Monthly Archives: June 2013

Ten tips for American’s newest Sailor (hint: boobs are mentioned)


Dear John,

So you’ve graduated from Navy basic training. Good job. I mean that. You know better than all of us it was hard. In the eyes of a lot of people, myself included, you’re officially a man. A young man sure, but a man nonetheless. You should be proud.

My own father did a pretty fine job raising me too. Look at me, I have a blog and everything! Nothing says success like a blog* my friend.

Here are few lessons he shared with me. It’s good stuff, take notes.

10. Shave before you shower.

I’m assuming you’re using a razor and shaving cream these days. If so, shave

slap some chap on that

slap some chap on that

before you shower. That way, if you nick yourself, it has time to stop bleeding during the shower. This works 99 percent of the time. During that 1 percent of the time it doesn’t work, keep some Chapstick in your shaving kit and run it over the cut. Apply pressure if needed. If you don’t have Chapstick in your shaving kit deodorant also works as a backup.

9. Always, always, always look good.

I can’t stress this one enough. The military, I think it’s obvious, is about to go through some pretty radical transformation as we move from wartime footing back to a peacetime footing – people are getting fired in the near future. So, obviously, do your job well. But there’s more to it than that. A lot of your peers are going to push the boundaries when it comes to military regulations about appearance. Don’t do this. Uphold the standard, be better than the standard and never, in the military at least, test it when it comes to appearance.

8. It’s okay to fail.

No matter what job you get in the military, I can tell you with absolute certainty they will tolerate your retarded 19-year-old failures. And there will be a few. Get used to it, you’re going to fuck up. Don’t get me wrong, if you fuck up too much there is hell to pay. Trying and failing is natural, expected even. The trick is though, to rack up wins. Ninety-nine percent of the time wins are easy. Be first to show up for the shift and be last to leave. Do the thing that no one wants to do. If there is nothing to do for the organization, find something productive to do for the organization. Be an asset. Do those things and falling on your ass once in a while is viewed more as a learning experience on your part by your bosses rather than another fuck up by a fucked up person. I can’t stress this enough — if you’re always trying to do a good job, occasionally falling short of that goal isn’t viewed as a bad thing.

7. Have sex with tons of chicks

Yeah, John, we both made the wrong choice.  Damn Air Force.  Get used to saying that.

Yeah, John, we both made the wrong choice. Damn Air Force. Get used to saying that.

Got your attention there didn’t I? I mean it. Be safe about it, put a condom on your penis and respect the woman you’re with, but have fucking fun. It’s what you’re going to do anyway so any advice I’m offering here is really just after the fact. The point is, explore and have fun. When you meet her — you’ll know. Until that time, call me with your awesome stories of your hot sexcapades (call often please!)

6. Be first. Second place is literally the first loser.

This plays off rule three. None of your successes in basic training matters — not a one. Sorry to be a bummer. You’re about to go to your first duty station and I’m here to tell you that being the best now is what matters. You won’t always be the best and that’s OK (see rule three) but be the best as often as you can. If there is a competition, fight for first place. You might have heard the saying about the military, “Don’t be first and don’t be last, be in the middle.” It’s a bullshit bit of advice from here on out. Be first, always.

5. Always, always be a gentleman.

... lots of ribbons

… lots of ribbons

Hold the door for the person behind you, regardless of sex, age or anything. Hold the door. But this rule goes beyond that. Offer to help with the hard stuff, always. If a person is carrying a shit ton of stuff, you’ll see this in the military more than once, offer to help carry the load. Once in 1996 I was literally carrying two duffle bags and a rucksack from one barracks to another when an officer stopped his car and insisted I toss my bags in the trunk of his car so he could drive me the last few block to my new barracks. He was right to do it, we always, always help each other. That always extends to the world at large. You wear a uniform now, it’s your duty to help. If you see someone struggling, help. It’s that easy.

4. Invest.

Do the TSP investment. Do it to the maximum amount they will let you. It’s a generous investment plan that will 2 or 20 years later have a bit of cash in your account. Take advantage of every investment opportunity they offer, grab those with both hands. If the investment plan has a .mil on the end of it invest in it. Also put a portion of your check in a savings account, every month.

3. Go to fucking school.

Take advantage of the educational opportunities the Navy presents you. Don’t be like me. I only milked them out of an associate’s degree in general studies which is like if someone said, “You can have whatever you want in this ice cream store,” and I ordered a fucking vanilla scoop in a cup, and no I didn’t even get sprinkles. Don’t be like me, I’m an idiot. Milk it for every penny it will give. Go to school.

