Tag Archives: Had a few beers

Jackpot still doesn’t allow me to take this job and shove it


I used to think the following fact about me was weird: I gamble and when I win, — win big mind you —  I give the winnings to my wife.

I used to think that most dudes (even ladies) when winning large pots kept their mouths shut when it came to their spouses. Hell, maybe some do, but the more I hear gamblers talk, the more I realize that we tend to share our winnings with our loved ones.

Think about every lottery winner you’ve ever heard talk about what they plan to do with the money.

No one ever says, “Fuck everyone else, I’m keeping all this shit!”

No one does that. It’s all “I’m going to buy my mom and dad the house they’ve always wanted, my wife’s getting her dream vacation and I’m totally having sex with three strippers.”

At least that’s what I’d say.

I bring this up because of two things. First I had a good night conning a bit of luck out of lady luck and second because my wife is insane.

Ding, ding, ding ... yet I'm still moping floors ...

Ding, ding, ding … yet I’m still moping floors …

I was $40 into my bet when I won $630. That’s what I call a “walk away moment.” I don’t care if my drink is still fresh. I don’t care if I just arrived at my game of chance,. I don’t care if the lady next to me is hot, naked and offering me a hand job if I’ll just play a bit more. A return like that is one I have to cash out immediately.

Makes sense right?

I gamble. I enjoy it. Like all gamblers I also have days that I don’t win. Those suck. My rule is pretty simple. Never lose more than $200 and any winnings of $200 or less don’t get reported to the boss.

Actually it’s simpler than that. I play until I’ve had one beer and then quit. Up or down, my rule is one beer and out.

So, there I am Monday $40 into the bet and a half a beer left and shit got real. I was suddenly $630 ahead. Clearly, it was time to quit.

Quit I did.

As I still had half a beer to finish, a fat wallet and time to kill I texted my wife, with a photo of the winnings. Prior to this, we had a deal that I would mop the kitchen floor when I got home that night and I asked, along with the photo of my winnings, if I still had to mop the floor.

She asked how much I had won.

I told her.

She said, “It’s not a grand so yes you do.”

Quickly I queried three female friends of ours about this dilemma. One replied, “You would not have to mop the floor tonight.” One said she, “I would mop the kitchen floor naked for that kind of cash,” and the third wisely ignored me for a while and mocked me several hours later.

In my head I was stuck. Dagmar, as I’ve mentioned before, likes to squirrel away in shoe boxes (despite a robust and healthy banking infrastructure) cash for vacations, rainy days and emergencies.  This bounty would be a hefty addition to her 1930-era investment plan.

Also, I didn’t want to mop the fucking floor.

I called her on the drive home.

Me: Hey, that was a nice win, huh?

Her: It was, awesome.

Me: I can give you 630 reasons why I shouldn’t have to mop the floor tonight.

Her: Whatever, look I’m busy.

Interestingly I could have hired someone to mop my floor naked. Next time.

Interestingly I could have hired someone to mop my floor naked. Next time.

We hung up and I took that to mean that at least for the next 24 hours I was mop-duty free. I mean, $630 has to count for something.

Assuming you’re still with me on this tirade, however, you may have already guessed the outcome.

No, I didn’t mop the floor, but the second phrase out of my wife’s mouth after, where’s the money, was “Why didn’t you mop the floor?”

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lord of the Rings?

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

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

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

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

So I’m feeling pretty good about my accomplishment.

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

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

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

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

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


This happened to me today with a total stranger.

Me: Hi, how are you?

Stranger: I’m blessed, thank you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: Hi, how are you?

Stranger: I’m blessed!

You forgot, "and a twat."

You forgot, “and a twat.”

Me: You’re what?

Stranger: Blessed.

Me: What’s that mean?

Stranger: You know, by the Lord.

Me: The who? What are you talking about?

Stranger: Our lord and savior, Jesus Christ.

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

Stranger: Jesus Christ!

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

And so forth.

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

Jesus Christ, you people piss me off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pollster: And why did you vote for that candidate?

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I digress.

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

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

Ten tips for American’s newest Sailor (hint: boobs are mentioned)


Dear John,

So you’ve graduated from Navy basic training. Good job. I mean that. You know better than all of us it was hard. In the eyes of a lot of people, myself included, you’re officially a man. A young man sure, but a man nonetheless. You should be proud.

My own father did a pretty fine job raising me too. Look at me, I have a blog and everything! Nothing says success like a blog* my friend.

Here are few lessons he shared with me. It’s good stuff, take notes.

10. Shave before you shower.

I’m assuming you’re using a razor and shaving cream these days. If so, shave

slap some chap on that

slap some chap on that

before you shower. That way, if you nick yourself, it has time to stop bleeding during the shower. This works 99 percent of the time. During that 1 percent of the time it doesn’t work, keep some Chapstick in your shaving kit and run it over the cut. Apply pressure if needed. If you don’t have Chapstick in your shaving kit deodorant also works as a backup.

