How much do you pay for your pussy . . . cat.


How much is your cat worth?

If you answer that by adding the cost of ammunition with how much time you’ll spent cleaning up the mess, you’re simply not helping.

And if you’re wondering what a skinned cat goes for on the open market, you’re also not helping. You’re also kind of a sicko. For the record the answer to that question, assuming the skinned cat is average-sized, is 18 cents. I’ve asked that very question myself.

I mean what is the fucking cat’s worth in dollars and cents if your wife loves the

Cat

Total value of all parts, 18 cents (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

fool beast with all her heart? Then what’s it worth?

I was actually just ripped away from writing this piece by my wife so I could go to the window to watch the cat do something retarded in the backyard.

That retarded something was watching the idiot beast roll around in dirt. Yeah, I know, it’s a natural defense mechanism many creatures on our earth participate in to defend themselves against skin irritants, but my wife found it cute.

We don’t have our own penis-in-vagina-made kids, and we certainly don’t have any actual children in the house, apart from myself I mean, so I think she dotes on the mouse catcher a bit more than most.

Or she’s just easily amused, who knows?

So I again ask the question, what’s that particular cat, in my set of circumstances worth — its well-being, its continued existence, its quality of life — what is that worth, if you were in my shoes?

Putting further parameters on the question: What’s all that worth over a two-week period when you’re gone? How much would you pay, in hard-earned cash to ensure that the beast is at least fed, watered and kept clean? Tack on the additional love and attention and what’s that cat sitter worth to you, dollars and cents wise.

I said $200, and that apparently means I’m spending all my money on hookers and heroin, because I think $200 is an insane amount to pay anyone for such services.

I bring all this up because that’s exactly what I recently paid a college kid visiting her parents here in Europe for the summer. The way I calculated that sum is described as this. Poor college kid, kid needs money, kid had to come to my house to perform the duties, we’re not poor (we’re not rich but really, we’re not poor), and don’t be a dick.

Mr. Burns

Not me. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Seriously, the kid had to come to our house. Meaning they have to borrow mom or dad’s car or be driven by a parent in order to complete the task each and every time. It’s also Europe. Europe is expensive. I realize it’s not my duty to fund a kid’s free-time activities while visiting mom and dad in Europe over summer vacation, but I’m also not going to turn into the Simpson’s Mr. Burns character either.

We’re faced with a similar situation in that we need help with the cat duties again. But this time we’re asking a friend watch the cat in her own house. So literally, all she has to do is not kill it. Not killing a cat, unlike the assholes that answered the lead of this blog with, “How much do bullets cost,” is the easiest thing to do. The person watching our cat while we fly back to the U.S. for vacation could, I know for a fact, not feed or water the beast for the entire two weeks and the little flea bag would likely survive the ordeal. Sure, Abby the cat (I think that’s its name) will have to drink toilet water, but who hasn’t done that? Everyone’s done that, right?

Here’s the part I can’t make up in a million years — the agreed upon price for cat sitting in her own home is  $100 bucks and a carton of Marlboro Lights (really the bar isn’t high with this person). If you don’t smoke, let me help you out with some basic math, a carton of name brand cigarettes here is about $45 on post.

So let’s add this all up. For a week college kid has to drive at least 20 minutes one way to feed, water, poop scoop and play with the retarded skin bag of claws my wife calls “her baby.” Two hundred dollars is a crazy fucking amount that no sane person would pay. Paying a person $145 to watch a cat for two weeks that she has at her home while she’s unemployed anyway, is totally, however, completely reasonable.

On top of all this lets all reemmber that the pussy was in fact free.

Here’s another fun married fact that cracks me up because it’s so very 110 percent the kind of thing my wife does.

This morning Dagmar called and mentioned she was going to the bank to get a money order for $3,500. This struck me as odd because I had no idea what the money order was for but it sounded like something I should know about.

