Tag Archives: Germany

What the #$%@ do you people want?

Posted on April 5, 2013 by | 10 Comments

I bet this girl doesn't check her stats. She doesn't have to, what with her being hot and all. http://finsnation.typepad.com/

I bet this girl doesn’t check her stats. She doesn’t have to, what with her being hot and all. http://finsnation.typepad.com/

I quit. Really, I fucking quit. There should be a Blogging 101 class you’re required to take before you start this crap.  Lesson one, day one should read something like, “Stats are a fucking mystery to us all, we recommend sacrificing a virgin at dawn to ensure good stats.”

This blogging shit is hard because I’ve become addicted to stats. Fran (editor extraordinaire)  says I am a people pleaser. She claims I’m eager to do what ever anyone wants to keep ‘em coming back. But I don’t even really know Fran. She’s just some broad in North Carolina who (brilliantly ~ Fran) edits this drivel into a fun easy read. (She hopes ~Fran)

I don’t know why I obsess about it.I get the same exact amount of nothing if one person or a million people read this, so my obsession is similar to following Justin Bieber’s career.  I mean, if his career tanks tomorrow, sure you’ll be sad (dork), but you’re not out much. Same here with this effort.

Still though, what the fuck do these numbers mean?

There was a big uptick in March. Why?  February was down — man, it was down!  Why did so few people come here in February?  Was it something I said? In December and January we were up, baby! We had a lot of hits then. What the fuck does all this mean?

It means jack and shit. Nothing. It’s as pointless as changing your profile photo in support of a political cause. Which should mean SOMETHING to some of you, but likely won’t because no one reads this shit that deep except Fran and Marni … Sometime Maggie, but usually not and — fuck, what is this about again?

What the fuck is interesting to read here? Really, what do you find interesting to read here?

I didn't make this. I actually found it on a blog about gutters. A gutter cleaning blog by a gutter cleaner. He also wants people to read his blog. http://www.sparkle-king.com/

I didn’t make this. I actually found it on a blog about gutters. A gutter cleaning blog by a gutter cleaner. He also wants people to read his blog.
http://www.sparkle-king.com/

I think we need a poll. A good old-fashioned honest to “jebus” poll.  A poll that not only says, “This is what I expect out of this retarded blog, but also, this is what I would like out of this blog,” because if stats have told me anything it’s all about you, and I’m fucking all ABOUT you, or at least making you happy.  That sounds funny but it’s really, truly, honest. (See, I told ya. ~Fran)

I want to write things you will enjoy and read.

So, in an effort to figure out the whys, we can and shall — I decree — take a no-shit poll.

It’s right there above this paragraph, can you see it?  For the first time in the history of “Had a Few Beers” we have an real poll. You can’t vote 12 times, you can’t vote for “I like ponies.” You can’t do anything but vote.

Like a good ol’ I-love-God-and-Country American, we’re gonna vote.

I’m curious to see the results. So please vote.  Or leave a comment, comments are also good.

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Trash Can Wars Part 2 … Crossing the Rubicon

Posted on February 5, 2013 by | 2 Comments

I can’t do this anymore.

Rebellion, open and honest rebellion, is my only option. The oppressed must rebel.

I have no guns, mind you. No weapons, save a bayonet I bought for like $5 in Iraq years ago. But desperate times, my friends, call for desperate measures.

I speak, of course, of my wife’s retarded – I mean insane, I mean full-blown weird – decision to remove the trash can from the house.

Moar Boobs!

I honestly just blogged, twice about a fucking trash can. Everyone deserves some boobs.

I talked about it here. But if you don’t want to read that, let me sum it up quickly.

My wife decided, for reasons that escape any known or sane definition of logic, to do away with the trash can. The MAIN trash can, mind you (the one in the kitchen), has been removed from the house entirely. In the trash can’s place we are currently using – and I couldn’t make this up if I tried – convenience store plastic bags hanging from the door knob.

Don’t try and work through the “why” of this command decision. There isn’t any way to rationalize it. It is devoid of reason and without logic. There is no, it-helps-with-recycling aspect to it. In fact, I’m pretty sure it does the exact opposite since all trash goes into the same plastic bag.

Ease can’t be the reason for the change. The small bags fill up every time someone farts. The only purpose, I can surmise, is to annoy the living hell out of me. Something an actual trashcan never did.

A beer ad from Brazil! I was trying to find a trash can full of beer cans and instead found this. You are very welcome.

A beer ad from Brazil! I was trying to find a trash can full of beer cans and instead found this. You are very welcome. ~Fran

Trust me on this one – TOTAL pain in the ass.

Besides filling up at a rate of every second, my wife insists the handles of each plastic bag be tied before being removed from the house. Because obviously, an untied plastic convenience store bag holding coffee grounds, empty beer cans and egg shells is tacky as hell, or an affront to god.

Or something.

Anyway, rebellion, or something akin to rebellion, is brewing. Soon I’ll be meeting with like-minded individuals (the cat) to discuss in hushed tones the revolution.

We’re on the cusp of blood being spilled. Well, not blood exactly, but at the very least beer and that’s c0mpletely fucked up.

The following exchange just took place.

“Damn, Todd! If you would just take the trash out when it’s full, I wouldn’t get mad,” she said.

