Tag Archives: Todd Oliver

Rules for business trips … never give sasha your phone number, never.


Haven’t updated in a while because, well fuck you it’s summer and who wants to type a bunch of words when it’s sunny and hot outside.   Not me that’s who.   Anyway just returned from a few TDY (business) trips and thought, you know what this blog needs?  Public Service Announcements that’s what!

Thus …

Rules for business trips:

When drunk in your hotel room a close up photo of your balls texted to 45 of your closest friends will not be all that funny the next morning.

Okay, yes it will be, but only if it’s REALLY close … with a few ball hairs.   That makes the joke funny.    You need a few ball hairs in the photo.

Free for use internet images for herpies come up with some pretty funny results.

Free for use internet images for herpies come up with some pretty funny results.

The fact that “Sasha” has offered you a dance in the “private room” does not mean you and her somehow ‘connected’ and anyway herpes doesn’t care.  More on Sasha in a moment though.

Internet porn is free.  Hotel TV porn is not.  Do the math.

Hotel porn really, really sucks too.

Married males only: Internet porn is best enjoyed in rationed doses.  If you find yourself looking at a naked midget clown mowing the lawn, literally mowing a lawn, it’s time for bed.

After a certain number of business trips you will likely shun all human contact after working hours.  No longer will you desire to see the local post card production museum in (insert town here) or go out with your fellow travelers but will wish to remain secluded in your room most, if not all, nights.   Refrain from building a fort from the hotel room’s pillows and sheets near the door.

If that’s impossible, build in an escape route, while giggling if possible.

The minibar in your own room should be treated with respect, only touched when needed.  The minibar in anyone else’s room should be used and abused like a roman slave.  #protip free beer is always available in someone else’s minibar.

Yes, yes you can have a beer in an airport no matter what time it is.   Literally most international airports have bars that are open always.   Use this opportunity to find out what you think is funny when you drink at 6 a.m. with no food.   Facebook the results for extra credit fun.

Any offer by anyone traveling with you to go ‘out’ that night that is not a ‘tried and tested’ companion can and likely will result in a hangover that is level eight.   Proceed with caution.

Currency conversion when drunk is best done by adding up the number of drinks consumed, multiplied by the hours spent in the establishment, divided by … just hand over the credit card.  If you’re in an ‘unusual country’ said credit card will be declined and you will have to call the fraud alert hot line in the morning to, technical terms follows, “unfuck it.”

There is a 50-50 chance the boss is as hung over as you are.   Should you find yourself not at all hung-over, spike the football.  If not hung-over

This was not the best free for use image I could find for hungover but it was the one that made me laugh the most.

This was not the best free for use image I could find for hungover but it was the one that made me laugh the most.

and wondering if the boss is hung-over, invite him out.   If he gags, spike.   Works. Every. Time.

No matter how prepared you were you forgot the most important up-to-date document.   Deal with that.

The most important up-to-date document is really useless.   It won’t survive day one of the real reason you’re traveling anyway.

Anyone that has a “good idea” or plans a “fun” ice breaker should be savagely stripped of all their clothing and beaten by the group with large sticks … or congratulated for being the most awesome person ever.  Whichever.

Stripping a person of all their clothes and beating them with sticks should never be suggested as an icebreaker but would but a very memorable icebreaker.

Alone time in a hotel room is an excellent opportunity to go over every inch of your skin for weird shit. Odd bumps, hairs, anomalies, third nipples whatever.   You’re likely naked anyway.  Fuck the hotel furniture.

The hotel furniture is likely FULL of butt germs.

The temp of the hotel room can always be set to plus or minus five degrees of what you decide is awesome.

Printing any document while traveling will be a level 8-million clusterfuck, resign yourself.

The taxi driver will not speak you language … I don’t care what language you speak, he won’t speak it.  This somehow equates to a better tip.

Any decision made after 11 p.m. will have interesting consequences.

No matter how much fun you’re having at the club don’t call home to tell your spouse about it.

Don’t.

Trust me.

Never let Sasha talk on the phone to your significant other, the phone bill is too high.

Don't give Sasha your phone number.   If your SO gives her the number ... flee south.

Don’t give Sasha your phone number. If your SO gives her the number … flee south.

If Sasha and your SO talk for more than 5 minutes, find religion and pray, pray for all you’re worth, that the plane going home crashes.   This won’t happen of course so spend big at the duty free/gift shop … you will buy something they don’t want or even like but … okay hope the plane goes down.

While we are on Sasha, her ass is neither better than anyone else’s and you would not come to the “yard” for it in the morning.  It’s a cute ass but it doesn’t need to be spoken of tomorrow.

Never say milkshake when referring to a person’s butt.  Milk and butts are words that should not be combined.

