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

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.

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

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.

Thora’s back: Don’t wag your weenie and for gawd’s sake, take your f’ing socks off

I’ve graciously been asked back to share more of my acerbic wit and nonsensical wisdom. Last time I wrote about my adventures in online dating. I’m still out there. More awkward shouldIshakeorshouldIhug introductions, more mental wanderings over cocktails (“Oh, this man is never gonna see my hooha.”), more work/family/history statistics — so much so that I feel like I should just get a baseball card made up showing my “stats.” (Actually, that’s not a bad idea and I think I could make ‘em pretty too. What font should I use for “child of divorce?”)

But, on topic, I know my time is coming. I will look into that face, hold that sweaty palm and think, “Yep, I could probably put up with this guy.” And then I will pass him “The List.” The list of things men should never do. Not comprehensive, of course, and liable to change with any of my moods.

Do Not:

See how much more attractive naked men are sans socks? Perhaps., Dennis Rodman wasn’t the right example.

— Wear socks if you do not have on pants and underwear. If your penis is visible, your feet should be uncovered. This is a sure libido killer for women. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? Would you want to sleep with you? No. “My feet are cold,” boo-flippin’-hoo. I don’t care about your comfort, I want you to look like a strong, virile caveman who is about to ravage me. A naked man wearing dingy white socks or faded misshapen trouser socks only underscores the fact that I’m settling.

Naked + Socks = gross. Dennis Rodman + Basketball = who cares. It’s a naked Dennis Rodman holding a basketball over his junk. (photo credit: sports.espn.go.com)

— Dance naked. Ever. Unless you are Channing Tatum.

— Shake your willy at your fair maiden. This is mostly related to the last bullet but it stands on its own as well (ba-da-bing, ay-oooh!). Not funny. Not charming. But if you want your woman laughing at your dingle dangle, then by all means — who am I to judge?

— I know Had a Few Beers has a strong attachment to all things mammary and I have no qualms about that, however… some men also think boobies are funny. Never, ever, ever honk a boob. Even the most well-heeled, sophisticated, smooth man will revert to junior high and honk a boob. It may be years in coming but, invariably, they do. Don’t.

Honk if you like boobs!

— Lastly, this isn’t bedroom related but it is a troubling trend I see. A bald man sporting a beard. This leaves the sideburns looking like socks with no pants. If there is no hair on your head, you cannot have a beard. You can have a ‘stache, you can have a goatee, you can have a Fu Manchu (I don’t know why you’d want one but whatevs) but, by god man, ditch the beard.

There are more rules, but they aren’t for mixed company or black and white. Well, more the black-and-white thing. And sober. They can’t be told sober. And we have to avoid eye contact afterward.

(Beers: You know Thor, if we ever meet again I’m totally honking your boob)

Please send me a working trash can and other fears about going on a business trip

There is a public-information campaign for the U.S. Military that aims to help servicemembers returning from long deployments adjust to living with their loved ones again. The gist of it is, shit may have changed while you were gone, stop being an asshat and deal with it.

In simpler terms, “expect change.”

I’ve, in a previous life, deployed twice in service to my country (as has my wife) and I fully realize that this sort of information is both needed and useful.

Things do change when you’re away for a year or more, and that’s OK.

But — and this “but” is an all-capital-letters BUT — how the fuck does my wife expect me to predict the level of fuckallery that she inflicts upon our house every time I’ve gone on a trip that lasts more than two hours.

I travel a moderate amount for work. I used to travel all the time. There have been six-month periods that I was away on business trips more than I was home. Thankfully that’s slowed down a lot and now I’m only gone a few weeks every two or three months.

Still though, the decisions made while I’m gone for 10 days are baffling, shocking and bizarre to me. I don’t know about your marriage (or domestic union, or shack up, or polygamist cult), but generally in my household decisions that affect both participants are a committee kind of decision. An idea is put forth. If there is opposition, a counter argument is made and, generally, I do whatever the fuck she wants me to do.

I’m not talking about decisions to buy a new tablecloth or replace the towels with a new pattern, (actually our towel collection should really, really be donated to a home for the blind and mentally disturbed. It’s a mishmash of vomit, earth tones and some sort of cloth weaved by a not-very interested person in a refugee camp circa 1820) those kinds of decisions I could give a fuck about because I have a penis.