9. Always, always, always look good.

I can’t stress this one enough. The military, I think it’s obvious, is about to go through some pretty radical transformation as we move from wartime footing back to a peacetime footing – people are getting fired in the near future. So, obviously, do your job well. But there’s more to it than that. A lot of your peers are going to push the boundaries when it comes to military regulations about appearance. Don’t do this. Uphold the standard, be better than the standard and never, in the military at least, test it when it comes to appearance.

8. It’s okay to fail.

No matter what job you get in the military, I can tell you with absolute certainty they will tolerate your retarded 19-year-old failures. And there will be a few. Get used to it, you’re going to fuck up. Don’t get me wrong, if you fuck up too much there is hell to pay. Trying and failing is natural, expected even. The trick is though, to rack up wins. Ninety-nine percent of the time wins are easy. Be first to show up for the shift and be last to leave. Do the thing that no one wants to do. If there is nothing to do for the organization, find something productive to do for the organization. Be an asset. Do those things and falling on your ass once in a while is viewed more as a learning experience on your part by your bosses rather than another fuck up by a fucked up person. I can’t stress this enough — if you’re always trying to do a good job, occasionally falling short of that goal isn’t viewed as a bad thing.

7. Have sex with tons of chicks

Yeah, John, we both made the wrong choice.  Damn Air Force.  Get used to saying that.

Yeah, John, we both made the wrong choice. Damn Air Force. Get used to saying that.

Got your attention there didn’t I? I mean it. Be safe about it, put a condom on your penis and respect the woman you’re with, but have fucking fun. It’s what you’re going to do anyway so any advice I’m offering here is really just after the fact. The point is, explore and have fun. When you meet her — you’ll know. Until that time, call me with your awesome stories of your hot sexcapades (call often please!)

6. Be first. Second place is literally the first loser.

This plays off rule three. None of your successes in basic training matters — not a one. Sorry to be a bummer. You’re about to go to your first duty station and I’m here to tell you that being the best now is what matters. You won’t always be the best and that’s OK (see rule three) but be the best as often as you can. If there is a competition, fight for first place. You might have heard the saying about the military, “Don’t be first and don’t be last, be in the middle.” It’s a bullshit bit of advice from here on out. Be first, always.

5. Always, always be a gentleman.

... lots of ribbons

… lots of ribbons

Hold the door for the person behind you, regardless of sex, age or anything. Hold the door. But this rule goes beyond that. Offer to help with the hard stuff, always. If a person is carrying a shit ton of stuff, you’ll see this in the military more than once, offer to help carry the load. Once in 1996 I was literally carrying two duffle bags and a rucksack from one barracks to another when an officer stopped his car and insisted I toss my bags in the trunk of his car so he could drive me the last few block to my new barracks. He was right to do it, we always, always help each other. That always extends to the world at large. You wear a uniform now, it’s your duty to help. If you see someone struggling, help. It’s that easy.

4. Invest.

Do the TSP investment. Do it to the maximum amount they will let you. It’s a generous investment plan that will 2 or 20 years later have a bit of cash in your account. Take advantage of every investment opportunity they offer, grab those with both hands. If the investment plan has a .mil on the end of it invest in it. Also put a portion of your check in a savings account, every month.

3. Go to fucking school.

Take advantage of the educational opportunities the Navy presents you. Don’t be like me. I only milked them out of an associate’s degree in general studies which is like if someone said, “You can have whatever you want in this ice cream store,” and I ordered a fucking vanilla scoop in a cup, and no I didn’t even get sprinkles. Don’t be like me, I’m an idiot. Milk it for every penny it will give. Go to school.

2. Be yourself

Be you, my friend, be you. You’ll have bosses you don’t like, assignments that suck and jobs you hate. That’s part of being in the military, hell its part of life. Through all of it though, be you. There will be clique’s that see it different, fuck them. They’re retarded. Be you. Always.

1. Call your mom.

Always call mom. She’s gives better advice than this piece of shit blog ever can. Mom loves you, she will always give you rock-solid advice. A fact I think you’ll soon discover. You’ll be out of the training environment soon and on your own. Make it point to call home once a week on a regular basis. Mom will be there if you need to talk to her more than that. Once a week, call home.

* Everything says success EXCEPT a blog.

Not all European beer is equal, some have the ability to punch sobriety right in the face!


I had a super awesome Saturday. It was so awesome I’m still basking in its glory.

What made it so good? My wife spent the entire day on the couch, nearly comatose and completely chagrined, nursing a hangover of epic proportions which meant I was free to do whatever the fuck I wanted.

Not once during this glorious day were the phrases, “Can you do this?” or “I need your help with …,” or “Is that porn?” followed by an accusatory, “Are you drinking another beer?” uttered.

