Tag Archives: Had a few beers

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!

If someone doesn’t give me a cigarette right now I’m going to blog …


Hi!

How are you?

You’re good?

That’s great!

You know what?

I really, really want to stab you in the head right now. I don’t even care who you are. I want to find a sharp object and just ram it into your head in a stabbing motion over and over. Maybe through your eye. I don’t know. I just want to stab you … in the head. Call me Mr. Mcstabby because I really, really feel like stabbing you in the head.

Shocked? Well here’s another for ya. I’ve quit smoking. AGAIN. It’s been 48 hours, 45 minutes and 38 seconds since my last cigarette and I’m not happy about that at all.

its hard keeping this one on one hand and the ...

This image is making me (more) insane. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m chewing a plastic straw, I have a supply of gum that would make any child envious and I am basically going bat-shit fucking insane right now.

Fuck, I need a cigarette!

Please don’t chime in with comments like, “I know you can do it!” or “Great job!” Fuck. OFF. Any of that shit gets posted to the comments and I will seriously track you down and kill you. I’ll also buy a pack of cigarettes afterwards and smoke and smoke and smoke, all the while flicking ashes onto your still-warm corpse.

So, don’t do that.

I’ve been down this road before.

“Quitting smoking is easy, I’ve done it a thousand times,” said Mark Twain, and fuck him, he’s a real asshole, you know? This is attempt number four by my count and attempt number 8 million by the wife’s.

She’s a real “counter” with shit like this.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you’ll quit, Todd, but remember that time you drank 87 beers, swore you were going to and threw all your cigarettes in the toilet? And then remember how the next morning you went to the store so hungover you forgot to pants on and bought a new pack?”

Yes, dear, I do remember that.  I honestly tried to block that memory, but now, thankfully, you’ve brought it rushing back. Reminding me of previous failures at life is likely exactly what I need right now.

So, there’s that.

If this whole update seems disjointed in any way just let me know, I’ll mail you your own box of dicks.

It IS disjointed. I know that, of course. It’s because of the quitting smoking or something.

The bitch about quitting smoking (and I know it’s different for everyone), isn’t the withdrawal. The physical aspect of that is gone in a few days.

For me, the worst part is the little ways in which your brain absolutely fucks with you throughout the day.

You're so damn bossy, U.S.www.howtoquitsmokingfree.com

You’re so damn bossy, U.S.
http://www.howtoquitsmokingfree.com

Did you just wake up? It’s time for a smoke.

Just get into the car? It’s time for a smoke.

Just get out of a meeting? It’s time for a smoke.

Want to kill five minutes? It’s time for a smoke.

You can prepare yourself to fight the urge to smoke after a meal. That’s the easy part. But its the unconscious urges you can’t plan for. like when you’re alone in the car and at exactly 3:17 p.m. you brain says, “Hey, buddy, grab those smokes off the passenger seat and light one up, OK?” The suggestion is so subtle, the brain is such a fucking saboteur, that my hand is on the seat searching through used gum wrappers and my lips are pursed before I realize what’s happening.

“No brain you fucker! Bad brain! Bad, bad brain! Shit!”

I don’t know how to explain it to a non-smoker any better than that really.

It’s when you least expect it that some part of your mind says to you, “Hey lets go have a cigarette,” an activity that you actually enjoy. So, the response is natural and pure, and for a split second, you’re a smoker again because right before you catch yourself part of you says, “Yes, we will go have a cigarette!”

That part of your brain is a complete asshole.

I know that shit stops eventually. Statistics show that after like 5 million years as a non-smoker your brain says, “Well, fuck it. I guess he’s not going to fall for that shit anymore,” and it gives up. But we’re not there yet. Right now it’s fucking annoying as shit.

And, during this latest smoking-cessation attempt, I’ve noticed a new little side affect that hadn’t been part of my previous failures. I’m sweating like a motherfucker! It’s gross. I would submit, it’s grosser than smelling like cigarette smoke. To prove that point, smell me now and then let me go have a quick one (Smoke ’em if ya got ’em!) and smell me again. Oh, I was wrong, you say. Well, fuck you very much.

