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 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 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.

Happy Bday Had a Few Beers. You’re one year old. Now get to work …

Happy beerday blog, you’re one year old today.

Today this craptastic collection of bad jokes, thinly-veiled, breast-fetish material and homage to alcoholism that I call “Had a Few Beers” is 1 year old.

Actually, I’m not really sure what day I started this and am really too lazy to look it up. It was January though, I remember that much. I was drinking beers in my garage when I thought, “You know what I should do with all these awesome thoughts I have, I should write them down so that the world can see how great they are.”

I should mention I was looking at a friend’s BMW parked in my garage for

Yes, early on at HadaFewBeers.com we staged, and by we I mean I, epic dinosaurs verses army men battles on a friends new BMW hood. Why mandatory drug testing was not insisted upon at my work, I’ll never know.

the winter and thinking about the merits of tea-bagging various parts of it at the time.  So there’s that, if it adds context.

But here we are 89 posts later,  and I know that exact number because the dorks at WordPress insist on telling me “OH MY GOD! YOU JUST LOADED ANOTHER UPDATE” every time I, ya know, load a fucking update. I mean the last thing I want when I push “publish” is a giant pop up screen tell me about it. I have typos to fix and links to shorten. The nerds who  run this place need to actually DO a blog here.

Anyway, 89 painfully obvious updates and a year later, here we are. Hitting 50,000 views in the very near future (all of them looking for information about sauna boners it would seem if the search terms are to be trusted) and I’m ready to do some more — damage.

A quick rundown of the year would go this way.

Sgt. 1^st Class Taylor’s updates were the most popular per day view with 1,276 views in a 24-hour period.

The first post to reach 100 views in a day was this one and I didn’t even write it (bitch!).

She was also my first ‘guest blogger’ … the first of four (and here they are).

The most popular search term with 1,425 hits is (do not follow this link, it’s a porn site and I honestly don’t know how or why it’s associated with HAFBs, if anyone can explain it I will pay money) Beeg.com.

The second is most popular search term is, drum roll, “nude sauna.”

The nude sauna seriously has by far been the most popular over time.  A lot of people in ‘Merica are looking for nude sauna blogs, or they just want porn about saunas, I don’t know.

Look people it’s really, really hot in those things.  I know people in Europe are

See no one is slipping anyone a Mr. Happy …

naked and there are mixed genders in there but it’s really, really hot in there. I promise no one is scrogging in a real sauna.  Just blinking is tiresome in there, for the love of god.

The first ‘500’ views (in a day) was Things you don’t know about the military until you get out of the military.

We’ve had some great cleavage shots because a chick I know rocks at sending spur of the moment cleavage shots.  (*mental note, do a cleavage montage update later).

Our favorite blogger has to be Oh God, My Wife Is German and he gave us our first “shout out” when this first started. He also gave us another shout out after winning an expatriate blogger award. He also rocks, so go read his stuff. He breaks electric razors for his blog.  All I’ve ever destroyed here is my reputation — you know stupid stuff.

We have a facebook like page with over 1,000 likes (and growing) that you can reach (and like) here or over on the left if you don’t like my link.

Anyway, it’s all right here in this handy-dandy end-of-year report by the good folks at WordPress.com. Good job, nerds. You can see Marni Sandberg out performed Mmmmmags as the top commenter.   Though neither broke the 20 comments. Way to underachieve, ladies.

An old Army friend, Fran, came out of the wordwork and offered to edit this damn thing, something that (as you know) was desperately needed, and another friend has started trying to market it because I tweet like old people______ and ______.

Those two ______ up above are intentional.  I didn’t just start a joke and then not finish it and post it like that. I mean, I would, but I didn’t this time.  I did it because I want you — the person looking for sauna-boner information — to finish that joke. Finish it and leave it in the comments. If funny enough I’ll laugh, a lot.

This leads me to the way ahead with this thing. See I’m like a ship’s captain navigating the wordy seas. Arrgh maties! Thar be a heavin’ set o’ bossoms off the port side o’ the poop deck!  (Suck on that last sentence, Fran!)

I’d like to expand this thing.  I’d like to get more people involved, more writers mainly.  A lot of you are funny, funny, funny and if you want to try your hand at writing something let us know.  Leave a comment or send an email if you’re interested.

