“Today was the best day ever! I was stuck in traffic for hours!” no one’s ever said. 

If by some odd chance you happen to know someone who does say that, please hit them in their stupid face with this blog.

Is that a penis? I mean it looks like a penis. Really, is that a penis?

If there is a patron saint of traffic out there, and for all I know there is, (Saint Mario Andretti has a nice ring to it) we denizens of U.S. Army Europe’s Clay Kaserne (formerly the Wiesbaden Army Airfield)  have pissed him off something fierce. Traffic on post is at the throw-a-virgin-Mercedes Benz-into-a-volcano level of fucked at the moment.

In the kaserne’s defense, about a million new arrivals just started clogging up the roads and there is some construction on the main route that will, with time and when complete, alleviate the situation. But still, it sucks. Many of us leaving the installation at peak hours are subjected to a speed of less than a half mile in two hours.

Thankfully, someone who works for the Army at Clay Kaserne came up with a great plan to alleviate the situation.  The plan aims to make everything better, fix this whole rotten situation and literally kill the horse that had already escaped the burning barn.

The first solution is: When hope is on the horizon and you’re almost clear of the jam and autobahn bound, you’re redirected onto a small road reserved for farmers, bicyclist and walkers – (which is a retarded idea and the policeman stationed there to prevent you from taking the detour will tell you as much). The second suggestion is: Once you’re on the autobahn, you’re routed in the opposite direction you want to go because of “fucking magic.” I can only assume its “fucking magic” because they’re suggesting I go the opposite direction from the direction I need to go and the only way that makes anything better is “fucking magic.” 

And to clarify the situation even further, someone superimposed the detours onto a Google Earth map and then sent that out far and wide. My reaction upon seeing the graphic (coincidentally on my phone while stuck in traffic) was, “That’s a dick!!”

Not only were the detours a pain in the ass – or a dick – but the graphic was a giant, arrow-shafted, red-and-blue balled dick. As in – penis.

I mean, I run a blog called Had a Few Beers. I make a shit-ton of boob, dick and butt jokes, and goddamn it, I know a dick graphic when I see one. This was a dick graphic.

I had a lot of time to think about this. Two hours in fact.

Someone had, through official channels, inserted a no-shit dick joke onto a graphic about the very problem that was dicking us. They had done it brilliantly, too. It was a dick disguised as a helpful graphic and it said without saying, “Hey drivers, you’re dicked! You’re so dicked here’s a graphic of a dick to remind you that your dicked. I’m dicked too, so it’s cool. Still we’re dicked.”

I’m sure it wasn’t intentional, but dude — you’re an awesome dick for doing it.

Note: Since this was written they’ve fixed the situation and hopefully it will take less than two hour to travel a little more than half a mile. I think it’s awesome that they fixed it as quickly as they did — but asking me to pass up a dick joke? No way.

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 …

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.

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.

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 …

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.

“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.

There’s lot of ways to do it, I’ve been “rolled” a few times and it’s pretty awesome, unlike how it was in the 1920s when it meant you were literally rolled, on the ground, as punishment. Today getting rolled is so awesome I’m going to do the same thing but I’m going to point out the things that annoy me about my favorite blogs because I feel like it.

My complaints are more like pet peeeves, (all these blogs are really good) that note pointless little things that don’t matter to anyone except me.

You see, besides confessing my poop misadventures (and a lot of you wrote me privately that you loved that story … sick fuckers), surfing the latest advancements in boob photography and well, drinking beer, I like to read me some blogs.

Everyone knows I have an online-erection for Oh God My Wife is German. I’m totally out of the closet on this fact. I’d literally go gay for this writer because he’s just that funny. But neither of us are gay and he has a wife who, it turns out, is German.

What is it about Oh God My Wife is German that pisses me off? Moderated comments.

This is what will happen if you try to make unmoderated comments …

Excuse me, Mr. I Hate Free Speech. Is it too much to ask that a reader comment without the heavy hand of censorship. How am I going to drunkenly and anonymously litter your comments with boob jokes, Nigerian scams and offers to sell your readers discounted Viagra, if you keep fucking moderating speech there like the speech-moderating MONSTER that you are?

And how the fuck do you get ads on your blog, dick? You sold your soul to the devil, didn’t you?

What I do like, is he has a “like” button. This allows others to effortlessly (and sort of pointlessly) indicate they like his latest update. Be sure to like this update too.

Unlike GiGi Eats Celebrities ,who has NO “like” button.

Actually, I don’t even know how I came to know about GiGi Eats Celebrities. I like to think I posted an update with the word “boobalicious” in it, and like an ancient incantation spoken by a wizard, she appeared. That’s not likely what happened, but it really doesn’t matter, because once I was on her blog, I crushed hard.  Damn it, look at her.