2. Be yourself

Be you, my friend, be you. You’ll have bosses you don’t like, assignments that suck and jobs you hate. That’s part of being in the military, hell its part of life. Through all of it though, be you. There will be clique’s that see it different, fuck them. They’re retarded. Be you. Always.

1. Call your mom.

Always call mom. She’s gives better advice than this piece of shit blog ever can. Mom loves you, she will always give you rock-solid advice. A fact I think you’ll soon discover. You’ll be out of the training environment soon and on your own. Make it point to call home once a week on a regular basis. Mom will be there if you need to talk to her more than that. Once a week, call home.

* Everything says success EXCEPT a blog.

Not all European beer is equal, some have the ability to punch sobriety right in the face!


I had a super awesome Saturday. It was so awesome I’m still basking in its glory.

What made it so good? My wife spent the entire day on the couch, nearly comatose and completely chagrined, nursing a hangover of epic proportions which meant I was free to do whatever the fuck I wanted.

Not once during this glorious day were the phrases, “Can you do this?” or “I need your help with …,” or “Is that porn?” followed by an accusatory, “Are you drinking another beer?” uttered.

It was arguably, the greatest Saturday I’ve ever known.

Chimay beer -- it will get you drunk!

Chimay beer — it will get you drunk!

Now — the Olivers are no strangers to alcohol  and normally the missus can hold her booze – though she may shake the occasional stranger’s penis while doing it. But Friday was not normal.

This came to light when I got an  invite to a c0worker’s home Friday night for an impromptu barbecue.

“Of course I’ll be there to regale you with my heroic tales of shit,” I said. “And I’ll bring my bride, who, as you are aware, is quite a lady and super duper impressive.”

A quick message to Dagmar, and the plans were confirmed.

When she got off at 6:30 p.m. she met me at my favorite watering hole to follow me to my co-worker’s house.  After her one glass of wine and my 47 beers (46 of which I had to sneak-drink in the bathroom), we left for the barbecue.

Keep track with me — she had one glass of wine.

At the barbecue, like cavemen, we quickly fell into all of our “roles.” The men gathered around the grill and talked about killing stuff and the women gathered in the kitchen to discuss sewing patterns — the way God intended. (I like to pretend that when they weren’t cooking they stripped to their bras and panties and had tickle fights or practiced “making out” with each other.)

As we men stood around the grill, farting, swilling beer and scratching our balls, I noted Dagmar was carrying a fresh glass of wine when she walked out to see what we were up to.

That’s two. Two drinks. At this point we were nowhere near an event that would call for a blog post. She’d accepted a drink after arriving at a party and seemed perfectly normal and charming as she usually does.

Then, an hour or so passes, meat is introduced to fire, and Dagmar, I notice, has switched to beer. Not a red alert in my mind at all, a bit odd maybe, but still OK.

When the meat was cooked, we all moved inside and had an awesome meal. Fucking awesome, as in “I ate asparagus” fucking awesome. It had bacon on it, so by law, it had to be eaten, and bygod it was delicious.

During this time I was focused on my coworkers and the food, not my wife.

Then, after dinner, because I’m a filthy smoker, I excused myself to a nearby exit and hammered another nail in the coffin. Dagmar joined me.

And she was fucking TANKED. Tanked as in the Exxon Valdez-captain tanked.

“We have to go home now,” she slurred, crossing and uncrossing her eyes uncontrollably during the brief conversation.

As she stumbled back inside I assured her we’d leave as soon as possible.

Realizing the seriousness of the situation, I snuffed out the cigarette and went in to collect our things and my drunken wife. But she was no where to be found.

I looked in the living room, in the kitchen, back outside and then, as I moved toward the dining room, the host’s teenage son said with a barely contained giggle, “She’s in the bathroom.”

I should have known this. In our many years of marriage Dagmar has never passed out anywhere but a bathroom floor. I could, and should, write a book about the bathroom floors Dagmar’s passed out on. Movie theater bathroom floor? Check. Bar bathroom floor? Hell, that’s called Tuesday for her. Bathroom floors in various foreign countries? Sure! The only explanation she can give for this behavior is that they’re always nice and cool.

I collected the sprawled-out Dagmar from the bathroom, and with her barely conscious and teetering by my side, I explained to my coworkers that we were going to have to leave the party early.

