Tag Archives: Coffee

I get beat by a leather whip while wearing a cowboy jacket and pink boxers … I missed you too


I was going to make this update private, readable by only my wife, Gina, Maggie, Adrian, Marni, Todd B, Mike G (cause he’s cool), Carmen, Craig, Greg, Brian, Leila, Lynn, Bob, Jesse, Jill of course, my cousin Cory, some dude I met last Wednesday and my Dad.

Then I remembered I’m an attention whore and if it can’t be read by everyone why write it?

Boiled down, any story that ends with Dagmar whipping my ass with an actual whip, while I’m wearing boxers and a cowboyish leather jacket (yeah the one from facebook) should be used as a cautionary tale to others.

For those of you that hate me, there’s also head trauma so stick around.

This one

The Jacket that keeps on giving … me pain.

Really though the night ended with me getting whipped, by Dagmar wearing a leather bra and leather chaps, while I was wearing that abortion of a jacket and pink striped boxers.

Some back story is likely called for.

And don’t you hate that?  Someone is writing something crazy and they cut in with, “but before I tell you the cool shit, here’s stuff I want you too read cause, context is fun”.    Yeah I’d skip too the end too.   Look for the bolded part.

About a month ago Dagmar left me.   So call me ladies!   Okay, okay she didn’t ‘leave me’ so much as she took a new job up the road in a place where I will also be working soon.    We were both moving, she just moved first.

Through luck, chance and charm a good friend of ours just moved there.   She offered, and we graciously accepted, Dagmar a place to sleep at night so she would be spared the hour or so one way drive.

This offer, coupled with the fact that I was going on a three-week long business trip that consisted of retarded crazy hours meant that Dagmar and the cat were moving into our friend’s house until we were resettled.

We were effectively ‘separated’ only I couldn’t have meaningless sex with random bar chicks because Dagmar likes to split hairs.   She’s a total kill joy.

So after three weeks of cross-dressing Germans, creamer incidents and me not dying. I arrive home.

To nothing.

Seriously after three weeks of not being able to get away from anyone … of only having a 10-minute break at the end of the night alone I arrive home to an empty house.

No wife, no cat, no anyone.

I had a hand-held radio for the three weeks I was there, it would call out at four a.m. “Wolverine 17 this is Beached whale 79, I’m at check point “I fucked your mom” and I think the training unit just committed a level one poop in the bed!”

I would yell out, ‘shut up!’ at the radio and cry in my pillow.   But mostly I would just turn it off and go back to bed.

I bring that up because even when I was alone, I wasn’t.   The radio brought me, even at 3 in the morning, constant updates.

So when I arrived home on Wednesday at about 5 in the afternoon I was thrilled that I wouldn’t see another human being until Friday night.

Yeah, so I was crazy for human companionship by Friday.  I was also crazy for a shave, a shower, a change of clothes and my ass desperately needed to get off the damned couch.

I can do a day alone, I’m cool with that.   Forty-eight hours though and I’m getting a bit ‘freaked out’.   At 56 hours I’m talking to myself in the mirror and I’m disagreeing with myself.

Luckily though I get to go see Dagmar, I just have to drive an hour and a half to do it.

Dagmar is full of instructions though before I can come see her.   Pick up sausage links, eggs, white wine that kind of tastes like summer and her new domestic-partner is no better, pick up two packs of cream cheese, make sure they’re blessed by midget angels — cause that’s the kind I like.

I mean I’m just screwed all around.   It’s typical German November weather, meaning it sucks.  I’m wet at every turn but I have coffee.

Did I mention coffee?

Every place I stopped had coffee.   I cannot, on a night like this, ignore coffee.

I think the amount of coffee I drank almost equaled meth before the drive.  Had someone gave me a no shit line of meth I don’t think I could have been more white knuckled during that drive.

Pouring rain, hopped up on java, I think I peed in a Gatorade bottle at one point but I made it.

People!  Interaction!  Friends!

But there’s my wife and there’s that slight bit of awkward haven’t seen you for three weeks, fuck you kiss me, you’re beautiful, time and here we are at the end of the party.  The dinner plates are being cleared, guests are being said good bye too and I’m wearing a leather jacket …

Yeah again ‘that’ leather jacket.

