Tag Archives: Madonna

Damn you jailbroke Apple TV: I have few morals, I have fewer morals now


Broken iPhone 4

Turns out this is not what jailbroke means (Photo credit: DaveOnFlickr)

One of the joys of being in Europe, besides all the castles and shit, was the military-run American Forces Network.   AFN offers troops overseas American television.

Everyone likes to make fun of AFN commercials because they suck. But I find  AFN’s programming hysterical. It’s a collection of the “most popular” shows on television in the U.S, and if you’ve been paying attention, you’ve noted that most of the popular TV sucks. The fact that it all sucks was never truer than right now. It’s all Survivor, American Idol and Two and a Half Men (Two and a Half Men makes my skin crawl, not that anyone asked. – Editor).  Sure AFN has its moments, but those moments only come on Sunday afternoon when the news talk shows air, or in the early morning when I’m getting a look at yesterday’s evening news cast (made completely irrelevant by the internet).

But AFN’s one redeeming quality was that is distracted my wife. It allure was so strong it could draw her fine ass onto the couch (and out of my face) because, “Oh my God, The Voice is about to come on!”

When that happened I wasn’t required participate in anyting. Not a damned thing! She would watch, “shit TV for $400, Alex,” and I was free to do whatever I wanted.

I used this time of course to earn my first of many master’s degrees in “fuckoffery.” I achieved like level 40 million in “World of Wardork”, surfed every porn site that has ever existed, and started this blog.

Time well spent, in other words.

All that was only achievable because AFN aired everything I had no desire to watch. I would not be watching any of it with my wife and she knew it. Hell, I think AFN knew it – or should have because I sent them weekly emails thanking them for their fine lineup.

There are television shows on the planet I will watch, but they just aren’t on AFN. (Every time I return to the U.S., that harlot, “On Demand,” calls to me like the filthy vixen she is. Nazi Germany’s Lost Treasures, is on? Sign me up! Nova’s latest special about planets?  Let’s watch that!) I can be a TV junkie, I just don’t want to be, and here in Europe it used to be very easy to just say no.

This “agreement” between the wife and I was rock solid for 10 years. That’s like a decade or something.

I now consider that the “Golden Age” of our TV relationship.

Because along came an evil, vile, disgusting device by Apple known as Apple TV. I know, I know — all Apple products are fucking vile — but Apple TV is a special kind of hell. It has tons of shows on it that my wife knows I’ll watch. All she has to do is buy them and bam, my ass is on the couch with her. That damned TV was preventing me from doing really awesome things like internet-boobie surfing, and turned me into a banana slug on the couch. There is no way out. I’m screwed.

And then, Apple TV and its seemingly endless programs revealed its silver lining — it costs money.

You see, for years I’ve been grilled about my unapproved purchases (because those fucking things show up on the goddamn secret-spilling credit card statement).

Shortly after Apple TV’s introduction into the house, and after hours of balls-to-the-wall marathon TV viewing, the bill came in. The wife was mortified.

This was a gift of immeasurable worth.

Potato Head - Couch Potato : )

Potato Head – Couch Potato : ) (Photo credit: oddsock)

That little detail meant I would only occasionally be sucked onto the couch. AND, if she was willy nilly spending our cash on TV programs, then what leg did she have to stand on when an unapproved .99 cent purchase of “California Gurls” showed up on the credit card statement? IT WAS BEAUTIFUL!.

Until some fucker at her office got a bright idea and told her about jailbreaking.

I’m sure some greasy co-worker, wearing only a trench coat, approached her in the parking lot as she left one evening.

“Psst! Hey you want free TV? I can get you free TV. It’s good too. Don’t worry you won’t get addicted. Just try it. It’s OK. It’s not stealing because we’re in Germany.  Just try it…  Take a gander at my willy.”

When she told me about it, my heart sank. I was back to being screwed.

And then I had a brilliant idea. We all know I’m basically a piece of shit. I swill beer, make shitty jokes about women, smoke like a fiend and have the kind of morals a real-life pirate would question. But when I take a stand on an issue, I pretend it’s something I really believe in. One of those issues is piracy. (No, I don’t mean the pirates two sentences back, I mean stealing intellectual property on the internet – but real pirates are also bad.)

When the suggestion that we get a jailbroken Apple TV was made we had friends  over, so what better time to get out the moral soap box, right?

Break out the soap box I did.

“Piracy is bad because blah, and artists deserve blah, blah and further NPR has said blah and then there is blah!” I ranted like only a drunken, albeit morally corrupt drunk, can.