“You know what would make this a lot simpler, using a trash can,” I explained. “It’s an ancient invention that has proven its worth throughout the ages. Having little bags the size of a fucking coin purse to deposit our waste into is both stupid and stupid. It’s stupid twice. It makes literally no sense. Logic cannot be applied to the decision, that YOU made. It’s impossible to logically justify this decision from any firm standing.”

The Angry Eye

Your logic has logic in it. This makes me mad. (Photo credit: jcgoforth)

At this point she became pissed.

“I’m doing it because of beer cans!”

That was her answer. I can’t explain it. You can’t explain it either.

Her logic is that there would be  too many beer cans in the trash can if we used the actual trash can. There are too many, thus the trash can is no longer going to be used. I also might add that we have a newly purchased, fully functional trash can, that she banished to the basement some weeks ago.

Now… I’ll be fair, I’ll be honest, I’ll bare my soul here. This blog is called Had A Few BEERS for Christ’s sake, so yes, the receptacles that deliver beer’s sweet, succulent love into my belly are eventually in need of disposal. My love, nay, devotion to beer produces (gasp) empty beer cans.

In our last house it was verboten to even place a beer can in the kitchen trash (I used the one in the garage to dispose of my empties). So her argument holds no water, or trash, as the case may  be.

So I think I’m going to take a G-gank approach to this problem and

just put the fucking trash can back in place. When confronted I will tell her it’s there because it’s stupid to not have it there. I’ll also use phrases like, “Because I said so.” ”Trashcans are not evil.” “Who has the penis in this house?”  And, “Please honey, can’t we have a working trashcan, please?”

I’d type a lot more of this, but I obviously have a tiny bag of trash to take out.

I have restored the trash cans to their rightful place in the Oliver Republic. Much like Caesar I fully expect to be stabbed. Oh well, the die is cast.

I have restored the trash cans to their rightful place in the Oliver Republic. Much like Caesar, I fully expect to be stabbed. Oh well, the die is cast.

Finally, to anyone reading this and thinking, but what about Germany’s recycling laws, I’d like to reply, yes.

A fast note to Had A Few Beers readers: Fran, the awesome person who edits this, recently had surgery for chick stuff or a rotten gallbladder, or circumcision, I wasn’t really listening. Seriously though, I hope everyone reading this takes a moment to wish her a speedy recovery. (Fran you’re awesome and I hope you feel better, sans gallbladder).

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I have glitter on my hands and I smell like hooker — stay out of your coworker’s desk

Posted on November 19, 2012 by | 1 Comment

I smell like hooker.

In fact, I have glitter on me.

Don’t tell my wife okay?

Thanks.

Why I smell like hooker and have glitter on my body is best described with a photo …

There were issues … I still smell like coconut chickness and I’m starting to like it.

Yeah that. That right there. That’s the issue. Coconut Carmel Whip hand sanitizer and girly girl co-workers are the reason.

They’re at fault. Not me. No sir.

Earlier in the day I purchased two bags of “Bigs” bacon-flavored sunflower seeds because they’re flavored like bacon.  How anyone can pass them up in the store remains a mystery to many of us.

Anyway, after happily munching bacon-flavored sunflower seeds at my desk all damned day long, I’d worked my way thought every drink I had at my desk. I drank an old can of Citra found in the desk drawer, the Gatorade I bought with the sunflower seeds, a carton of old milk in the office fridge (bad decision). I was contemplating collecting the dew off plants outside when I finally broke down and went to the Shoppette.

The Shoppette, for those of you unfamiliar with military life, is basically a convenience store.  They have lots of convenient products, it’s never very clean and the cashier only has like $20 in the register.

An IV for my tongue (Salt fucks a tongue up!) was what I wanted. I considered buying a bag of ice and just sucking the cubes, one after the other.

I don’t understand how something so manly, with the name BACON right in the title, leaves me feeling so very, very dirty!

After asking my co-workers what they wanted, because I’m an awesome guy, I struck out on my five-minute endeavor. Because I’m quite the clever guy, and because I am basically a lazy bastard, I decide to also buy some beer for later when I get home.  I bought two Gatorades, a bag of chips for the boss and two, four-packs of Bitburger because nothing says you have shitty taste in beer like Bitburger purchased in Germany.

Proudly, I step up to the counter and engage in small talk.

I am fine today sir, just fine and you? Ah that’s splendid.  Busy?  No?  Well sometimes that’s good, my friend. Yes, yes I would like to hear about your special …. Wait, what’s all this fucking liquid.

Thankfully the store was empty, because as the cashier bagged the beers up it became obvious that one of the beers had a hole in it. It was obvious because there was fucking beer everywhere in little tiny puddles.  All over the counter, all over the bags, and a glistening trail on the linoleum leading up to the register.

I can only assume the cashier also has a long history with beer. Perhaps he has a blog called Ilikebeer.com, we may never know.  We both immediately sprung into action trying to locate the culprit. (To discover which beer can has the pinprick hole in it, one must firmly squeeze each can.)

Can you see where this is going?  Yeah, me too.  NOW I can.

I, of course, located the wayward can and when I gave it a firm squeeze, a pressurized stream of beer shot out all over my arm. Actually, it was worse than that, it shot back into the aisle and covered not only my arm, but my shirt and hands in the process.

I replaced the four-pack, paid for my order, then desperately looked for something to clean up with. The search proved futile. I’d have to stay beer-soaked until I got to the car where I had a bottle of, I’d soon learn, empty hand sanitizer.