I pressed her for more information. It turns out that she, throughout the last 12 months or so, has been saving up money on the side. On the side as in not in

Change

Tons of change (Photo credit: spcbrass)

the bank, but in a shoebox or some shit, for our trip to the U.S. This fact alone cracks me up because, well, we’re not children of the depression and she could have easily just deposited it in the bank every time there was a decent amount collected. She saved this amount by, a yard sale, endlessly vacuuming up my loose change and who fucking knows what else. But shit, $3,500 is a nice amount Bella, good job!

But why the money order? I asked this question and received a sane and well thought out answer if the year was 1956.  She wants a money order because she would be crazy to carry that much cash with her back to the U.S. Which, technically is true. It would be crazy, more crazy than having $3,500 just lying around the house anyway. When I suggested that she could — and this is a very radical idea — deposit it in our joint account and then withdraw it via ATM once we’re in the states — she replied that I was a genius and that I was the greatest … well she just agreed that I might have a point.

A friend that I’ve long since lost touch with once told me that couples don’t argue about how much money there is (or isn’t), they argue about how the money is allocated. But they were likely quoting Dr. Phil, so fuck them.

Thing is though, I always looked back on that statement during times like this and thought, holy shit, that’s a good call. Dagmar and I do this all the time.

I think, like a lot of couples, we tend to divide the roles up when it comes to money. If we were a corporation, I’d be in charge of the long-term financial strategy and she’d be CEO of day to day operations, watching what’s being spent on the here and now.

It’s just fun to occasionally poke the CEO of the day to day operations in the eye. But if she ever blogs about the long term CEO investment strategy, I’m screwed.

German, American community yard sale fun and by fun I mean misery


Dagmar called me Friday and asked, “Do you want to sell your golf clubs?”

“My golf clubs are a collection of failed titanium dreams and but they are something I love. Don’t you dare touch them, they are sacred to me,” I replied in a panic.

She asked this question because she was cleaning out the house in order to participate in a community yard-sale.  This yard sale is in Germany, on the economy, and she’s doing it because she hates weekends.

yard saleIf you’re unfamiliar with Germany let me lay it out for you. Its got rain, cold, snow, cold, more rain, occasional hail, sleet, rain and cold. Basically, the weather in Germany is attempting to destroy your soul for 10 months of the year. So, when there is sunshine and warm weather I want to be on the beach soaking up sunlight and drinking beer.

For the love of all things sane, I don’t want spend those precious days selling crap at a yard sale.

Dagmar disagrees because she’s insane.

She heard about the yard sale during her furlough day from a mutual friend who I plan to kill soon for that indiscretion. I knew from the moment she called me with the “suggestion” about the yard sale that I was “husband fucked” and that I was indeed going to have to do it.  Any plans I had otherwise for the weekend were destroyed the minute our mutual friend said to my wife, “You know they’re having a community yard sale this weekend?”

We’ve only had one other yard sale in our lives together and that was in the states in the late ’90s. During the brief time I was left alone during that yard sale a person asked me if I was willing to sell something for $5. Dagmar had marked it as $10. I told the man, “Dude if you don’t buy that I’m literally going to throw it away.” Never tell a yard-sale person this because, yeah I ended up giving it to him for free. Don’t tell Dagmar.

Fast forward to last Saturday. I resigned myself to my fate, what else can you do? She trolled the house for salable crap we owned and Saturday morning at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am, I loaded up the car and off we went into whack job land because German community yard sales are insane.

When we arrived we were accosted by several people of questionable sanity/nationality asking us in broken English, “Do you have gold, do you have computer, do you have shoes?”

This was moments after we arrived and we were just getting out of the car. I hadn’t even had coffee yet. I was confused and annoyed at the same time, I was confannoyed, which is something I just now made up!

These people I was later told are “resellers.” And fuck them, they’re annoying.

The next surprise, at the lovely hour of 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning, was that the organizers were completely baffled by the fact that a parking lot next to a hotel had mysteriously been filled with cars, during the night! I should point out that this community yard sale was organized by Americans on a part of an American installation in Germany open to everyone. Anyone can, and apparently does, drive and park in the area. So despite the best efforts of seven parking cones, the “plan for the setting up of tables” had been thwarted.