I went on an antipiracy tirade that would have made Madonna and Metallica weep tears of joy.  Our guests had befuddled looks on their faces that said, “This is what you hang your moral hat on? You told me personally that you’d kick a puppy for $20.”

Yet, take a stand I did, until my shitty morals were kicked in the nuts by a jailbroke Apple TV and I crumpled like a 3-year old presented with candy.

One of my wife’s criminal cock-blocking co-workers, between flashing his weiner and robbing little-old ladies, loaned her a jailbroke Apple TV for a week.

I haven’t seen a fucking Apple TV bill at all this week. I have seen “The Hobbit” (a clearly pirated copy I might add) and mostly my wife has shut the fuck up.

So besides folding on my bendy-straw flimsy, moral high ground, I’ve lost something else. I’ve lost the ability to say, “No this program on TV doesn’t interest me at all, honey, please enjoy it while I surf the breasts, er ‘net.”

Because everything in the universe is on this device, she’s guaranteed to find something that will make me go, “Yes! Yes I DO want to watch that with you. Cue that shit up honey, I’ll get the popcorn,” and I’m not very happy about it.

I should write something for the blog but, “HOLY FUCK EVERY EPISODE OF TOP GEAR IS HERE RIGHT NOW” or, as it actually happened this weekend, “Todd, do you want to watch The Hobbit?”

Yes, yes I do. More than I want to do anything else ever in my life, honey!

If I’m not back in a few days someone, someone PLEASE call the police because even if a jailbroke Apple TV is not illegal I need Frodo Baggins to take ours and toss that shit into Mount Doom.

I’d write more, but fuck, there’s a lot of TV to watch.

The five mental stages of moving and why each of them suck …


Moving.

We’re all moving, if only in the sense that the earth is spinning and that explains why most of the Facebook comments I read seem to come from someone who’s dizzy. It would also explain many of my own Facebook comments if beer had never been invented.

Thankfully beer was invented, so enough about that.

But I don’t mean that kind of moving.

I mean the kind of moving where you pack up all your filthy crap, put it in a truck and drive it to a new home.

Yeah, that kind of moving – the painful kind of moving.

I know there are many people out there who have moved more than I, but I’ve done my fair share of moving throughout the years and feel fully qualified to say, “moving sucks.”

To be very honest, I’ve have it easy. All the moves of my adult life, with the exception of one, were paid for via your hard-earned taxes. Thank you, America, you rock. Each and every move, either as a service member or as a government worker, has had professional movers associated with it. Strong men, sweating a lot, schlepping boxes of crap Dagmar hasn’t used since ever, into moving vans and then unloading them at the destination.

So to be very honest, some of you who move frequently and do it yourself have it much worse than I do.

But I’m still going to bitch and moan anyway because I can.

Genehmigung: Motiv: Umzugslift für den Möbeltr...

It’ll be like this, only with more sweaty eastern European men. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I think there are mental stages of moving. Honestly there are. At least for me there are. Maybe you just wake up one morning and yell out, “HOLY CRAP! HOW’D I GET INTO THIS NEW HOUSE?”

If you’re that person, I look up to you.

For me it’s all this:

  1. Denial: We’re not really moving, I know it SAYS we’re moving, but that’s like in the way distant future. Sure in a month stuff will be chaotic, but right now things are normal. Relax.
  2. Anger: To hell with this crap. I hate it. HATE IT. I used capital letters HATE IT!
  3. Painful acceptance: Fine, fuck it, we’re moving.
  4. The event: Move out day/Move in day
  5. Agony: Months and months of sheer pain and suffering that will follow.

So that’s a fun list isn’t it? Let’s dive right in and swim about in my pool filled with pain.

Denial:

The month before the move, even though I know it’s going to happen, I completely and totally deny it. Part of my brain rebels against the reality of the move. Things are comfortable here at home. The curtains are hung on the windows the way Dagmar likes them, the pictures on the wall have been there so long they likely need to be dusted. And I know exactly where the confectionary sugar is stored in the kitchen.

That last bit is monumental because in just a few month’s time Dagmar will say the following again and again, “You don’t know where anything is do you? Jesus, do you even live here?” This will be uttered while I desperately check every drawer for the fourth time in a row for a spoon.

So yeah. I get why part of my brain rebels and say’s to me, “Relax. Things are okay for now.”

Anger:

“GOD I’M TIRED OF THIS SHIT! Didn’t we just move into a new house like an hour ago? Why do we have to do it again so soon?” I think the anger part is really just a transition to the next painful acceptance phase, but it always cracks me up anyway.

“Damn it, I’m going to have to wash out the grill, take down all the pictures, patch up the holes, hide my extensive collection of 1980’s Madonna porn and figure out what to do with all these fucking plants! And who the hell brought these damned plants anyway? Aren’t most of them poisonous to cats? New fucking rule, no more plants ever!”