Bolded part starts now for those of you that suck ….

Everyone else but the three of us has left and for a moment I think Dagmar and our host has left too.

I find myself all alone in the living room.

The girls, and my memory here is hazy, disappeared.

I assume there was much giggling.

I’m not sure if I was confused, drunk or just happy here. But part of me realizes it could have been all three so…

When they reappeared, Dagmar was dressed in a no-shit leather bra, leather chaps and holding a whip.  She spoke in an over the top German accent about my, ‘misbehaving’ and then I, for reasons I cannot explain (it was beer) stripped to my boxers.

Anyone who knows me knows that it takes about 3.5 beers for me too get naked because … well it’s me.

Well after getting whipped by my wife while another person watched and laughed with great joy, the great, penthouse-crazy sex didn’t happen because none of us are in college, retarded and it was late, like 10:30 or so.  We’re also old; do I need to mention we’re old?

When I awoke the next morning I had a headache, which isn’t at all unusual but this one was different it was only on the right side of my brain.    Had the left side of my brain just fucking quit, had I finally killed it?   Why wasn’t the pain equal?

I had no time for such trivialities as ‘head-pain level 5’.   I was wearing pink stripped boxer, black dress socks and nothing else.   The headache would have to wait.  I could have asked Dagmar but that would have led to ugly consequences like the truth.   Better to investigate this mystery myself.    I suspected old-man Winter’s did it but the mystery van and Scoobie Doo were no were to be found so I followed my other hunch, they were downstairs.

I mean there’s a pounding on the right side of my head that would have left

Porn star Jenna Jameson at the 2007 Adult Ente...

I’ve just always wanted to include a photo Jenna here.  CALL ME HON!(Photo credit: Wikipendia)

Jenna Jameson impressed, I’m in boxers and black socks.

Solve the immediate problem first my reptile brain screamed, ‘find the clothes.’

I darted downstairs hoping our host was still fast asleep only to discover she was awake, well composed, drinking tea and completely un-shocked by a nearly naked man in her living room making wild claims about shirts, pants and shoes.

“They’re upstairs,” she replied, barely looking up from her computer.

FUCK!

I ran back up and there they were, sorta folded on a nightstand.   Dagmar is to blame, I obviously would have left them in a pile besides the bed … had I been wearing them when I went to bed.

“Does your head hurt,” came the question from the bed as I desperately tried to unfuck inside-out clothes.

Does my head hurt?   That wasn’t code from Dagmar for ‘do you have a hangover’, that question would just be asked straight forward.   What was she …

Oh shit now I remember and, ‘oh shit’ was exactly what I said when it happened.

I’d fallen out of bed that night and, as it’s a typical German house, there is no carpet.  My retarded brain collided, violently on the right side it would seem, with cold-unforgiving tile.

In my, admittedly flimsy, defense that bed is a head trauma nightmarish contraption of concussion inducing fuck all, it’ll be labeled by OSHA as a class one felony any minute now.   The top mattress is bigger than the bottom box spring and for a retard like me, pushed into the ‘danger zone’ by Dagmar, well gravity was going to win the fight.

My head still hurts.

What happened last night, German cross dressers, beer and fun


Everyone from Facebook remember this pic?  It was literally last night so …

Hello and welcome to oour hotel

Hello and welcome to our hotel

This is the backstory…

This never happens to me.   Really honey, it doesn’t.   Maybe I was nervous? I mean there’s a lot of pressure here to perform!

Didn’t know how to write this but I think it needs to be written so let’s just do it in sequence.  Also I’m working with a lot of hard-core military types at the moment so there will be a lot of phrases like, ‘in sequence’, ‘on order’, ‘move to grid square xyz’ and ‘can I borrow your exfoliating gel.’

Deal with it.

Story starts, time now.

Date:  Yesterday morning.

Time: 0650

Situation:   Linked up with head mofracky in charge, hereafter referred to as ‘the boss’ to conduct and execute road march to dining facility (DFAC).  Conducted safety briefing which focused on how many bacon pieces were too many at DFAC and did she or did she not have a hot set of ‘sweater kittens’.