If you haven’t already gathered, Germans don’t just chuck their used shit on their driveway and call it a yard sale. No they do it as a community, which makes sense if you think about it. More sellers mean more buyers, or something. I’ve never really thought about yard sales but that’s the basic idea, I think.

But a yard sale of that scale has to be organized, I mean fuck, we’re in Germany after all. They’d organize chaos if they could and I think just have.

So entering into the yard sale area we approach the American organizer and discover he’s an idiot. Maybe idiot is too strong a word. He has the lot planned out, with space for all the participants but the cars have really fucked his plan. This is when I learn that yard sale people are really, really picky about their spots. See you had to sign up for a spot at this yard sale. For the low cost of $20 you get a spot and a table, not a bad deal. Only some people, as I said, are really fucking picky about their spots.

“I paid for these two spots, right near the entrance!” and “I paid for this spot because …” I tried to zone these insane yard sale monsters out.

English: A Stack of 1$ Bills with 100 on the o...

English: A Stack of 1$ Bills with 100 on the outside (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Look Mr. Yard Sale manager, I paid for this spot and could give a shit less. Just shove me in somewhere so I can unload my filthy bunch of crap and make a step toward ending this day,” I told him. With a sympathetic sigh he shoved us in a corner and went back to dealing with the monsters.

Once the crap was unloaded and set up on our rented table Dagmar, thankfully not me, dealt with a crowd. I’d already had enough.

This particular yard sale attracted early shoppers that want shit for free, as in “Can I have this for free?” If I had my druthers, I would have weighed the “pain in the ass of having to cart that item unsold back to my house,” against the fact that, “I hated being up and out of the house at 7 a.m. on a Saturday,” against the fact that we “hadn’t used this particular piece of shit in years,” and concluded that if I just gave it all away I could be home in approximately 45 minutes.

Dagmar, not so much.

As the day progressed I was given attitude-adjustment medication in the form of beer. She knows me so well.

I also made an important discovery about my bride — she was a fucking third-world merchant in a previous life.

“Have a look at these purses ma’am,” she squawked at a passerby as I sunk into my folding chair and tried to hide. The purse she was hawking was hideous. I think someone who grew up in El Paso spent a little too much time at the markets in Juarez, is all I mean.

As the day wore painfully on, the crowd thinned and I broke out the kindle. I was reading something deep that, for me at least, took a bit of concentration. I had to read a sentence, think it through and then move on. Dagmar had nothing to read. Do you see where this is going? Yeah it was all: Read the sentence, Dagmar asks a mundane question, read the same sentence again, Dagmar asks another mundane question, read the same sentence again … you get the point.

All said she made $380 bucks. I would have gladly paid $380 to not have to make $380 bucks, but she’s awfully proud of the $380 bucks and I guess that’s what matters at the end of the day.

Furlough fun day! A blog post with 20 percent fewer jokes


Hi and welcome to the first installment of Furlough Fun Day!*

I guess I could have called it Furlough Monday but it doesn’t have the same ring to it. Come to think of it, federal employees who are furloughed on Fridays have all the good names.  Furlough Friday people get all the breaks.

Anyway, this is the first in a series of what I hope is only one blog written on my furlough day.

If you haven’t been following along with the news let me bring you up to speed.

FurloughDepartment of Defense employees are being forced to take a day off every week, which is awesome. We are also being forced to take this day off with no pay, which is not awesome. All told it equals a 20 percent pay cut.

As a result, this blog is going to be 20 percent less funny. (Math jokes are tough to write. That was the best I could do.)

I think technically during the furlough day, I’m not legally employed by the government. I can’t get another job during that day, but I’m not “technically” not a federal employee on furlough day either. That fact opens a lot of creative windows actually.

*Cough* Is it just me or does Gen. Dempsey look just a little bit like Gollum from

I'm just saying if you were viewing a line up could you tell who stole the elf bread?

