Tag Archives: Germany

Wunderbar super-rare Bavarian bier actually available right down the road … internet proves, again, I’m retarded.


Here’s a deep-dark secret about me that only you and the rest of the English speaking world know. I named this blog, “Had a Few Beers” because I’d had a few beers.

Radical stuff.

I like beer and when I’ve had a few, sometimes the shit I think about during those moments seems funny or interesting to me and I want to share it.

Other times when I have a few beers I go straight for the porn, but that really limits the blogging topics doesn’t it?

Deutsch: aktuelle Markenlogo Bitburger

Mmmm good old predictable Bitburger, no surprises here! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

But the thing is, when it comes to beer, I’m boring.  I have Plebian tastes. I’m like a person in a restaurant-sampling club that constantly wants to go to McDonald’s.

Restaurant Club member #1: Next week we should sample some Malaysian cuisine.

Restaurant club member #2: That sounds fun, but I’d really like to try that new Somali restaurant everyone’s talking about.

Me: You know the fries at McDonald’s are always fucking delicious. We should totally go there.

When it comes to beer I’m a creature of habit. I want that redundant experience. I want the same taste, I want the same flavor. I’m not looking for the next great summer wheat ale brewed in a virgin’s slipper high atop Mount Beeralvania.

No way, fuck that shit. I want my shitty, redundant, predictable beer experience thank you very much.

That said, much like wine (which I never drink), it doesn’t stop me from learning a bit about different beers or from wanting to understand the differences, the nuances, the complexities and varieties out there. I’m interested.

I know I’ll never be anything close to an expert, and who cares.

Which leads me to Germany and the multitude of different beers this part of Europe offers. They got everything from boring pilsners, to smoked beers to the strongest strongest beer in Germany. I’ll give them all a try.

We moved here in 2007. Almost immediately upon arrival I began to hear about something magical brewing in Bavaria. A beer that was only available in certain parts of the region. It was dark in color, yet somehow light in taste. It left you refreshed while somehow seeming to be thick. It cured cancer, blindness and, if applied directly to the genitals, could issue in an era of world peace.

It was good stuff, or so I’m told. I’m a lazy fucker when it comes to my taste in beer remember?

Winkler Bräu it's made from the tears of beautiful virgins or something ...

Winkler Bräu it’s made from the tears of beautiful virgins or something …

It’s called Winkler Bräu and among a certain set of Americans here in Germany, its a legend.

Soon, among almost any group of Americans I worked with, a business or pleasure trip to Bavaria automatically meant you were obligated to bring back Winkler Bräu. It was as if you were mandated from a higher-power. Should you make the 3.5-hour trip one way, it was your job to return everyone’s empty racks of Winkler Bräu and bring back full ones.  Failure to do such was an affront to all that was good and just in the world. 

I’ve literally stopped on the way home, tired after a long business trip, and Googled the nearest location that carried it. Sometimes I would end up driving miles out of my way to secure the many racks of beer I was expected – nay, mandated by God – to return with.

Bringing back Winkler Bräu is just that important. Forgetting a rack of 20 beers for a buddy can end friendships, wars have or should have been fought over it. You just don’t fuck around when it comes to bringing home the golden nectar.

Because my wife loves it too I picked up a case for her when I was there last week and when I heard a friend was going this week, I dutifully passed on the EUR 20 necessary to purchase another case.  Because apparently you just can’t have enough Winkler Bräu in stock.

And again I don’t even drink it, I just understand that people love it.

Turn to this week. One of my co-workers has something called the “internet.” I don’t really know what that is or what it does, but he seems to have a fine command of it.

During the exchange of euros with those fortunate enough to travel to the promised land in search of Winkler Bräu, he belts out the following:

“Hey, you know that they sell that shit right down the street right? Look right here on Google. You just punch in your address and it shows you where they sell it. They sell it right next to my house, why do you all drive four hours to get it?”

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


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

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

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

Mmm summer. (Full Screen Edition)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There aren’t even any downsides of summer.

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

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

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

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

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

And we fucking meant it.

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

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

English: Twin Peaks Summer Bikini Contest in 2011.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the #$%@ do you people want?


I bet this girl doesn't check her stats. She doesn't have to, what with her being hot and all. http://finsnation.typepad.com/

I bet this girl doesn’t check her stats. She doesn’t have to, what with her being hot and all. http://finsnation.typepad.com/

I quit. Really, I fucking quit. There should be a Blogging 101 class you’re required to take before you start this crap.  Lesson one, day one should read something like, “Stats are a fucking mystery to us all, we recommend sacrificing a virgin at dawn to ensure good stats.”