When smoking in a non-smoking room always open and blow the smoke out the window.    Offer the housekeeping staff a liberal bribe because you eventually got drunk and just “smoked it up” anyway.

Did you just send out a heart-felt email to a long lost lover from high school?  Did you just cry?  Are you currently naked and peeing in the sink?  If yes, go to bed.

If any trusted coworker says at breakfast, “JESUS what the fuck happened to you!”  Trust them.  If you at breakfast say to a trusted coworker, “JESUS what the fuck happened to you?”  Cover their ass and extract all the tales.   Yeah that Sasha is a trip isn’t she?

I got nothing so, ‘Condoleezza Rice’ is hot is the best I can do ….


Because I can’t think of a damned thing that is funny to write about I’m going to write about not having anything to write about.   

These are my conversations with myself when I’m thinking about what to write here when I have no clear ideas.

Internal dialog starts now …

Damn it when you started this you said you were going to post something every other day yet you haven’t posted anything in like 18 years.

Chill out, the blogs only a few months old, you’re still finding your ‘focus.’

What the fuck is a focus?   I mean really it’s a retarded blog that mentions drinking beer in the very title.   It’s in the domain name for Christ’s sake, just post any goddamn retarded thing.  The name is www.hadafewbeers.com it’s right there in the address.   Just post “I like boobs.”   Post it over and over again ala Jack in the Shining but you know, with more boobs.

Okay I’d laugh at that but I’m not sure many other people would.  

Okay, okay then what about that time the dishwasher broke and some of your Facebook friends chastised you for using a dishwasher when only two people live in the house?   That could be funny.

Okay that’s kind of a funny but it’s a quick joke.  It’s like, “What are you nondishwasher people, Amish?”  That sort of thing is all the joke is.   There are a few jokes in there about giving the car up for a horse and buggy and … gah it’s not a very long post if I do that.

See that’s the point.   Every blog you like has a lot of short posts.   They’re all quick, witty, fun and short reads.  Do more updates like that.   “Sweet Mother” and “Oh God my wife is German” are two blogs you read a lot and they never post three page diatribes of profanity, boob references and ill-informed opinion on the catholic church (although either might do a boob reference piece tomorrow and how cool would that be?) 

Make this shit shorter, shorter is better.

Blah, write it the way you want to.  If it takes up three pages in a MS word document for you to ramble on about hookers, boobs and beer, that’s not a bad thing.

Okay then but about WHAT?

How about something silly Dagmar does.  You can play the fool and she can be the wise woman but it’ll be funny.   Those work great for Facebook because they’re short and simple though.  Dagmar says something, I say something, Dagmar calls you XYZ and a comment war starts out among your friends.

I might as well write a blog update that boils down to wives smart, husbands dumb.

Okay so then what?

What about politics.   You love politics.   Half of your iPhone’s podcasts are politics.  You read like 80 million political news sources a day … do one on politics.   Really.   You once had an entire conversation with yourself about whether or not you could actually force yourself to masturbate only to images of Andrea Markel*.   I think you concluded that ‘yes you could’.   See that’s kind of funny …

I did one on politics, two I think … both, together, were read by like eight people half of whom where spammers.  How many more Viagra comments do you want or need?  None.

Okay so what was popular?   Which updates had a good number of ‘hits’.   That’s easy, ‘Merican F’ yeah, Things you didn’t know about the military until you get out of the military and anything dealing with German/European Saunas.

Go with those no?

Yes but.  I have ideas for more of each of those (okay not another ‘Merica F’ yeah cause well I don’t live in America anymore so it’s kind of tough at the moment) but refine them.   Remember how much ‘Merica F’ yeah part two sort of sucked.   Yeah refine the ideas dumbass.   Turn down the flame on the idea and let it cook.   Besides the military one you’re close to finishing …

So you have nothing, is that what you’re saying?

It is.

Does that mean this one is the next update?

I just typed it didn’t I?

* I feel this needs explanation.  Once upon a time Dagmar told me that Henry Kissingerwas sexy.   A proclamation that I

Call me!

reacted too by asking, “WHAT THE FUCK?”  She explained thusly, he’s very smart, very powerful and to hell with what he looks like.   That I understood.  It led to many, too many, what if scenarios in my head though.   Hillary Clinton is kind of hot.   There I said it.  If by some odd chance Condoleezza Rice is reading this call me, please.    I’ll cash in one of Dagmar and my ‘get out of jail cards!’  Really I will.

When I die. Boobs and booze … seriously boobs and booze, or so I hope.


We all die.  We all also poop so the statement that we all die is about as shocking as that, when you boil it down.  Also the sun will rise tomorrow.

I want to give very specific instructions here about what should happen when I finally pass but realize, “well fuck I’ll be dead” so do whatever you want to with my dead ass.

I’ll give guidance and hope it’s followed.