It was barely 9 p.m. I was baffled. She only had about three drinks in about three hours.

Upon literally pouring her into the passenger seat of my car, she immediately starts to lower the seat back. During this process she, or her seat rather, encountered a small cardboard box that fucked up her mojo.

Fuck your car!

Fuck your car!

Before my eyes she turned into Rick James as impersonated by Dave Chappell.

“Fuck this shit,” she growled, smacking the box and spilling its contents everywhere.

There is rarely a day my wife gets into my car and doesn’t declare it a disaster area.

“This car is disgusting. When are you going to clean this pigsty,” is her usual mantra,  yet here she was making my basically clean car more of a disaster.

This was going to be a long ride. Good thing – like the card-carrying dork that I am – I had the podcast The History of the Byzantine Empire to keep me company. I assumed I could enjoy it because Dagmar would be passed out by the time I put the car into reverse.

But on this night, my choice of podcasts apparently didn’t sit well with my inebriated princess. Every two minutes, during the 15 minute ride home, the podcast would be rudely interrupted by unsolicited editorial comment from the gallery.

“Turn this goddamn boring shit off, I hate this shit, turn this shit off!”

She would then, before I could even react, fall back asleep.

Peace only came when we reached the house and my  wife went to her favorite place — the bathroom floor.

I grabbed a beer and then sent a text to the host and my other coworkers letting them know we were home safe and apologizing for my wife’s inexplicable, intoxication.

The replies from majority were normal, “No problem,” or “Hope she feels better.” But the reply from the host was classic.

“Guess we should have warned her that Chimay is 9 percent alcohol and very smooth. Thought she knew.”*

Well, she does now. She does now.

* Unbeknownst to me, she drank an entire bottle of it, refilling her glass unaware of the potency.  Still though, had it been simple Bitburger like in the mast of this blog, you wouldn’t be reading this.

Pardon me: Can I display my T&A? Nude on a non-nude beach


Raise your hand if you’ve been chastised for being nude on a non-nude beach?

Dagmar and I can now proudly raise our hands if asked that question.

This is that story.

Initially I had some questions ...

Initially I had some questions …

We’re not nudists. I mean, we’re not naked every moment we possibly can be, which, in loose terms, I think, is what being a nudist means. I can’t be bothered to look up the definition of nudist because who cares how it’s defined, we don’t fit that description except …

Somewhere around 2007 my wife and I went to our first German water park. All German water park’s have a nudist area. These areas typically feature places to sunbath, saunas and swim. All of which is done in your birthday suit.

I’ve discussed the sauna parts before here on the blog, but I believe a brief refresher on the German sauna experience is in order.

Inside the German sauna everyone is naked. At certain times a clothed sauna “Meister” enters the packed, and I mean crowded-like-sardines packed, sauna, and closes the door. The Meister then fans a towel pushing waves of scorching wind that you have to feel to believe. He or she cracks a few jokes. Sometimes they pass out things like salt, honey or ice that you rub on your skin and then, after about five minutes, when you just can’t take another second, they open the door and let you out.

During that 2007 visit my fully clothed wife, with her typical “bull in a china

Stop judging us

Stop judging us

shop” sense of curiosity, plowed into the nude area of the waterpark we were visiting, dragging behind her a typically confused and embarrassed me. She strode up to the sauna just before the Meister was about to close the door and in broken German asked (I speak less German than I understand) what the fuck this was all about. I couldn’t understand a word that was being said as I stood there in my T-shirt, shorts and flip flops surrounded, literally surrounded, by naked people.

The conversation was short and quick and ended with my wife thrusting her hand from her throat down to her legs in a quick motion and asking, “Alles weg?” or in English, “all is gone?” She meant of course, “All your clothes?” The Meister chuckled and every naked German inside the sauna erupted into laughter.

So, in addition to being yelled at for being nude on a non-nude beach, I guess I also have “Getting laughed at by sauna full of nude Germans” going for me as well. I’m not sure if that belongs in the plus or minus column of life experiences, but it’s a moment I’ve never forgotten.

Needless to say, we were in the buff a short time later. I think I demanded a beer bracer before going Full Monty into German sauna land, but there was no stopping my wife.

Since then it’s just become a thing for us. If there is a nude beach nearby where we’re on vacation, we’re going. I don’t care. Really, I don’t care. Hell, I’ve learned to enjoy it. Forget your preconceived notions for a moment if you can. It’s not a sexual thing and it’s not sexy. Sure there are attractive people there, just like there are in any group. But it’s really, really not about that. When everyone is naked in a non-sexual manner, well — everyone is just naked. It becomes matter of fact. It ceases to be a thing.