This blogging shit is hard because I’ve become addicted to stats. Fran (editor extraordinaire)  says I am a people pleaser. She claims I’m eager to do what ever anyone wants to keep ’em coming back. But I don’t even really know Fran. She’s just some broad in North Carolina who (brilliantly ~ Fran) edits this drivel into a fun easy read. (She hopes ~Fran)

I don’t know why I obsess about it.I get the same exact amount of nothing if one person or a million people read this, so my obsession is similar to following Justin Bieber’s career.  I mean, if his career tanks tomorrow, sure you’ll be sad (dork), but you’re not out much. Same here with this effort.

Still though, what the fuck do these numbers mean?

There was a big uptick in March. Why?  February was down — man, it was down!  Why did so few people come here in February?  Was it something I said? In December and January we were up, baby! We had a lot of hits then. What the fuck does all this mean?

It means jack and shit. Nothing. It’s as pointless as changing your profile photo in support of a political cause. Which should mean SOMETHING to some of you, but likely won’t because no one reads this shit that deep except Fran and Marni … Sometime Maggie, but usually not and — fuck, what is this about again?

What the fuck is interesting to read here? Really, what do you find interesting to read here?

I didn't make this. I actually found it on a blog about gutters. A gutter cleaning blog by a gutter cleaner. He also wants people to read his blog. http://www.sparkle-king.com/

I didn’t make this. I actually found it on a blog about gutters. A gutter cleaning blog by a gutter cleaner. He also wants people to read his blog.
http://www.sparkle-king.com/

I think we need a poll. A good old-fashioned honest to “jebus” poll.  A poll that not only says, “This is what I expect out of this retarded blog, but also, this is what I would like out of this blog,” because if stats have told me anything it’s all about you, and I’m fucking all ABOUT you, or at least making you happy.  That sounds funny but it’s really, truly, honest. (See, I told ya. ~Fran)

I want to write things you will enjoy and read.

So, in an effort to figure out the whys, we can and shall — I decree — take a no-shit poll.

It’s right there above this paragraph, can you see it?  For the first time in the history of “Had a Few Beers” we have an real poll. You can’t vote 12 times, you can’t vote for “I like ponies.” You can’t do anything but vote.

Like a good ol’ I-love-God-and-Country American, we’re gonna vote.

I’m curious to see the results. So please vote.  Or leave a comment, comments are also good.

Trash Can Wars Part 2 … Crossing the Rubicon


I can’t do this anymore.

Rebellion, open and honest rebellion, is my only option. The oppressed must rebel.

I have no guns, mind you. No weapons, save a bayonet I bought for like $5 in Iraq years ago. But desperate times, my friends, call for desperate measures.

I speak, of course, of my wife’s retarded – I mean insane, I mean full-blown weird – decision to remove the trash can from the house.

Moar Boobs!

I honestly just blogged, twice about a fucking trash can. Everyone deserves some boobs.

I talked about it here. But if you don’t want to read that, let me sum it up quickly.

My wife decided, for reasons that escape any known or sane definition of logic, to do away with the trash can. The MAIN trash can, mind you (the one in the kitchen), has been removed from the house entirely. In the trash can’s place we are currently using – and I couldn’t make this up if I tried – convenience store plastic bags hanging from the door knob.

Don’t try and work through the “why” of this command decision. There isn’t any way to rationalize it. It is devoid of reason and without logic. There is no, it-helps-with-recycling aspect to it. In fact, I’m pretty sure it does the exact opposite since all trash goes into the same plastic bag.

Ease can’t be the reason for the change. The small bags fill up every time someone farts. The only purpose, I can surmise, is to annoy the living hell out of me. Something an actual trashcan never did.

A beer ad from Brazil! I was trying to find a trash can full of beer cans and instead found this. You are very welcome.

A beer ad from Brazil! I was trying to find a trash can full of beer cans and instead found this. You are very welcome. ~Fran

Trust me on this one – TOTAL pain in the ass.

Besides filling up at a rate of every second, my wife insists the handles of each plastic bag be tied before being removed from the house. Because obviously, an untied plastic convenience store bag holding coffee grounds, empty beer cans and egg shells is tacky as hell, or an affront to god.

Or something.

Anyway, rebellion, or something akin to rebellion, is brewing. Soon I’ll be meeting with like-minded individuals (the cat) to discuss in hushed tones the revolution.