Let’s just launch into that list and see who is in charge of what …

Adrian Schulte and Sarah Leslie get to pick the music.    I hope they fight over it, honestly I do, but they get to choose the tunes.    Back off peeps, I decreed from up above they get the final say.  If they pick anything by Celine Dion then that’s what it is.   They are further authorized to tattoo my dead body but only with Gary Larson “Far side” tattoos … they know what that means.

They also have to pick a wake venue that equals slip-and-slide level awesome but also incorporates hot tubs.  I suggest slip and slide into a hot tub but you’re both in charge.

yeah I have a woman I can turn too when I need a quick turnaround, original cleavage shot … don’t you?

yeah I have a woman I can turn too when I need a quick turnaround, original cleavage shot … don’t you?

Gina Gray I bequeath you ‘toplessness’.  Meaning you don’t have to be topless but I demand, DEMAND in the sense that I will haunt every woman that disobeys this order, all the women be topless during my wake.  Small tits, don’t care.  Big tits, don’t care.  Floppy tits, not an issue at all either.  I want all tits on full display at my wake.   Gina make this so.  GG … you have awesome tits, be the only chick at the wake with a top on.  You are authorized three other “exempt” rulings.    Use them wisely.

Rob Gowen also has to follow Gina around the entire time wearing flip flops, boxer shorts and a brown tee-shirt with a bottle of hair gel demanding of everyone, “where is my hair gel.” This will make me happy as I look on from the ever-after.

Mike Gianeeeteee …. You sir will ensure everyone is drunk as shit. 

If my grave isn’t muddy with beer (and piss) you fucked up. 

Don’t fuck up. 

Someone has to later donate me to a medical college.   I want college kids who will later view my autopsied corpse to go “HOLY fuck those lungs are torn up.  That is the most fucked up liver I ever saw and holy shit that’s a big dick!  Which is also why I expect Ray Coley to … never mind.

I want Nick Sternberg and Jerry O’hara to shoot 9 mm (13 rounds) in to the air, Saddam Hussein style … while drinking beers.

Ruth Sternberg has to ensure my foreskin is reattached.  If my foreskin cannot be located, she gets to direct a reenactment of that Monty Python skit where a ton of topless chicks chase a condemned man over a cliff.   I suggest you get Rick Bumgardner to help with the camera work.

I also give Rick my collection of plastic army men and dinosaurs.

I expect Maggie and Alex to supervise it all, I suggest an elaborate system utilizing clipboards, reading glasses, annoying whistles and safety vests. Don’t forget disapproving looks when some lady shows up and refuses to be topless.

Darcy Debase, bet you didn’t see this coming, you have to cater it.     I liked ribs.  So it should be ribs.  You should also be topless, figure it out.

Side note to Gina: There are no pasties allowed (Darcy will totally try to weasel out that way). 

Gina already knows this.  I’m just reinforcing the message.

Bron Berry has to show up and proclaim, “Holy boobs!”  You also have to announce a best tits winner.    From the crowd I mean.

Maggie and Alex will have to organize a best boobs contest, because that’s how I would have wanted it and because I just wrote that thing about Bron being a boobie judge and crap.

Dagmar, one year after my death, has to go online to buy something and surf for the highest price.  If she finds the same spatula for sale for $20 and $40 she has to buy the $40 one.   She also has to yell out during the wake, “That mother fucker fucked me again!”  I’ll be giggling from the afterlife I assure you.

Val Henderson and Lynn Davis will print out every post on this blog and hand correct, with red pen, the untold millions of grammatical, spelling and WTF errors.   They will then pass them out to the people in attendance.  They’ll be topless so you won’t mind.

Mike Lavigne has to take over this blog.   He also has to rename it, “Was that Todd dude a dick or what?”  I’d suggest asking Jesse for ideas Mike.

Matt and Marni Sandberg have to proclaim loudly during the funeral while whatever Christian priest you all pick is talking, “I thought he was Jewish?”

Mel Raymond and Mellissa Novakovich are in charge of snark, turn it up to 11 ladies.   They’ll understand why they were paired the minute they meet.  Also fuck you both.

Chad Oliver gets my remote control helicopter IF he promises to annoy Amanda once a week with it.

Eric and Bianca get my beer fridge, full circle kids.

Little Edward Oliver gets a car.  Nothing that exceeds like 30K IN TODAY’S prices so don’t be bankrupting my widow.   Also if he doesn’t have one, his own computer.

Leila and Jill get all revenues from my many super top-secret iPhone game ideas.   Hint they all suck and will garner like $2 at best.