A good 45 seconds of cursing later, I said fuck it and drove back to the office covered in drying beer.  Which, I think most of you know, smells like ass.

Throwing my boss his bag of chips, I looked for and located what appeared to be a bottle of hand sanitizer. I plucked it off my (absent at the time) coworker’s desk and applied a liberal dollop to my hand and to my arm and commenced with the sanitizing.

But in addition to the alcohol-smelling, germ-killing goodness, I was treated to stripper glitter, coconut and caramel whip, whatever the fuck that is.

So male friends this is the lesson. You can grab anything off a male coworker’s desk and use it for any manly purpose you so desire, but reach into your female coworker’s desk and come away smelling of strippers, bad decisions, and coconut.

Finally, damn it, is humanity just breaking down? There was a time that hand sanitizer just contained alcohol, some gel shit and it smelled like dead germs.    Who is the asshole who started adding glitter and coconut to this stuff?   Used to be that prisoners would take this hand sanitizer and light it on fire during riots, what are they doing with it now?  Exfoliating …

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German driving tips … you can do it naked, while merging and while peeing. Just don’t pass on the right.

Posted on November 6, 2012 by | Leave a comment

It occurred to me today, while driving of course, that I’ve done a disservice to fellow blogger, nay friend, Oh God My Wife Is German*.   You see he just moved to Germany, from Seattle I think, to join his wife.   If not Seattle then from the U.S. anyway and I, having lived here for the past five years should have offered him some driving advice.

I’m sorry OGMWIG, truly sorry.  I hope this makes up for it.

So as a public service announcement to anyone reading this that might find themselves driving someday in Germany and to OGMWIG I offer the following tips for driving in Germany.

Tip one:

Always, always collect photos of funny words on license plates.  In the European Union, well in the German part of the EU at least, license plates always consist of three or four letters followed by three or four numbers.   The numbers are rarely funny.

But the letters, they occasionally lead to hilarity.

You’ll find a good number of ‘ass’ ones and the occasional ‘fuk’ or ‘fuc’ and I always laugh at the ones that say ‘shit’ because really how funny is that?

But the winner goes to a good friend and co-worker.

He found the “klit” and to steal his own joke.

Trust me, though fuzzy, it says Klit. I’m just shocked it was found.

“I found it .. I found the Klit!”

Tip two:

Never pass on the right.

Seriously, the Germans while otherwise an understanding and caring society lose their shit over this.     I used to do it, no more.  Really if it means I need to go 5 KPH in the right lane so that I don’t pass the retard doing 6 KPM to my left, I’m a driving 5 KPH.

I could tell my German neighbors that I am only sexually aroused by male puppies that have been ritually shaved by midgets that are then lit on fire… they would respond with kindness, understanding and tolerance (seems something bad happened here back in the 30s and 40s, I don’t know) but should I confess to a right-lane pass of a vehicle, BAMO – I’d be beaten with sticks in the road and kicked.

So don’t pass on the right.

Tip three:

If there is room enough, literally room enough, for your car to merge in front of another then merge away.

You’re going to have to develop some seriously attuned spatial-reasoning skills because Germans can park, merge or otherwise cram their cars into spaces the size of shoeboxes.    Which fits the National stereotype nicely I think but still baffles the American psyche sometimes.

We’re Americans after all.  We’re used eight ‘god blessed and usually backed up’ lanes of super highway outside of Los Angles for the love of god.   Our parking spaces would be cattle grazing fields here.  In American when I merged I demanded, DEMANED WITH CAPITAL LETTERS, two football (American football at that) fields in front of me and one behind me.  Further I expected the national anthem to play when I put on my turn signal on four miles back and usually anticipated that angels would sing too me as I slowly, ever so slowly, drifted into the other lane.

Not here.

Here it’s all

“Can I make it?”

“Go!”

Countless times on the Autobahn I’ve been driving a safe and sane 250 KPH approaching a semi on the right lane with a four-cylinder plastic car behind it.

Now that driver has to calculate, as I head toward him at speeds far exceeding my IQ, how long I will have to stop, can he jump into the left lane fast enough to give me enough warning and am I currently writing this blog on my phone while driving?

The fuckers always always do it.   One minute you’re rocking out to Lionel Richie’s ‘All night long’ and the next minute everything from the backseat is hitting you in the back of the head, the breaks are on fire and you’ve, again, pooped yourself.

Tip four:

The Germans are better drivers than Americans are.

By and large they are.  Get over it.  It takes like 20 years and costs the national debt of Greece to get a license here.   Also if you really want to have fun over beers some night ask an older German how Greece is doing.

Never mind, don’t do that.

Point is that, by and large, they are better drivers than we are because we learned from our dads and they learned from someone with a PHD in driving.

My dad:  “Son when someone’s riding your ass your best bet is to slam on your brakes and teach them people a lesson!”**

German PHD driving instructor: “Ven das car behind you ist too close you must maintain ze current speed und no vary your velocity!”

There are tons, tons and tons of antidotal stories I’ve heard about Germans being fucked-up drivers, most of them I can fully believe.   Can I believe a friend saw a German dusting the dashboard of his new car with an unused paint brush at 120 KPH?

You bet I can.

I think I can prove they’re better drivers, apart from the no-speed limit autobahn thing.