They’re magically delicious. Now with lip balm!(Photo credit: Valeri-DBF) 

Really, during this most recent trip, my wife replaced a lot of our dinner plates. My interest registered on the “husband gives a fuck” scale at a two. Something scientists in a famous 1978 study defined as, “Is she happy with the decision? If yes, shut the hell up.” She showed me the new plates and I asked myself the following: Will the plate hold food? Yes. Is she happy with the plate? Yes. Therefore the plate is fucking great. If it were not for her I would be eating cold Frosted Flakes out of the box, happy I had remembered to buy Frosted Flakes in the first place.

So, by change, I don’t mean the simple changes that serve to turn the feces-strewn, half-naked-poster-girl-riddled cardboard box the single me would call home, into the comfortable, charming place I now live in because of my wife’s awesomeness.

Oh no, I mean the completely irrational, logic-defying, who-in-their-right-mind-would-consider-this-an-improvement kind of change.

Changes that make no fucking sense whatsoever kind of changes.

Which are my favorite kind of changes.

You probably want examples. I would too, honestly. I mean, a guy can’t just make wild claims about his wife making these kinds of changes and not back it up with a few examples can he?

Lucky for you I have examples*.

We no longer have a trash can.

I don’t mean the little ones you and I all have in the bathroom that collects tissue and cotton swabs. Nor do I mean the ones we all keep in our bedroom collects “Oh that’s fucking GROSS, NO!” I mean missing into the abyss was the central trashcan of the house. Yours is likely in the kitchen as is ours … as WAS ours.

While I was gone the decision was made that all refuge will be place in little

Clearly these are better than the $80 trash can with the spring loaded lid you had to have last spring. Clearly.(Photo credit: EvelynGiggles)

convenience store bags (of which we have eight million stored) and then when full (and they are always full) they will be removed from the house.

Now look, in addition to being a major contributor to the house’s trash-making capability (beer cans), I am also the authority on taking out the trash because she decreed it so eons ago. That part is fine, it’s not a household chore I mind and really it’s pretty easy. I’ve even been taught to check the liner after the bag is removed and, if dirty, to spray it with cleaning solution and wipe with a paper towel.

I mean I have this shit down.

So how was this decision made? Saying nothing about recycling. How did we go from having a respectable clean receptacle for our trashcan to using 7-Eleven type bags? That’s like deciding not to use the dishwasher when you have a working dishwasher.

Yeah. We’re no longer using the dishwasher.

I’m pretty sure my wife was abused by a dishwasher as a child. I suspect it’s a repressed memory. Nothing else describes her fear and loathing of the dishwasher doing its job. Its been an ongoing battle.

“Honey, just use the dishwasher,” I’d say.

“I like doing them by hand, it’s relaxing,” would be the reply.

Then two weeks later when it becomes more aggravating than relaxing (which in my stunning brilliance I predicted) I get, “Can you help me wash the dishes?”

Yes, honey, yes I can, by loading the dishwasher.

* I could write a book with examples and may still…

Happy Bday Had a Few Beers. You’re one year old. Now get to work …

Happy beerday blog, you’re one year old today.

Today this craptastic collection of bad jokes, thinly-veiled, breast-fetish material and homage to alcoholism that I call “Had a Few Beers” is 1 year old.

Actually, I’m not really sure what day I started this and am really too lazy to look it up. It was January though, I remember that much. I was drinking beers in my garage when I thought, “You know what I should do with all these awesome thoughts I have, I should write them down so that the world can see how great they are.”

I should mention I was looking at a friend’s BMW parked in my garage for

Yes, early on at HadaFewBeers.com we staged, and by we I mean I, epic dinosaurs verses army men battles on a friends new BMW hood. Why mandatory drug testing was not insisted upon at my work, I’ll never know.

the winter and thinking about the merits of tea-bagging various parts of it at the time.  So there’s that, if it adds context.

But here we are 89 posts later,  and I know that exact number because the dorks at WordPress insist on telling me “OH MY GOD! YOU JUST LOADED ANOTHER UPDATE” every time I, ya know, load a fucking update. I mean the last thing I want when I push “publish” is a giant pop up screen tell me about it. I have typos to fix and links to shorten. The nerds who  run this place need to actually DO a blog here.

Anyway, 89 painfully obvious updates and a year later, here we are. Hitting 50,000 views in the very near future (all of them looking for information about sauna boners it would seem if the search terms are to be trusted) and I’m ready to do some more — damage.

A quick rundown of the year would go this way.

Sgt. 1^st Class Taylor’s updates were the most popular per day view with 1,276 views in a 24-hour period.