Because, more and more, this blog is becoming more of an “us” than an “me.”

I’m also a lazy shit, I don’t want to have to do all the work.

Seriously, in what is likely the worst casting call of all time if I’m calling on you for your “lolz!”

If you can type a sentence that doesn’t make Fran want to commit suicide,( and she’s strong in that regard. I’ve really tested her on this) and if you can make a joke that’s funny and want to give it a go, reach out. I can promise you, really promise you, that if you just want to try writing without having your name associated with it, we’re your blog. If we like it we’ll push it and your name will never be released. Most of the ‘mystery’ bloggers here are easily enough figured out because they know me personally, but I’d never give out a name without permission.

Finally, and this might be years, rather than a year down the road, I realize that

Finally a boobie free blog … not this blog though, no way. HAFBs will always have boobies.

some people reading this who are otherwise very funny writers might not want their name associated with HAFB.com because of well, boobies, beer and the frequency in which I say fuck.

But I do have an idea, a totally new idea, that might be more appropriate. Something without boobs, without beer and without my politics… stay tuned.

Finally (really finally this time) thanks to Dagmar for putting up with me and reading this crap. Thanks to Fran for coming on board and editing (still hoping she writes something – she’s very talented), thanks to mystery social-media guy who honestly puts up with way too much of my shit, thanks to the mystery guest bloggers and thanks to you, whoever you are, reading this. I get a lot of joy out of doing it, but it would be very, very pointless without you.

Thank you.

Harlots, bosoms and Tucker Max …

I can’t give this blog the love it deserves at the moment because, work.  I’m on another business trip and sadly this one isn’t filled with strippers and angry Dagmar phone calls about said strippers.

Seriously I’m working crazy hours until Halloween so I’m not sure what I’ll be able to put up here.   Either it will be incoherent, half-sleep deprived, half-drunk rants like this one or you’ll just have to come up with your own boob and beer jokes.

Here is a free, non boob and beer joke though.

What do you call a deer with no eyes?   No eye-deer.

Okay I’m sorry I really shouldn’t do this when I’m tired.  That was just sad.

I do have two odd things and here they are.

The first, the one I hope to write about soon involves about ten bat-shit crazy comments I received here last night/this morning.  All by the same dude, different names but all the same dude.   I deleted them all because if anyone’s going to use the words harlot, bosom and sin on this blog it will be fucking me.    They were retarded but they COULD be funny because harlot, bosom and sin are hysterical words, if used right.

Trust me it will be funny, they’re deleted but saved.   All you harlots have been warned.  I suggest you wrap your bosoms up into brassieres and just fucking wait damn it.

The second, less funny but interesting thing, I want to talk about is Tucker Max.

Tucker Max (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yeah, yeah get it out of your system now, 42 year old Todd finds Tucker Max interesting what a tard.

Fuck you, this is why.

Tucker, while funny and juvenile and <insert adjective here> is still Tucker there are, and I’m sure lot of fans know this, the moments where he’s really in the zone.   You can see a lot of his influences and you can really appreciate what a great fucking writer that dude is.

This is what I just read,

“The rules your parents teach you to live by are very different than the rules the world actually runs by.  Most of the conventional wisdom is not only wrong, it’s a lie told to us by people who want to control us.  It doesn’t help us, it helps them.”

By the ticket take the ride …English: Hunter S. Thompson, Miami Book Fair International, 1988 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If you’re a Hunter S. Thompson fan and don’t see a lot of HST in that, try harder.   I’m starting to discover I love rereading Tucker Max, just as I love rereading HST.  Each time you reread it, you find something new.  His stories are funny at first glance but, maybe more so in the later books, they have brilliant bits.  I think I read that he was influenced by HST, and that fits, but …

But …

But …

But I need to go to bed, early mornings and all.

Also boobies.

G-Gank gives me an intervention … the jerk.

