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Ah Sunday, relaxing Sund … A lesson in reading your spouses insane side.

Posted on October 1, 2012 by | 2 Comments

Are you the early riser in your house?  If so you and I have something in common.

Go us!

You and I look forward to the few peaceful moments that come with getting out of bed early and enjoy the  precious few quiet moments we have in alone in the house.   If you watch TV in the morning you’re careful to monitor the volume.  You might even be selective about which lights you turn on in order to not disturb the other sleeping people in the house.

You’re, like I, am trying to milk every precious second out of the serene, tranquil morning that you can.*

I like to turn the coffee pot on, tip-toe into the living room and, because I live in Europe and get the American Forces Network on my TV, watch yesterday’s evening news – this morning, while surfing on the iPad.

Weekdays I get a half an hour tops.

But on weekends I typically get a lot more.   So much so that I might even, don’t tell the wife, take a quick 15 to 30 minute nap.   Because life in the 40’s is just that fucking exciting!  Don’t tell the kids …

Then two hours later she wakes up and berates me, while wiping the sleep from her eyes, for not having done ‘anything’ for the past few hours.

Read that last bit again, I’ll wait.

I, fool that I am, thought this Sunday would be like all the others.   True my suspicions should have been ‘hyper-level 10 million level’ when she not only woke up at the same time I did but literally ‘feet hit the floor’ before mine.

Still though no cause to worry, right?

I drifted down stairs to find her brewing tea and the coffee pot already on.

Full-disclosure, though I am awake earlier it does not mean I am in any way capable of making a decision more important than, “should I scratch my crotch or not” for at least 4 cups of coffee and/or 30 minutes.

But not Dagmar, oh no, not her.

She can go from dead asleep to let’s go run a marathon.  Literally, let’s go run, put your stuff on, screw it lets just run in our pajamas, come on let’s go, let’s go!

Her, and you people that are like her, scare me deep, deep inside.   I cannot understand you and I’d be sympathetic if I wasn’t so full of rage toward you.    Slow the fuck down Sparky, we got the whole day ahead of us.

Normally after this many years my morning ritual, when she sees it, is

Well who needs coffee now?

My mornings are … wait huh. Okay I had a point when I start … boobies. Photo shamelessly ripped from Newscorpse.com

respected.   I’m afforded an opportunity to drink coffee, blow my nose, scratch my crotch and make sneering gestures at Fox news anchor Sheppard Smith (an unfortunate consequence of AFN is that during the 6 to 7 a.m. time period it’s him or Piers Morgan – even in my foggy state I pick Sheppard over Piers because Piers just sucks. Plus side note, I predict it’s only a matter of time before Sheppard is caught having dude-on-dude sex somewhere embarrassing, like Florida.  Side note to the side note if you Google “fox news anchor” and select images (if you’re a guy) you’ll thank me … hello ladies!).

And that’s how I overcame my addiction to methamphetamines using nothing but a case of motor oil and a stick of butter.

See what I did there?  I used a joke about getting off track to refer back to the getting off track so we could get back on track.   I’m a geniou … maybe I should just get back on track?

So there I am on the couch yesterday morning, hot and first cup of coffee in hand and there Dagmar is with her cup of tea (when did you become British for the love of God?).  Typical morning really only she’s up of her own volition and the sun isn’t – which tells me something is afoot.

Then it happens, then the statement is made and it is matched by action.   Slamming the footrest back into the sofa without regard to ‘quiet time’ rules at all she jumped to her feet.  Her eyes were wild and her muscles seemed, at least would have seemed, were I awake, to swell.

She became Hulk-Dagmar and there would be action this Sunday morning, quiet time and coffee be damned!

It got much worse as the day went on but I couldn’t take any photos because I was holding televisions up, or something

There. Would.  Be. Action.

I think she was also wearing a green t-shirt which likely led to the hulk analogy, also I was almost asleep.

There are certain ‘thoughts’ expressed in this house that are vocalized but never really acted upon.   For instance in all our years of marriage we have never ate ‘rice and beans’ the entire month even though I’ve been told she’ll do it, she totally can do it, and if I don’t watch out, we will do it.

Hint:  She won’t but it’s fun to hear.

That’s an example of a threat that, made during a ‘discussion about money’, will never happen.  I think it’s called a Paper-Dagmar Argument or something.   I should have paid a lot more attention in class.

Then there are the others.  They’re not threats, they’re warnings.   Things we’re going to do this weekend.  “We’re going to go hike up to the castle”, “we’re going to go to Ikea”, “we’re going to clean the house to within an inch of its life” and “we’re going to go to the blah, blah, blah.”

Any husband reading this understands that probability factors in to each of these ‘statements.’   Yeah maybe we’re going to the event this weekend but you dear wife might, you might blank-percent might, change your mind.   Most of us agree (at the time) that the plan is a good one and start influencing however we can the odds back into our favor.

Our ‘favor’ is code for those of you that are interested for, ‘staying at home, drinking beer and maybe having a fire.’

It’s in the married guy’s bible, chapter II paragraph 4.5.  Look it up.

The one that scares the shit out of me though is the cleaning one.  I can’t predict it, I’m helpless when the cleaning beast rips out of her chest ala Aliens and I know it’s going to hurt me.    The cleaning one is brought up a lot but it’s usually just a light, once over the house, nothing heavy.  But once in a while I find myself moving furniture out of a room and fear for the cat’s life.

So yeah it was the cleaning one.

This is the woman that makes me lift the TV up so she can dust UNDER it.  This request is made and granted during ‘normal weekend’ cleaning.

Can you guess what deep-cleaning consists of?

She once vacuumed a large area rug then turned it upside down and vacuumed the bottom of the rug because German-Puerto Rican people are inside.

This woman once cleaned out and reorganized my toolbox because she wanted me to start a blog or because she’s just that nuts.  You pick.

