when complete, alleviate the situation. But still, it sucks. Many of us leaving the installation at peak hours are subjected to a speed of less than a half mile in two hours.

Thankfully, someone who works for the Army at Clay Kaserne came up with a great plan to alleviate the situation.  The plan aims to make everything better, fix this whole rotten situation and literally kill the horse that had already escaped the burning barn.

The first solution is: When hope is on the horizon and you’re almost clear of the jam and autobahn bound, you’re redirected onto a small road reserved for farmers, bicyclist and walkers – (which is a retarded idea and the policeman stationed there to prevent you from taking the detour will tell you as much). The second suggestion is: Once you’re on the autobahn, you’re routed in the opposite direction you want to go because of “fucking magic.” I can only assume its “fucking magic” because they’re suggesting I go the opposite direction from the direction I need to go and the only way that makes anything better is “fucking magic.” 

And to clarify the situation even further, someone superimposed the detours onto a Google Earth map and then sent that out far and wide. My reaction upon seeing the graphic (coincidentally on my phone while stuck in traffic) was, “That’s a dick!!”

Not only were the detours a pain in the ass – or a dick – but the graphic was a giant, arrow-shafted, red-and-blue balled dick. As in – penis.

I mean, I run a blog called Had a Few Beers. I make a shit-ton of boob, dick and butt jokes, and goddamn it, I know a dick graphic when I see one. This was a dick graphic.

I had a lot of time to think about this.  Two hours in fact.

I had a lot of time to think about this. Two hours in fact.

Someone had, through official channels, inserted a no-shit dick joke onto a graphic about the very problem that was dicking us. They had done it brilliantly, too. It was a dick disguised as a helpful graphic and it said without saying, “Hey drivers, you’re dicked! You’re so dicked here’s a graphic of a dick to remind you that your dicked. I’m dicked too, so it’s cool. Still we’re dicked.”

I’m sure it wasn’t intentional, but dude — you’re an awesome dick for doing it.

Note: Since this was written they’ve fixed the situation and hopefully it will take less than two hour to travel a little more than half a mile. I think it’s awesome that they fixed it as quickly as they did — but asking me to pass up a dick joke? No way.

 

Moms and their funny ways as recalled by their rugrats


Mother’s day is coming right the hell up so if you haven’t done anything for the mother of your children and/or your actual mother, stop reading this shit now. Close the browser window and go do something nice. Stop reading and do it. Go. I’ll be waiting right here, you lazy fuck.

Dagmar and I lost our moms years ago, but with the upcoming holiday we began reminiscing about some of the funnier things our moms said or did.

Both of our moms had their quirks, which makes them funny to us.

As Dagmar’s participation in this blog has sunken to the “knows it exists” level, I figured it might be best to query her brother, Ray and sister, Sheila; and my brother, Chad, and sister-in-law, Amanda, to see if they had any funny or heartwarming stories they wanted to share about The Moms.

Turns out they did.

I’m going to let Dagmar’s side of the family go first because my side of the family is boring.

In a lot of ways, the Olivers were the C-Span of families – one video camera, no narrator and an audience of post-graduate Dungeons and Dragons fans.

Dagmar’s family was the MTV of families. They played rock videos and punched viewers in the faces with their stories.

The Oliver Family was all, “Ha, Ha, Mom burnt the rolls,” but the Rohena family’s stories start with, “Well, after being released from the hospital, Albert got so drunk he stripped naked and …”

See? No contest, right?

What you need to know about each of today’s contributors is the following: Sheila has a nice rack, Ray is grumpy, but brilliant, and Chad married way above his station, but that’s something everyone knew Chad would do.

Dagmar’s Mom was as German as they come so any quotes you encounter below, should echo in your head in a Colonel Klink accent.

Let’s start with Sheila, the rebellious middle sister.

I got into a few (a lot) of fights in school.

One day this girl pushed me over a trash can and we got into a fight in the backyard of an empty house. While we were pulling each others’ hair out, who shows up but mom, curlers in hair, yelling “Sheila! What are you doing!”

She grabbed the other girl and I ran off. The fight was over. Mom made me get in the car, told me not to fight anymore and took me for a Slurpee!

There was also the day me and the girl who lived near our house went into the mobile homes down the road.

They were models, so she figured we could take what we wanted, right?

Afterwards they smeared their chicken greeze on the lens ...

Afterwards they smeared their chicken greeze on the lens …

Well, the cops “helped us help ourselves home to our parents,” but mom was OK, just told me never to hang around that bad girl anymore.