I’m just saying if you were viewing a line up could you tell who stole the elf bread?

Lord of the Rings?

There. I’ve committed an act of civil disobedience and I feel awful.  Gen. Dempsey is a great man and a great leader.  I suck at civil disobedience.

Anyway, it would have been great if Dagmar and I had the same furlough day off but we don’t. She has Fridays off and I have, as you know, Mondays off. At first, the lizard part of my brain thought, HA! This is awesome, PORN PARTY on my day off. But after some rethinking, it kind of sucks because three day weekends together would rock harder than even the best porn party. Actually porn party sounds really, really pathetic.

But, as I said, we don’t have the same day off. This fact highlights a basic difference between us. She spent her day off in productive productivity and I spent my first day off curled up on in a ball of “damaged-dignity-hangover-smell” on the couch. That’s why I didn’t write this last Monday.  Between dry heaving into the toilet, crying and fiendish masterba … well I was really hung-over.

I did wash the windows though. She told me that was my chore and by-god I did it. By contrast she did five loads of laundry, the dishes, dusted the upstairs, mopped upstairs, ironed four of my shirts, extensively cleaned the cat litter box (extra hard because I had neglected it), changed the bed linen, called her daughter and purged the bar of old and no longer drinkable spirits.

So I’m feeling pretty good about my accomplishment.

Anyway I think the only thing from this point forward is to have a contest between Dagmar and I. Call it: Who used their unpaid day off the wisest. I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a quick score sheet for everyone reading so they can keep track of who is winning.

Category Todd Dagmar
Hours of Porn Viewed 2 0
Windows washed All of them 0
Windows rewashed because of the shitty job done the first time 0 All of them
Episodes of Family Guy viewed 7 0
Episodes of Family Guy not viewed because of napping 3 0
Naps 3 0
Legs shaved 0 2
Episodes of the Today show about summer flip flop fashion   viewed 0 1
Number of dry heaves in the toilet 8 0
Crying silently 4 0
Video Games played 3 0
Number of balls scratched 2 0
Poops 3 1
Floors mopped 0 5
Beds made 1 1
Beds changed 0 1
Shirts ironed 0 4
Cat poop cleaned 0 All of them
Retarded decisions 7 0
Total 4,659 14

So clearly, as you can see (math doesn’t lie friends) I’m winning the furlough fun day competition.

*I’m really, really not smart enough to comment on the politics of furloughs. I’m not. I know my wife and I can weather it and be OK. I know a lot of my friends can, and will. But I also know that a lot of my friends and co-workers out there are seriously affected by this and I hope they don’t take offense to what I just wrote. Furlough and sequestration is, at the end of the day, not very funny at all. To a lot of folks, a 20 percent pay cut is no laughing matter. At the end of the day, it isn’t to us either. If I’ve offended anyone, I’m sorry.

Hipsters; it’s okay to choke your chicken. Yeah, this is about chickens.


There’s this thing going around on the internet right now about hipsters and backyard farming.  I think it started on Slate about hipsters abandoning chickens they own and that’s somehow bad.

I don’t know why that’s bad. I get why that’s funny, but I don’t get why that’s bad.

Hipster gets a chicken to be a hipster, hipster realizes chickens are fucking retarded and filthy, and abandons them. Hilarity!

The period of sheer hell that the hipster had to endure before concluding that chickens are a pain in the ass amuses me to no end.  Sure, chickens are living, breathing creatures, but brothers and sisters, chickens are idiots.

So however you hipsters planned to do it with your chickens — whether you raised them in the back yard or kept them in your house — I thank you. Please keep doing it.

I hate this blog.  I hate the guy that writes it, I everything in it and I hate you.  I hate you for reading this.

I hate this blog. I hate the guy who writes it and I hate you because I’m a fucking chicken. (Photo credit: Some chicken website.)