Truth be known, between moving furniture and polishing the undersides of things I was allowed to listen to podcasts and at about 1 p.m. or so was authorized beer.  The warden has a heart.

To anyone, and yeah I’m looking at you, that says, “You’re the man of the house you do what you want” well I guess your situation is different than mine.   Maybe your dynamic isn’t the same as mine.   To me when she really, really fuck really, wants to do it I’m not going to stop her and I’m going to be a dick if I don’t participate.

Besides I’m too busy holding up the TV so it can be dusted under to really argue and have you MET Dagmar?

*  I have no idea how this works with kids.  I just assume they wake up, poop on themselves, set the pets on fire, eat sugar and yell.    I’m not far off am I?  I forgot only barfing right?  Oh and the cartoons.  Never forget the cartoons.

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Life without my wife, a diary — with goats.

Posted on September 24, 2012 by | Leave a comment

Here’s an actual photo of the fridge on a random Saturday when Dagmar was gone for 15 months. This is an actual photo, I was hungry too.

Dear Diary,

As you know Dagmar started work today in Wiesbaden and will only be home on the weekends.   I thought this dairy would help me deal with the freedom pain of our being apart.

Day 1:

Ate lovingly-made breakfast and lunch prepared by the wife and spent an extra hour at work because why go home to an empty house?

The boss said he appreciates the extra effort!

Once home I drank a beer, undressed in living room but will totally take those clothes upstairs in just a moment. Prepared a well-balanced meal while drinking beer, prepared coffee for tomorrow, while drinking beer, and watched the Daily show while drinking beer.     This is sort of relaxing.  I’ll get the dishes tomorrow.

I also became a super-user at ratemyrack.com!

What an honor.

Drank beer, surfed the web and drank beer

Fell asleep on the stairs.

Day 2:

Awoke in the morning with stair carpet imprints on my face and with back-kinks.   I have vague recollections of telling the cat we will not be discussing the remote control incident from last night.

I have vaguer recollections of the cat agreeing with me.

Every internet wired device in the house has porn loaded.   Even the printer.  Who drank all this beer?   My coffee tastes bad because I’d added more water but not changed the grounds.

I must soldier on.

No matter I have to get ready for work.  I’ll pick up the empties, along with the clothes and the kitchen tonight when I get home.

Getting ready for work I pick an awesome combination of gray slacks, with a striped shirt and a plaid tie.  I look dressed to the nines, oddly though it hurts my brain to look at myself in the mirror.

No matter high-fashion is its own reward.

Man the boss rode me at work today.   Why does that dude always ask me to DO stuff?   Damn man.   He also asked me if my wife had already moved.

How did he know?

It was totally hungry by like 11 a.m.   I mean seriously hungry.  I bought a box of pop-tarts, a bag of Doritos and some cheese dip.

I ate it all for lunch.

Co-workers seem odd, distracted.   Some of them whispered when I ate.

They don’t understand awesome like I do.

Quitting time!   Totally going to bed early tonight, I’m tired!

Drank beers when I got home.   Something smells funny in the kitchen and I don’t remember there being this many flies when I left this morning.   After a few beers I decide to play Skyrim but decide my character will always be naked.

Playing Skyrim with a naked character is stupid.

I lose interest after 5 beers.

I am offered and accept a position as “administrator” at ratemyrack.com.

I declare that ‘Juanita’ has won ratemyrack.com ‘for all time’ and that no further entries need be supplied.

I am fired as an “administrator” at ratemyrack.com.

I eat cold baloney and cheerios over the sink.  I think I drank catsup because I once read you cannot ’drink’ catsup.

Fact: you can.

The cat is avoiding me.

Day 3:

I awake to discover South Park on replay in the bedroom and that the sheets during the night have been pulled off the mattress.   I’m actually cocooned in bedding and it takes me 15 minutes to extract myself.

It’s a painful 15 minutes as I really have to pee.

Why are all these empty beer cans on the floor?

There are a herd of goats in the living room.  Leaving the back patio door open for this long now seems a bad idea.  Closing it now seems a worse idea.   The cat is nowhere to be found I doubt she would be much help were she here.   I fight for a seat among some kid and turn on the TV.    Nothing happens.   I discover that the goats have eaten through the cable.   They’ve also eaten the coffee and most of the food in the kitchen.

Yesterday’s twice brewed coffee is a distant memory but my headache is here and now.

A goat just butted me, with its head, and it hurt.

Guess I’m going to work.

The closet has been ransacked, I’d blame the cat but I know it’s the goats.   I’m reduced to shorts and a collared polo for work.   I convince myself flip-flops work in this situation and go with it.   If you believe in it enough, it’s true.    After showering I’m reduced to drying off with the bedding … the towels were eaten by the goats while I slept.

Down to the garage I discover pimp Iceberg Slim’s ‘ride’ in my garage.  Confused memory’s come back.   Something, something, “let me keep my ride here,” something, something, “and I don’t kill you” comes to memory.

Seems I made the right choice.

There are a lot of words at work, “appropriate”, “business-like” and “you smell like a goat”.   None of them matter because I smell like goat.   Googling goat extermination is more complex then you might think …

Once back home I discover that a family of indigenous Germans have camped in my basement, tents and all.  That would be weird but for the fact I never knew there were indigenous Germans.

When challenged they confess they’re just a bunch of drunk dudes.

These guys, no matter what they tell you are not a protected tribe of indigenous German people. They’re drunken college kids. Never let them camp in your basement.

I wouldn’t mind them but their cooking fires have blackened the ceiling and walls.  They’ve taken care of the goat issue and invite me to share in their grog.   I partake willingly and am happy to discover they consider the living room to be ‘sacred hunting grounds’.    They’ve somehow convinced Iceberg to relocate.  Between this and the goats, I am happy.

They also have Grog.