The first post to reach 100 views in a day was this one and I didn’t even write it (bitch!).

She was also my first ‘guest blogger’ … the first of four (and here they are).

The most popular search term with 1,425 hits is (do not follow this link, it’s a porn site and I honestly don’t know how or why it’s associated with HAFBs, if anyone can explain it I will pay money) Beeg.com.

The second is most popular search term is, drum roll, “nude sauna.”

The nude sauna seriously has by far been the most popular over time.  A lot of people in ‘Merica are looking for nude sauna blogs, or they just want porn about saunas, I don’t know.

Look people it’s really, really hot in those things.  I know people in Europe are

See no one is slipping anyone a Mr. Happy …

naked and there are mixed genders in there but it’s really, really hot in there. I promise no one is scrogging in a real sauna.  Just blinking is tiresome in there, for the love of god.

The first ‘500’ views (in a day) was Things you don’t know about the military until you get out of the military.

We’ve had some great cleavage shots because a chick I know rocks at sending spur of the moment cleavage shots.  (*mental note, do a cleavage montage update later).

Our favorite blogger has to be Oh God, My Wife Is German and he gave us our first “shout out” when this first started. He also gave us another shout out after winning an expatriate blogger award. He also rocks, so go read his stuff. He breaks electric razors for his blog.  All I’ve ever destroyed here is my reputation — you know stupid stuff.

We have a facebook like page with over 1,000 likes (and growing) that you can reach (and like) here or over on the left if you don’t like my link.

Anyway, it’s all right here in this handy-dandy end-of-year report by the good folks at WordPress.com. Good job, nerds. You can see Marni Sandberg out performed Mmmmmags as the top commenter.   Though neither broke the 20 comments. Way to underachieve, ladies.

An old Army friend, Fran, came out of the wordwork and offered to edit this damn thing, something that (as you know) was desperately needed, and another friend has started trying to market it because I tweet like old people______ and ______.

Those two ______ up above are intentional.  I didn’t just start a joke and then not finish it and post it like that. I mean, I would, but I didn’t this time.  I did it because I want you — the person looking for sauna-boner information — to finish that joke. Finish it and leave it in the comments. If funny enough I’ll laugh, a lot.

This leads me to the way ahead with this thing. See I’m like a ship’s captain navigating the wordy seas. Arrgh maties! Thar be a heavin’ set o’ bossoms off the port side o’ the poop deck!  (Suck on that last sentence, Fran!)

I’d like to expand this thing.  I’d like to get more people involved, more writers mainly.  A lot of you are funny, funny, funny and if you want to try your hand at writing something let us know.  Leave a comment or send an email if you’re interested.

Because, more and more, this blog is becoming more of an “us” than an “me.”

I’m also a lazy shit, I don’t want to have to do all the work.

Seriously, in what is likely the worst casting call of all time if I’m calling on you for your “lolz!”

If you can type a sentence that doesn’t make Fran want to commit suicide,( and she’s strong in that regard. I’ve really tested her on this) and if you can make a joke that’s funny and want to give it a go, reach out. I can promise you, really promise you, that if you just want to try writing without having your name associated with it, we’re your blog. If we like it we’ll push it and your name will never be released. Most of the ‘mystery’ bloggers here are easily enough figured out because they know me personally, but I’d never give out a name without permission.

Finally, and this might be years, rather than a year down the road, I realize that

Finally a boobie free blog … not this blog though, no way. HAFBs will always have boobies.

some people reading this who are otherwise very funny writers might not want their name associated with HAFB.com because of well, boobies, beer and the frequency in which I say fuck.

But I do have an idea, a totally new idea, that might be more appropriate. Something without boobs, without beer and without my politics… stay tuned.

Finally (really finally this time) thanks to Dagmar for putting up with me and reading this crap. Thanks to Fran for coming on board and editing (still hoping she writes something – she’s very talented), thanks to mystery social-media guy who honestly puts up with way too much of my shit, thanks to the mystery guest bloggers and thanks to you, whoever you are, reading this. I get a lot of joy out of doing it, but it would be very, very pointless without you.

Thank you.

My wife finally gets a smart phone. I get unsmarter …

So after years, literally years, of pleading with my wife that she get rid of the brick she referred to as a cell phone (purchased in 2005, I kid you not) I have, at last, achieved success.

While my appeals garnered responses like, “It makes calls, that’s all I need it for,” and “Phones are stupid, people shouldn’t have them,*” I was gobsmacked when she turned to me last week and said, with a straight face, “Would you get me a smart phone?”

