I have glitter on my hands and I smell like hooker — stay out of your coworker’s desk

I smell like hooker.

In fact, I have glitter on me.

Don’t tell my wife okay?

Thanks.

Why I smell like hooker and have glitter on my body is best described with a photo …

There were issues … I still smell like coconut chickness and I’m starting to like it.

Yeah that. That right there. That’s the issue. Coconut Carmel Whip hand sanitizer and girly girl co-workers are the reason.

They’re at fault. Not me. No sir.

Earlier in the day I purchased two bags of “Bigs” bacon-flavored sunflower seeds because they’re flavored like bacon.  How anyone can pass them up in the store remains a mystery to many of us.

Anyway, after happily munching bacon-flavored sunflower seeds at my desk all damned day long, I’d worked my way thought every drink I had at my desk. I drank an old can of Citra found in the desk drawer, the Gatorade I bought with the sunflower seeds, a carton of old milk in the office fridge (bad decision). I was contemplating collecting the dew off plants outside when I finally broke down and went to the Shoppette.

The Shoppette, for those of you unfamiliar with military life, is basically a convenience store.  They have lots of convenient products, it’s never very clean and the cashier only has like $20 in the register.

An IV for my tongue (Salt fucks a tongue up!) was what I wanted. I considered buying a bag of ice and just sucking the cubes, one after the other.

I don’t understand how something so manly, with the name BACON right in the title, leaves me feeling so very, very dirty!

After asking my co-workers what they wanted, because I’m an awesome guy, I struck out on my five-minute endeavor. Because I’m quite the clever guy, and because I am basically a lazy bastard, I decide to also buy some beer for later when I get home.  I bought two Gatorades, a bag of chips for the boss and two, four-packs of Bitburger because nothing says you have shitty taste in beer like Bitburger purchased in Germany.

Proudly, I step up to the counter and engage in small talk.

I am fine today sir, just fine and you? Ah that’s splendid.  Busy?  No?  Well sometimes that’s good, my friend. Yes, yes I would like to hear about your special …. Wait, what’s all this fucking liquid.

Thankfully the store was empty, because as the cashier bagged the beers up it became obvious that one of the beers had a hole in it. It was obvious because there was fucking beer everywhere in little tiny puddles.  All over the counter, all over the bags, and a glistening trail on the linoleum leading up to the register.

I can only assume the cashier also has a long history with beer. Perhaps he has a blog called Ilikebeer.com, we may never know.  We both immediately sprung into action trying to locate the culprit. (To discover which beer can has the pinprick hole in it, one must firmly squeeze each can.)

Can you see where this is going?  Yeah, me too.  NOW I can.

I, of course, located the wayward can and when I gave it a firm squeeze, a pressurized stream of beer shot out all over my arm. Actually, it was worse than that, it shot back into the aisle and covered not only my arm, but my shirt and hands in the process.

I replaced the four-pack, paid for my order, then desperately looked for something to clean up with. The search proved futile. I’d have to stay beer-soaked until I got to the car where I had a bottle of, I’d soon learn, empty hand sanitizer.

A good 45 seconds of cursing later, I said fuck it and drove back to the office covered in drying beer.  Which, I think most of you know, smells like ass.

Throwing my boss his bag of chips, I looked for and located what appeared to be a bottle of hand sanitizer. I plucked it off my (absent at the time) coworker’s desk and applied a liberal dollop to my hand and to my arm and commenced with the sanitizing.

But in addition to the alcohol-smelling, germ-killing goodness, I was treated to stripper glitter, coconut and caramel whip, whatever the fuck that is.

So male friends this is the lesson. You can grab anything off a male coworker’s desk and use it for any manly purpose you so desire, but reach into your female coworker’s desk and come away smelling of strippers, bad decisions, and coconut.

Finally, damn it, is humanity just breaking down? There was a time that hand sanitizer just contained alcohol, some gel shit and it smelled like dead germs.    Who is the asshole who started adding glitter and coconut to this stuff?   Used to be that prisoners would take this hand sanitizer and light it on fire during riots, what are they doing with it now?  Exfoliating …

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.

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

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.