It was arguably, the greatest Saturday I’ve ever known.

Chimay beer -- it will get you drunk!

Chimay beer — it will get you drunk!

Now — the Olivers are no strangers to alcohol  and normally the missus can hold her booze – though she may shake the occasional stranger’s penis while doing it. But Friday was not normal.

This came to light when I got an  invite to a c0worker’s home Friday night for an impromptu barbecue.

“Of course I’ll be there to regale you with my heroic tales of shit,” I said. “And I’ll bring my bride, who, as you are aware, is quite a lady and super duper impressive.”

A quick message to Dagmar, and the plans were confirmed.

When she got off at 6:30 p.m. she met me at my favorite watering hole to follow me to my co-worker’s house.  After her one glass of wine and my 47 beers (46 of which I had to sneak-drink in the bathroom), we left for the barbecue.

Keep track with me — she had one glass of wine.

At the barbecue, like cavemen, we quickly fell into all of our “roles.” The men gathered around the grill and talked about killing stuff and the women gathered in the kitchen to discuss sewing patterns — the way God intended. (I like to pretend that when they weren’t cooking they stripped to their bras and panties and had tickle fights or practiced “making out” with each other.)

As we men stood around the grill, farting, swilling beer and scratching our balls, I noted Dagmar was carrying a fresh glass of wine when she walked out to see what we were up to.

That’s two. Two drinks. At this point we were nowhere near an event that would call for a blog post. She’d accepted a drink after arriving at a party and seemed perfectly normal and charming as she usually does.

Then, an hour or so passes, meat is introduced to fire, and Dagmar, I notice, has switched to beer. Not a red alert in my mind at all, a bit odd maybe, but still OK.

When the meat was cooked, we all moved inside and had an awesome meal. Fucking awesome, as in “I ate asparagus” fucking awesome. It had bacon on it, so by law, it had to be eaten, and bygod it was delicious.

During this time I was focused on my coworkers and the food, not my wife.

Then, after dinner, because I’m a filthy smoker, I excused myself to a nearby exit and hammered another nail in the coffin. Dagmar joined me.

And she was fucking TANKED. Tanked as in the Exxon Valdez-captain tanked.

“We have to go home now,” she slurred, crossing and uncrossing her eyes uncontrollably during the brief conversation.

As she stumbled back inside I assured her we’d leave as soon as possible.

Realizing the seriousness of the situation, I snuffed out the cigarette and went in to collect our things and my drunken wife. But she was no where to be found.

I looked in the living room, in the kitchen, back outside and then, as I moved toward the dining room, the host’s teenage son said with a barely contained giggle, “She’s in the bathroom.”

I should have known this. In our many years of marriage Dagmar has never passed out anywhere but a bathroom floor. I could, and should, write a book about the bathroom floors Dagmar’s passed out on. Movie theater bathroom floor? Check. Bar bathroom floor? Hell, that’s called Tuesday for her. Bathroom floors in various foreign countries? Sure! The only explanation she can give for this behavior is that they’re always nice and cool.

I collected the sprawled-out Dagmar from the bathroom, and with her barely conscious and teetering by my side, I explained to my coworkers that we were going to have to leave the party early.

It was barely 9 p.m. I was baffled. She only had about three drinks in about three hours.

Upon literally pouring her into the passenger seat of my car, she immediately starts to lower the seat back. During this process she, or her seat rather, encountered a small cardboard box that fucked up her mojo.

Fuck your car!

Fuck your car!

Before my eyes she turned into Rick James as impersonated by Dave Chappell.

“Fuck this shit,” she growled, smacking the box and spilling its contents everywhere.

There is rarely a day my wife gets into my car and doesn’t declare it a disaster area.

“This car is disgusting. When are you going to clean this pigsty,” is her usual mantra,  yet here she was making my basically clean car more of a disaster.

This was going to be a long ride. Good thing – like the card-carrying dork that I am – I had the podcast The History of the Byzantine Empire to keep me company. I assumed I could enjoy it because Dagmar would be passed out by the time I put the car into reverse.

But on this night, my choice of podcasts apparently didn’t sit well with my inebriated princess. Every two minutes, during the 15 minute ride home, the podcast would be rudely interrupted by unsolicited editorial comment from the gallery.

“Turn this goddamn boring shit off, I hate this shit, turn this shit off!”

She would then, before I could even react, fall back asleep.

Peace only came when we reached the house and my  wife went to her favorite place — the bathroom floor.

I grabbed a beer and then sent a text to the host and my other coworkers letting them know we were home safe and apologizing for my wife’s inexplicable, intoxication.

The replies from majority were normal, “No problem,” or “Hope she feels better.” But the reply from the host was classic.

“Guess we should have warned her that Chimay is 9 percent alcohol and very smooth. Thought she knew.”*

Well, she does now. She does now.