Until the sun blows up and engulfs our dear earth, there will be chickens. They’re so completely and utterly stupid we can almost literally breed them without their help. Think about that for a moment. There’s a species out there that we bred into the “never going away” category of existence. You’ve heard of endangered species right? These fuckers are the earth’s guaranteed-to-live species. If there is a category for “kill on site” on the endangered species list (it’s near the bottom, I’m sure), chickens and North American deer have top billing.

Here’s a humorous and spot-on article that deals with, in part, what a bat-fucking retarded species the chicken actually is (read number four).

Go read it. Really now, I’ll wait.

If you’re now joining us after having read both articles, welcome back. I have no idea what the hell I was talking about before you left.  Scanning up the page a bit it seems I was pissed, or happy, about hipsters adopting and then abandoning chickens.

Yep, that’s it. I see it right up there. Hipsters adopt and abandon chickens, ha ha!

Well it is funny isn’t it? Actually the first story has much more than that in it. Backyard farming sounds about as smart as backyard stockcar racing to me. Listen hipsters: The urban American backyard has a clearly defined purpose in our modern society — to piss off whoever has to mow it on Saturday. Sure you can use it for you kiddie pools, your picnics or other fun stuff, but its main purpose it to destroy leisure time. It’s far too small for farming.

I don't know what you assholes playing mine craft are doing with chicken but stop it.  This is the autofill you get if you type "will chickens ..." into Google.  You people are freaks.

This is the autofill you get if you type “will chickens …,” into Google. I don’t know what you assholes playing Minecraft are doing with chickens,  but stop it. You people are freaks.

But let’s get back to the topic.

Now I concede that, yes, you can in a typical urban backyard raise chickens. I know, I’ve seen it done. I’d wager most of the people reading this have. There might even be a hipster right now reading this and thinking, “WTF dude, I’m doing it just fine.”

That’s because you’re a smart hipster. You’re likely even smarter than me. Stop congratulating yourself it’s not that hard. You’re smart because of one, two or both things. You either don’t have a rooster, you had a rooster and knew what to do with it or possibly both.

Now roosters, also called cocks (and yes, you’re welcome, I did intentionally skip a lot of dick jokes in that last paragraph), are truly fucking vicious birds. They hate, absolutely hate, other roosters. That’s why we have cock fights for the love of God.

See, I couldn’t avoid that cock joke. Sorry.

I spent a lot of spoiled-brat summers on my grandparents farm in upstate New York and I can tell you, with no authority whatsoever, that the man who wrote Deliverance was inspired by a chicken coop. It’s the same exact deal with the person who envisioned the prisoner scene from The Deer Hunter — totally inspired by a chicken coop. Both of these writers clearly knew chicken coops. That’s the only disorganized part of the farm. It’s fucking complete chaos in there.

Which, a million years later, brings us to the point of this blog.  In order to have a chicken that lays eggs you do not need a cock.  However, to have a chicken that lays eggs that eventually become more chickens and roosters, you definitely need a cock.

So hipsters everywhere — stop adopting chickens and abandoning them unless you know what the fuck you’re doing. Or don’t.

Fuck chickens, they’re going to outlive us.

Two things that piss me off: “I’m blessed” and bumper stickers.


This happened to me today with a total stranger.

Me: Hi, how are you?

Stranger: I’m blessed, thank you.

Ever have that shit happen to you? You’re on the way to work, you stop for a quick cup of coffee and you say mindlessly to some stranger, “How are you,” and they fuck up your day with this moronic bullshit?

That’s not even a real answer to the question. Your day is either good, bad or in between — those are the fucking answers you’re allowed to give.

“How is your day” isn’t a question that invites a response of, “I love baby Jesus.” You’re phishing and hoping the person you say it to will magically find Jesus afterward.

Here’s a fact, you’re a total twat for saying that.

Seriously, if you’re currently answering the aforementioned question with, “I’m blessed,” is the verbal equivalent of spam. Its unsolicited bullshit put into my head in an effort to trick me into doing something you want.

You’re doing this because you’re a twat.

I’m going to start wasting the time and energy of every one of you twats by asking a shit ton of questions after you give that response.