Just because the phone is smart, doesn’t mean I am.

Why did the technophobe become the technophile, you ask? Her daughter, is the simple answer. Her daughter asked me last weekend why her mom didn’t have a smart phone and the bells went off in my head. This, I knew, was the perfect way to get my lovely wife away from her monochrome flip phone and into something more representative of this millennium.

“You should suggest it to her,” I skillfully replied (because if nothing, I have mad skillz at … stuff). If her daughter wanted it, mommy would do it.

I was right. Her daughter asked her to do it and she did it for that reason and that reason alone.

Dagmar is now the proud owner of an iPhone 5, which is a better phone than mine. I rushed right out and got it, lest her desire to own a piece of modern technology faded and she became once again enamored with that paper weight she clung too.( I promise you it had a rotary dial on it. She would dial a nine and have to wait five minutes for the rotary wheel to reset — and most of you didn’t get that joke did you?)

I think this is a good time to point out that I haven’t used the word fuck, shit or “that really bad word” once yet.  Have you noticed?  It wasn’t intentional at all. Isn’t that a hoot?

Boobies! There I feel a bit better, not much but a bit.

Which reminds me, here I am in a hotel room without any access to images of boobs, save strangers’ on the internet, and all my lovely bride is sending me are fucking (wow I finally swore in a real sentence … I’m getting my  stride back) photos of the cat. Really honey, is it too much to ask for a little “bow chicka wow wow” at the end the evening?

So new iPhone in hand, out into the modern world she goes. I felt uncertain, at first, as if I had released a blind person from their curse. I can call blind people cursed here because blind people can’t read this. So suck on that blind people.

The first few days you watch a person with their first smart phone is like watching a toddler explore the playground. Sure they’ll eat some sand (send a text that reads “you are a butt thread,”) hurt themselves on the monkey bars, (send photos of their foot) and get pushed down by a 3-year-old but hey — that’s part of growing up!

I have noticed, in the past, when she wasn’t working, Facebook wasn’t quite the evil, retarded (it’s totally evil and retarded, honey) stop on the internet she always claimed it was.  Meaning, with a bit of leisure time and ready computer access she was quite the little commenter. She even did updates.

Even. Did. Updates.

A few of you who are friends with my her on Facebook may have noticed a slight uptick in comments from my lovely frau. You can thank the iPhone(though she still has that retarded kitten as her profile picture).

Boobalicious. I’m going to start saying boobalicious more often

I will also, for the foreseeable future, not be making comments about your boobs, ladies. I’m totally kidding. I will still be totally be making comments about your boobs.

Here’s a few boob comments I’ve been “developing.”

That’s boobtastic!  You’re boobalicious! I’m boobcited about tits, I meant this.

I can’t wait for warmer weather. Can you tell?

So anyway I love boobs.  Boobs, boobs, boobs.

Oh shit, wait – this is about my wife getting an iPhone 5.

Honey, I love you. Text me baby.  Text me boobs!

* that’s an actual quote.

Things about having a blog that piss me off, besides calling it a blog I mean.

I’ve wanted to do this for a while, basically since day one, but saying that blogging sucks on the first day you blogged makes you a giant whiner. I am not a giant whiner, I’m a smallish whiner damn it.

So let’s get started with the whining, shall we?

This first one is directed at the people who run WordPress, hosts of this hadafewbeers.com thing. None of you are to blame for this issue (unlike the other issues, which we’ll get to, you bastards) but I felt like I had to share it.

When I write something, I make sure there are tons and tons of grammatical errors, misspelled words, run-on sentences, incoherent thoughts and finally lots of missing

See, see it happened again … damn it wordpress.com, why does this keep happening?

Then I hit a button, literally a button that says, “publish.”   Every time I hit this button I remember something I needed to do before I was ready to publish, (you know, like make a joke about boobs, include words in the update, remove that photo of my testicles that I found really, really funny last night but not so funny in the morning) so while the computer and the “internetz” are working together toward publishing the update I’m busy yelling out in my kitchen, “FUCK I FORGOT TONS OF SHIT I WAS GOING TO DO … FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!”

Dagmar loves that last part especially.

The retarded joke two paragraphs up aside, when I hit “publish” what I expect to happen is I’ll still be looking at the exact same screen I was looking at when I hit the button.