* Unbeknownst to me, she drank an entire bottle of it, refilling her glass unaware of the potency.  Still though, had it been simple Bitburger like in the mast of this blog, you wouldn’t be reading this.

Moms and their funny ways as recalled by their rugrats


Mother’s day is coming right the hell up so if you haven’t done anything for the mother of your children and/or your actual mother, stop reading this shit now. Close the browser window and go do something nice. Stop reading and do it. Go. I’ll be waiting right here, you lazy fuck.

Dagmar and I lost our moms years ago, but with the upcoming holiday we began reminiscing about some of the funnier things our moms said or did.

Both of our moms had their quirks, which makes them funny to us.

As Dagmar’s participation in this blog has sunken to the “knows it exists” level, I figured it might be best to query her brother, Ray and sister, Sheila; and my brother, Chad, and sister-in-law, Amanda, to see if they had any funny or heartwarming stories they wanted to share about The Moms.

Turns out they did.

I’m going to let Dagmar’s side of the family go first because my side of the family is boring.

In a lot of ways, the Olivers were the C-Span of families – one video camera, no narrator and an audience of post-graduate Dungeons and Dragons fans.

Dagmar’s family was the MTV of families. They played rock videos and punched viewers in the faces with their stories.

The Oliver Family was all, “Ha, Ha, Mom burnt the rolls,” but the Rohena family’s stories start with, “Well, after being released from the hospital, Albert got so drunk he stripped naked and …”

See? No contest, right?

What you need to know about each of today’s contributors is the following: Sheila has a nice rack, Ray is grumpy, but brilliant, and Chad married way above his station, but that’s something everyone knew Chad would do.

Dagmar’s Mom was as German as they come so any quotes you encounter below, should echo in your head in a Colonel Klink accent.

Let’s start with Sheila, the rebellious middle sister.

I got into a few (a lot) of fights in school.

One day this girl pushed me over a trash can and we got into a fight in the backyard of an empty house. While we were pulling each others’ hair out, who shows up but mom, curlers in hair, yelling “Sheila! What are you doing!”

She grabbed the other girl and I ran off. The fight was over. Mom made me get in the car, told me not to fight anymore and took me for a Slurpee!

There was also the day me and the girl who lived near our house went into the mobile homes down the road.

They were models, so she figured we could take what we wanted, right?

Afterwards they smeared their chicken greeze on the lens ...

Afterwards they smeared their chicken greeze on the lens …

Well, the cops “helped us help ourselves home to our parents,” but mom was OK, just told me never to hang around that bad girl anymore.

The last time I ran away (I ran away a lot) she came to pick me up and we had Church’s chicken on Trans Mountain together. If you’re not familiar with El Paso, Trans Mountain is a very scenic road there.

We just sat together and ate chicken. She just loved me and let it be okay.

It never mattered what you did or why, she just loved you.

Life with mom was always funny. We always laughed, like the time we went out to eat and she opened the ketchup the wrong way and got it all over her clothes and glasses. She just cleaned it off and continued to eat.

I could go on but, enough already!

Ray, my over-parented, college-educated, successful and grumpy-as-shit brother-in-law really brought the “hil” to hilarity. Ray writes …

I remember one time me and a couple of friends decided to have a mini-party at my house when my mom went out and wasn’t supposed to be back for a few hours.

We were all teenagers (15 or 16 years old) and didn’t have much money, but we all pitched in our $5 or $10, and bought some weed and beer (legal drinking age was 18 then and it was rare to get carded).

We congregated in my room, had my stereo cranking and were all pretty much lit up and carrying on. Little did we know my mom had come home undetected and had been in the house at least 15 or 20 minutes listening to us act like fools.

I suppose she finally had enough of us when I heard her say “Vell, vell, vat do we haf here?”

I turned around and to my surprise she was just standing in the doorway.

One friend was trying to hide our rolling tray, everybody was covering their beers, all of which she had already plainly seen and I said, ‘What are you doing home so soon?’

Next she yelled “Everybody out!” like Sgt. Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes. After everybody was gone, I thought I could salvage the weed tray, but as I was down on all fours looking for the tray … I hear my mom say “Vell, you looking for dis?'”

I looked up to see my mom holding an empty tray and she says “I flushed that crap down the toilet already.”

My mom showed much restraint and patience in not flipping out, and handling the situation the way she did.

The following tidbit Dagmar has told me before, but baby Ray filled in so many details. Every time I hear it I just laugh…

Prior to the start of the school year, our Mom took us kids to Beaumont Army Hospital for our vaccinations. As we left we met some other family we were friends with that lived near us. The older kids on both sides of the family were saying it was going to be a race home and our mom was reluctant, but we were all encouraging her to race home.

The whole ride it was, “Faster Mom, faster!” from all of us kids.