Let’s play ‘let’s pretend’ for a moment.   Let’s pretend the governors of California, Oregon and Washington State decided collectively that not only was a speed limit unnecessary on parts of I95 but that it should be declared an honest to shit race track.

What would be the result?

If your answer to that hypothetical was, ‘the 82nd Airborne division’ and ‘a state of national emergency,’ you and I agree.

But the Germans, those whacky Germans, they gave us nurburgring and the less famous hockenheimring, stretches of actual road that I’m led to believe are used by normal 9 to 5 commuters and people that want to drive their cars to level 11.

Grandma taking the grandkids to a kid movie and a new Porsche owner really working the gears, on the same road … the mind melts.

Tip Five:

You can pee anywhere you like.    Well almost anywhere.

All those little parking areas along the autobahn, you know the ones.  The ones with the picnic tables no one seems to use that are always populated by trucks with truckers sleeping in them.

They’re basically open air urinals.

Weird I know.

You never see whole families at these places, using the bathroom or even using the picnic tables (because they smell like pee).  You just see truckers sleeping and men in suits peeing …

Tip six:

And I saved the best for last man.

You can drive naked.    You and the wife can tool around the German countryside naked as they day you were both born.   I look forward to the stories.

Seriously I heard it from a German friend so it must be true.   Seems a German man during the one hot day a year in Germany decided that air conditioning was for suckers and that he’d be cooler (metaphorically and physically maybe) driving naked.   It was a great plan until the popo pulled him over and gave him a ticket for, wait for it, driving naked.

Later though, to the judge, he argued that he had every right to be naked inside of his own property (like his house) and that his car was in fact his own property so what was the problem?

The judge let him off.   So go ahead and drive around naked, I’m 100 …. Well … 90 … well 60 percent … okay check with an attorney first on that one.

* Read this blog.  It’s about an American that married a German and moved here, HILARITY.  Oh God My Wife I German is too funny, if you don’t read it I hate you, a lot with like extra hate.

** My dad was actually a driving teacher so that never happened.  His actual advice at the time would have been more akin to “Son we aren’t getting home until you get this car going off this hill in first gear.”  It took three weeks.

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What happened last night, German cross dressers, beer and fun

Posted on October 17, 2012 by | 2 Comments

Everyone from Facebook remember this pic?  It was literally last night so …

Hello and welcome to oour hotel

Hello and welcome to our hotel

This is the backstory…

This never happens to me.   Really honey, it doesn’t.   Maybe I was nervous? I mean there’s a lot of pressure here to perform!

Didn’t know how to write this but I think it needs to be written so let’s just do it in sequence.  Also I’m working with a lot of hard-core military types at the moment so there will be a lot of phrases like, ‘in sequence’, ‘on order’, ‘move to grid square xyz’ and ‘can I borrow your exfoliating gel.’

Deal with it.

Story starts, time now.

Date:  Yesterday morning.

Time: 0650

Situation:   Linked up with head mofracky in charge, hereafter referred to as ‘the boss’ to conduct and execute road march to dining facility (DFAC).  Conducted safety briefing which focused on how many bacon pieces were too many at DFAC and did she or did she not have a hot set of ‘sweater kittens’.

Side note to all military wives: Yes she did, but not as hot as yours.

Time: 0700

Arrived at DFAC and executed operation “fill our bellies with wholesome goodness.”   Casualties included my dignity and most of the pork selection.

Okay enought of that.

The boss and I met early, went to have breakfast and on the way back to the office we stopped at a convenience store for coffee.   When we stopped Dagmar called me so I didn’t go inside, the boss agreed to get me a coffee while I ‘took care of business’ with the frau.

Dagmar and I are moving so it’s a conversation a bit above, “yeah it sucks we’re apart” and has some detail to it, meaning I was really paying attention outside the store.

I was really paying attention until I looked inside and said the following to Dagmar, “I have to go, right now.”

I wish I had photos.

I’ll try and do his version justice but just know that when I turned around, while on the phone with my wife, I saw what appeared to be milk shooting my boss in the chest.

You can see why I had to hang up.

Mister former infantry went inside to get the coffees and discovered a group of Romanian soldiers milling around the coffee pots getting coffee for, in his words, everyone (for non military reading this he means coffee for LOTS OF PEOPLE) .

Undeterred by this obstacle and because he likes a bit of coffee with his cream he ‘plans out his attack’., he’ll fill his cup with creamer and sugar while the Romanians are monopolizing the coffee.

A good plan if I ever heard one.

Because I like my coffee like I like my ladies, bitter and black, I am unfamiliar with the mechanics of cream and liquid sugar dispensers.   They are, to my limited understanding, simple devices meant to dispense to the customer cream and sugar in rationed doses.   But the devil is always in the details because according to him, most all dispensers require that you push the handle in to dispense the product.

This one you had to pull.

Realizing this fact, my boss and former infantry officer if that adds context, pulled – with typical infantry officer retard strength, and ripped the nozzle off the dispenser shooting ‘cream’ everywhere.

Some other officer came to his aid as the Romanians were too stunned to react to the epic level of awesome they were witnessing and I was at this point hanging up on Dagmar so I could, well laugh, as coffee creamer shot everywhere.   It quickly filled up the cup he was holding and the on the unsuspecting captain handed him.   He quickly jammed the nozzle back into the device but by now the damage was done.  He had committed a creamer atrocity that no amount of free napkins would fix.   As we left, with our coffee, he told the cashier, I made a bit of a mess back there and as we exited the store two junior soldiers commented, “man someone had some fun here didn’t they!”