Cut to the non-nude beach episode.

It was this past Memorial Day, it was hot out and there was a lake Dagmar knew of only 15 minutes away. She remembered it had a nude beach.

Scene of the crimes ...

Scene of the crimes …

She knew this because while she TDY’d in this area of Germany years ago she and a few friends went there and walked around the lake. During the walk she and her friends ran into a naked man on the nude side and Dagmar, after muddling through in broken German, “Why are you naked?” – shook his penis. (That’s fucking funny! ~Fran)

That’s not a metaphor. She didn’t have any sort of sexual contact with him. She grasped his flaccid penis in her hand and moved her hand up and down twice like you would shake a person’s hand. She did this because she’s funnier than I am.

Dagmar, when asked to recall the story, started to describe the event with, “I think I had a few drinks when we …”

So there’s that.

So with Memorial Day at hand, we arrive at the lake to find it devoid of people. The person in charge of the snack bar is bored, there’s one old man reading the paper at a picnic table and one lone woman sunbathing in a bikini on the beach. That’s it.

We survey the lake and conclude that the nude beach is “that” way. We base this decision on the data point that it’s far away from the clothed beach, requires an effort to get to and really isn’t close to anything. Those facts, coupled with the fact that the entire opposite side of the lake is covered in reeds with no beach of note, led us to this conclusion. Nude beaches are always tucked away out of sight and they usually take a bit of effort to get to. “That” beach was the logical conclusion based on the aforementioned facts.

Loaded up like a pack mule with folding chairs, ice chest and a backpack, I followed my chipper wife carrying our towels for the 20-minute death hike to the beach. Once there, on the empty beach, we still selected the furthest end of the beach. You know, as a courtesy to others, or something.

Towels were laid down, chairs were set up, clothing came off and my wife quickly fell asleep while I read. While my wife slumbered I noticed, in the distance, on a ribbon-thin strip of sand among the reeds, another nude couple.

Why would they choose that place, so out of the way?

Perverts, I decided.

Why else would you go there to that shitty bit of beach when you could go here? They were obviously slipping into the reeds to commit awful sexual acts to destroy the simple serenity of the nude sunbathing experience.

Yet, they never seemed to move, you know, to commit those awful sexual acts.

Hmm?

Then a man happened upon our beach, and as Dagmar slept through this development as well, he picked a spot exactly opposite us on the other end the beach and stripped down to his … swimming trunks.

Stupid German, I thought.

I turned back to whatever shitty thing I was reading on my Kindle and sunk, in all my naked glory, back into the chair.

Hours passed. OK, it was only about an hour, but it still passed.

Then I heard a boat engine start up. This is a very small lake. The only boat on the lake, logic told me, is the one that the manager of the lake uses. The lake is too small for any other boats.

OK, fine the manager is doing something in his or her boat. Looking up from the Kindle I noted that the boat was slowly coming toward us.

I ignored it as long as I could, but when the boat stopped off shore 20 feet from  me and an authoritative German woman spoke loudly and quickly at me, I could ignore it no more. I understood one word in 10 but I understood exactly what she was saying.

It boiled down to — we were naked in a place where we were not allowed to be naked and, although we were bugging no one, we could not be naked here.

Dagmar tried to pretend she was asleep, but when I beat her on the back with my Kindle enough times she was forced to acknowledge, along with me, that yes, there was a woman on a boat yelling at us. We could not be naked here.

Dagmar translated her words: “We could move into the reeds and be naked there, but we could not be naked here.” We could stay and Dagmar could be topless, but we had to put our bottoms on.

Feeling certain we understood we were naked in the wrong place, the German woman backed her boat out and left and I realized that I had just been yelled at by a German for being naked on a non-naked beach.

This might have been a federal offense in the U.S. In some U.S. states, if convicted of wagging your wiener in public you could be made to register as a sex offender. My mug shot would have plastered across the local evening news.

Not here in Germany though, here I just had to go into the reeds*.

* The area behind the reeds was actually very nice. You just would never have guessed that from the entrance to the lake.

Happy Father’s Day! A collection of stories from your idiot children.


Dads, you know?

Poor dads. Us kids ruined their lives.

Every dad reading this knows that’s true. Before we entered your lives you were

This is my dad before I started puking on him as an infant.