Democrats …. Always right except for when they’re wrong and then still mostly right. Yeah G-gank doesn’t do the photo captions. (Photo credit, Wikipedia)

Anyone who is a Jew is the Devil.  Anyone who is a Methodist is freaking jack-off.   Anyone who is Catholic has been brain washed.  Yup there are people that believe this, and say this…. Just like there are people who call you a fucking asshole for the political party you freely choose to endorse. Let’s just suppose that everyone in the United States became a Democrat….  Would the world be a better place?  I don’t think it would, because differences are what challenge people to achieve greater things.

Neil Armstrong America’s greatest cyclist. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If we were all Communists, then the space race would have never happened and Neil Armstrong would have been just another guy who raced in the tour de France.

If we were all from Jamaica, sure we would all have killer weed, but shit…. nothing would ever get done because we would all be baked.  (Actually, I firmly believe that the DEA should surrender all confiscated weed to Congress… that would be awesome to see them totally stoned…. it would totally promote harmony.)

You do not have to agree with a person’s political or religious belief but dam it you should not be critical to the point of making personal attacks on that person.  You should commend that person for their beliefs and think openly about the views of others.  It is the closed-minded person who is the real piece of shit for they never expand their thinking and will never achieve greatness.

I lived with a guy who was an atheist and for the life of me I don’t know how he could live his life that way, but I never ridiculed him for his way of thinking.  I have friends who are drum-pounding Democrats but do not think any less of them because of their beliefs.  In fact I try to understand what drives them.  Hell, I have voted for republicans and democrats….  For me it’s not what party they belong to it’s what the individual stands for.

Of course I wish everyone in the world was like me but that would be a really screwed up world.  More importantly, if everyone was like me, I would never be able to get a Tee time at the Golf Course…

Now to the point of this whole piece…

When you … I feel … Because …  And I want …

Todd Oliver (the guy running hadafewbeers) please sit down – this is your

Photo caption is “i got nothing” other than I totally stole this from the History Channel. Photo credit, the History Channel.

intervention.

I know you are my friend but:

When you  – say I am an idiot for supporting a republican, or being a Catholic,

I Feel – Angry and Sad.

Because – your words are hurtful I think it jeopardizes our friendship.

And I want – you to be more considerate for my feelings and have a little respect for my freedom of choice.

Is there anyone else in the room that wants to say something to Todd?

Ok, I see some of you are a bit hesitant to speak up and that’s OK.  Just the fact that you are here today re-enforces the fact that you love Todd.  Not the kind of head-banging love that would bestow upon a big-titted stripper but rather the kind of love one gives to a dear friend.

So the next time you are quick to judge any of us who pay homage to God, Buddha, Jesus, or that fucking 6-hose water bong just remember the world is a better place because we are different and not everyone has to think like you…  so stop forcing people to suck on that Democratic Donkey Dick, after all if we all sucked it there would be nothing left for you.

Wife’s in the hospital and the medical profession is weird. Seriously you folks are weird.

The good news upfront.

The wife’s in the hospital for at least one night and I have total access to porn or I can blog.

I chose to blog so you know what kind of dork I am.  That or I’m typing this one handed.

It’s up to you which one you believe.

Okay, stupid jokes aside.  She’s fine, the doctor realized I needed a night to blog and kept her.

Okay this time I mean it.  No more jokes.  At least until we clarify that yes the wife is fine and that the doctor wanted to keep her at least over night to pump her full of some antibiotics cause he has a medical degree and who are we to question that?

She’s totally fine, they caught ‘it’ early and anyway she’ll be home soon.   Seriously.  She’s good.   I’m pretty sure spilling out too much of her medical condition, here, violates something.

It might have been in our wedding vows but I wasn’t really paying attention.  Something, something, something, don’t blog about this woman’s medical stuff, something, something.  It was in there I’m sure.

She’s fine and that’s not what this update is about, only it kind of is, but in a roundabout way.

This is more about you medical professionals.

From the person that checks you into the hospital to the nurse that takes care of you to the doctor that treats you … yeah you folks …

What the fuck is wrong with all of you?

Don’t get me wrong you’re all saints, salt of the earth really and I’ll never get how any of you do it.

Not in a million years.

I avoid the doctor like the plague, which is odd cause the plague could be the reason I finally see one.    The plague or gout, I hope its gout cause gout sounds medieval.