We’re on the cusp of blood being spilled. Well, not blood exactly, but at the very least beer and that’s c0mpletely fucked up.

The following exchange just took place.

“Damn, Todd! If you would just take the trash out when it’s full, I wouldn’t get mad,” she said.

“You know what would make this a lot simpler, using a trash can,” I explained. “It’s an ancient invention that has proven its worth throughout the ages. Having little bags the size of a fucking coin purse to deposit our waste into is both stupid and stupid. It’s stupid twice. It makes literally no sense. Logic cannot be applied to the decision, that YOU made. It’s impossible to logically justify this decision from any firm standing.”

The Angry Eye

Your logic has logic in it. This makes me mad. (Photo credit: jcgoforth)

At this point she became pissed.

“I’m doing it because of beer cans!”

That was her answer. I can’t explain it. You can’t explain it either.

Her logic is that there would be  too many beer cans in the trash can if we used the actual trash can. There are too many, thus the trash can is no longer going to be used. I also might add that we have a newly purchased, fully functional trash can, that she banished to the basement some weeks ago.

Now… I’ll be fair, I’ll be honest, I’ll bare my soul here. This blog is called Had A Few BEERS for Christ’s sake, so yes, the receptacles that deliver beer’s sweet, succulent love into my belly are eventually in need of disposal. My love, nay, devotion to beer produces (gasp) empty beer cans.

In our last house it was verboten to even place a beer can in the kitchen trash (I used the one in the garage to dispose of my empties). So her argument holds no water, or trash, as the case may  be.

So I think I’m going to take a G-gank approach to this problem and

just put the fucking trash can back in place. When confronted I will tell her it’s there because it’s stupid to not have it there. I’ll also use phrases like, “Because I said so.” “Trashcans are not evil.” “Who has the penis in this house?”  And, “Please honey, can’t we have a working trashcan, please?”

I’d type a lot more of this, but I obviously have a tiny bag of trash to take out.

I have restored the trash cans to their rightful place in the Oliver Republic.  Much like Caesar I fully expect to be stabbed.   Oh well, the die is cast.

I have restored the trash cans to their rightful place in the Oliver Republic. Much like Caesar, I fully expect to be stabbed. Oh well, the die is cast.

Finally, to anyone reading this and thinking, but what about Germany’s recycling laws, I’d like to reply, yes.

A fast note to Had A Few Beers readers: Fran, the awesome person who edits this, recently had surgery for chick stuff or a rotten gallbladder, or circumcision, I wasn’t really listening. Seriously though, I hope everyone reading this takes a moment to wish her a speedy recovery. (Fran you’re awesome and I hope you feel better, sans gallbladder).

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 …

German driving tips … you can do it naked, while merging and while peeing. Just don’t pass on the right.


It occurred to me today, while driving of course, that I’ve done a disservice to fellow blogger, nay friend, Oh God My Wife Is German*.   You see he just moved to Germany, from Seattle I think, to join his wife.   If not Seattle then from the U.S. anyway and I, having lived here for the past five years should have offered him some driving advice.

I’m sorry OGMWIG, truly sorry.  I hope this makes up for it.

So as a public service announcement to anyone reading this that might find themselves driving someday in Germany and to OGMWIG I offer the following tips for driving in Germany.

Tip one:

Always, always collect photos of funny words on license plates.  In the European Union, well in the German part of the EU at least, license plates always consist of three or four letters followed by three or four numbers.   The numbers are rarely funny.

But the letters, they occasionally lead to hilarity.

You’ll find a good number of ‘ass’ ones and the occasional ‘fuk’ or ‘fuc’ and I always laugh at the ones that say ‘shit’ because really how funny is that?

But the winner goes to a good friend and co-worker.

He found the “klit” and to steal his own joke.

Trust me, though fuzzy, it says Klit. I’m just shocked it was found.

“I found it .. I found the Klit!”

Tip two:

Never pass on the right.

Seriously, the Germans while otherwise an understanding and caring society lose their shit over this.     I used to do it, no more.  Really if it means I need to go 5 KPH in the right lane so that I don’t pass the retard doing 6 KPM to my left, I’m a driving 5 KPH.

I could tell my German neighbors that I am only sexually aroused by male puppies that have been ritually shaved by midgets that are then lit on fire… they would respond with kindness, understanding and tolerance (seems something bad happened here back in the 30s and 40s, I don’t know) but should I confess to a right-lane pass of a vehicle, BAMO – I’d be beaten with sticks in the road and kicked.

So don’t pass on the right.