At some point our paths home diverged and we were on a road called “Magnetic Drive” that had two unique features — it was long and bumpy, (thus fun to drive fast on) and because of the limited visibility, at the end of the road it was a great place for police to run radar.

The speed limit was a boring 35 mph and we were driving a ’61 Fairlane Town sedan 390 Super V8. (Google that shit, it was a testament to American craftsmanship.)

This magnificent piece of rolling steel was capable of 0-60 in six seconds with a top speed of 132 mph. Not bad for a four-door vehicle that weighed 3,920 pounds and had a 119-inch wheelbase. Not to mention it only got 10 miles per gallon.

Mom finally gave into us kids (all of us unbuckled by the way) yelling “Punch it,'” finally hit the gas.

I felt like I was on roller coaster the way the vehicle would come off the peaks and nearly bottom out on the dips. Then the cops got her for what I can only assume was 60 in a 35.

We got finally got home, my mom called her friend who was also German. She started speaking in German and I couldn’t follow most of it, but “lieber Gott” and “scheisse” were used a lot, so, yeah, she was pissed.

Finally, here’s a quick mini story about the time me and my mom drove from El Paso to Fort Polk to visit Dagmar.

My teen years involved cannabis on nearly a daily basis, so I’ll try to make this a mom story and not a pot story, but the inherent nature of my teen pot-headedness nearly limits everything to involve weed.

Anyway, I decided to bring a dime bag with me on the trip.

As we leave El Paso and near Sierra Blanca, I had no idea there was a border patrol checkpoint. It was really small in those days, basically a little toll both-sized shack with a couple border patrolmen asking your citizenship. Nowadays it has ballooned much like the rest of our government and many notable celebrity drug busts have been made there (Willie Nelson, Snoop Dogg, Nelly, Fionna Apple, etc.)

My ass puckered up when we came up on the checkpoint. Thank God they didn’t have dogs back then. But we passed through with no problem and when we stopped at the next rest stop I had to pack a bowl in my one-hit pipe while I was in the restroom.

We ended up staying in a crappy motel in one of the worst sections of Austin that night. A family friend made the reservation and planned the trip for us. Not saying he was cheap, but did we really save much staying in that dump at the risk of getting robbed or worse. I was to afraid to venture far from the motel, so I smoked a bowl in the motel parking lot near the dumpsters.

I suppose my Mom couldn’t sleep well, so we were on the road before the sun came up and made it to Fort Polk early in the afternoon.

As soon as we settled in, I needed an excuse to go smoke another bowl, so I borrowed Dagmar’s 10-speed bike to cruise around the base, and I ended up getting so stoned I got lost.

I managed to flag down a cab and by chance knew the name of Dagmar’s street. The cab took me home and Dagmar and my Mom were outside when we pulled up.

I just tell my mom, “Pay the man, I got lost with all these houses looking exactly the same.”

Mom never even got upset. She just payed the cab fare and laughed at me for being an idiot.

Here’s my sister-in-law Amanda. She foolishly married someone with similar DNA to my own, my brother.

I recall when I was walking down the aisle of our wedding. The slow march to music, being so nervous, everyone looking at me. I get to the front row and your mom is right at the end of the row. And in what seemed so loud a voice in this serene and intensely quiet moment says, “You look beautiful.”

Another funny story we can recall, is your mom always wanting to paint the kitchen wall a rotation of green or white. So one day she shows up with this pale, puke-green color. She painted part of the wall and she decided she didn’t like it. So instead of waiting for your dad or us, she placed the gallon on the front seat, with the lid on. Note- the lid wasn’t on very tight, she didn’t hammer that thing down. So at the first stop, the paint spilled all over the inside of the seat on the car!

She came home and your Dad was there to clean it up.

Why she couldn’t just wait for him to go with her I have no idea? The seat was stained for the life the of the car and forever reminded of the puke green.

These are nothing like the purple bloomers we purloined from Mom. Our mother did not live in the Victorian era.

These are nothing like the purple bloomers we purloined from Mom. Our mother did not live in the Victorian era.

Another childhood story Chad and I remember is a neighborhood scavenger hunt.

One sought-after item on the list was a pair of purple panties.

We scored a pair from Mom’s lingerie drawer and were thrilled since we thought no other team would have such luck.

After the scavenger hunt (we lost) we ran those silky skivvies up the flag pole at a nearby park.

When Mom spotted her her purple bloomers flapping atop the flag pole for God and everyone to see, she exclaimed in her favorite expletive, “AHHH pickle juice!”

After I joined the Army, Chad happily stayed in Arizona to take care of our mom as cancer took its toll on her. As you would imagine, hospital visits became more and more frequent and she hated each and everyone.

Here’s Amanda again with a quick finale tale to finish this blog post.

We even can laugh at when Chad wanted to take her to the hospital because she wasn’t right, and he would have to trick her and tell her they were going somewhere else.