Yes, yes they did.

The rest of the day was boring work shit.

You’re reading this so I assume you realize I like beer.   It’s in the name of the blog after all.  What you do or do not know is that left to my own devices I’m very, very anal about what beer I drink.   Currently I drink bit burger, go ahead, laugh it up.

Point is that a swarm of locus had descended upon the store, the same store that had been creamed, and purchased all the bit burger in stock except for the little retard kegs.   The one in the photo, go ahead and look, I put one up for you to see.  See it?  Yeah who buys that thing besides retards like me and 21 year olds.

I bought it.  I like bit burger, don’t judge me … STOP FUCKING JUDGING ME!

I had to DO math in the store, well almost math, stupid-guess math in fact.   Will this fit in my hotel mini-fridge, if not am I fucked?

Answer yes it will and yes you would have been, had you been wrong.

I bring this up because nothing shout’s I have a drinking problem like ‘mini-keg’ purchased by a 40 something guy on a business trip.  I mean really that last sentence should be in a recovering alcoholic’s email signature block.

Flimsy rationalization is about to occur but bear with me.   We all like to relax at night, right?  I know I do.  A few times in Afghanistan I remember literally going back to my bed and literally having to lay down so I could get up a few hour later and hit work again, no time for anything, LITERALLY anything, beyond going to sleep.

When that happened I always felt cheated.    I like to have a bit of time ‘off’

I have a small keg under my arm and am trying to get to my room, five cross-dressing germans are in my hallway, they’ve just offered me a shot. Let’s see where this goes …

mainly now so I can type this stuff but the point is the same, we all need a moment or two to unwind, part of mine is to have a beer and do this.

So the boss and I leave the office late, 9 p.m. late, and because he is constantly, epically, always and forever eating, we hit the restaurant/hotel.   Slight problem, there is a birthday party going on.   It’s a German hotel and restaurant and it’s packed, they seat us in some back room.  Literally the entire restaurant is filled with what I come to understand are people celebrating a birthday, of someone.

In the special short-buss room the boss and I are fed and drink beers and eventually agree to part ways.  I still have to fetch the “I’m a drunk keg” from my car’s trunk so as he leaves I go to get it, secure in the knowledge that I’ll soon be cocooned back here in my room, safe with beer.

I get the mini-keg from the car’s trunk once the boss is safely out of site.  I’m going to have a quiet drink I think.   I have a full beer in my hand and the keg under my arm and enter the hotel via the side door and run into five men dressed in drag.

I’m holding a mini-keg of beer and there are men dressed in drag in front of me.

 I lose my shit.   I see them and just start laughing.  What would you do?

I asked them for a photo.   Which they agreed too.

There are shots, here with men, dressed as chick. Okay, but only one for me.

Then the shots arrived.   Literally right after I took the photo shots arrived.   I mean what would you do?  Okay you’d have gone to bed because you’re not an idiot like me.

I did the shot.  Game on.

I should have gone to bed.   I know this.  I’m sorry.  It ended with an accordion playing and me staring at some old ladies boobs in a traditional German, ‘here’s my cleavage’ shirt thing.   That should have been hyphenated but I’m tired.

Moral of the story … there is no moral.  If you meet cross dressing men in your hotel stairwell, do shots.  That’s the moral.

This is literally how the night ended and I think there are lessons here to be learned. Kids, don’t follow strange men dressed as chicks into parties in hotel’s you aren’t familiar with.

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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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Spicy lemonade with a chance of hallucinations … guest blogger with a trendy weight-loss plan, what can go wrong?

Posted on August 21, 2012 by | 3 Comments

This is part one of what I hope are many parts … Today another mystery guest (cause no one wants their real name associated with this thing) talks about day one a diet called ‘master cleanse’ or some such crap.

Here we go …

Today I kicked off day 1 of my 10 day Master Cleanse adventure. “What the F is that” you say? It’s pretty simple … and by simple I mean fucking-stupid crazy …

For ten days I will forego solid food for a “lemonade” mixture of lemon juice,

just lemonade, for ten days, what could go wrong?

maple syrup and cayenne pepper. That’s right. Ten days, no food, just spicy lemonade. You can get all the details here.

So how did it to come to this? I’m an American and I’ve lived in Germany for four years now. I really look forward to getting back home every year or so, just to take in some American culture: Shopping and eating.

Well, after two weeks of gorging myself on every restaurant chain in sight back home in the States, I’m at my heaviest. weight. ever. So what better way to follow up a two week saturated fat binge than to chase is with a crash fad diet? I mean, right … ?

Exactly. Which brings me back to day one. Weighing in at a depressing 192.2 lbs., this morning was my starting point and I’m now about to call it a day.

So far, I can report that I am fucking hungry as shit and I would gladly strangle a transient for the chance to chew on stale bread … Other than that, so far, so good! The lemonade is just enough to keep me from gnawing my arm off, but it is only day one. Apparently, day two and three are much harder … as are day 5, day 7, day 9, day 4 and 6, 8 and 10 too … God this is going to suck …

I’m looking forward to seeing what I can shed in just 10 days, though. Also any side effects that include hallucinations or the perceived ability to fly or see through walls would be sweet but I won’t count on it …

So anyway, if you ever wanted to watch someone live-blog eating their own arm, stay tuned …

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Need help annoying your partner during long drives, this updates for you!