Tip three:

If there is room enough, literally room enough, for your car to merge in front of another then merge away.

You’re going to have to develop some seriously attuned spatial-reasoning skills because Germans can park, merge or otherwise cram their cars into spaces the size of shoeboxes.    Which fits the National stereotype nicely I think but still baffles the American psyche sometimes.

We’re Americans after all.  We’re used eight ‘god blessed and usually backed up’ lanes of super highway outside of Los Angles for the love of god.   Our parking spaces would be cattle grazing fields here.  In American when I merged I demanded, DEMANED WITH CAPITAL LETTERS, two football (American football at that) fields in front of me and one behind me.  Further I expected the national anthem to play when I put on my turn signal on four miles back and usually anticipated that angels would sing too me as I slowly, ever so slowly, drifted into the other lane.

Not here.

Here it’s all

“Can I make it?”

“Go!”

Countless times on the Autobahn I’ve been driving a safe and sane 250 KPH approaching a semi on the right lane with a four-cylinder plastic car behind it.

Now that driver has to calculate, as I head toward him at speeds far exceeding my IQ, how long I will have to stop, can he jump into the left lane fast enough to give me enough warning and am I currently writing this blog on my phone while driving?

The fuckers always always do it.   One minute you’re rocking out to Lionel Richie’s ‘All night long’ and the next minute everything from the backseat is hitting you in the back of the head, the breaks are on fire and you’ve, again, pooped yourself.

Tip four:

The Germans are better drivers than Americans are.

By and large they are.  Get over it.  It takes like 20 years and costs the national debt of Greece to get a license here.   Also if you really want to have fun over beers some night ask an older German how Greece is doing.

Never mind, don’t do that.

Point is that, by and large, they are better drivers than we are because we learned from our dads and they learned from someone with a PHD in driving.

My dad:  “Son when someone’s riding your ass your best bet is to slam on your brakes and teach them people a lesson!”**

German PHD driving instructor: “Ven das car behind you ist too close you must maintain ze current speed und no vary your velocity!”

There are tons, tons and tons of antidotal stories I’ve heard about Germans being fucked-up drivers, most of them I can fully believe.   Can I believe a friend saw a German dusting the dashboard of his new car with an unused paint brush at 120 KPH?

You bet I can.

I think I can prove they’re better drivers, apart from the no-speed limit autobahn thing.

Let’s play ‘let’s pretend’ for a moment.   Let’s pretend the governors of California, Oregon and Washington State decided collectively that not only was a speed limit unnecessary on parts of I95 but that it should be declared an honest to shit race track.

What would be the result?

If your answer to that hypothetical was, ‘the 82nd Airborne division’ and ‘a state of national emergency,’ you and I agree.

But the Germans, those whacky Germans, they gave us nurburgring and the less famous hockenheimring, stretches of actual road that I’m led to believe are used by normal 9 to 5 commuters and people that want to drive their cars to level 11.

Grandma taking the grandkids to a kid movie and a new Porsche owner really working the gears, on the same road … the mind melts.

Tip Five:

You can pee anywhere you like.    Well almost anywhere.

All those little parking areas along the autobahn, you know the ones.  The ones with the picnic tables no one seems to use that are always populated by trucks with truckers sleeping in them.

They’re basically open air urinals.

Weird I know.

You never see whole families at these places, using the bathroom or even using the picnic tables (because they smell like pee).  You just see truckers sleeping and men in suits peeing …

Tip six:

And I saved the best for last man.

You can drive naked.    You and the wife can tool around the German countryside naked as they day you were both born.   I look forward to the stories.

Seriously I heard it from a German friend so it must be true.   Seems a German man during the one hot day a year in Germany decided that air conditioning was for suckers and that he’d be cooler (metaphorically and physically maybe) driving naked.   It was a great plan until the popo pulled him over and gave him a ticket for, wait for it, driving naked.

Later though, to the judge, he argued that he had every right to be naked inside of his own property (like his house) and that his car was in fact his own property so what was the problem?

The judge let him off.   So go ahead and drive around naked, I’m 100 …. Well … 90 … well 60 percent … okay check with an attorney first on that one.

* Read this blog.  It’s about an American that married a German and moved here, HILARITY.  Oh God My Wife I German is too funny, if you don’t read it I hate you, a lot with like extra hate.

** My dad was actually a driving teacher so that never happened.  His actual advice at the time would have been more akin to “Son we aren’t getting home until you get this car going off this hill in first gear.”  It took three weeks.

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.