Day 4:

Good news!   The boss sent me home early from work.  I don’t know why.   He told me not to come in tomorrow either.  FOUR DAY WEEKEND PEOPLE!  The German tribe has migrated, or at least that’s what the notes they left me said.   It also mentioned a lack of beer.

Whatever.

The damage is massive, I begin searching online for “chicks that clean your house naked” only to discover, after a few phone calls, they really don’t do goat poop removal.   They dust and crap.  My dust has dust on it at this point.

I wrap myself in a rug and pray for death for tomorrow, SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED, returns.  I have failed.

Day 5:

HOLY JESUS DAGMAR WILL BE HOME TODAY WHAT THE HELL AM I GOING TO DO?!?!?!

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I got an iPhone, I got a new iPhone! Holy everthing I got a new iPhone! Seriously I got a new iPhone!

Posted on September 21, 2012 by | Leave a comment

The new iPhone 5 is out the new iPhone 5 is out OH MY GOD, the economy isn’t that bad.

Look any economy that can support a collective group of retards that literally camp out for days in order to spend $700 on what is basically a status symbol isn’t in decline.

That’s the reason this election isn’t about the economy, the economy isn’t that bad.   Interest rates for a new house are at roughly “1.pleasebymepercent” and a bunch of ‘tards are amped up because apple ‘did something’.

This economy is so bad I'll wait in line to spend $700!

This economy is so bad I’ll wait in line to spend $700! (photo credit: CNN)

Seriously how bad can the economy be when people line up and camp out to spend $700 on something that will be old news, right now?   How bad can it be?  Chelsea Handler just said the iPhone 5 was over and that she was having sex with Steve Job’s ghost while drinking Vodka.

Or something I wasn’t really listening.

I also got a new phone today.  I’m pretty pumped about it too.

I paid exactly 0.0 dollars for it and it has exactly 0.0 new features over my old phone.

Much like the iPhone 5.

Let me explain.

Today my phone committed suici … okay no MORE LIES … I killed my old iPhone 4.  I rode bareback with her, I never protected her and I gambled with her life, every day.   I didn’t ‘wrap my rascal’ and a fatal fall killed her.

I couldn’t find a case I liked but more to the point I couldn’t be bothered to look for a case because, “I’ll never drop this phone.”

Then I dropped the phone.

Today.

On the day that the new iPhone 5 goes on sale and I really, really hate apple so today was really inconvenient.  Had this happened in August or October you likely wouldn’t be reading this, I just don’t care about apple and changing phone manufactures IS a goal of mine.

But changing phone numbers is just too hard, or I’m just too lazy.

My wife said, and I deserved this, you did this on purpose to get the new phone.

Let me assure the world, getting a new phone, in this day and age is the absolute last thing I want to do.   I have to reload contacts, re-synch the music, re-synch the apps, re-enter passwords and … I’d rather someone punched me in the balls.  Everyone reading this knows it’s a pain in the ass.

The line at the store was fun.  Some hippy chick that was born last night asked so many questions people behind her were actively plotting her death, myself included.  I favored a diversion followed by a slow and painful strangulation but was outvoted by just punching her to death.

Seriously hippy girl had to apologize to the crowd several times.

The crowd was weird.   Lots of suits.   They were all, to a person, very enthusiastic about the new phone.   Which is cool but here I was not giving a shit about the new iPhone stuck talking to them without a device that allowed me to disengage from the conversation cause my phone was broke.  Actually I should have offered to buy their old phone, that would have been a good plan but …

Focus Todd, back to the story.

Finally, after what seemed like … well it was really only 20 minutes I reached the guy at the counter.

I told him my sad, sad story.  I dropped it, the repair guy said it was about the same as a new phone and can you help me sir?

He had a new iPhone 5 of course, one of only a few, would I want it for just *billion euros?  I sighed.  Dagmar will hate me but fuck it, sure.  I need a working phone, for work, this blog and porn if nothing else.

He typed into the computer, looking up my contract.  We chit chatted.   I don’t give a shit about iPhones I told him, I’m pissed I have to buy new chargers.   Do you have adapters for the old chargers, no?  This sucks.

Then he said the magic words.

“Have you ever upgraded?”

“No, I’m a virgin,” I blushed.

“Why not just upgrade to a 4s,” he replied, licking his lips.

“How much would that cost,” I said looking him in the eye.

“One Euro,” he said removing his shirt.

And we made sweet, sweet gay love right there on the counter.

Look the iPhone 5 is like 5 million Euros or some shit and slap that 4s on the counter for one euro, I’ll take one please.

I bought a phone condom, at the same time.   It was a 15 Euro phone case.   I gave him a 20 euro bill.  Unlike America not everyone has a cash register, he had the typical euro leather wallet of bills.  He didn’t have a much euro change.

“I guess this phone is on me,” he said.

And it was.  Now if I can just get Siri to say tits and update my contacts.

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Because banks are fun but making fun of the wife is ‘funner*’, I just want to say, ‘suck it hon.”

Posted on September 20, 2012 by | Leave a comment

Just found out my credit score is better than my wife’s, which basically translates to, “don’t lend money to my deadbeat wife”.

And you people are always sticking up for her.

You’re all marks, she’ll con you.

The chickens have come home to roost.  Read on …

Basically it’s only like a 9 point difference because neither of us has made a move, credit wise, without the other’s involvement in a billion years.

So, why the difference you ask?  American Eagle, a 10% discount on all purchases made with a store credit card I answer.

You see earlier this year, when we went to the states and bought a crap-ton of clothes, because well it’s ‘Merica.  Someone, not this someone but the other someone in this fascinating and tawdry tale, fell for the ‘if you open an American Eagle Credit Card you can save 20% on all your purchases.”

So I’m in my boxers right now, wearing a stained wife-beater t-shirt  swilling beer preaching to Dagmar about the brilliance of investing in the future credit swaps of ‘who cares because I have a better credit score than you do so I’m smarter’.