Me to my imaginary medieval wife: “Well I WOULD go out and earn a living as the town drunkard tonight honey but fucking gout you know?”

Her:  “You just like saying gout.”

And I do like saying gout, so I’ll say it now.  You know to get it out.

Gout.

But back to you medical professionals, all of you are saints namely cause, I couldn’t do it for a second.

Oh I could do it for a second.   Hell I could do it for more than that but eventually I’d snap.

There would be a patient, in the waiting room looking down and holding one of those plastic bag things you puke into in the waiting room, looking pathetic.

Doctor me: Just fucking puke already, Jesus.  Use your finger asshat, are you sick or retarded?

My bedside manner would be level ‘Hitler’.

You’re all so fucking nice.  Surrounded by sick and sick and some sick, you’re nice.

I’d be depressed as shit all day long.

“And why are you seeing the doctor today?  You’re vomiting blood?  Jesus that fucked up, you’ve got some weird shit that makes that happen and you’re prolly going to die or something, god this job sucks.  Fuck everyone that comes in here is sick.  Hang on the boss wants to see me, again.”

I know, I know, my mom was a nurse.  Bedside manner, don’t call the patient a fucking retard and never, never anoint the doctor with ‘holy water’.

Doctor leaving my wife’s room:  what are you doing?

Me: Blessing the ground you walked on with holy water.

Doctor:  That’s a bottle of ‘smart water’

Me:  I know I blessed it in the car last time I had a cigarette, totally snuck a beer while I did it too.

Doctor:  You’re some sort of “religious official?”

Me: Totally, Doctor of Divinity did it in the 90’s.  The internet was a bit wild-west, loosey-goosey back then.   Two hundred bucks and bam you’re a doctor of divinity, I’ll send you the link.  Dunno if it’s still active or not though.

Doctor:  Please stop following me.

Me: I get that a lot, go in peace my son.

For likely the same reason I’d make a great dictator, I’d make a shitty medical worker.  You folks don’t seem to realize (of course you realize but for the sake of the following very-weak joke, you don’t realize) that you hold all the power.   Are you cold?  Fuck off and ask NICELY for a blanket.  Are you comfortable? Fuck you I’ll adjust whatever I want on my whim, you sick person need me more than I need you.

Seriously the surgeon, cause it looked for a moment like my wife was going into surgery, that did the consult with my wife found me wandering later in the hallways looking for a bathroom.  It was a familiar face and I asked him if he knew where a bathroom was figuring he just ‘knew’.    Shortly after I asked I realized he was in a hurry to the next appointment but he took the time to help me find one.

DUDE you save lives, I have to pee.  Hell if it gets bad enough I’ll pee my pants, I’ll pee in one of the hospital’s plants, hell I can just hold it.  Go, sir, go and tell me it’s ‘that way’ and go save lives.

I’d punch each of us in the face.  That in fact WOULD be the bill for each question.

I’ll answer your retard question sir or ma’am but the answerer requires that I punch you, in the face, yeah government regulations.  Sorry.

Mesh panties and pink saline bullets is a party medical people … we’re on to you.

I’ll end with the fact that she and I laughed snot out of noses about some of the names you all give shit.   Your fuckers aren’t funny, or maybe you are, cause the names of shit that ‘must be checked every shift’ are fucking hysterical.

Seriously mesh panties and pink saline bullets (see photo)?

What the fuck kind of weird sex parties are you fuckers having in these rooms after hours and can we get invites?

Please?

I mean once she’s better of course.

Three hundred dollars of oops (pure awesome!)

Drunk me makes sober me really, really tired. Drunk me is full of ideas, just ideas coming out of every hole in my body full of ideas.

It’s up to sober me to filter them.

Here’s a hint drunk me, most of the ideas suck. Can you do a little better job at the filtering them yourself maybe? Help reduce the amount of ideas that you push through to morning maybe would really help? Perhaps you, drunk me, could apply some common sense sort of rules before you push the thought forward to the morning?

For instance you could ask yourself the following questions before forwarding the idea on to tomorrow.

1: Will the idea get me fired from work?

I'm not kidding. We really do have one of these at work. And I can verify, the temptation is overwhelming.