The last time I ran away (I ran away a lot) she came to pick me up and we had Church’s chicken on Trans Mountain together. If you’re not familiar with El Paso, Trans Mountain is a very scenic road there.

We just sat together and ate chicken. She just loved me and let it be okay.

It never mattered what you did or why, she just loved you.

Life with mom was always funny. We always laughed, like the time we went out to eat and she opened the ketchup the wrong way and got it all over her clothes and glasses. She just cleaned it off and continued to eat.

I could go on but, enough already!

Ray, my over-parented, college-educated, successful and grumpy-as-shit brother-in-law really brought the “hil” to hilarity. Ray writes …

I remember one time me and a couple of friends decided to have a mini-party at my house when my mom went out and wasn’t supposed to be back for a few hours.

We were all teenagers (15 or 16 years old) and didn’t have much money, but we all pitched in our $5 or $10, and bought some weed and beer (legal drinking age was 18 then and it was rare to get carded).

We congregated in my room, had my stereo cranking and were all pretty much lit up and carrying on. Little did we know my mom had come home undetected and had been in the house at least 15 or 20 minutes listening to us act like fools.

I suppose she finally had enough of us when I heard her say “Vell, vell, vat do we haf here?”

I turned around and to my surprise she was just standing in the doorway.

One friend was trying to hide our rolling tray, everybody was covering their beers, all of which she had already plainly seen and I said, ‘What are you doing home so soon?’

Next she yelled “Everybody out!” like Sgt. Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes. After everybody was gone, I thought I could salvage the weed tray, but as I was down on all fours looking for the tray … I hear my mom say “Vell, you looking for dis?'”

I looked up to see my mom holding an empty tray and she says “I flushed that crap down the toilet already.”

My mom showed much restraint and patience in not flipping out, and handling the situation the way she did.

The following tidbit Dagmar has told me before, but baby Ray filled in so many details. Every time I hear it I just laugh…

Prior to the start of the school year, our Mom took us kids to Beaumont Army Hospital for our vaccinations. As we left we met some other family we were friends with that lived near us. The older kids on both sides of the family were saying it was going to be a race home and our mom was reluctant, but we were all encouraging her to race home.

The whole ride it was, “Faster Mom, faster!” from all of us kids.

At some point our paths home diverged and we were on a road called “Magnetic Drive” that had two unique features — it was long and bumpy, (thus fun to drive fast on) and because of the limited visibility, at the end of the road it was a great place for police to run radar.

The speed limit was a boring 35 mph and we were driving a ’61 Fairlane Town sedan 390 Super V8. (Google that shit, it was a testament to American craftsmanship.)

This magnificent piece of rolling steel was capable of 0-60 in six seconds with a top speed of 132 mph. Not bad for a four-door vehicle that weighed 3,920 pounds and had a 119-inch wheelbase. Not to mention it only got 10 miles per gallon.

Mom finally gave into us kids (all of us unbuckled by the way) yelling “Punch it,'” finally hit the gas.

I felt like I was on roller coaster the way the vehicle would come off the peaks and nearly bottom out on the dips. Then the cops got her for what I can only assume was 60 in a 35.

We got finally got home, my mom called her friend who was also German. She started speaking in German and I couldn’t follow most of it, but “lieber Gott” and “scheisse” were used a lot, so, yeah, she was pissed.

Finally, here’s a quick mini story about the time me and my mom drove from El Paso to Fort Polk to visit Dagmar.

My teen years involved cannabis on nearly a daily basis, so I’ll try to make this a mom story and not a pot story, but the inherent nature of my teen pot-headedness nearly limits everything to involve weed.

Anyway, I decided to bring a dime bag with me on the trip.

As we leave El Paso and near Sierra Blanca, I had no idea there was a border patrol checkpoint. It was really small in those days, basically a little toll both-sized shack with a couple border patrolmen asking your citizenship. Nowadays it has ballooned much like the rest of our government and many notable celebrity drug busts have been made there (Willie Nelson, Snoop Dogg, Nelly, Fionna Apple, etc.)

My ass puckered up when we came up on the checkpoint. Thank God they didn’t have dogs back then. But we passed through with no problem and when we stopped at the next rest stop I had to pack a bowl in my one-hit pipe while I was in the restroom.

We ended up staying in a crappy motel in one of the worst sections of Austin that night. A family friend made the reservation and planned the trip for us. Not saying he was cheap, but did we really save much staying in that dump at the risk of getting robbed or worse. I was to afraid to venture far from the motel, so I smoked a bowl in the motel parking lot near the dumpsters.

I suppose my Mom couldn’t sleep well, so we were on the road before the sun came up and made it to Fort Polk early in the afternoon.