I’ve quit smoking for substantial periods of time before (like when I was pregnant and in basic training – baha!) and I really don’t remember this flood of smelly flop sweat. When the fuck did that become a thing?

Quitting sucks, don’t be a quitter.

Hey, can you Google that for me? Thanks …


Hey does anyone know the number for the take-out place down the road? No? Fuck. Maybe you know the movie schedule for Friday? Perhaps someone would be kind enough to answer for me what “Google” is, or better yet, tell my fucking wife.

Pardon that rude introduction to this blog. It was rude only because I’m at my wits end. Some of you, well a few of you anyway – OK, probably none of you – have to deal on a daily basis with a technophobe. If I’m somehow mistaken and you do have a spouse like mine, you have my sympathy and we should start a support group.

Hello, my name is Beers and my significant other thinks Tumblr is used for drying the laundry.

It’s fucking driving me insane.

As some of you remember, I bought my wife an iPhone 5 and WOW was she excited. Her old phone was manufactured by cavemen, had a battery life measured in seconds and weighed as much as the Apollo 9 space capsule. The new phone has unlimited calls and text messages to the U.S. and that shit excites her. She and her daughter can be “Chatty Cathys” all the live-long day and that’s “fucking awesome,” I’m told.

Seriously, with what is arguably one of the best smart phones on the planet today, she’s still no technically wiser than understanding that ; plus ) equals a winky face.

I had to explain what ROTFL meant to her yesterday. If you don’t know what that means than please leave the internet right now.

I recently received the following “instant message” from my wife Picture1

“Can you look up the community bank hours and tell me when they open?”

Now I shouldn’t bitch, prior to the iPhone purchase the concept of an IM would have been the equivalent of landing a man on the sun for her. Text messages were what all those damned kids were doing to “sex-up all their friends” on Friendster and MySpace. So the very fact that she can now text at all is a vast, vast improvement.

But for fuck’s sake, that message was 14 words long. By simply opening whatever shitty browser Apple shoves down our collective throats and typing “community bank hours (city name)” into the fucking search bar the answer would’ve magically appeared. When I suggested that the aforementioned method is really faster than asking me to do it (on an inferior phone, no less), I’m accused of being an asshole.

The emoticon that would convey the eye roll I just did doesn’t exist. It will never exist. It cannot exist. It was an epic eye roll.

This is the second example.

During a brief period of unemployment after retiring from the U.S. Army in 2009 my wife became acquainted with Facebook. I was proud of her. She never once sent me a Farmville request to water her marijuana plants or whatever the fuck it is Farmville players do, but rather made a few witty comments here and there and did the general shit we all do on Facebook. “So glad you had a good birthday,” and “the baby looks so cute” or the occasional, “Sorry about the penis cancer.” I mean, she got it. She avoided the bullshit that we’ve all occasionally succumbed to on Facebook. You know what I mean — click here to see who unfriended you (you fuckers), find out about the 18+ Facebook, and grow a larger penis in just two weeks — the type of crap we’ve all clicked on. You’ve clicked on that shit too, right? I’ll just assume you have.

Anyway, she picked up a job a few short weeks later and from then on Facebook could go fuck itself. Her hours of free time shrunk back to normal and Facebook died when matched against her desire to watch American Idol.

Fast forward to the new iPhone 5 purchase and the installation of the Facebook app. Just days after its purchase I get a concerned look from my wife.

“Honey, can I talk to you,” she asked almost in tears. “Why are so many people mad at me on Facebook? Why are they posting mean things about me, about me being negative and mean?”

This weird question, and you’re all thinking the same thing, is the equivalent of her asking me why dinosaurs had sex with Elvis Presley on the White House lawn. I mean, she hadn’t been on Facebook for more than four years if you discount the occasional quick check to make sure I wasn’t posting photos of my testicles willy-nilly.

I looked at her with confusion. I didn’t really check her status that much anymore because her last update was literally July 16, 2010. She’s my wife on Facebook and, this is the odd part, also in real life. I get notified when she farts on Facebook. Who the fuck was saying negative shit about her? I was failing miserably as a husband for not bringing to bear my considerable 74 Facebook friends to e-beat the fuck out of whoever the fucktard was that was talking shit about my wife on Facebook!