Me: Hi, how are you?

Stranger: I’m blessed!

You forgot, "and a twat."

You forgot, “and a twat.”

Me: You’re what?

Stranger: Blessed.

Me: What’s that mean?

Stranger: You know, by the Lord.

Me: The who? What are you talking about?

Stranger: Our lord and savior, Jesus Christ.

Me: Look you don’t have to swear at me. What lord and savior? I thought we had a president?

Stranger: Jesus Christ!

Me: Stop swearing at me! Who is our lord and savior?

And so forth.

Right back at you bible thumpers. You want to say stupid shit to a question that every sane person answers with, “I’m good, how are you,” then I’m going to find out exactly what you mean. We can Who’s-On-First that shit until the apocalypse, fuckheads.

Jesus Christ, you people piss me off.

You know what else pisses me off? Bumper stickers, that’s what.  Not all of them. That would be stupid. The stick family on your back window, that’s cool. The stick family on your back window being chased by a chain-saw wielding maniac? Great, I love it. Do you break for yard sales? Awesome!

What I’m talking about are political bumper stickers in general and election bumper stickers, before and after an election, specifically.

So Jesus and George Washington, after killing all the French people, got together and wrote the constitution, and that's why we have Christmas boys and girls.  America!

So Jesus and George Washington, after killing all the French people, got together and wrote the constitution, and that’s why we have Christmas boys and girls. America!

If your bumper sticker says that you support giving aborted fetuses handguns because Jesus said it was OK when he wrote the constitution while high on legal marijuana, you’re an idiot. But you’re a forgivable idiot and at least there’s a remote chance you convinced someone to read up on the merits or pitfalls of arming aborted babies. I mean it’s their constitutional right — the bible says so.

This is one of those areas where I don’t care which side of the political spectrum you favor. Putting a political statement on the bumper of your car just makes you look like a drooling idiot. It’s the same, almost, as the “I’m blessed” crowd.

Look fuckheads: The messages on your bumper should be reserved for snark and/or telling us what great fucking crotch fruit you’ve produced. (Even then I think it’s slightly retarded but not nearly as retarded and someone affixing one as it relates to an election.)

I’m political, very political in fact. I’ve donated money to candidates before. I’ve even received bumper stickers for that money. Did I put them on my bumper to show the world my “support?” Fuck no, because no “undecided” voter in the history of democracy has ever, ever saw one and said, “Well that’s it, I’m voting for that guy because it’s on that dude’s bumper.”

And if I’m wrong with the above assumption and some moron did vote for the candidate of my choice because of my bumper sticker, well, that person is a fucking moron and shouldn’t be allowed to vote in the first place.  I’d love to read the exit poll quote with that mouth breather.

Pollster: And why did you vote for that candidate?

Moron: Ummm, because the bumper sticker told me too?

So — at best — putting one on your car is fucking pointless, and at worst it encourages the uninformed to vote.  You’re simply not fucking helping.

Finally let’s move on to the retards who leave the stickers on after the election is over, because Googling how to remove a bumper sticker is too hard.

I can kind of see how, if you picked the winner, you’d be tempted to leave it on to gloat, but really after like six months aren’t you just advertising to the world that you once, way back when, made the same decision the majority of the people did? Really, you’re proud of that? Way to follow the herd.

And those that support the losers? Don’t get me started.

There’s a car at my work with a bumper sticker that says “Romney 2012, Makers vs. Takers.” This is hysterical to me because, I promise you, the driver of the car is a federal employee.

But I digress.

Here’s a constant reminder of the day the members of my democratic country disagreed with me. Right here, on my car! For fuck sake stop and remove that reminder of your failure. I’d be equally pissed if Obama lost the 2012 election and I saw a bumper sticker supporting him today.  You need to get rid of that shit, it’s a mobile billboard shouting, “I backed the wrong horse!”

Anyway, bless you all! Maybe I need a “Romney blesses you all, 2012,” sticker.

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.