Okay that’s not really happening because she’d punch me for doing it.  To clarify she’d punch me in the wiener.  There may be few life lessons I have learned throughout the years but not getting punched in the junk is one of the few I have taken to heart.

Scrooge McDuck

If I buy this house for 110k, repave the driveway, it’s totaly worth a cool million I’m sure of it. Scrooge McDuck (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Anyway like most of America we bought a house, at the absolute top of the market.  You remember the era.  It was when real estate would “never go down in value, and we could all keep flipping houses until we were Scrooge McDuck level rich, swimming in pools of money.”

It was literally right before you and I started to cry when we opened our 401K statements circa 2007 or so.

Flash forward to today and  home loan rates are no longer in the “who the fuck cares” percentile and she and I thought it might be time to get one of those sweet, sweet low-rate refinance loans.  We were pretty sure that a house’s interest rate shouldn’t be so close to the credit card that the two are on first a name basis.

And we were right.

This is the odd part, or maybe not considering our credit scores (suck it Ms. Lower than Mine Credit Score), the bank really just offered to send me 12 strippers and to send Dagmar a live-in pastry chef for one year.  Okay not really but they were like (imagine this said with a sexy voice), “We promise to service your loan Mr. Oliver.”

Anyway, tons of personal information later Ms. Sexy Voice** does credit checks and comes back with the something akin to the following, “you’re awesome Todd and I want to have crazy sex with you but there seems to be a freeze on your wife’s credit.  Can you call Equifax, Transunion and Experian and ask them WTF is the issue?  Then we can have the hot sex.”

Okay I paraphrased that last paragraph up there but point is there was an issue with her credit report.  To remedy this I called all three, a painful experience from Europe I assure you.

And here they are in order of best to worst.

Transunion makes checking your credit score so easy you’ll call them back tomorrow to do it again.

Literally I thought I was calling a friend.

Thansunion:  “Dude, I’m SO glad you called!  I just noticed on your CC that you signed up for bigbreastedamateurhousewifes.com.   That site is the tits dude!”

Me: What? That’s on my credit report? Jesus Christ get it off of there!

TU:  Relax man no one else can see it, I LOVE that site.   Check out Ms. Mulberry lane dude she’s insane.

Me: Okay, Okay I will shut up.  Is our credit okay?

TU: It’s the tits dude  …. Look man why don’t you call more often man we’re such good buddies!

Okay maybe they were a little too friendly.

Experian is run by Germans.  I’m sure of it.

Experian representative:  “Give me  zee numbers, (beep/boop/beep/boop), robot says your credit is okay.   Press 1 to continue, press two to destroy zee world.

I hit two and was put on hold.

Equifax stabs you in the eye and then, and here is the fun part, makes you give

Image representing Equifax as depicted in Crun...

Please to be removing your eyewear for the stabbing in the eye please. Image via CrunchBase

them money because stabbing you in the eye costs money.

Literally it’s crazy.  I was transferred to India where the following took place:

“Oh I see you are liking the boobs of wives that are your neighbors but not your wife sir.  This will be costing you twenty five American dollars sir.”

Anyway thought this amazing process, and a $25 dollars a month poorer charge, I’ve come to find out the bank put in the wife’s wrong SSN on the credit check.   But still at the end of the day it was worth the million dollar phone bill.

Finally I do have to point out that we have credit scores that are in the 800′s, pretty bad-ass. Or at least it seems that way until I remember that I’d have a credit score of you have to be kidding were it not for Dagmar. As she correctly reminded me I didn’t even have a credit card (I had a bitchin’ stereo though) when she met me let alone a credit score. Thanks … lady with the lower score than I.

*   Screw you Fran and others.  “Funner” is the word to use in this situation.

** It was really only a sexy voice in my head, but it was funner that way.

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Stop F’ing with me Germany … also I feel a bit paranoid. We should go to the sauna.

Posted on September 17, 2012 by | Leave a comment

Germany is fucking with me.

Or maybe it’s the weather that’s fucking with me.

It’s likely best if you imagine me as a meth addict saying those two things.   A meth addict that’s been awake for eight days, hasn’t showered for 10, is covered in sores and this has gotten way off topic.

Look, I know, just as I know I will write another retarded update to this blog that the gray clouds and constant drizzle are about to hit us but, at of this mid-September point it is all 70-degrees and sunny.   If the easiest job in the world is

Brussels, Looking Hot

Like this only in Germany and crap. (Photo credit: clappstar)

Phoenix weatherman (It’ll be hot and sunny tomorrow) the second easiest should be a weatherman in Germany (bring an umbrella!) and its taunting me because you can feel the weather SLOWLY changing but without any of that normal half cloudy, half rainy crap that September usually seems constructed of.

But I’m VERY sure that in all the Septembers I’ve been here in Germany (five of them if I recall) I’m pretty sure I was wearing a jacket at this point.   But not this fall, not this September, its 70 degrees in the afternoon and I should love it.

I should …

You see I grew up in Phoenix, hence the weatherman joke a moment ago, where the sun told you to shut the hell up and get back inside on or about March 1st and didn’t stop flailing your hide until about December 15th.

Dagmar grew up in another hot … oh wait it snows there in the winter.   Half-credit only honey and really it never was that hot when we visited.  Warm yes.   Phoenix hot?  No.

The point is we both like hot weather.   We love it.   LOVE it.  We’ve actually told friends we love hot weather with capital letters.   “Hi, we love hot weather with capital letters,” we said.   It was awkward.

But it’s a good job here in Germany.   Good people, interesting work and I’ve since learned (being from Phoenix) that snow is just water, it can’t hurt you and if you put on more clothes the cold can be tolerable.

Who knew?

Which brings me to the German saunas, always a popular topic if the word searches that lead people here are any clue (perverts!).    Besides sweating while naked next to total strangers, during warm weather, there are ample places to lie out in the sun at the Sauna we go to.   There’s also a heated pool and sleeping rooms and there’s even a natural lake, and back in July and August when the sun was just ‘a-rockin’ it was awesome to jump into its cold water.