Still though, it made no sense. In order to have an interaction on Facebook you have to, well, interact on Facebook. As a guy who’s been called an asshole many, many times on Facebook, trust me, I know this fact.

“Honey, show me what you mean,” I finally said.

Yep.  It's personal.
Yep. It’s personal.

She pulled out her phone, opened the Facebook app and showed me. I know I didn’t laugh, but I kind of chucked a bit.

You know all that shit you (we) all post? The meme’s about, “If all you have are negative people in your life blah, blah?” or “Mean people are <insert retarded Facebook meme here>”? She — I’m not kidding — literally thought people were posting that about her. It was just her normal Facebook feed.

I don’t know if I should laugh or cry …

I’ll just have another beer.

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


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

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

Do Not:

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

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

Naked + Socks = gross. Dennis Rodman + Basketball = who cares. It's a naked Dennis Rodman holding a basketball over his junk.

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

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

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

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

Honk if you like boobs!

Honk if you like boobs!

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

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

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

Guest Blogger Bron: Guys and Girls CAN(‘T) just be Friends!


“You know guys and girls can’t be friends, right?” I said to her, my eyes narrow slits of condescension. This happened last week on a Seattle ferry boat ride.

Red flag and I have a bikini!

Red flag and I have a bikini which I think is code for I’m bat-shit nuts.

“I have a lot of male friends.” she said with an eyebrow arched. “I don’t play well with women. I’ve gotten really good at the platonic thing now. Really, I have.”

In my mind, a flag pole started to grow up and out of her perfectly coiffed hair and a red flag started to sprout toward the sky.  It waved at me loud and proud.

My wife’s friend Candy must have noticed my flummoxed expression because she was looking at me the same way a cat looks at a baked potato – curiosity mixed with irritation. My God, had she never seen the classic film When Harry Met Sally?  She’s in her mid-to-late 20s for Christ’s sake.  That was when I asked myself why have women still not come to a consensus on this issue?

It’s obvious. Did I have to explain it to her?

At this point, you might ask yourself – why then – is the title of this entry:  Guys and Girls CAN be Just Friends? Let me tell you why.

Part of it has to do with search engines (as in porn, lots of internet porn) and also the whole “guys and girls CAN’T be friends” issue has been done to death in blogs, movies, literature, and YouTube.  So, let me get to the gravy on how this works.

It’s situation based — as all relationships are.

Here are the three situations in which a guy and a girl can be just friends:

Friendzone or gayzone?  Whichever.

Friendzone or gayzone? Whichever.

Situation #1
When either the guy or girl is 100 percent gay. Not 50 percent. Not 99 percent. They have to be 100 percent gay. Fag hags have proven this theory to be true since the dawn of disco. They often form quite close friendships with gay men which can last for decades. There are also lesbians who have true platonic friendships with heterosexual men known as dyke tykes or Dutch boys or dyke Mikes or lesbimen (depending on where you live). I must note, however, that a real hetero man will still be waiting for a moment of weakness, so “watch your six,” girls.

Situation #2
If you’re coworkers.  It’s still debatable whether or not work friends are real friends to begin with, but I’ll save that topic for another day. The one caveat to this situation is that you must work closely with him/her daily within the same department. If you work in a large corporation and you meet a girl in marketing that you will never have to interact with, it’s game on. Try to avoid the friendzone as per usual.

Situation #3
When you are a married couple and you hang out with other married couples. If you double date, then you are friends with the guy and the girl. As long as everyone involved is committed to their relationship you should have no problems. Swinging couples play by their own rules and they are not part of this situation. Friends don’t let friends blow their husbands, but friends with benefits do.

Back on the ferry, I asked Candy more about her “friends.” She eventually admitted they were a herd of men she could talk to at the drop of a hat. Many of them she had slept with in the past. She said they were satisfied now with just “hanging out” as friends. We all know that last part just isn’t true, don’t we? The Friendzone is better than the NOzone in their case, I’m guessing.

“What I’m saying is – and this is not a come-on in any way, shape or form –  is that men and women can’t be friends because the sex part always gets in the way.” – Harry Burns, When Harry Met Sally, 1989

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Beers note:  That video is HYSTERICAL.  Watch it.  Talk about telling …