Side note to all military wives: Yes she did, but not as hot as yours.

Time: 0700

Arrived at DFAC and executed operation “fill our bellies with wholesome goodness.”   Casualties included my dignity and most of the pork selection.

Okay enought of that.

The boss and I met early, went to have breakfast and on the way back to the office we stopped at a convenience store for coffee.   When we stopped Dagmar called me so I didn’t go inside, the boss agreed to get me a coffee while I ‘took care of business’ with the frau.

Dagmar and I are moving so it’s a conversation a bit above, “yeah it sucks we’re apart” and has some detail to it, meaning I was really paying attention outside the store.

I was really paying attention until I looked inside and said the following to Dagmar, “I have to go, right now.”

I wish I had photos.

I’ll try and do his version justice but just know that when I turned around, while on the phone with my wife, I saw what appeared to be milk shooting my boss in the chest.

You can see why I had to hang up.

Mister former infantry went inside to get the coffees and discovered a group of Romanian soldiers milling around the coffee pots getting coffee for, in his words, everyone (for non military reading this he means coffee for LOTS OF PEOPLE) .

Undeterred by this obstacle and because he likes a bit of coffee with his cream he ‘plans out his attack’., he’ll fill his cup with creamer and sugar while the Romanians are monopolizing the coffee.

A good plan if I ever heard one.

Because I like my coffee like I like my ladies, bitter and black, I am unfamiliar with the mechanics of cream and liquid sugar dispensers.   They are, to my limited understanding, simple devices meant to dispense to the customer cream and sugar in rationed doses.   But the devil is always in the details because according to him, most all dispensers require that you push the handle in to dispense the product.

This one you had to pull.

Realizing this fact, my boss and former infantry officer if that adds context, pulled – with typical infantry officer retard strength, and ripped the nozzle off the dispenser shooting ‘cream’ everywhere.

Some other officer came to his aid as the Romanians were too stunned to react to the epic level of awesome they were witnessing and I was at this point hanging up on Dagmar so I could, well laugh, as coffee creamer shot everywhere.   It quickly filled up the cup he was holding and the on the unsuspecting captain handed him.   He quickly jammed the nozzle back into the device but by now the damage was done.  He had committed a creamer atrocity that no amount of free napkins would fix.   As we left, with our coffee, he told the cashier, I made a bit of a mess back there and as we exited the store two junior soldiers commented, “man someone had some fun here didn’t they!”

Yes, yes they did.

The rest of the day was boring work shit.

You’re reading this so I assume you realize I like beer.   It’s in the name of the blog after all.  What you do or do not know is that left to my own devices I’m very, very anal about what beer I drink.   Currently I drink bit burger, go ahead, laugh it up.

Point is that a swarm of locus had descended upon the store, the same store that had been creamed, and purchased all the bit burger in stock except for the little retard kegs.   The one in the photo, go ahead and look, I put one up for you to see.  See it?  Yeah who buys that thing besides retards like me and 21 year olds.

I bought it.  I like bit burger, don’t judge me … STOP FUCKING JUDGING ME!

I had to DO math in the store, well almost math, stupid-guess math in fact.   Will this fit in my hotel mini-fridge, if not am I fucked?

Answer yes it will and yes you would have been, had you been wrong.

I bring this up because nothing shout’s I have a drinking problem like ‘mini-keg’ purchased by a 40 something guy on a business trip.  I mean really that last sentence should be in a recovering alcoholic’s email signature block.

Flimsy rationalization is about to occur but bear with me.   We all like to relax at night, right?  I know I do.  A few times in Afghanistan I remember literally going back to my bed and literally having to lay down so I could get up a few hour later and hit work again, no time for anything, LITERALLY anything, beyond going to sleep.

When that happened I always felt cheated.    I like to have a bit of time ‘off’

I have a small keg under my arm and am trying to get to my room, five cross-dressing germans are in my hallway, they’ve just offered me a shot. Let’s see where this goes …

mainly now so I can type this stuff but the point is the same, we all need a moment or two to unwind, part of mine is to have a beer and do this.