I don’t even know what the fuck GiGi Eats Celebrities is about to be honest. There were dancing giant leeks with faces drawn on them during one of the video blogs I watched, for fuck’s sake. All I know is that she’s fucking hot. She’s boobalicious in a way that boobalicious can’t even describe.

Sady, Gigi doesn’t literally eat celebrities because when I suggested she snack on Halle Berry, she didn’t even reply to my email. I will follow up with an Angelia Jolie suggestion, I’m not picky with that sort of stuff.

Enough GiGi jokes. Besides being “foxy”, “easy on the eyes”, “a cool drink of

When you say “work the pole,” what exactly … oh never mind

water” and other out-of-date-references for a very-attractive person, GiGi is fucking funny and awesome. In her “About Me” section she says, “Every Tuesday, I will be jumping into pools of maple syrup, rubbing pork fat all over my body, making baby-food cupcakes, working the pole, chopping cabbages, sucking on lollipops, and oh so much more.” That’s all total bullshit because I have been looking for that maple jumping and pork fat stuff a lot and never seen it even once. Don’t get me started on the shocking lack of pole working. I cry foul!

GiGi’s blog is more of a “vlog” which is awesome cause she’s hot.  It’s about eating right and points out which celebrity this week has done something dietary, for good or for ill, on that topic. She’s critiques the diet of the people on the show “Survivor,” for fuck’s sake. She’s not only hot, she’s brave. Only the retarded and the brave watch “Survivor.” Seriously, when that show is on in our house I hide.

The trouble with GiGi is she doesn’t offer me a way to pointlessly “like” her updates with a pointless “like” button. Way to be pointless, GiGi! How about adding a fucking “like” button so I don’t have to do this kind of a blog update again, OK? I want to be lazy and you’re fucking that up!

Go read/watch her stuff. Seriously, she’s awesome.

Also GiGi, call me, (but don’t tell my wife) ’cause you’re totally hot.

A few bloggers follow me and aren’t funny at all. They never blog funny boob jokes and make very few penis references or mentions of poop.

I don’t want to alarm you, Brit, but it seems someone left an abortion on your head.

One example of a blogger who’s awesome, hot and DOES mention all of the above is Brit in Bavaria. She also has unmoderated comments and a “like” button. But she’s wearing a stupid hat in her profile photo. While I love her take a British citizen living in Bavaria; her humorous look at naked Germans; and insightful post about the German culture, I hate her hat.  I want to kill it with fire. Brit’s totally cute, but she’s totally cute with a crappy hat.

That’s it for this blog roll, but there will be plenty more down the road because there are a ton of awesome blogs out there.

Drinking? Check.

Tobacco? Yes I’ll have some of that please.

Gambling? Sign me up.

Heavy heroin usage? Well, we all have our limits.

Truth is, just a few short weeks ago I blogged about quitting smoking. I’ve since fallen off the no-smoking wagon, and while that’s not at all that exciting, the way I fell off the wagon is a tale of disgusting disgust filled with poop, shame and in a word, “poopshame.”

Last Friday, well last Thursday if you have to know the truth (you don’t), I fucked up. I purchased a pack of cigarettes and went to heaven because smoking is heaven if you’re a smoker. Its address is on a pretty little culdesac at 1 Smoky Lane, McSmokertown, USA. All smokers are welcome. The Jesus himself welcomes you back with a clean ashtray and a beautiful view to look at while you enjoy your smoke.

Hi, I’m the Jesus.  Welcome to McSmokertown.  Here’s your clean ashtray and please, enjoy the view.  (Photo credit: Davide Schiano)

Let’s just leave the dirty, “I’m smoking again” details of my failure there. The point is — Friday morning I had cigarettes, glorious wonderful cigarettes just waiting to be smoked.

Dagmar left for work early so she can do her normal insane, bat-fuck-crazy-makes-you-feel-like-a-lazy-fucker exercise routine, and once she left all I could do was run outside like a little junkie and happily puff away on a cigarette because I suck and have no self-control.

(Stop judging me. Go read, www.judgeme.com if you want to do that shit. Pink-lunged Assholes!)

As I sat on the steps of my front porch sipping my coffee and happily puffing away my life I felt an urge many of us feel in the morning. A bit of gas, flatulence, the vapors — you know — a fart.

Of course I knew that after the cigarette I would have to go Number 2, but my mind was playing tricks on me.

“Hey buddy, we still have a few minutes, enjoy this. That’s not poop, its just gas. We’re alone, no one has to know,” my mind, heretofore known as “The Saboteur,” said.  “Go ahead and cut one. Then you can finish your wonderful cigarette and cup of coffee and start your day. It will be magical. Its, after all, just a fart.”

So I happily lifted a butt cheek to aid in the process and continued my secret smoking there on the stoop.