Not with WordPress, oh no. With WordPress, you get a retarded, “Congratulations, You’ve posted XXX number of updates” screen. Truth is I’ve only done about 75 of these “updates,” “blogs,” “posts,” “making an ass of myself,” whatever you call them, so maybe it’ll stop someday. I can’t imagine more senior people doing this getting a “Congratulations you’ve posted 42,136 posts,” screen but who knows.

I defer to sweet mother here, I defer and pray that someday it stops.

Next up, sex, and by next up I mean right f’ing now baby!

Fortunately these days I get more hits per day than the WordPress “stats/search terms” link indicates.  Meaning, it shows me the most popular search terms that brought a reader here, but it’s less than the actual readers who, presumably, read here.

Which is a good thing because the search terms make even me blush. I, at one point, (when they were the only hits I got here basically) encouraged it, but not anymore. If you’ve read here for more than 9 months you know what they are.   There is a new one though, a new one that makes no sense.

People are coming here because of beeg.com. Don’t fucking go there. Really. I mean it. And don’t come back and later say, “Well you can’t expect me to not go there when you said, ‘Don’t go there!’” Because, yes, yes I can expect you to not go there. First off, its silly. It appears to be the Huffpo of porn, meaning there’s no original content, just postings of porn from legit porn sites. My antivirus program caught on fire two seconds into my own visit. While I searched, and really it was a search – as in why are people coming to my retarded blog from here—I realized that if Dagmar walked in my legitimate research would not be easily explained.

Dagmar:  Are you looking at porn?

Me:  Well, technically yes, but it’s for the blog so its okay. In fact it’s kind of like work!

Which every husband knows, is exactly how that conversation would go.

This leads to my next issue … the fucking cat. Listen cat, can you stop leaving mouse heads on the door step? I mean look at that thing. It looks like a mafia warning. I realize this has nothing to do with blogging, boobs or with beer, but fuck, its gross kitty. Stop it.

Finally, I’d like to thank most of the world. You people rock. This retarded endeavor gets hits from all over the world and wow, that’s cool. I mean countries I would never expect to have a readership here …. have a readership here. I’m looking at you Canada with your 1,272 unique views – all of which were probably achieved by some chick named Whitney hitting control F5 over and over again – but still, you Canadian’s rock.

But Uruguay, Isle of Man and (this is a country?) Brunei Darussalam I need all

Come on Isle of Man … wtf?

of you to pick it up a bit, OK.   Each of you are in the single digits for visits. Step it!

I wouldn’t have thought I needed to remind ‘Isle of Man” about this sort of thing but, here we are.

Every time the Petraeus scandal is updated in the news, this happens in my head

A few people, and not ALL of them are in my head either, asked why I was so quiet about the Petraeus scandal.

Someone even thought it was (drum roll … ) on purpose.

Powerful, older man, has sex with hotter younger woman that finds powerful older men attractive?  No … this doesn’t happen.  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s not.   I mean I’ve been sending most of you topless photos of myself for months now and I haven’t been called by the Huffington post at all.  What gives?   Also some of your comments about my photos were really, really mean.    I think comparing my abs to a plucked chicken breast was a bit out of line.

But still why aren’t I talking about it?   Because every time I start to think about it the following conversation occurs in my head.

This is the stupidest story ever.   Why do you insist on thinking about it …

Look, we’ve got a super-powerful man that has slowly, methodically worked his way up to a position of national importance that’s married to a frumpy-looking, yet dedicated and by all accounts loving, wife.

Check. 

So then the powerful man meets a pretty lady that thinks he is, ‘super cool’ and wants to tell the world how, ‘super cool’ he is via a biography she eventually pens.   They both also rub their genitals together for ‘the sex’.

Sure, unfortunate but otherwise fairly normal.   Isn’t this actually the plot line to like hundreds of romance/suspense movies?

There’s also a third woman.  Which …

Okay now we’re getting the crazy levels up, we’re adding some spicy spice to the damned sauce.   Go on please.

The third woman, who coincidentally thinks, though reality says otherwise, that

This is honestly the only funny thing about this whole train wreck. Fake or not, and I suspect fake, it’s hysterical. Thanks for sending it to me Alex.

she’s somehow, and this part is sort of unclear, entitled to diplomatic protection services even though she’s A: not a diplomat, or employed by the department of anyone and B: is bat-fuck nuts.  It will become clear why she feels she’s entitled to this in a moment.

That’s fucking weird, how the hell is she the third woman, did he do her too?  Was it like an awesome threesome?