As soon as Chad grabbed the bag of medication, she’d shout, “AHHHHH!” and run back in the house.

To all the mother’s out there everywhere … Happy Mother’s Day.

A quick update: holding your junk in front of your spouse an exercise in awkward


My wife just caught me holding my penis.

It was not like a giant, engorged penis either, just a limp little wiener being walked to the toilet.

What happened was this:

Like this only without the stylish orange jesus suit ...

Like this only without the stylish orange jesus suit …

We were watching television and the show we were watching ended. My wife went upstairs to change out of her work clothes. After a moment or so it occurred to me that I had to pee. The bathroom is about 15 feet away, not a marathon at all. I didn’t have to pee badly, but it was enough to get my otherwise lazy ass off the couch.

Because she was upstairs and because I wasn’t at all thinking about much of anything, I stood up, unzipped my jeans and took out my penis in the living room. It wasn’t sexual, it wasn’t a “statement.” It wasn’t anything other than preparation to pee in what I estimated would be a few more seconds and about 10 footsteps.

Because I think our house was designed by a really stupid Hollywood set designers and was only very narrowly rejected by the Gone With The Wind directors, we have a spiral staircase that is visible from the home’s entranceway.

So, as I absentmindedly walked to the guest bathroom, penis in hand, wearing jeans and a T-shirt and oblivious to the world, the wife came down the Scarlett O’Hara staircase and gasped. It went like this.

Me singing in my head: “I’m going to pee, la da dee, I’m going to pee lucky me. Got me wiener in my hand this is the time to understand … that I have to pee.”

I had mindlessly walked from the living room, into the foyer with the dick out, just holding it. I thought nothing of this at all. I was just going to pee.

The Frau came down the racist staircase at exactly the same moment I was about to turn into the bathroom.

For the first time in many, many years of marriage I felt a bit awkward. So did she.

“Are you holding your dick?” she asked.

“Well, yes, obviously,” I replied, still holding my dick.knock1st

“WHY!” she yelled.

“I have to pee,” I answered, still holding my penis.

She looked disgusted and ran back up the staircase, likely reciting some sort of line from Gone With The Wind.

U.S. Army WTF Moments, WTF? Really, WTF?


Do you have a favorite author, television show, radio personality or whatever that you just love, love love, but who did something that really, really made you go what the fuck?

I have a love-hate relationship like that with my penis.

Naw, I’m kidding, I love my penis. He has never made me go WTF — except one time in my 20s when I was “experimenting,” and another time when I met this really hot girl in a bar and he failed to “raise to the occasion” after I finally got her home.

Both those situations were indeed, “What the fuck moments.”

Another thing I love is the U.S. Military. I love it so much I gave 20 years of my life in service to it and continue to “fight the good fight” in service to our brave Soldiers as a Department of the Army civilian*.

I also fell hopelessly in love with the Facebook page “U.S. Army WTF Moments.”

But like all things we love, you risk finding they’re not as perfect as you first thought.

If you’re familiar with that page or its blog, you might being going, “What the fuck,” yourself right now. You’d be saying WTF because you know that I’m basically a commie liberal who wants to mandate gay baby seal adoption with gun-banning U.N. reeducation camps. As shitty as that description of my political leanings is, it’s freakishly accurate. I’m pretty fucking liberal, and “U.S. Army WTF Moments” is loaded down with photos of Obama next to Hitler stealing guns from the hands of God-fearing Texans.

Liberal it’s not.

Seriously it can be funny, and by funny I mean, FUNNY

Seriously, it can be funny, and by funny I mean FUNNY.

But I am able to look past that stuff and appreciate the ever-present undercurrent of very, very funny stuff.

The site is run by a band of U.S. Soldiers and they comment and post mocking memes and pictures related to the military and its ways. The stupid signs in bathrooms about flushing, yes we have those. People with very funny names, yes, when your last name is always on display funny shit happens, and beer tanks (please click that link, it’s a no-shit beer tank. Go ahead. I’ll wait) which I think fully explains why I love, love, LOVE with capital letters, “U.S. Army’s WTF Moments.”

Until, in my estimation, they fucked up.

Cutting to the chase, and in an effort to not further bury the point of this fucking blog, one of the page’s administrators, Dave, decided to do something that I found appalling and which I don’t understand at all.

What they did felt a bit like watching your best friend butt rape a kitten.

“Hey, best friend, stop raping that kitten and also, why the fuck are you butt raping a kitten?”

Actually, it’s more complex than that. Butt raping a kitten is really pretty straight forward for all parties involved. The kitten is helpless and the rapist is a rapist.

What the administrator in question did was upload a screen capture of an alleged** U.S. Army Soldier broadcasting on a pornographic webcam site his use of a butt plug and a cock collar that delivers electrical shots to his testicles. He wasn’t only playing with himself for viewers, he was soliciting “donations” for “special requests.”