This is my dad before I started puking on him as an infant.

cool. Then we arrived. As infants we puked all over your shirts, as grade-schoolers we destroyed your social lives with our incessant “needs,” and a few short years later as teenagers we crashed your car, because we’re idiots.

We understand this now.

So Happy Father’s Day! On behalf of all children everywhere (which is every single person in the entire universe whom I feel qualified to answer for): We’re sorry we were idiots!

My wife’s side of the family is still funnier than mine, but fuck them. They got top billing on Mother’s Day and until they get their own blog my side of the family is going first this time.

My dad worked three jobs for many of my formative years and, holy shit, that’s a lot of jobs. There was a job before the real job (delivering newspapers), followed by the real job (sales), and then an after-hours job (sales again). I believe he slept for like only 15 minutes each night when I was between the ages of 3 and 13.

And there I was, being all kid-like and shit, thanking him for his sacrifices by drinking his beer when I was 16, mouthing off because I knew it all and yes, crashing his car. I did these things because I was an idiot.

You’re welcome, Dad. With any luck I’ll find a 2-year-old guzzling coffee on my doorstep as payback.

What I remember about the time he was working three jobs though is this –between the real daytime job in sales and the after-hours job, Dad came home for dinner and then, still dressed in his business suit and tie, played soccer with me in the backyard.

As an adult I realize what that means. He likely had only enough “free” time between Job 2 and Job 3 to scarf down a bit of dinner and hit up a few luke-warm leads to whatever shitty thing he was selling, before crashing, exhausted, into bed, only to rise at zero-dark-zero the next morning and live the nightmare again. And he did all of this so my brother and I could have the latest Bionic Man action figure with telescoping eye sight or  whatever sparkling new Big-Wheel Chad was eyeballing that week.

My dad — up at 4 a.m. and comatose at 10 p.m. — still found time to play soccer with his snot-nosed 10-year-old brat. That’s love, no matter how you cut it.

Dad, I’m not the man you are. I’m not sure I could do that. Frankly, I haven’t met another man who matches up to your caliber. I mean that.

There’s one last thing I have to say because it vibrates in my head to this day — I don’t know if you and Mom were hippies and during a bong-smoking session under a black-lit Jimmy Hendrix poster, you came to the realization that racism is bullshit.

But I recall one time, when Chad was about 5 and I was about 10 and the three of us were riding in the car. Chad, in his tiny preschool voice, made some remark about not liking black people. Of course, as I mentioned earlier, Chad’s lot in life at the time was as an idiot. All kids are idiots.

Following the revelation, Dad, in all his brilliance, didn’t miss a beat.

“You didn’t get that from your mom or me. We don’t think it matters what color your skin is,” he said nonchalantly.

Then he steered the car left onto Indian School Road and the conversation was over.

That one moment in time made a huge impact on my life. To this day I still subscribe to my dad’s value system in that regard and all others.

Being able to grow up under the tutelage of such a decent, loving, hardworking man, has a value beyond measure.

You know what else I got from my dad? My sense of humor. One time at the start of a camping trip, we were unloading the car and Mom put a cake she baked on the bench of a picnic table. Then someone (likely a retarded boy) placed a blanket on top of it. Dad promptly sat on that cushy looking spot, and found it was a lot softer than he’d anticipated. For the duration of the camping trip, the cake was referred to as, “Dad’s butt cake,” as in, “Would you like some of Dad’s butt cake?”

Butt cake is still funny to us.

Now, dear reader, you’re about to dive into the deep end of my wife’s side of the family and the crazy there descends to bends-inducing depths.

Dagmar’s first story is sickeningly full of sweetness covered in a layer honey and then dunked into the kind of sweetness that leaves you going, “awwwwwwww,” long after the story is over.

For those of you who don’t know, the military’s opinion of families used to boil down to — “Fuck ’em.” Literally. If the Army (insert your service here) wanted you to have a family they would have issued you one. They just didn’t give a shit about your wife (the military was pretty dude-centric back then) or your kids, and if your kids had special needs, well double fuck them then.

In the military’s eyes no one told you to get married, no one told you to have kids and if your kid’s have special needs well, that’s your fucking problem, not theirs.

The tides are very different from today’s but really, that was the idea back then.

IMG_0694Dagmar’s father was a staff sergeant, or sergeant, or staff sergeant again or … well rank wasn’t really important back then.  You could go up or down in rank back then and that shit was OK. Point is he was a junior NCO in the Army when his wife gave birth to a special needs child.