Point is we both like to tan and if you can tan in the buff why not do it?  We even seek out the nude beaches here in Europe when we go on vacation, again if you’re going to tan and you can tan in the buff, do it.

I’ll giggle like a school kid on my death bed if the cause of my demise is skin cancer, and I’ll ask for a beer and a smoke after the diagnosis.

We went there all summer long and it was awesome.    Dripping with sweat from the good old sun Dagmar would ask me if I want to go to the next special ‘honey sauna’ and I’d laugh and laugh.

No dear, I’m covered in my own sweat at the moment and when I get tired of that there’s an ice-cold pool right there to turn-off the heat.  Why would I subject myself to being in a super-hot box when obviously Mr. Sun is right here more than happy to meet my needs, and I’m getting tanned to boot.   You’re ice sauna doesn’t do that does it?

We even talked another couple we’ve been friends with for years and years into coming with us by using phrases like, “look you’ve been in Germany for years, shouldn’t you at least try it,” and “wanna see my weiner?”

Cover of "National Lampoon's Vacation [UM...

Naked vacation with friends, we can invite Chevy Chase and make a movie … only it wasn’t. At all.

I had this whole idea that I’d blog about going to the naked sauna with friends and what that was like.  I even told Oh god my wife is German dude I would but in the end it was about as funny as unpacking the groceries.   Maybe even less funny, depending on what you bought.    They’re good friends, seeing them naked didn’t cause any bit of whacky-funny stories like you’d see in a National Lampoon Vacationmovie, damn it.

Friends if you’re reading this, thanks for nothing, assholes.

Dagmar’s going to proof read this in a moment and say something to the effect of, I thought this was about the weather?   And she’s wrong, because it is about the weather and the sauna because the two go hand in hand damn it.

Last week I scanned and scanned the weather.  I checked the iPhone weather app like I was expecting a call from my dealer, I hit refresh on weather.com and weather underground like a junkie.  I even asked the guy that empties our trash.   Everyone agreed, Saturday would be nice, clear with a high of 70 something.

So what happened Friday?   Sunny and 70 is the correct answer.  What happened Saturday?   Overcast with a 100% chance of rain on the way to the sauna?  Yes it was.  What happened Sunday?   Sunny with a temperature of 73ish you ask, yes it was.

Why are you fucking with me Germany?    Also I think the cops are watching from the retired German neighbor’s house across the street.   Yeah, I sound a bit paranoid.

So, what happened today after I drove home in the 70something degree weather with my windows down enjoying the clear blue sky?   Yeah, I Googled it.  There’s a dip on Thursday, with a chance of rain, but otherwise clear skies and 70s.

I’m totally buying tickets tomorrow, one more ride on the sun train.  Chase the dragon man  …

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German flowers, atheists and the bathroom … an update about nothing

Posted on September 14, 2012 by | 7 Comments

I just tried to revive something that was dead, well mostly dead.  It has a pulse but its faint and thread bare and any other medical-sounding terms I might have heard somewhere.

It was something I wrote a while back and didn’t upload to here cause well, it sucked.   It was written drunk, edited while sober and pronounced dead about a minute ago.

So basically this is another update where I say I got nothing.   The last time this happened I told you Condoleezza Rice was hot, and she is.

So how about a few random bits of stupid observations about stuff.

Germans, the god-damn Germans

Maybe they will pay, maybe they wont. Okay it’s Germany they will.

German’s, at least here where I live, honestly plant fields of flowers and then put a barrel (think of it as a piggy bank) on the edge of the field, with a price for each type of flower and trust the shit out of everyone.   Funny point is it works.  Germans, My non German-ass included, dutifully pay that money, even when no one is looking.   I have full faith that in America someone would drive a 4×4 into the field, and then do donuts, at night just to be a dick.  No one would pay the price and the little knives that hang on the bottom of the pricelist that are used to cut the flowers would all be stolen on day, nay, hour one.

Seriously, some farmer plants a ton of different flowers.  Puts a barrel in the field with some dull knives and gives the customer the price of each flower.   Customers here cut the flower (with or without the dull provided knife) and deposit the knife in its place and then put money in the barrel.

Someone in America given the same situation, and you know it’s true, would totally poop in the barrel after destroying the flowers, stealing all the dull knives all the while facebooking about it.

Germans are so fucking trusting you but buy into the system, fuck it 14 sunflowers cost 10 Euros and I’m the dick if I don’t pay it when no one’s looking.

Dagmar looks over 90% of these updates.

Dagmar is SO goddamn sick of my sense of humor and after this many years who can blame her?  When she reads these updates, and occasionally laughs out loud, I yell out, “what, what part was funny?”

Really I do.

Look I was an enlisted public affairs dork for the U.S. Army for 20 years.   Years ago that mean you, ‘were the editor of the base/fort/caserne/camp’s newspaper.”   So if you spelled Caseme Ederle that way (and I did) in the headline you got a lot of shit when the paper hit the street in the morning.   Dagmar understood and lay in bed with me at night copy editing, so fuck I trust her edits here.   She doesn’t make many edits here, which scares the shit out of me.

I do go back in and change shit here when I see an obvious mistake but they are mostly on 20% of the updates mainly, the ones she hasn’t seen.

Mostly.   Read that last word in voice of the little girl in the movie Alien’s II.  “They mostly edit at night, mostly.”

I’m an atheist.

I had this big-ass idea in my head about how I would ‘come out’ about my atheism and then beer happened.   There’s a lot of news right now, a lot of books, a lot of talk about atheism but really, who cares?  If you believe in a higher power, good for you!  I think you’re wrong but why should I type a lot of words, put a lot of thought and effort into … into what?  Converting you?   You’re not going to be converted and I’m not going to become a believer in a higher power.    I’m kind of pissed off at atheists that are yelling in the media right now.  We’re a barely oppressed minority, chill.  Facts will eventually beat out believe, every time.   Really guys, chill.  We’re getting there.  Yelling, screaming, hell proselytizing, only adds noise.