It’s a bunch of crap I tell you.

As if I’m shocked it occurs you know? I live and work in a field where moving is expected every three to five years. It’s so commonplace that everyone in my field accepts it. We all bitch about it, but only in roundabout ways. We’ve all become jaded too it.

Painful acceptance:

This phase occurs on a Saturday morning. It occurs usually after a few cups of coffee, typically at about 10 a.m. Its when I drag my, otherwise-happy ass off the couch and start the oh-so-painful process of doing things I don’t want to do.

Again, it’s all about taking things off the walls, rolling up the rugs, unhooking the stereo, deciding where we will hide the cat while the movers are in the house, hiding dead hookers, ensuring the toolbox is in the car and not on the moving van and a lot of other crap you don’t care about.

This phase brutally drills into my head the following fact: Weekends are about to suck. Gone, for at least four months are, weekends that are all about relaxing and chilling out. In their place is a tireless ordeal of moving, sizing, shopping and hanging …

The event:

This is the eye of the moving storm. The strange part that should be painful but really isn’t. When the movers are boxing up the cat and loading the kitchen’s full trashcan into the truck there isn’t much to do other than watch them. That’s really it. OK, I feed them, I usually tip them, but that’s pretty easy and otherwise it’s really pretty much a non-event.

While doing a door-to-door move it’s always the same crew so move in day is no different. Give them something to eat, take care of the boss and then start living in a cardboard forest.

When I poop in the morning, there will be boxes in the bathroom.

My life for the next several weeks, while not at work, will focus on dealing with boxes. Opening boxes, breaking down boxes, stacking boxes, unpacking and yes repacking boxes, moving boxes from room to room, from floor to floor.

I will dream of boxes simply because they cannot be avoided during waking hours.

Boxes.

Agony.

Two or three months after we move into the new house the following will occur: I will be convinced that this weekend, FINALLY THIS WEEKEND, Dagmar and I can just chill out all day and all night both days.

I will be painfully incorrect in this assumption because one of the following events will take place.

Moving boxes Shortly after this photo was taken her husband stabbed her to death. Reason, inability to decide where the fucking towels go. (Photo credit: Meathead Movers)

  1. Everything in the living room is ‘wrong’ and needs to be moved to the third floor of the house. Once there a “decision” will be made by Dagmar that the things in the living room were actually correct in the living room after all and everything will have to be moved back down three flights of stairs.
  2. Ikea
  3. Every photo, painting, wall ornament – if it’s stuck to the wall its game – will have to be moved. Which means even though I just put away the cordless drill, the drill bits, the step ladder, the container with all the items needed to properly mount anything, I’m about to have to drag them back ….

So moving, it sucks. None of this says a damned thing about lack of Internet (which if you don’t hear from me for a while, that’s why) power, television and …

Man, I hate moving.

Yeah, yeah the Olympics … yawn.


Kittens are cute, unless they're killing stuff ...

Kittens are cute, unless they’re killing stuff …

This is a Had A Few Beers Blog first.  This update is a confession, and its not going to be a popular one.  Most of you will exit out of this blog with haste, swear loudly for ever allowing yourself into being fooled into reading this in the first place.  

A few of you will vomit in revulsion.  Someone may in fact faint.

No. I don’t hate kittens (I love kittens).  I’ve never kicked a baby (I love babies) and I’ve never robbed an elderly person (more than once).

It’s just that …

The Olympics bore me.  

There I said it. 

Let the hate mail flow in. 

You see I was born without the sports gene.   I blame my Mom.   Dad’s side of the family has the sports gene, Mom’s side of the family clearly lacks it.

You see I’ll play your goddamn sport, I don’t care what it is I’ll go out on the field and utterly make an ass of myself trying hard and wrecking my body in the process but fuck if I care how professionals or Olympians (is there a difference) play it.   I’ll even enjoy playing (albiet poorly) it.  But I could care less about watching it.  

But I’ll play basketball with you and I’ll suck at it but I’ll try my best.  I’ll get creamed as in “OH SHIT THAT HURT,” by someone twice my size playing American football but I’ll at least get the ball a few yards closer to the goal before that happens.

But when it comes to watching any sport (pro or otherwise) on TV, here is my rating on a scale of one to ten of their importance to me.  Ten being more awesome than a topless beer drinking contest and one being equal to a math test.

College football:  1

Pro sports of any kind: -78

Army vs. Navy Football: 1.002

Army vs. Navy anything else: Who cares?

Baseball: My balls itch, I should Google why my balls itch.