Dagmar’s sister Sherry couldn’t walk and, as it turns out, was mentally disabled as well. She had one thing going for her though, she was a cute kid. Being cute helped the situation because, as I said, the Army couldn’t give a shit about her or her needs. At the time Dagmar’s dad was friends with the Shriners who, besides driving clown cars in various parades across our nation, happen to give a shit about cute kids and their special needs.

Long story shortened, the Shriners raised money and her sister was flown to Houston where doctors did their best to repair her legs. It worked because she did walk for a time. After the surgery, Dagmar’s Dad had to drive Sherry home in the back of his station wagon because for the next few months she was in a cast from the waist down.

Dagmar, being the oldest, road with her dad to help out. During this trip, a then-10-year-old Dagmar discovered several things: Truck stop apple butter was great, Houston was big and two kids with special needs on an extended car ride was a giant pain in the ass…

See, not only was Dagmar’s dad taking care of his own baby, he’d volunteered to give another little girl a ride home who, it turns out, got really, really, really car sick. Between a daughter who was completely helpless and another child who vomited constantly, Dagmar’s dad, a grizzled veteran who saw combat in Vietnam, mothered them both all the way back home to El Paso.

Dagmar and her other sister Sheila related another story to me that I found rather amusing and perhaps a bit telling.

IMG_0696

All the rabbit hutches in the background because one mouse was too stupid to stay out of buckets

Dagmar and Sheila as children were playing in the backyard when they discovered a mouse trapped in a bucket. To Dagmar, 10, and Sheila, 8, this was deemed a monumental discovery. At that age I’m sure it ranked right up there with the cure for cancer and free boy-band concert tickets, because, holy shit, there’s a mouse in this bucket! The girls decided that the prudent thing to do with this discovery was to present it to Dad. In their grade-school minds it made perfect sense. Dad not only needs to know about this, but he has to see this shit!

Unfortunately, dad was drunk and not at all impressed with the mouse in a bucket. In fact he was pissed that NOW there was a mouse in a bucket inside his house. And displaying a drunken bit of logic (which I can completely understand) he decided that the best course of action was to fling the bucket and its contents against the wall.  This, I can only imagine, led to the girls bawling like, well, little girls.

In the morning, a sobered dad regretted his violent bucket-smashing decision and set out to make things right for his girls. In an effort to atone for yesterday’s misfortunes Dad went out and bought his girls bunny rabbits, one for each of them.

If all the cartoons I watched as a kid are at all accurate, bunnies like to make sweet, sweet love.

And that’s how, in a just a few short months, the story of the mouse in the bucket morphed into a collection of hutches in the backyard containing dozens and dozens of rabbits. Dad ran a bit of a side business for a few years selling bunnies.

No word on what happened to the mouse.

Finally Dagmar’s brother, who was previously introduced here, came up with a handy Top-10 List of things he learned from his father. So here’s Ray. (Note how bunnies kick off the list.)

Here’s a narrowed down list of 10 things my Dad taught me. No particular ranking, just etched in my memory. Political correctness does not apply since the term did not exist when I was growing up. Disciplining your child was not considered abuse, and the only treatment war veteran’s with PTSD usually received was self-medication from a bottle of booze.

1. Bunny rabbits are pets for some people, but for most of the world they are food. Don’t make friends with them because they may be dinner one day. They’re also good for making rabbit-foot key chains.

2. Why give a shit if your kid uses foul language? Pops always said “They gonna learn every fuckin’ bad word there is anyway.” When the hell did parents become the profanity cops?

3. Flush the toilet after you take a shit. Anyone that can’t remember should be required to write “I will flush after using the toilet” 100 times (My Dad made me do this even though I wasn’t the culprit).

4. Follow proper etiquette when fishing. Casting a line and tangling the lines of everybody on the boat is grounds to be kicked-off the boat. A lesson I learned the hard way when my dad took me fishing in Mexico with his buddies when I was 5 years old. I knew I screwed up as soon as I released my line, but all I could do is watch in what seemed like slow motion it crossed over the lines of my dad and his buddies. Pops brought me back to shore and just said, “Get off,” and told Albert, “You watch him or it’s your ass.” Me and Al spent the remainder of the trip at La Boquilla running wild and getting into mischief.

5. Don’t waste money of cheap tools made in China, and especially don’t ever make them a Father’s Day gift unless you want your feelings hurt when they are tossed aside and called “cheap crap”.