Fact will beat out fantasy, every time.  Wait.

Okay maybe that does deserve its own update later.

I don’t understand the bathroom, specifically the shower …

This is likely more to any guys reading this, ever read the shit on the bottles your lady has in the shower?

Really, I mean really read it?

WTF, let’s spell it out cause using the capital letters doesn’t do George Carlin justice, What the fuck are you ladies doing in the shower?  Really what’s a sleep mask?  It’s in a bottle with a squeeze top.

(Dagmar breaking in:  Really that’s funny? I bought that crap six years ago, in Afghanistan, and it’s finally used up.   It’s a wonder my hair hasn’t fallen out.  Really Todd?)

Okay I actually just went up into the shower and looked.  It’s not a face mask, its better it’s restorative hair mask and something that is titled “sleep”.

Just a bottle called fucking, “sleep.”

The actual text

It also says and I directly quote:

RELAX BEFORE SLEEP.

 Lavender Essential Oils and Vanilla

Absolute help calm feelings of

stress so you can sleep better.

Seriously there are typos here that would make Hunter S. Thompson cry but, what the fuck is that, really what is it?  Absolute help calm feelings I want to punch you right now.

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Stripper Ferris Wheel! I’m coming Chad, Amanda, Dad, Diane, Darcy, Cory, Aunt Viv, … stock up on beer

Posted on September 11, 2012 by | 5 Comments

Dear Olivers, dear Hurlbuts, dear Dibiases (French people!), dear Colemans, dear my way cool cousin that used to write funny crap on my facebook feed, dear way cool lawyer cousin that was always awesome to hang out with, dear whoever else I forgot, mostly to my little brother and dad and dear all of you.

To hell with it, I’m coming there to upstate New York next summer.

In my efforts to be the Billy Carter of our combined families, between making jokes about swilling beers and boobies, I forgot something.

That something is the following.  The wife has totally, and completely (I’m going to need some free legal back up here lawyer relatives) given me permission to plan a trip there this coming summer.

And here’s the deal.  The department I work in for the U.S. Army is the, “Plans and Operations Division” and you can ignore everything after ‘and’.

Let’s plan this.

Darcy and Chad, and by Chad I mean Amanda, I’m looking at both of you.   I’m pretty sure that fireman cousin of mine wants in but I can’t be bothered to look on Facebook for the name.   It’s Cory or some crap.

Yeah, yeah, when are you coming, yeah, yeah where are your going to stay, and yeah, yeah let’s talk, The fun.

The fun details follow.

Did I just impress anyone with my bold use of bold?  God I hope so.

The get together has to be at the Oliver farm.   Those of you reading this that don’t know there’s an Oliver farm will be shocked to learn there’s an Oliver farm.

It’s at the end of the Oliver road, a major super-highway that runs about a mile into the hills of upstate New York.  Really though it’s “Oliver road.”

I think the Gin Blossoms did a song about it once.

(Google), See here’s the lyrics,

“All of the pressure that I left behind
On Oliver Road
Fools in the rain if the sun gets through
Fire’s in the heaven of the eyes I knew
On Oliver Road”

Also fuck the Gin Blossoms cause that has nothing to do with Oliver Road … they’re tards.  I think we all agree.

The re-union or union or the party, let’s just call it a party, is going to need a crap-top of beer because of well, me.   Everyone else will have to bring their own.  Okay, okay the wife just said I have to share.  That means I have to have a, okay WE, have to have a crap ton of beer plus one.

I think we’ve all learned one lesson here.   Lots of beer is needed.

how fun is this?

Yeah great we ‘could’ mow grass or clear brush or we COULD tear around the area like madmen while swilling beers Chad! This combined with a Ferris wheel … well you pick.  Also guns. Don’t forget guns.

I’m pretty sure my little brother agrees when I say there should be rented ATVs.   Because it’s the farm and my Dad’s tractor aside, mud.

I think we should also have a ferris wheel with STRIPPERS!   We can put it down on the flats, with music.   Every seat on the ferris wheel has a stripper on it and when the music stops the stripper on the ground floor …

Hi, This is Dagmar, I’ve taken over the blog for a moment.   Hope you’re all okay, and we will see you all soon!   I’m also feeling much better and thanks for all the kind words when I was sick, it meant a lot to me.   No Todd, there will be no Ferris Wheel of strippers.  There won’t be a Ferris Wheel at all.  Where do you get this stuff?  Look I told you before to please stop saying bad words here.  Can you stop saying the ‘F’ bomb?  Thanks.  No strippers on Ferris wheels on the Oliver farm and no more ‘F’ bombs okay?  Thanks,  Dagmar.

…  and then when the fireworks go off we all totally hit the dynamite and rock this fucking party like

afua[ouda .arfau4q58d.

*)OD*S<>

Uoj(ukd<>

Okay sorry my head was just bashed into the keyboard and I’ve been informed that there will be no Ferris Wheel with or without strippers and that I should stop saying, ‘fuck’ so much.

Which is odd cause I thought fuck was a very funny fucking

A;uaplikjfdaiuzdpoiutaqcogf.

Okay.  LOOK.  I’ll stop saying fuck.

OUOPADUFIG*UP)C(*U(UD

Holy Moly!  I’m cured.  Lets’ have lots of potato salad, soft drinks and water balloon fights!  Maybe the Pope can come, who knows?

And fishing, seriously someone needs to bring fishing gear.    Cause I want to do some damned (Is THAT word okay?) fishing, there’s a trout that owes me somewhere in the little creek.

You all know which creek I mean.

This is Dagmar again, just wanted to add, Todd how would you know it’s trout, you’ve never fished a day in your life. 