Well … I’ll just let Dave describe the details. He and I spoke via Skype last week.

(To be transparent — I’m a fan of Dave’s. I’ve been a fan of his work on “U.S. Army WTF Moments” for a while now. He gave me a “tone check” on the blog update about the potential cuts to tuition assistance a few weeks back, if that helps describe our relationship. Again I like Dave. I still do.)

Here are Dave’s words.

“Oh man, well, I was in our chat room and I’m about blitzed dude. I mean, I’m three sheets to the wind. And someone that frequents our site and the chat room said, ‘Dave you gotta look at this shit,’ and she throws up a link to a ‘Chaturbate’ room, and I’m like, what the fuck is this shit? I’d never heard of ‘Chaturbate’ before this. I clicked the link and made an account.”

The link had taken him to a webcam that at first showed an empty room. Dave said there were telltale signs that a Soldier lived there.

Well who needs coffee now?

The paragraph to the left of this photo really needs a photo of a hot chick to “offset” the pain a lot of heterosexual readers are feeling right now. Also, in the smaller offset photo on the bottom right. See that shit? Is she picking her ass? I think she’s picking her ass. Who’s with me?

“There was (an Army) fleece, a rucksack and an assault pack. You could obviously tell this shit was a barracks room.The fucking door frames were metal … then he comes in butt-assed naked and I’m like ‘Oh God’. And then, the next thing I know, he sits down and puts this collar on his ball sack. It looked like a dog harness, but made for a cock. It shocked him,” Dave explained.

“Ah dude, it was like a train wreck after that. I was taking screen shot after screen shot.”

Dave, a 30-year-old non-commissioned officer in the U.S. Army National Guard, said he knew what he was seeing was wrong. This wasn’t a private citizen selling sex on cam to the general public, it was a Soldier doing it on post from his barracks room. The United States Code of Military Justice clearly prohibits this type of behavior. Debate those rules if you like, but if you’re in the military they are the rules you agreed to live by.

But Dave’s an NCO. Even if he’s not — hell, even if he’s a four-star general or a lowly private — he’s in the military and the person doing this on camera on the internet is a fellow Soldier. What, if anything, you do with this information is tricky no matter your rank because the subject is a comrade in arms.

Thankfully, Dave has the “no-balls rule.”

“The thing is that, when I first saw it I was like,’What unit is this guy in?’ Because one, its barracks and he’s obviously surrounded by U.S. Army-issue gear and equipment, performing sexual acts on himself on webcam with no age verification (on the site) and I’m looking at it and I’m like what the fuck? I’m just going to tell these Soldiers, ‘There’s this guy,’ ‘You don’t need to be doing this shit,’ blah blah blah. Then I got no ballsed*** into posting the picture,” Dave said.

This is where I think Dave became a fuck. Its where I wanted to ask Dave, “Fuck dude, what the fuck? You fucking fucked the fuck up, you fuck! I see your point that what’s happening is fucked, but you’re just fucking up the fuck. What the fuck?”

But when I got him on Skype I was a lot nicer because, again, I like Dave. He’s a smart fucking dude and I “kinda” got what he was doing. “Kinda” being a word that indicates I wasn’t fully on board.

To be clear to everyone reading this who is questioning where the fuck I stand on this matter — what Dave did, in my opinion, is completely fucked up. Put aside for a moment the U.S. Army’s Values, the Soldier’s Creed and even the NCO’s Creed. The freaky guy whose picture you plastered across your Facebook page was in-fact a fellow Solider, a fellow human being, and your inability to think through the potential harm that could arise from the decision to widely distribute a screen capture taken from a little-known webcam broadcast leaves me clawing around in a vain attempt to understand just what the fuck you were thinking.

Sure, I would never put anything up my ass and shock my balls on camera for money (because my wife would kick my ass and I’d only earn like $2 or something), but at the end of the day if you want to, more power to you.

Unless you’re a Soldier.

If you’re a Soldier, don’t fucking do it. It’s just that simple. You signed up for a job that dictates, “Here are the values we collectively agree to follow. You don’t have to like them, you don’t have to think they’re great, but you do have to abide by them.” And upon signing the dotted line, this fuck with a ball-shocking cock cuff, agreed NOT TO DO THAT.

But really, they post this kind of stuff. How can you stay mad at them?

But really, they post this kind of stuff. How can you stay mad at them?

But Dave, on the same level, is really, really a fucker too. I love him, and only a person who respects and admires you can say they love you like this. But I think he too failed as a Soldier, as an NCO and as a leader. None of that says he’s a bad person. It just says that he swung and missed.