But instead of the small, “pooft” I expected, what happened next was nothing less than a HAZMAT spill of epic proportion.

To be clear, this was not some inconsequential, oops. Nope. It was a “holy fuck I might have just stained the patio I’m sitting on, I must get inside and to a toilet right now,” moment.

We’ve all been there right?

Right?

Suddenly, I was in the throes of one of those moments when you’re not really in control of your body. My colon said, “Ha fuck you, I’m doing my own thing right now!” And from my backside spilled my poop-colored shame at a rate that could only be slowed by my hand. Jesus Christ! Where’s the Little Dutch Boy when you need him!

I was shitting myself, in case you didn’t get that. Shitting myself in such a manner that all I could do was sprint to the guest bathroom.

Like this only with more poop and shame.  Mostly more shame.

I’m certain that I sprayed everything in the room. Even the ceiling was not immune from this unexpected eruption, and crap, literally “crap,” was everywhere. What happened to the floor? Answer: Crap happened.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been through a crap emergency like this or not. If not let me just say that once you’ve finished with the “business” of the situation, the cleanup of the crapterpiece you’ve left behind will, no shit, leave you saying, “Holy shit!”

Like this only with more poop and shame. Mostly more shame. (Photo credit: cinderellasg)

Weird shit happens when you witness the birth of the universe during an epic dump. Something inside me said, “As long as we’re evacuating the bowels; let’s evacuate everything but our socks.” I had peeled away my now poop-shamed boxers and jeans, but oddly my shirt was also off, crumpled in the same heap of mother-of-disgusting-clothes altar I had created. When I came too I was wearing nothing but my socks. I don’t know why.

I found Jesus during the ordeal and abandoned him at the same time. I cried. I laughed. I pulled my hair in frustration.

It was epic.

It’s tough to come to terms with this sort of situation. One minute I’m having a normal cup of coffee and a cigarette on the front porch and the next I’m in a liquid-turd prison.

And, even after the emergency is over, I was still faced with the pile of clothes that now smell like shit. What do I do with those?

Wash them now, I thought. Hide the shame of this event from the wife, wipe everything down, leave no prints, douse it all with bleach and if necessary burn down the house. We must never allow the wife to know this happened, ever.

If I admit this happened to my wife, she’ll consider every fart from here on out suspect.

Seriously, from now ’til eternity, any time I fart, I’ll be grilled, “Did you just shit yourself?!?”

We were married (cough)-(cough) and (cough) (That many coughs would indicate a year in the hundreds, Todd. Did you mean to do that? I can honestly say, that’s an exaggeration. As for the rest of this, I highly doubt it. ~Fran) ((fuck you I’m smoking again remember, I can cough if I want to~~ HAFB)) (Todd, you seriously didn’t think you could interject a comment here, italicize it like you’re the editor or something, and it would go unnoticed and unaswered? I’ll misspell all your shit ~ Fran) years ago and I will tell you this, on our honeymoon in Mexico, where I was bitten Montezuma’s revenge, I actually pooped the marital bed when I tried to fart. On our honey moon! Yeah I’m a romantic. This blunder resulted in no less than five years of every fart being questioned. Phppptttthhhh! Did you just shit yourself? Fthahhhhhty? Oh my god, check your underwear! Flttttthhhhhhht, I think you just pooped.

It was a nightmare I tell you, a five-year nightmare.

And that’s why I chose to wash my filthy duds before she came home. Avoiding the wife’s involvement in a sharting incident is always the better choice. You might have a different relationship and that’s great, but to me the choice is simple, take care of the issue!

So I picked up the mountain of crap-caked clothes and ran downstairs to toss it in the washing machine. Let me further set this scene for you: As I walk to the basement laundry room, my nearly nude body is still soiled, I am wearing only socks and I am holding a pile of befouled, disgusting, godforsaken shit rags.

I hit the light switch to the basement with no issue, stepped down the stairs to the basement hallway leading to the laundry room with no incidents. I turned the door latch to the laundry room with my elbow with ninja-like skill and, in socked foot, stepped into the laundry room.

There had been a terrific rainstorm the night before. I know this not because I’m a light sleeper — I could sleep though my own rape — but this storm woke me up.

What I didn’t know was the extent of how terrific it was until I stepped into an inch of viscous, blackened, mold-infested runoff from last night’s downpour. It smelled just as bad as the shit I was carrying.

What else do you do with something like this? I just said, FUCK IT, threw the clothes on the floor, stripped off my socks, and slowly backed out of the hellhole.

Already late for work, I showered with bleach and went downstairs into the cesspool of a laundry room with a plastic bag and tossed the entire filthy lot inside. One instance of illegal poop-clothes-dumping-in-a-dumpster-near-the-house later, I was free.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 15^th. 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.