What the fuck

apfu8adoiud

*#*D(*SKCJJgaukd ,d

Okay … okay.  Get off my blog woman.

Note:  What fun that was.   Look we are coming back there this summer Dad, Diana, Darcy, Chad, Amanda, Little Edward, and all other’s that care.   I’d like to do this right (for once) and see all of you and have a grand time at the old Oliver Farm.   Let’s do this.  We can plan it, talk about it, work it here or via email.  I care not, but let’s make this work.  I want to see an Oliver Farm Day.  Finally does anyone there know what the cost is to rent a Ferris wheel, don’t tell Dagmar.

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A Good Samaritan makes me cry, reduces professional to violence

Posted on September 10, 2012 by | 5 Comments

Hey Good Samaritan, how are you doing?   Take a seat.  Are you comfortable?  Good.  Do your people drink?  Do you want a beer, no, just a diet Coke then.  Well color me not surprised.

Anyway look I know you’ve likely been busy what with rescuing kittens, walking little-old ladies across streets and, say were you a boy scout?   Eagle Scout?  Impressive.    No shocks there really.  Yeah, yeah, it’s awesome.

Listen I know you’re busy, you want to get back out there reading to deaf people or whatever but do you remember closing a really heavy door this weekend*?   Then when it was closed, just to make absolutely sure you closed it you spun the digital lock attached to it because engaging the simple key lock isn’t good enough for person of your ‘anal retentive nature’?   And to be honest that spinning was the awesome part of what you did, just closing the door was one thing, spinning the lock, engaging the second deadbolt was the kicker.  You’re a do-gooder that goes the extra mile, and I like that.

Because yeah, in the six years my fellow coworker saw that door (get this) it has never been locked.

Not once, it was always open.

It has a combination I’m sure but that knowledge has been lost to time.  It’s a fucking mystery and I couldn’t find Scooby Doo to solve it.  The mystery van was nowhere to be seen and old man Wither’s has been dead for the better part of half a decade.

What was behind the door you ask?  Behind that door are secrets, bad-ass secrets that I can’t discuss here for national security reasons.   Okay, Okay because I know no one from work reads this (giggle) I’ll give you one.

Iran and Israel don’t always get along.

I’ve said too much.

Anyway, I needed that door to remain open, I almost feel like Pvt. 1st Class Bradley Manning here, It should be OPEN.  Help me Julian Assange, as soon as you’re out of that apartment in London I mean.

I needed it open but no, you closed it.   Closing it not being enough, because you’re a special kind of Good Samaritan, you spun the dial engaging the second lock not even Indiana Jones could outwit.

Don’t believe me, Indy could get through it damn you, you say.   Read on.

Did I mention that this door was the new door to my (and my coworkers) new office space?  No?   Did I mention that the movers were busily packing up my old office and would be arriving at the new office at 15 till two seconds from now?

Yeah it was the kind of morning where you find yourself wondering how much the guy that cuts the grass makes.   Really, the wife and I have too much shit as it is.   Probably a lot of time to think on those riding lawn mowers,  pop in some headphones, select playlist called “who cares” and dream big dreams as you take your John Deere Z665 model mower out into lawn oblivion.  Did you know the John Deere Z665 has a turning radius of who the fuck cares?  Me either.

So this door, this VAULT door, yeah it’s no joke.  It’s meant to prevent anyone from ever, without the code, which I don’t have, from ever, ever entering.   Had Edgar Allen Poe known of such technology he’d have saved himself a lot of time.  Don’t bother walling the victims in, just slap this sucker shut and eating the combination would have achieved the same effect.

Okay you’re thinking how bad can this be?  You call in a locksmith, magic

sparks, what can go wrong?

This was an early, pre-hit it with a hammer attempt. Of course the fire department was involved moments later.

happens, and the door’s open.  You’re underestimating my door, never underestimate my door.    The locksmith, after setting off the building’s fire alarm was reduced to hitting it with a hammer.

The locksmith called more seasoned co-workers, his boss, the old retired guy that ‘knew all the tricks.” Nothing worked, I think I saw a tear in his eye at one point.

It’s still not open, after reducing a professional locksmith to brute force, it remains closed.    Extra special note to the American tax payer, you buy super-awesome vault doors.

I did learn a few things, a few new German swear words among them.    I also learned that to the Germans (this is from the bored movers waiting by a loaded truck while locksmith boy hit the lock with a hammer) 30 minutes in American time is like 2 hours and 30 minutes.  Thirty minutes in German time is like 20 minutes.  This came up when the locksmith went to notify the fire department he’d need a ‘cutting permit’ (as best I understood it).  Which was awesome cause when the fire alarm went off, well we had a permit damn it … and I’ll never really understand this country … ever.

So thank you Good Samaritan, best laid plans and all.   That was super awesome on a level you’ll never understand.  I’m drinking a well earned beer in your honor Sir or Ma’am, you’re awesome on a level you’ll never know.

*   An alternate theory, proposed by a co-worker, is that the door was closed and the dial spun by someone intentionally.    I’d go with it except it’s so evil words haven’t been invented yet that can describe it.   I’ve have been stuck typing things like evil faster than light or hates puppies level infinity poops on kittens and who the hell types that kind of stuff?

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Today I add two new badges to my resume, degerate gambler and best teammate ever — you’re welcome Team 8

Posted on August 31, 2012 by | Leave a comment

I think I have a lot of ‘badges’ in this life.

“Drunken idiot?”  Check.

“Loud-mouth political hack?” Oh yeah.

“Idiot with a blog that thinks his opinion matters?” Both of my hands are up.

“Person that obsesses over boobs too much?”  I’m looking at boobs right now which explans the awkwsentance that you read … I mean yes, that’s me too.

But today we can add two new ones.

Degenerate gambler and best team mate ever.