So the boss and I leave the office late, 9 p.m. late, and because he is constantly, epically, always and forever eating, we hit the restaurant/hotel.   Slight problem, there is a birthday party going on.   It’s a German hotel and restaurant and it’s packed, they seat us in some back room.  Literally the entire restaurant is filled with what I come to understand are people celebrating a birthday, of someone.

In the special short-buss room the boss and I are fed and drink beers and eventually agree to part ways.  I still have to fetch the “I’m a drunk keg” from my car’s trunk so as he leaves I go to get it, secure in the knowledge that I’ll soon be cocooned back here in my room, safe with beer.

I get the mini-keg from the car’s trunk once the boss is safely out of site.  I’m going to have a quiet drink I think.   I have a full beer in my hand and the keg under my arm and enter the hotel via the side door and run into five men dressed in drag.

I’m holding a mini-keg of beer and there are men dressed in drag in front of me.

 I lose my shit.   I see them and just start laughing.  What would you do?

I asked them for a photo.   Which they agreed too.

There are shots, here with men, dressed as chick. Okay, but only one for me.

Then the shots arrived.   Literally right after I took the photo shots arrived.   I mean what would you do?  Okay you’d have gone to bed because you’re not an idiot like me.

I did the shot.  Game on.

I should have gone to bed.   I know this.  I’m sorry.  It ended with an accordion playing and me staring at some old ladies boobs in a traditional German, ‘here’s my cleavage’ shirt thing.   That should have been hyphenated but I’m tired.

Moral of the story … there is no moral.  If you meet cross dressing men in your hotel stairwell, do shots.  That’s the moral.

This is literally how the night ended and I think there are lessons here to be learned. Kids, don’t follow strange men dressed as chicks into parties in hotel’s you aren’t familiar with.

Ah Sunday, relaxing Sund … A lesson in reading your spouses insane side.


Are you the early riser in your house?  If so you and I have something in common.

Go us!

You and I look forward to the few peaceful moments that come with getting out of bed early and enjoy the  precious few quiet moments we have in alone in the house.   If you watch TV in the morning you’re careful to monitor the volume.  You might even be selective about which lights you turn on in order to not disturb the other sleeping people in the house.

You’re, like I, am trying to milk every precious second out of the serene, tranquil morning that you can.*

I like to turn the coffee pot on, tip-toe into the living room and, because I live in Europe and get the American Forces Network on my TV, watch yesterday’s evening news – this morning, while surfing on the iPad.

Weekdays I get a half an hour tops.

But on weekends I typically get a lot more.   So much so that I might even, don’t tell the wife, take a quick 15 to 30 minute nap.   Because life in the 40’s is just that fucking exciting!  Don’t tell the kids …

Then two hours later she wakes up and berates me, while wiping the sleep from her eyes, for not having done ‘anything’ for the past few hours.

Read that last bit again, I’ll wait.

I, fool that I am, thought this Sunday would be like all the others.   True my suspicions should have been ‘hyper-level 10 million level’ when she not only woke up at the same time I did but literally ‘feet hit the floor’ before mine.

Still though no cause to worry, right?

I drifted down stairs to find her brewing tea and the coffee pot already on.

Full-disclosure, though I am awake earlier it does not mean I am in any way capable of making a decision more important than, “should I scratch my crotch or not” for at least 4 cups of coffee and/or 30 minutes.

But not Dagmar, oh no, not her.

She can go from dead asleep to let’s go run a marathon.  Literally, let’s go run, put your stuff on, screw it lets just run in our pajamas, come on let’s go, let’s go!

Her, and you people that are like her, scare me deep, deep inside.   I cannot understand you and I’d be sympathetic if I wasn’t so full of rage toward you.    Slow the fuck down Sparky, we got the whole day ahead of us.

Normally after this many years my morning ritual, when she sees it, is

Well who needs coffee now?

My mornings are … wait huh. Okay I had a point when I start … boobies. Photo shamelessly ripped from Newscorpse.com

respected.   I’m afforded an opportunity to drink coffee, blow my nose, scratch my crotch and make sneering gestures at Fox news anchor Sheppard Smith (an unfortunate consequence of AFN is that during the 6 to 7 a.m. time period it’s him or Piers Morgan – even in my foggy state I pick Sheppard over Piers because Piers just sucks. Plus side note, I predict it’s only a matter of time before Sheppard is caught having dude-on-dude sex somewhere embarrassing, like Florida.  Side note to the side note if you Google “fox news anchor” and select images (if you’re a guy) you’ll thank me … hello ladies!).