See this one is easy. At work we have a large, old fashioned, metal triangle fire alarm. Even sober I want to hit it with the handily provided medal bar while yelling nonsensical emergency things. “Salmon Attack” dong, dong, dong. “My balls itch”, dong, dong, dong. “Bring out your dead,” dong, dong, dong. “Antiquated fire systems test!” dong, dong, dong.

See it IS funny and I’ve often been TEMPTED at work to do just that. Thoughts about rigging cameras around the whole place to capture the reaction don’t help, so stop suggesting it. It would be funny, but only for about 10 minutes.

2. Does it involve me naked?

You’ve violated the wait till morning rule here a few times with mixed results. I admit the close up photo of testicles texted to, well more people than was sane or necessary, worked as a funny joke. But sober I never would have approved this idea. It was funny yes because the photo didn’t look like anything (other than a really close up picture of testicles) so the joke worked. I maintain you got lucky, most that received the text laughed and the ones that didn’t still talk to me so …

Don’t do that again, no more naked jokes unless I’ve (while sober) sanctioned it!

3. What does it cost?

I’m pretty sure I don’t need to remind drunk me of the strip club after the long business trip or the bill that followed.

like this only I don't remember and it was on a credit card.

After a grueling two-week trip in Italy I, the night before I left for home, made the decision, at the prompting of others and while blasted out of my mind, to visit a strip club. Sober, I in all honesty would never, ever, not in a million years, be up for this. Drunk though I think my brain did the math, boobies AND beer equaled me fully in. But here’s the thing just because I had a tough two weeks (you’re thinking tough, two weeks and Italy don’t go together in a thought, screw you it was tough) that was NO reason to go back into the private VIP area of the club and run up a visa bill that was both obscene and awesome at the same time. The memories from that night SHOULD HAVE BEEN epic yet all I can remember is at one point there were two girls with me, one said something to the effect of, “you can touch them” followed by me batting at large swinging breasts like a kitten plays with a ball of yarn. My wingman, sensing economic disaster, finally pulled me out of the back room and in the morning, when I asked him why he let me stay back there so long just said, “You looked like you were having fun.” He should have bought me a ball of yarn.

This reminds me, I should buy Dagmar something expensive. When I got home this was how the confession about the strip club went …

Me: Hey I should tell you something. I spent like 2k in a strip club.

Dagmar: Did you get laid?

Me: No.

Dagmar: You’re an idiot.

I’m thinking a necklace or ear rings but I’m taking suggestions.

Which leads us to …

About five days ago the $300 remote-control helicopter (Ar Drone for those that are curious) that I ordered while Maggie and Alex were visiting arrived. Even the next morning, sober, I considered canceling the order but besides that quote from Hemingway it passed the filter.

If nothing else I thought the damned thing would be good for a laugh and it LOOKED easy to fly. It synchs with your smart phone or iPad and you tilt the pad to the right and it goes right … how hard could this be?

The answer is hard. As Adrian pointed out in this video, the damned thing just sort of crashes a lot. The only bonus I can think of is that it scares the hell out of the cat and annoys the wife. Win some, lose some.

I say go left and it flies, with reckless abandon, right. Right into the wall getting one of its propellers locked in between two pieces of wood on the wall.

Forward, forward, forward … HOLY too much forward … BACKWARDS full … backwards into the clothes and into a full crash. The propellers are caught now in my shirts, the ones I have to wear to work. No wonder pilots are cocky … this shit is hard.

The battery lasts as long as your high-school boyfriend did, provided you’re a chick. If you’re a man the battery did an awesome job, high-five!

Here it is ... about to fly right into my face ...

You can kinda get it, hovering and adjusting the altitude easy enough. Spinning in a circle left or right — also easy. Movement from a stationary position is the trick. When attempting to command the helicopter to perform movements more complex than hovering a foot off the floor it all comes down to knowing what direction the helicopter is facing in relation to the iPhone… Work it out in your brain, calculate the direction it’s facing and the direction you wish it would go, add 2, subtract 67, multiply by 9, consider how old your grandmother was when she was happiest and it’ll fly into your wall with simplistic finality. Then subtract two.

Cat kills a straw

Here’s Dagmar’s cat, viciously killing a straw.  Cats are retarded …