6. After shooting three or four rounds, ear plugs won’t make a difference even if you had a pair. The ringing will go away in a couple days.

7. Your bed is a good place to put all the dirty dishes if you don’t wash them when you were told to wash them.

8. If you stay up late drinking, you better be ready to work early. Found this out early in life when I was underage drinking, got wasted and the cops brought me home. Pops woke me up at 6:00 A.M. and made me ride my bike to the store to get him some soda water for his Vodka.

9. Don’t half ass anything you do. Either do it right the first time or you will have the pleasure of doing it again until it is done right.

10. I could easily add ten more things, but probably the most prophetic thing my Dad told me was, “The saying that Men don’t cry is bullshit, you ain’t a man unless you can cry”.

Happy Father’s Day!

Summer is here and you winter people can suck my sunshine …


Summer is here and I want to thank some people. Mainly, the ladies. You girls are 98 percent of the reason summer rocks in the first place.

Take the most beautiful woman in the word and dress her up for a ski trip. She’s got nothing on the allure of a woman in a summer dress.

Cover of "Summer Lovers (Full Screen Edit...

Mmm summer. (Full Screen Edition)

Sorry, it’s like a scientifically proven fact or something — a woman dressed for warm weather is always sexier than a woman dressed for cold weather.

Basically, without ladies summer is just sweaty man balls and body odor. To deny this simple fact is to say that water is not wet, birds don’t fly and this blog is funny.

If you don’t believe me please choke on a giant box of cold weather.

Another reason summer rocks is Germany!  Have you been to a park in Germany when it’s nice out? If not, you’re missing out. Germans are cooped up in a frozen box of international rain, hail, snow and sleet for like 90 percent of the year.

When the sun does finally come out, baby, the clothes come off.

Germans will strip down to skin the moment the mercury says its hot — and you really, really have to appreciate that.

Say what you want to about the unattractive men, hot chicks lay out naked in the park! What is not to like?

There aren’t even any downsides of summer.

“Oh it’s too hot,” you say? Well “fuck you,” that’s what I say. Summer is better and that’s a fact. I can even back that up with anecdotal evidence because nothing says “fact” like anecdotal evidence.

People who like winter must admit there are parts of it they don’t like,  such as shoveling snow, scraping ice off the car windows, driving on icy roads, Rudolf poop on their roof, or finding dead Santas in the chimney. It is inevitable that window lovers find something about winter they don’t like.

Not us summer lovers though! Nope. We love every last sticky bit of it. We even embrace that with summer comes the potential to die in the desert of thirst or sport a look reminiscent of crispy bacon.

You know why? Because its better than dying of hypothermia. Give me dying of heat stroke over that shit any day.

When I was in Iraq, my boss and I had a joke that only we found amusing. He is from Texas and I hail from Arizona. If anyone knows hot weather, we know hot weather. Thus, when the temperature would reach (literally) 130 degrees, while we were wearing body armor, we would say to each other, “It’s hot, but at least I’m not cold.”

And we fucking meant it.

If you think it ain’t that bad to be in 130 degree temperatures while wearing body armor and sitting in the back of a HMMVW where the metal truck bed is just cramming the heat into your eye holes, then undoubtedly you’re a summer person.

Summer is just better in every conceivable way. You people can go stick your frozen heads in the freezer and suck cold ice if you don’t agree with me.

English: Twin Peaks Summer Bikini Contest in 2011.

I have no clue who this chick is but, really, who cares. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If I understand anything about the popular TV series Game of Thrones*, it’s that in addition to showing a lot of hot naked chicks, (just like summer) the characters die a lot which sucks because a Game of Thrones summer is four-years long or some shit.

That awesome if I don’t consider the alternate — a four-year-long winter. That would break me faster than the rath Gordon Ramsey’s rain down on me if I served him a flaccid souffle.

So again, all you winter people can suck it for a few short months. We summer people are happy. HAPPY I tell you, and if you’re a winter person here in Germany, have pity on us summer folks, it will be just a few-short weeks until you’re once again relishing in your dreadful cold and pale-gray bliss.

Until then, we people of the SUN will be out in it. In fact, why the hell am I typing this at all, I should be outside…

* Actually I don’t know crap about the series, I watched all of season one drunk off my ass and apart from a lot hot naked chicks can’t tell you much of anything about it.