See, I was on a bowling team.   Which is retarded and uncool, and to hell with you honey “The Big Lebowski is a GREAT movie and therefore bowling is actually pretty cool, unless it is really dorky and yeah it’s really dorky.

Chew on that sentence MS Word Grammar Checker!  It’s such a train wreck, I’m proud of it actually.

Not quite the purple jesus

Not quite the purple jesus

Anyway our office team sucked.   We sucked so bad we didn’t even have a name; our name was literally, “Team 8.”  We came in eighth out of eight teams so maybe the name was fitting but really we didn’t give enough of a crap about bowling to even give ourselves a proper name.   I suggested, “Lebowski’s little league” but retracted the idea when it was suggested we only drink white Russians while ‘rolling’.

No can do teammates.  Beer or death.

Team eight it remained.  Our team’s level of ‘notgiveashitery’ was epic, and I’m oddly proud of that.  Of the ten or so games we were scheduled to play, I think we made four.  Because well its summer, I have to go on a business trip, my ass hurts, something good is on TV and it’s on a fucking Tuesday night for Christ sake.

But even though we suffered from toxic-levels of ‘notgiveashitery’ we faithfully paid our dues, because even though we couldn’t be bothered to actually, you know, SHOW UP we all felt it was important to give the league money.  I’m proud of us for that.   As a team we gave two-shits by the end of it about showing up but god we’re paying our dues!

So yesterday the league captain or league general or league ‘his-royal-majesty’, whatever the hell he’s called, phoned me.   The league was over, they wished we had participated more, maybe we could come back this fall when things have slowed down and most of ‘Team Eight’ isn’t scattered across the planet and try again.  And, by the way, I have an envelope of money for all of you, it’s not much, about $130 and when can you pick it up.

Through a set of circumstances that sum up with I had tomorrow off and bowling league king/high-priest/his honor never ever left the bowling alley we agreed that I would meet him at the alley at 2 p.m.

Fast forward to 2 p.m. today and a few apologies, my guys travel a lot for work, I travel a lot for work, yeah maybe next time, the fact that it was a Tuesday was troublesome we’ll try again, just give me the envelope asshole, thanks for your time, better luck next time, you’re team couldn’t even pick a name for fuck’s sake and I had an envelope with $130 and like 70 cents in it.

Now again I was not working today, except for a quick trip into the office to handle a few items earlier, I was done for the day.   Going home and drinking beer while watching day-time TV has about as much appeal to me as bowling does so … but wait, this bowling alley, like many overseas on military bases, it has a slot-machine room.

I had exactly three U.S. dollars in my pocket (I know because I was buying a beer when this idea came to me) and an unopened envelope with $130 that belonged to my team mates.

“Yeah, I’m going to gamble my team mate’s winning away,” I said to myself taking my first swig of pilsner.   “And when I lose it all, I’ll quote Hunter S. Thompson quotes to myself as I drive home,” cause nothing says fun like quoting HST to yourself when you drive home after losing $130 on  slots, the sucker bet of any bet if there ever was one.

When I hit the winning series a live band started playing and like four hot topless chicks came out with balloons and okay nothing happened I just thought good was good enough. Actually I just thought, “this will be funny on my blog.” Cause I’m a dork like that.

I cashed out at $330 figuring an increase in profits of ‘math is hard’ was good enough.  That’s right Team eight, I took our ‘winnings’, well our ‘earnings’ well our “money the league gave us because we sucked” and made that $32.50 each of you had coming into $82.50, cause I’m a good dude.

If we ‘roll again’ we’re “Lebowski’s Little League” and I get a fucking exception to policy on the White Russian Rule.

I’ll totally wear the white bathrobe though.

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I’ve got a problem with my shorts. I’m sorry but I do.

Posted on August 26, 2012 by | 3 Comments

look they're my fav shorts

If only I had the ability to create a poll …

I’ve got a problem with my shorts.

Screw you they’re my favorite shorts and damn it they deserve an update.

This is important for Christ’s sake.

Yeah, yeah the wife feels better and that dude that drank lemonade and maple syrup and cayenne pepper didn’t die and to hell with him!   Who the fuck thought that was a good idea in the first place?  “Yeah let’s toss some raw lemon spooze, maple syrup, hot pepper and my balls into a glass and call it a ‘purge’, cause ‘purge’ is a hot word right now right?”

I wish I could write fad diets, I’d screw with all of you, one part unicorn, two parts Chinese bear gall bladder, five tears of a five year old … it’s modern day witchcraft and I’d have field day.

Anyway fuck the Master Cleanse dude he’s not dead (but hopefully writing here again), the diet was retarded and back to my shorts.

Also hihi GiGi … you rock.  To hell with you she does.

This is about my shorts.

My shorts man, my shorts.

They’re currently my favorite shorts because my real favorite shorts developed a hole in the butt that was so large the wife tossed them out.

She was right to do it though, damn her she normally is.   I mean you can’t wear them to the neighbor’s BBQ anymore at all.  “Hey great grilled pork Elka, have you seen my ass yet?  No?  Wait a moment and you will.  Hey Hans, did you catch the game?”

So here’s the issue.   They have a hole just above the knee on the right leg.   But every time I sit down my knee pokes through the hole and if I’m not careful, makes the hole bigger.

The quandary you ask, as in, “why the fuck are you bugging me with this bullshit” is this.

Should I just rip the hem off entirely or let it slowly die?

If I just rip off the hem entirely, I’m free of the fear that next Saturday morning I’ll inadvertently put my foot into the leg and rip it off like Bernard Madoff (which is the funniest last name ever, better than Anthony Weiner even, I mean MAD OFF, made off, I just pooped my favorite shorts laughing … ) but that exposes the shorts to undue stress and I’m not sure they can take it.

I need a shorts doctor stat.

I’m aware there are no shorts doctors.

Damn it.

P.S.  Dagmar says, after reading this, I’m just going to throw them out, it’s almost winter.

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