And that’s how I overcame my addiction to methamphetamines using nothing but a case of motor oil and a stick of butter.

See what I did there?  I used a joke about getting off track to refer back to the getting off track so we could get back on track.   I’m a geniou … maybe I should just get back on track?

So there I am on the couch yesterday morning, hot and first cup of coffee in hand and there Dagmar is with her cup of tea (when did you become British for the love of God?).  Typical morning really only she’s up of her own volition and the sun isn’t – which tells me something is afoot.

Then it happens, then the statement is made and it is matched by action.   Slamming the footrest back into the sofa without regard to ‘quiet time’ rules at all she jumped to her feet.  Her eyes were wild and her muscles seemed, at least would have seemed, were I awake, to swell.

She became Hulk-Dagmar and there would be action this Sunday morning, quiet time and coffee be damned!

It got much worse as the day went on but I couldn’t take any photos because I was holding televisions up, or something

There. Would.  Be. Action.

I think she was also wearing a green t-shirt which likely led to the hulk analogy, also I was almost asleep.

There are certain ‘thoughts’ expressed in this house that are vocalized but never really acted upon.   For instance in all our years of marriage we have never ate ‘rice and beans’ the entire month even though I’ve been told she’ll do it, she totally can do it, and if I don’t watch out, we will do it.

Hint:  She won’t but it’s fun to hear.

That’s an example of a threat that, made during a ‘discussion about money’, will never happen.  I think it’s called a Paper-Dagmar Argument or something.   I should have paid a lot more attention in class.

Then there are the others.  They’re not threats, they’re warnings.   Things we’re going to do this weekend.  “We’re going to go hike up to the castle”, “we’re going to go to Ikea”, “we’re going to clean the house to within an inch of its life” and “we’re going to go to the blah, blah, blah.”

Any husband reading this understands that probability factors in to each of these ‘statements.’   Yeah maybe we’re going to the event this weekend but you dear wife might, you might blank-percent might, change your mind.   Most of us agree (at the time) that the plan is a good one and start influencing however we can the odds back into our favor.

Our ‘favor’ is code for those of you that are interested for, ‘staying at home, drinking beer and maybe having a fire.’

It’s in the married guy’s bible, chapter II paragraph 4.5.  Look it up.

The one that scares the shit out of me though is the cleaning one.  I can’t predict it, I’m helpless when the cleaning beast rips out of her chest ala Aliens and I know it’s going to hurt me.    The cleaning one is brought up a lot but it’s usually just a light, once over the house, nothing heavy.  But once in a while I find myself moving furniture out of a room and fear for the cat’s life.

So yeah it was the cleaning one.

This is the woman that makes me lift the TV up so she can dust UNDER it.  This request is made and granted during ‘normal weekend’ cleaning.

Can you guess what deep-cleaning consists of?

She once vacuumed a large area rug then turned it upside down and vacuumed the bottom of the rug because German-Puerto Rican people are inside.

This woman once cleaned out and reorganized my toolbox because she wanted me to start a blog or because she’s just that nuts.  You pick.

Truth be known, between moving furniture and polishing the undersides of things I was allowed to listen to podcasts and at about 1 p.m. or so was authorized beer.  The warden has a heart.

To anyone, and yeah I’m looking at you, that says, “You’re the man of the house you do what you want” well I guess your situation is different than mine.   Maybe your dynamic isn’t the same as mine.   To me when she really, really fuck really, wants to do it I’m not going to stop her and I’m going to be a dick if I don’t participate.

Besides I’m too busy holding up the TV so it can be dusted under to really argue and have you MET Dagmar?

*  I have no idea how this works with kids.  I just assume they wake up, poop on themselves, set the pets on fire, eat sugar and yell.    I’m not far off am I?  I forgot only barfing right?  Oh and the cartoons.  Never forget the cartoons.