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!

Related articles

• Time running out for tax procrastinators (kansascity.com)
• Tax Tips: Question arises on 401(k) refund (knoxnews.com)

If you haven’t, here is a synopsis provided by a guy who has had a few beers.

The government told the Department of Defense to cut XXX-percent of its budget and the DOD made plans to cut that percent. One of things that the DOD decided to cut was “free college,” or in more recognizable terms, tuition assistance.

After that decision was made a lot of service members lost their minds and cried.

Look, who wouldn’t want more free money? (Photo credit: Tddy)

They cried a lot. They cried on Facebook. They cried on Twitter. They cried on the internet in general. They cried to the media and they cried to their elected officials. Their tears were so great that the decision was reversed and their collective cheeks were dried with soft, fluffy tuition-assistance dollars.

So in its place, something else was cut. It was training. Training dollars in the U.S. Military have gone to shit.  If you weren’t deploying in support of Afghanistan (or even if you were – read on!) we have left our military with enough training funds to draw shit on a dry-erase board and call it training.

While those service members safe at home protested the cutting of tuition assistance, those same monetary worries might actually force their comrades-in-arms to remain in theater past their scheduled redeployment date.

To be clear, according to the Washington Post, “Gen. Ray Odierno, the Army’s chief of staff, recently warned that the cuts may curtail training for 80 percent of ground forces, including some in the deployment pipeline, forcing him to extend the deployments of troops already in Afghanistan.”

Did you get that?

“Forcing him to extend the deployments of troops already in Afghanistan,” remains an option, but because “Sgt. Smith” yelled loudly enough that tuition assistance became the news story of the day.

Where was the outcry for slashing the training budget?  Where was the Facebook rage at that possibility?

There was none. The very service members who should have heard that and offered up their tuition assistance as a way to offset training costs, remained oddly silent.

“Hey, I got mine,” right?

Overnight, the training budget went from fully funded to I’ll pay you tomorrow for a hit off the crack pipe today. Instead of training on how to be a military, the training dollars just fucking left the building and no one noticed.

Much like the National Guard Cpl. (and convicted criminal) Jesse Thorsen who intentionally wore his uniform to a political rally, some of today’s military members have to remember it’s not about them individually, it’s about the unit as a whole.  Readiness really doesn’t suffer when school funds dry up. But when there aren’t enough funds to buy bullets for the rifle range, it’s a real fucking problem.

I retired from active duty service in 2009. I served a tour in Iraq and another in Afghanistan. I remember the lean days of military funding during the ’90s and recall that money tends to fall from the sky when the military is at war, but is a scares commodity in times of peace.

That’s as it should be. If the nation as a whole is asking its service members to serve in harm’s way then the nation has an obligation to ensure that every resource is spent making certain service members are safe, well supplied and well trained.

To my mind, tuition assistance is nice, but it doesn’t really fall into any of those aforementioned categories. College classes are nice, but they do little to ensure you and your battle buddy come home safe from a war zone.

In times of peace, the nation, rightfully, expects the budget of the U.S. Military to shrink.

I’m not saying that the federal gun to the military’s head demand that they “lose

What do you mean we’re out of bullets? (Photo credit: U.S. Army)

$46 billion dollars,” right now, is the best way to go about reducing defense spending. I am saying that these cuts were visible on September 12, 2001.   Anyone who thought the spending could go on, and on, and on just wasn’t paying attention.

Tuition assistance is exactly one of the first things you cut when faced with  budgetary reductions during a war and attempting to prepare for tomorrow’s fight. Tuition Assistance is a ‘nice to have’ benefit, but it’s in no way an entitlement. An entitlement is decent body armor, a weapon your trained to shoot or a medic who knows what the hell they’re doing.  Those my friends are entitlements.

I know, I know.  Tuition assistance only costs the military $300-400 million and that’s a percentage of $43 billion that someone who is good at math will have to tell us. I’d counter with — that money is coming out of somewhere else now that your bachelor-degree funding is secured.

That cash would buy a lot of bullets for a rifle range, pay for a lot of fuel during a training exercise, fund a lot of medic training, and in short, save lives the next time we ask you to go into harm’s way.

But degrees are important too …

Related articles

• Tuition Assistance no longer a sequestration victim (maddowblog.msnbc.com)
• Army and Marines Stop Enrollments in Tuition Assistance Program (whnt.com)
• Budget woes cited as Marines stop tuition assistance program, other branches may follow suit (al.com)
• Army becomes second service branch to stop new enrollments in Tuition Assistance Program (with video) (al.com)
• U.S. Coast Guard to reinstate Tuition Assistance (uscgnews.com)

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.

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.
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.

Related articles

• Quit Smoking: Your Heart Will Thank You (fox8.com)