Posted on July 9, 2012 by | 7 Comments

Summer’s here and like many of you Dagmar and I just spent a wonderful, relaxing and nightmarish 20 odd hours in the car together.

Oh what a joy, the things you learn when you’re cooped up in a car with someone are remarkable.

Yes, yes I DO think history pod casts are interesting even after 8 hours!

Yes, yes I DO think history pod casts are interesting even after 8 hours!

For instance did you know that while the someone is exiting an autobahn rest stop, madly working the gears, checking mirrors and judging whether or not that Porsche in the left lane, driving a reasonable and insane 200 mph, is going to suddenly change lanes, that’s the perfect time to ask them to hand you things.

“Honey I know you’re pumping the breaks like a madman because of another of Germany’s infamous stau’s has appeared out of thin air but hand me that water bottle.”

Perfectly reasonable request.

In her defense she was probably close to insanity at this point because I’d subjected her to a collective 15 hours of Mike Duncan’s “The History of Rome” podcast.

Now I Love (yes, with a capital L) me some, “The History of Rome”, I love it so much I’ve listed to all the podcasts three times!   Yeah I’m dork so what, Cato the Elder would have said … oh never mind, sorry.  I should have been clued in though during hour 13 of the podcast when she literally started yelling at the radio, “Shut up, Shut up, Shut up!”

So maybe I missed a sign or something.

Also honey I give you a ‘C’ when it comes to bringing up uncomfortable subjects.    Sure you get an ‘A’ on subject matter, why WAS I flirting with that girl, but a ‘F’ on timing … I mean come on we were pulling into the driveway at that point.

Another point is that yes, maybe I am a male-chauvinistic pig but when I grew up dad did all the driving.  If they were both in the car, pops had the wheel.  I see it as the man’s duty, like mowing the lawn, re-shingling  the roof and looking at porn.   “No honey I can’t go to bed yet, this porn’s not going to watch itself is it?”

You, yeah you reading this, do you keep change in the car?  You know in the divider thing between the passenger and driver’s seat?  Maybe you keep it in the ashtray?  Do you?  If so never, I repeat Never, let Dagmar in your car.    This type of change storage is an affront to the very laws of our existence and it must be policed up, sorted and stored in a proper change receptacle (this little bag in her purse).    Loose change (both the kind in my car and the retarded September 11 2001 conspiracy movie) drive her nuts.  Makes no never mind that the next time I need 35 euro cents I’m screwed, everything has to be organized.

Which leads to another fun game I call, ’round up the trash!’  Now I’m all in favor of having a car that’s reasonably clean and who am I kidding, without anyone else in my car the interior quickly begins to resemble a public landfill.   But I’m not so stupid that I don’t pick up before she, or anyone else, gets in the car but it’s always amusing that during long trips she become litter patrol super captain of the world!    For instance, I’m a filthy smoker and yeah, yeah don’t smoke it’s disgusting and filthy (really don’t), but I’ll often put empty cigarette packs in a little cubby hole on the bottom of the driver’s side door panel.   Heck tons of stuff can go there, empty coffee cups, empty drink bottles, tissues whatever.

These are great opportunities for her to ask me to hand her things during my before mentioned attempts at passing a 1950s Winnebago while someone tries to park their Lamborghini in my ass.

“Todd can you hand me that empty cigarette pack?”

“Sure thing my love, just as soon as I’m done merging into a construction zone surrounded by Italian drivers.  I mean if we live that is.”

This is more of a suggestion in italy, I mean if you want to go right who am I to stop you?

This is more of a suggestion in italy, I mean if you want to go right who am I to stop you?

Which, unrelated to my lovely bride and her adorable passenger habits brings me to crossing international European borders.   Entering Austria from Germany is a yawn, like visiting a sibling, they’re the same as you but different.  Entering Italy from Austria is akin to visiting Charles Manson wearing a shirt that says, stab me please while handing him a knife.

Want to drive 70 KPH in the fast lane, go right ahead in Italy.   Lane changes need not be indicated by signal lights, just change lanes damn it, extra points if you cut someone off and then slow down.   Letting someone merge into your lane means you have a small penis and yes, yes you can slow down to check out the hot chick.

Crossing back into Germany it’s like everyone flips a switch and the rules count again.

“Holy shit, did you see that?   That dude just used his ‘blinker’ to indicate he was making a lane change.  Someone should tell the Italian’s about this!”

I think I’m going to get a lot of support from the men reading this next point.   If the start time, for getting on the road, is agreed upon, say 9 a.m., then 8:45 is not the time to start elaborate philosophical discussions.   See we were visiting our best friends (hey Maggie and Alex) and I guess, the fifteen minute mark is the time to start a discussion about ‘what it all means’ or ‘why are we here’ or ‘are Oreo’s better than Chips ahoy?”.   But Alex I do want to add that I’m in.  In  retrospect, I’m down with the Somalia plan but you’ll have to navigate because …

Listen officer, the GPS TOLD me to drive over this guy's lawn.

Listen officer, the GPS TOLD me to drive over this guy’s lawn.