Hockey: see next entry.

Boxing: Jesus, ouch!   Why the hell do they … okay 1.00000003.  No, no it’s like -1.0000001, screw that.

Golf:  I suck, and I had lessons too, GOD I really sucks -1,000,000!

Point is I don’t give a shit about most sports and surely don’t give a shit about the Olympics.   I don’t care if the Chinese swimmer snorted

What the hell do you mean the Chinese have six more medals than ... oh who gives a shit ...

What the hell do you mean the Chinese have six more medals than … oh who gives a shit …

performance enhancement drugs off the Olympic organizer’s penis, then looked into the camera and said “haha American I use ‘roids’ so f’ you”. 

I say load the bastards up on drugs.  We already KNOW what the limits of the human body can do and even if we don’t the difference is measured in like milliseconds.  

With dope these athletes will absolutely shatter the records.  The testing shouldn’t be a matter of ‘do they have performance enhancing drugs in their systems’ it should be do they have ‘enough performance enhancing drugs in their systems?’

Did competitor X from country Y just test positive for excessive amounts of feral-dog testicle extraction?  

Yes? 

This year's Olympic Games are sponsored by Anabolic steroids!

This year’s Olympic Games are sponsored by Anabolic steroids!

Great get them on the field and for the love of god let the fans know.

I’m also the guy that wrote to Lance Armstrong and recommended that he put a nitrous canister into his anus for added performance during the race’s final leg so I might just be outside the mainstream here.

My phone just buzzed and that’s means there’s an ‘important news update.’  This happened because I set my phone to only buzz when there are important updates.

Like you know when Madonna flashed her over 50-year-old ass at a concert in Rome ?   Those kinds of updates.   You know, important shit updates.

No the ‘news alert’ is about someone, and I assume it’s an American someone, won a gold in something at the Olympics.   You can be on a cereal box now, congradufuckinglations.

We are so doing this wrong.

Which leads me to the following statement;  fuck sports on TV all together.

Seriously fuck them, fuck the players, fuck the coaches and mostly fuck you, the fans.

What the fuck do they do?  Why did Joe Paterno have a fucking statue on campus in the first place?  Because he led a group of young men to better fight over a football than another group of young men? 

A football costs like what, twelve bucks, maybe twenty, I don’t know.  Maybe it’s a hundred bucks but for fuck’s sake please stop fighting over it assholes. You’re not heroes to anyone and the game is pointless.   It may be fun to watch, sure, but it’s fucking pointless.

Same with the Olympics, and oddly they piss me off more.  Let’s just play a thought game.   What if fucking Guam wins EVERY gold medal there is.  I don’t care what the contest, they win every gold medal there is in it.  

The day after the Olympics, Russia is still Russia, Germany is still Germany, China is still China and Guam is still Guam.  

I don’t get it, I never will.  

I see the appreciation for a talented sports figure, I do.  Anyone that has trained themselves to that level deserves a look; they deserve your ‘appreciation’ maybe but do they deserve the level of fame they achieve? 

Certainly they do not. 

The Roman’s got this crap right 2,000 years ago.   Gladiators, charioteers and actors were famous but they were the lower rung run of society and you wouldn’t be caught dead talking to one.  Okay maybe it shouldn’t be that bad but they’re not glowing examples of all that’s good in the world with the exception of Michael Phelps and the bong incident, which was hysterical and classic.

My boss reads this blog.   I know because he has had to ‘talk to me’ once, twice or every update about the content here. 

He love’s sports.

I don’t. 

One of the most interesting talks we’ve ever had (non-work related at least) is about the whole Penn state fiasco.   

Child molestation aside, and no you can’t ever put that aside, I’ll never understand why we elevate people who are basically either A: chasing something meaningless (the ball) or B: directing the chasing of something meaningless (the game result) to hero like status.

Why did we do that?  What beyond their ability to chase a ball around did they do to tell us they were good people?  Sure there are exceptions, but they prove the rule.  They chase a ball around a court for no purpose other than it pays well.  You followed the ‘ball’ well, why?  It paid a lot of money and/or fame and/or the attention it gets you that’s why.

The result makes no difference and my brain cannot swallow it.

You know an award I could get behind?  The award that thanks Guatemala, China, Japan, the U.S., Russia and that country we all hate, yeah that one, for putting a manned mission on Mars and returning them home safely.  That award means something.  

Not to you?   Fuck Mars you say?  I don’t agree but I can get behind your disagreement, let’s put it toward ending world hunger, disease, war or stopping me from ever blogging again.

Any of that is better than the amount of effort we spend on fencing, I don’t care what your nationality. 

Because seriously fencing, who the fuck fences?