As soon as we settled in, I needed an excuse to go smoke another bowl, so I borrowed Dagmar’s 10-speed bike to cruise around the base, and I ended up getting so stoned I got lost.

I managed to flag down a cab and by chance knew the name of Dagmar’s street. The cab took me home and Dagmar and my Mom were outside when we pulled up.

I just tell my mom, “Pay the man, I got lost with all these houses looking exactly the same.”

Mom never even got upset. She just payed the cab fare and laughed at me for being an idiot.

Here’s my sister-in-law Amanda. She foolishly married someone with similar DNA to my own, my brother.

I recall when I was walking down the aisle of our wedding. The slow march to music, being so nervous, everyone looking at me. I get to the front row and your mom is right at the end of the row. And in what seemed so loud a voice in this serene and intensely quiet moment says, “You look beautiful.”

Another funny story we can recall, is your mom always wanting to paint the kitchen wall a rotation of green or white. So one day she shows up with this pale, puke-green color. She painted part of the wall and she decided she didn’t like it. So instead of waiting for your dad or us, she placed the gallon on the front seat, with the lid on. Note- the lid wasn’t on very tight, she didn’t hammer that thing down. So at the first stop, the paint spilled all over the inside of the seat on the car!

She came home and your Dad was there to clean it up.

Why she couldn’t just wait for him to go with her I have no idea? The seat was stained for the life the of the car and forever reminded of the puke green.

These are nothing like the purple bloomers we purloined from Mom. Our mother did not live in the Victorian era.

These are nothing like the purple bloomers we purloined from Mom. Our mother did not live in the Victorian era.

Another childhood story Chad and I remember is a neighborhood scavenger hunt.

One sought-after item on the list was a pair of purple panties.

We scored a pair from Mom’s lingerie drawer and were thrilled since we thought no other team would have such luck.

After the scavenger hunt (we lost) we ran those silky skivvies up the flag pole at a nearby park.

When Mom spotted her her purple bloomers flapping atop the flag pole for God and everyone to see, she exclaimed in her favorite expletive, “AHHH pickle juice!”

After I joined the Army, Chad happily stayed in Arizona to take care of our mom as cancer took its toll on her. As you would imagine, hospital visits became more and more frequent and she hated each and everyone.

Here’s Amanda again with a quick finale tale to finish this blog post.

We even can laugh at when Chad wanted to take her to the hospital because she wasn’t right, and he would have to trick her and tell her they were going somewhere else.

As soon as Chad grabbed the bag of medication, she’d shout, “AHHHHH!” and run back in the house.

To all the mother’s out there everywhere … Happy Mother’s Day.

A quick update: holding your junk in front of your spouse an exercise in awkward


My wife just caught me holding my penis.

It was not like a giant, engorged penis either, just a limp little wiener being walked to the toilet.

What happened was this:

Like this only without the stylish orange jesus suit ...

Like this only without the stylish orange jesus suit …

We were watching television and the show we were watching ended. My wife went upstairs to change out of her work clothes. After a moment or so it occurred to me that I had to pee. The bathroom is about 15 feet away, not a marathon at all. I didn’t have to pee badly, but it was enough to get my otherwise lazy ass off the couch.

Because she was upstairs and because I wasn’t at all thinking about much of anything, I stood up, unzipped my jeans and took out my penis in the living room. It wasn’t sexual, it wasn’t a “statement.” It wasn’t anything other than preparation to pee in what I estimated would be a few more seconds and about 10 footsteps.

Because I think our house was designed by a really stupid Hollywood set designers and was only very narrowly rejected by the Gone With The Wind directors, we have a spiral staircase that is visible from the home’s entranceway.

So, as I absentmindedly walked to the guest bathroom, penis in hand, wearing jeans and a T-shirt and oblivious to the world, the wife came down the Scarlett O’Hara staircase and gasped. It went like this.

Me singing in my head: “I’m going to pee, la da dee, I’m going to pee lucky me. Got me wiener in my hand this is the time to understand … that I have to pee.”

I had mindlessly walked from the living room, into the foyer with the dick out, just holding it. I thought nothing of this at all. I was just going to pee.

The Frau came down the racist staircase at exactly the same moment I was about to turn into the bathroom.

For the first time in many, many years of marriage I felt a bit awkward. So did she.

“Are you holding your dick?” she asked.

“Well, yes, obviously,” I replied, still holding my dick.knock1st

“WHY!” she yelled.

“I have to pee,” I answered, still holding my penis.

She looked disgusted and ran back up the staircase, likely reciting some sort of line from Gone With The Wind.