With a following of more than 250,000 people on their FB page, and an untold number of readers at their blog, “U.S. Army WTF Moments” holds vast power in their hands. I’d ask that in the future, they’d seriously consider the course of their actions. Just honestly question what harm could come if the photo landed in the hands of his mother, sister, family or a homophobic platoon mate? I agree it should not be there in the first place, but they were the catalyst for some potentially disastrous fallout. What is he kills himself? Could they sleep well?

That picture has 187 likes, 47 shares and 674 comments, the majority of which are also critical of the decision to post it . Yet it still remains.

In other instances, “U.S. Army WTF Moments,” has blurred out the faces of soldiers in ate up uniforms, or posers pretending to be in the military, but in this instance, there’s no attempt to protect the guy’s identity. The only censoring of the photo is a white box covering the guy’s junk. Why not be as considerate to him as they were to the others?

I asked Dave why he decided to post it.

“If you’re going to prostitute in an Army barracks you deserve what you get,” Dave said, later adding. “Well I know it’s fucked up. During the surge (in Iraq) a lot of people came in that should not have been let in. I myself am one of them. I came in with five moral waivers. But the thing is, the difference between me and these other guys is, I am trying to do the right thing. They’re not. If making these less-than-stellar Soldiers as in your face as possible helps out the Army as a whole, screw it. I don’t see the bad in that.”

The no-balls rule needs a loophole. There are times that something can be above the no-balls rule. “If you don’t shoot your favorite pet you’ve got no balls,” is an example of when the no-balls rule can be safely ignored.

The decision to post that photo just smacked of being a bully, a shithead, and an asshole.

But then I remembered, it is called “U.S. Army WTF Moments”****.

* As many of you may, or may not, know I’m employed by the Department of the Army, Department of Defense or the U.S. Government. Nothing I say on this blog ever constitutes an official statement by the U.S. Army. The above are my words, expressing my opinion only and should not be construed as an official statement of any kind.

** The guy in the picture is an alleged soldier because we don’t know yet who he is. Dave believes he is, and that’s good enough for me. Even if he isn’t, the thought process regarding the decision to post it remains the same.

*** No-balls is when someone says, “Dave, kill a million puppies.” Dave says, “I will not kill a million puppies.” Someone comes back with, “Dave if you DON’T kill a million puppies, you have no balls.” Dave kills a million puppies.

**** Holy shit this is a lot of *! Yeah, I didn’t link to the photo in question. If you want to find it, it’s not that hard.

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.

Tax season is here and for the month of April, I’m a member of the GOP …


Well, here we are, tax season in the good old U.S. of A.

It’s always during these two weeks in April when I go, “You know maybe the GOP has it right?” In fact I’ll do you one better — every week during the year with the exception of the first and second weeks of April, I’m a rabid, communist-loving, ‘merica-hating liberal, then tax season hits and by hits I mean it hits me personally with the tax code, really hard, in the dick.

Paying taxes is required for both citizens and...

Carry the two and add 12% and then … god damn it. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

During these two weeks I basically find myself, screaming nightly at the federal government.

“What the fuck is a form 1099-obscure exemption-2, you fuckers,” and, “Why the fuck can’t I save this very important, yet only needed once a year, document as a PDF?!”

Cursing like a sailor, I am slumped over the table in my kitchen trying to piece together yet another opportunity for the government to tell me, “Yeah, we fucked up, sorry!  We need more money.  We’re bad at the maths.”

You fuckers can put a missile up a goat’s ass from fucking space, yet calculating my paltry contribution to highway maintenance and the continued failure of our educational system is too hard to figure out? Fuck, I know about how much I’m going to owe you on April 15th. I even fucking budget for it. Yet you fuckers can’t. I mean, can’t you even  look at what I owed last year, take that amount, divide it by 12 and charge me that much more each month this year?

SEE, HOW EASY THAT WAS? I’m basically retarded, and I figured it out.

It’s called budgeting, how can you not under … oh wait, I forgot who I was talking about.

Look, I’m not trying to sound like I eat steak off a hooker’s chest every night but I’ve paid about $6,000 in taxes every April for about the last six years. I’m not rich, I’m not a millionaire. Hell, I’m not even that stupid. My wife and I claim zero dependants and pay our federally mandated taxes every paycheck.

I'd feel better if my money went to things like this.  Sadly it never does.

I’d feel better if my money went to things like this. Sadly it never does.

Still, every damned year the government has a financial “brain dump” and the result is them telling me, “Well, we fucked up, again.  You owe more than we thought. Sorry, we’re fucking idiots, we need 6k more. Thanks, bye!”

I know, I do KNOW. I know there is income I receive that the government is unable to account for unless I tell them about it. Rental income and “investment stuff.” That money is not taxed when I receive it, and at the end of the year the “bill” has to be adjusted because there is income that they were unaware of, except for the last six fucking times I told them it was there.

It’s fucking maddening.

So that’s it for the next two weeks I’m a Republican. God damned libtards always spending our money on educating gay Mexican adopted crack babies!