I confession I suck at directions.  Thank god for GPS.  I failed land navigation as a young soldier at the (then called PLDC) Warrior Leader’s Course.  I failed it AND because of a crap-ton of snow we were doing it in garrison.  Those of you that know what I’m talking about are laughing at me right now, go ahead … dicks.   For those that don’t know what I’m talking about the instructor basically told me, “go four blocks that way, turn left two blocks and tell me what the sign there says.”  Yeah, I fucked that up, repeatedly.So YES honey you DO have a better sense of direction than I do but that’s like me saying I’m better at golfing to a retarded, physically handicapped 5 year old.  It’s not much of a victory.

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I’m no longer allowed to talk about sauna boners and this is not really about sauna boners

Posted on June 20, 2012 by | 1 Comment

I’m on another business trip and was informed by my wife today that she ‘read the blog.’ Which was odd because when I told her I was going to start a blog phrases like “you’re an idiot”, “go mow the lawn” and “I can’t wait until dancing with the stars comes on” were tossed about.

I always suspected, but could never prove, that she had snuck a peak or two at the blog. In fact I’d even conned her into proofreading a few of the entries. So both of those updates that were generally free of spelling errors, incomplete sentences and didn’t use the work fuck five times in a row where ones she proof read*.

I knew there were a few sentences or phrases or even thoughts here that she might, question. It’s not Howard Stern circa the mid 90’s wife level of “what the hell is he doing?” But still. There’s photo after photo of cleavage shots that don’t belong to her (I’ve thought about doing an entire update about cleavage shots … look for an exciting poll regarding that topic later in this update, if I remember! Oh crap I did remeber but I put it here and not at the end, because I’m awesome), there was a discussion of vacuum cleaner sex and hell there’s Sasha, remember Sasha? I do! Hi Sasha!

Also Blitzboy76 wants me to drink more and write more. I hear and obey Blitz, I hear and obey.

So what was her comment about the blog? It was, as you’ve guessed, sauna boners.

Now I realize this blog, because of a self-fulfilling prophecy at this point, is dangerously close to becoming the “INTERNET’S NUMBER ONE STOPPING POINT FOR ALL THING NAKED SUANA”. Hell I’m considering selling “sauna boner” coffee mugs, “naked sauna” tee-shirts here and … well no I’m not.

Her point was, and she was only mildly angry, that I shouldn’t write about sauna boners because people would think I was some kind of pervert.

I would like to all of you know that I am not some kind of pervert; I’m a specific kind of pervert thank-you-very-much.

When pressed, she explained, that sauna boners were not the kind of thing I should be writing about because again, people would think I was a pervert. When pressed, as in “I used the term in a very joking manner, never once referring to an actual erection (okay there had been that ONE time but that was ages ago) so I’m not sure how you could conclude that?”** She had no answer, meaning she hadn’t read much other than the headline.

I’ve known her too long for these kinds of shenanigans damnit!

Was I a better writer, better journalist, had I ‘had a few beers’ or even just been a dick I would have grilled her about her objection to the term.

Me: What exactly is wrong with the term sauna boners?

Her: It makes you sound like a pervert!

Me: I see perhaps erections in a sauna would be better?

Her: No, no that’s not what I mean.

Me: Wood in a hot wooden sweatbox?

Her: ewww!

Me: Stiffy in a sauna, that way there are two S’s in the phrase, but we should be careful with things like SS.

Her: No that’s not what I mean!

Me: Maybe something medical sounding? “Fully aroused male subject inside of a temperature controlled enviro …

Her: Shut up!

I wish it had gone that way but alas it did not. I asked her what was wrong with that term in the context I used it.

She of course couldn’t answer that because she hadn’t read it. I knew this, of course. Back, years back, when I was an Army journalist there had been a similar fight. She was mad about something I had written and when pressed I quickly learned she hadn’t read what I’d written.

Taking the time machine back to ; ; ; three, I was a young and eager U.S. Army journalist. Oh boy, eager beaver indeed! At the time there were two kinds of enlisted journalists, those that gave a fuck and those that didn’t. A sort of Tale of Two Cites opening paragraph if you will of Army journalists, meaning it was exactly the same as today. Most of the assignments the editor handed out were of the “cover boy scout troop 1043’s race-car derby this weekend” or “Go to this housing area’s meeting and find out if they’re going to change garbage pick-up day to Thursday”.

Boring shit right?

But then there were the other assignments, the ones where you, and I’m not trying to toot my own horn, but my horn shall be tooted (which is much dirtier than sauna boners for those of you still reading this), lived in the field or worked a long weekend or even worked all night. I always took these, always. I point this out because sometimes when something real to report on (real for Army journalism) came along I got first fucking dibs. Sometimes real was covering a forest fire on base and me and another of the journalists, John Barker, tag teamed that like meth addicted prostit … oh wait that’s as bad as sauna boners, maybe worse.

But a really, really sweet assignment came up when the installation I worked for canned the head chef of the officer’s club. I don’t know how much I want to disclose … okay fuck it, it was the chef at the United States Military Academy at West Point. The fact that they just hired a new one was my story but my editor turned me on to a lot of negative, very early, internet bitching about the old chef’s fuck ups. When I interviewed the new chef I had all the bad-ass questions about how he would address the complaints of the customers and to his credit he had all the answers. It wasn’t Pulitzer but it was Army Pulitzer …

Anyway as you can predict the story ran with me saying what a douche the old dude was and what a shit-hot addition the new guy was about to be.