No he didn’t do her too.   Just wait a moment, I’ll tell you.   Seems the biographer chick he was doing somehow got pissed off at the ‘not a diplomat but thinks she is chick because – it’s fucking Florida’ and then biographer chick sent her ‘threatening emails.”

Like “I’ll drive-across the county in a diaper” threatening emails that the astronaut chick sent?  Cause I loved that story.

Almost but not quite, this one is almost as good though.

Back to the threesome, was it a hot threesome?

There was no threesome, you made that part up.

Well then how did the biographer chick find out about the other chick?

Through emails, somehow.   I think she had access to his email.

Friendster … come for the friends, stay for the hot biographical chicks?

So basically the two hot chicks are fighting over the powerful guy.  Wasn’t this on desperate housewives?  Are you sure you’re not confusing this with one of those shows?

No, now shut up.   This story is fucking awesome but I need you to shut up so I can tell it.

Fine, go on.

So fucked up diplomat/not a diplomat chick, here after referred to as Dip, gets threatening letters from crazy-hot biographer chick.   Being concerned with the nature of the emails Dip turns to a friend in the FBI and asks for help.  Help means, according to the FBI agent in question, ‘send me shirtless photos’.

So wait, what?  The FBI agent, after talking to Dip and seeing the threatening emails decides to send her shirtless photos as a way of helping?   That sounds more like a secret service kind of thing.

Well, did I mention Dip is pretty hot?

Proceed sir. 

Well she is and here’s the better part of it.    From all accounts she was also married to a doctor and the two of them, once the media shoved a spotlight up their asses, are dead broke but, and get this, portray themselves as rich socialites but they’re fucking broke.   Even better they have a charity which basically blew the donations on parties and travel and shit.  She also had some bullshit title like, ‘social engineering liaison with the embassy of the …

What’s the charity for?

How the fuck should I know?  Who cares?

I do.  What’s the charity for?

Fuck, I don’t know.  It’s for kids that poop out their ears … it’s not important.

That’s not even a real thing.   You’re an asshole.

Do you want to hear the rest of this or not?

No, not really.

Well fuck you, you’re going to.

Fine …

So while Dip is a complete fuckstain of human life the FBI agent, in between sending topless photos of himself, turns the ‘case’ over to the FBI computer geeks and, I don’t know magic happens.   Bam the guy in question turns out to be the director of the CIA.

Great can we get back to talking about boobs and beer, this story sucks.

This story has boobs!  Have you not been paying attention?   I mean they’re implied boobs but still.

Implied boobs are the worst kind of boobs …

Shut up, we’re almost done.

So turns out during the course of the investigation a general, a Marine four-star general mind you, serving in Afghanistan and Dip have been exchanging what was first called ‘flirtatious emails’ and then were called the ‘email equivalent of phone sex’ messages.

Wait what?

Just what I said, the ‘email equivalent of phone sex.’  I read it on Foxnews.com!

How the fuck does that work?   “Oh baby you’ve got me so hot.  I hold you close to me, we kiss deeply” <send> <wait 6 hours>   <read reply> “I feel your cock throbbing in your pants with my hand” <send> <wait 2 hours>  …  that’s kind of fucking stupid.

But that’s like two powerful men getting ready to fall because of this bizarre sex scandal.   Isn’t’ that fucking crazy?

No you idiot it’s the oldest, stupidest, most retarded story ever told.   Powerful man falls because of hot chick, gee what a novel fucking concept.   This has NEVER happened before … OMG how crazy.  

Let me boil this whole thing down to five words.  

Man fucks crazy, crazy happens.

No dude this story has so much more too it! It has …

… No, no it doesn’t.   This story, in those five simple words, could be used a cautionary tale for generations.  Hell I think it IS a cautionary tale that has already been told for generations.  

Maybe you don’t understand the ramifications, the consequences, the world changing implications …

Stop.  It doesn’t matter if I do or not, it’s the same fucking story.   Powerful man with loving yet frumpy wife at home fucks crazy chick.  Crazy chick then goes crazy.   There did I sum it up?

You’re a dick.

No you are.  You thought somehow that you’d add some wise-cracking fun into what is a national security story about a powerful man fucking a crazy chick who then, and here’s the crazy part, goes crazy.   What the fuck could you possibly add?

Fucking you I’m going to bed.

I’m coming too.   Can we at least watch “girls gone wild?”

Only if it’s the girls gone wild diplomatic corps edition.

Deal.