A very spammy vacation with extra spam


Well, it’s been about a week and a half since I posted something here, and during that time I discovered I was a famous blogger. OK, maybe I’m not famous, but certainly I am influential, and if not famous or influential, then certainly I’m a leader among academics.

I know this because of the spam that has ravaged this blog while I was away.

Normally, I try to post something once or twice a week. No one will accuse me of being the Stephen King of blogs to be sure. It’s a pretty easy pace to keep up.

La Gomera

What a beautiful rain forest — I wonder if anyone is posting free sex cam spam to my blog?

But there was no update last week because I was on vacation (more on that in a later update) where my liver divorced me, my skin was subjected to cancer-inducing levels of sunlight and some fiend of a person known as my wife subjected me to leg-aching forced marches. (All of which was good fun except for the last part.)

“Hey, can we go another six miles?” asked the drill-sergeant wife.

Me: “Honey, do you understand the point behind vacation? Sigh. Yes, it’s your vacation too, let’s go another six-god-awful-miles. Do you want to carry the backpack for a bit? No? Shit.”

The vacation brings me to the famous, influential and academic bits. It was during this bliss and blister filled week that the normally tight and effective spam blockers at work here at WordPress also took a holiday.  Spammers hit me here like a gangster collecting back payments, fast and hard.

This was a bitch too cause I was on, as I said, vacation.

If you’re unfamiliar, traveling with a smart phone to countries outside of your home country induces a beer-spitting, screen-spraying “holy-shit that costs how much” level of a phone bill. A simple text to a loved one saying “Wish you were here,” can throw you into bankruptcy and updating Facebook will cost you a kidney in some places.

So, with that in mind, I tend to turn off the data roaming  while on vacation. But in the mornings, while enjoying a great cup of instant coffee and watching the one British channel we received (which oddly featured only British reality shows of a mechanical nature – the “buy a used car and fix it in order to sell” it variety), I would turn data-roaming on and check the news and the blog.

It should have been a simple routine if not for spammy spammers and their fucking spam.  But at least I learned some things about myself.

I mean consider this comment …

“Spot on with this write-up, I honestly believe this website needs a lot more attention.
I’ll probably be back again to see more, thanks for the info!”

I mean, I don’t know who the fuck young-angelo@googlemail.com, but he understood that my in-depth and insightful write up about a guy caught masturbating for money on the internet and lambasted on U.S. Army’s WTF Moments blog was … something. What, we’re not sure, it was just … who knows.

 “I like it whenever people come together and share views.
Great website, continue the good work!”

That was written by free live sex cams, crap I mean reece-riley@arcor.de, who also liked my U.S. Army WTF Moments update, but thought it was more of a collaborative effort. Free live sex cams being the place Reece Riley was trying to push. It was collaborative in a sense, Dave (an administrator at the site) Fran and I did collaborate on it, I guess.

Live sex tube just hopes I post more … live sex tube likes that kind of thing it seems.

“Very great post. I simply stumbled upon your weblog and wished to
say that I have really enjoyed browsing your weblog
posts. After all I’ll be subscribing in your feed and I hope you write once more very soon!”

Live sex tube has not subscribed to my weblog.  I’m as disappointed as you are.

Tawanna who is either British or functionally retarded (you pick) writes …

“Hi there mates, how is the whole thing, and what you want to say
on the topic of this paragraph, in my view its in fact awesome
for me.”

How is it indeed Tawanna? I can tell you dear, it’s spammy with a taste of spam and sprinkled with extra, extra spam.

The comments weren’t all posted on a blog about a guy masturbating for money

You've always liked what?  retarded dick jokes?

You’ve always liked what? retarded dick jokes?

on the American tax dollar though, no sir. The spammers also left two comments about my retarded and drunken lambasting of the Olympics (because nothing says good blog like a lush saying great athletes suck, right?)

“I have already been instructing a category and that we are considering this particular topic over the following 7 days.”

And …

“I will be pointing my own university scholar to check out this post once and for all information I have already been meaning to create something such as this on my own web site and you’ve got provided me personally a concept”

See that shit? That comment contained the words “university,” “scholar” AND nothing else at all … I just wanted to point out that someone used the term “scholar” in the same reference as hadafewbeers.com … Success!

What the fuck?

WordPress, in their defense, normally does a very good job at blocking spam but these spamtards got all stealthy and didn’t include the links in their comments, only in their address, which I guess tripped up the spam killer.

Anyway, these comments prove spammers love me, so suck it!