Moar Boobs!

Anyone that just read that deserves a look at some cleavage … here you go.

Did I mention that Dagmar worked there? Not as the head chef that just got canned but as a bartender. Some faithful ally of the old Chef’s regime had put the bug into her ear that I had called the establishment a filthy cesspool of filthy cess or something.

Basically, without doing what I just did in our imaginary back and forth at the start of this, she called and asked how I could call the place she worked at a shitty place to eat and I replied that I hadn’t, I’d said it was kicking ass these days. Yada, yada, three bags full, have you read it honey? No was the reply.

And that kids is how you write a fuck lot of words about sauna boners and never once refer to a sauna boner.

Also honey, if you’re still here, Sauna boners.

* There are a few others that proof read for me … they remain nameless as long as they keep paying me to remain nameless … July’s coming up girls!

** Look there’s plenty of retarded shit here that I would have to defend, maybe, if she ever read it. Sasha, the second helicopter (she doesn’t KNOW YET … SHHH!) and that fact that on the last night of this trip I plan to have a private candlelit ceremony where I knight my left testicle Sir Droopy

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Breast moles, sauna boners and what the hell is a ‘dorie gary broken’?

Posted on May 31, 2012 by | 7 Comments

If you follow this blog at all, and I’m talking to BOTH OF YOU RIGHT NOW, you know that I took a two-week hiatus. During that drunken black out break I became afraid to check the WordPress stats page, because a ‘no views today’ would have made me cry like an infant in a puddle of my own pathetic.

And I would have been naked so don’t picture that in your head – to late? Shit, sorry.

But eventually the little voice my head said, “dear dickhead, you umm going to update this fucking thing or what? You’ve got one that’s almost ready to go. How about not surfing for porn and or playing games tonight and like taking 10 fucking minutes to, I don’t know, update this shit.”

The little voice was right and I was spending entirely too much time at ratemyrack.com (Emily YOU’RE STILL NUMBER 1 baby!) and not enough time making an ass out of myself here, for your enjoyment. So I uploaded business trip tips and thought, “fuck it Sasha hasn’t called in like a week, we’re good.”

Then I looked at the stats.

Jesus. Christ. Fuck. God. Almighty. What. The. Fuck?

There are days here that I don’t post that get more hits than days that I did post.

I’d love to say it’s because of all of you, the ones that are literally reading this now. I know you came back to share some of my lovely wit with your friends and family. Maybe you showed grandma that wonderful update where I used the words tits, beer, fuck and ball hair all in the same sentence, I mean that was an epic sentence but alas, it was not the reason the stats were still high.

See I wasn't kidding ... it's all about suana boners at had a few beers

See I wasn’t kidding … it’s all about sauna boners at had a few beers

It’s because, and you likely know this, sauna boners. Yeah sauna boners. I knew it would be sauna boners that saved me. (By the way that sentence has never before been written, ‘I knew it would be sauna boners that saved me’ … FIRST BABY).

D.C. Dana has awesome search terms, “mars robot, heat shield, kittens,” as an example. I never get cool search terms that includes robots and only one kitten hit. It was ‘kitten boners’ though so not much of a win there.

Two word press bloggers I follow, Sweet mother and Oh my god my wife is German I bet don’t get too many boner hits. Okay Oh my god my wife is German probably gets a few but they are the good kind of boner hits such as: are boners okay in Germany vice Boner hot boning in boning country. Actually I have never had a hit for, boner hot boning in boning country but I expect to any minute, mainly cause I’ll add it to the tags so … there’s that.

The point is boners are keeping me up (yeah, yeah you see what I did there) hits wise so … thanks. I’m happy you like reading about erections in mixed company saunas, even though they don’t really happen. And I love that you come here looking for porn (has your search engine of choice no image preview function) with terms like, “German sauna erection” and find my dumb ass spout off about Rush Limbaugh or the horror that IS the Golden Corral.

Then there are the other ones. The weird, what the hell, hits. Vacuum cleaner sex, which okay I get it’s a fucking (get it) niche but besides a weird rant I did a month ago, I NEVER MENTIONED fucking vacuums. Sure I’ve looked at the vacuum and though, could I? But I never wrote about that, until now I mean.

Here’s a fun one, “boob moles.” That was an actual search term for this blog (more than once), ‘boob moles’ and again I’m left wondering why. I KNOW on a base level why, I have the most

Sometimes I play connect the boob mole with these photos ... mostly not.

Sometimes I play connect the boob freckles (they’re NOT MOLES asshole!) with these photos but it’s hard with all my drooling .

awesome friend that on demand sends me cleavage photos and her boobs have moles on them (it makes them hotter oddly) but WHO THE FUCK COMES HERE TO INVESTIGATE BOOB MOLES …

Here’s a fun search term that four of our wonderful internet neighbors used to come to this blog, “trolls have sex with female elf.” And honestly who among us hasn’t googled trolls have sex with female elf a few times but I’m just not sure why the internet algorithms would point them here.

Finally there is this search term, ‘dorie gary broken’. Yeah, whatever that is. I Googled dorie gary broken and Google basically told me to shut the hell up

I quit, okay I don’t quit but I want to quit.

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