Bucky, start raising funds now, this is gonna cost us.  By us I mean you.   I want a shit ton of hot tubs …

Sex, booze and vacuum cleaners … life in the middle lane


It seems I broke the vacuum cleaner and, in so much as I was the one using it when it broke, it’s true. Broken vacuum cleaners aren’t, in and of themselves, very interesting or funny outside of vacuum cleaner repair crowds (hint: This update is going to ROCK to vacuum cleaner repair fans!). What is funny to me at least is that according to my lovely wife, I did this on purpose.

When I asked her why she thought I broke it on purpose and because any answer she gave had a 100% chance of being blogged about here, I discovered the following:

  1. I broke it so I wouldn’t have to vacuum anymore
  2. I broke it so I could go buy a new one and get out of grocery shopping
  3. It could be fixed if only I knew more about how to replace small, lost plastic pieces that snapped off of a larger plastic piece
  4. Also I’m a dick for taking notes while she answers me.

Actually she’s right. I love buying new household appliances and enjoy in ways you cannot imagine, tormenting them. That’s right refrigerator, I’m looking at you and you’re next!

My confession follows. I viciously and with great malice in my heart snapped its thin metal telescoping handle of a neck with glee. “Take that you time sucking beast, never again will you keep me from video games, beer drinking or sitting on my ass watching TV!”

You can picture me doing a victory dance around the broken machine in my boxers if you’d like. I know I am.

In reality the vacuum cleaner is about 10 years old and that’s about three more than I expected of it. It was held together during its last few months with duct tape, hope and prayers. It had the intake power of a lung cancer victim and finding replacement bags was becoming so difficult that I was starting to wonder if you could just empty the old bag. Also yeah, it had bags unlike the new modern kind.

It was time for a new vacuum.

When it did break Dagmar was off shopping and I was allowed to stay home during one of those, “okay you can stay here if you do x, y and z chores arrangements.

The dearly departed is on the right.

(Hint: to any male reading this that is newly married. Always take these deals. You’ll win with more free time in the end, basically because men usually do a half-assed job at house cleaning)

When it broke I did think, “aww crap she’s totally going to think I did this on purpose.” As if tossing a few hundred dollars on a vacuum cleaner was something I found “fun”. Meaning, I can predict her reaction, but I cannot explain it.

So basically there are three ways the Oliver household is getting a new vacuum cleaner, assuming the German equivalent of a Kirby salesman doesn’t show up in the next hour.

I go to the store and buy it (most preferred method)

She goes to the store and buys it (second most preferred method)

We go together to buy it (unmitigated disaster ensues)

The first two options are about as close to a tie as they can get in my opinion.

The “I go to the store and buy it” will be the most cost effective of the three options, note I didn’t say cheapest, I said most cost effective. If I go alone I’m going to straight up throw money at this problem. Do they have optional beer holders on this model? Great, add that to the bill please. What’s that, the vacuum will synch with my iTunes’s library for an extra $50, sure add that too. It can answer the phone via your blender, shit we need that! How have we lived without that? Point is I don’t want to ever have to do this again so if I spend big on it, in my mind, the damn thing can be used to clean up after my wake, and you fucker’s better make a mess at my wake. I totally wanna see, cause I’ll be watching, vomit and crap!

The second option has its own appeal in that I don’t have to have to get off my ass and continue in my duties as Judge “boobieprofessor69” at ratemyrack.com … I kid but I cannot describe to you how little interest I have in buying a vacuum. Does it plug and suck up dirt? Great I’ll take it. The downside of Dagmar buying it is easy. First she’s cheap sometimes and vacuum buying would be one of those times. She’d return home with 8 million other purchases besides the vacuum cause all of you girls do that.

The biggest lie of any marriage or partnership is when you ladies tell us men, I’m only going into the store for one thing … you are all filthy, filthy liars and you know it. Confess, I demand it.

So if she goes to buy it, the vacuum itself won’t cost much – I mean it will actively shock you while you use it but it only costs like $20 – but she’ll come home with four U-haul trailers full of crap I didn’t know we wanted let alone needed.

The third and final (as in it feels like death final) option is that we go buy it together. Oddly the purchase of the actual item was pretty straightforward. A decent, yet sans beer can holder, model that I’m relatively sure our dearly departed vacuum would approve of was had without much debate. But then it starts. The endless gathering, the wandering the aisles of the store, examining this Rachel Ray egg yolk separator or fingering that Martha Stewart ‘stick-up-your-butt floral display guide’.

Look honey we don’t need new towels. I know because you shoved them all in those decorative baskets that, while look good I admit, ensure we only use the same towels over and over again. The towels at the bottom of the baskets have never touched human skin for Christ’s sake. Screw it if we get new towels can we leave? No? If we get the towels can we at least leave this aisle?

All department stores should have waiter service that serve drinks. That would solve these crisis moments.

So in addition to a new vacuum holder we have a new trash can even though I thought our old one was just fine in that it well … held trash! I also have to now remember a new trashcan bag size when shopping.

Oh the humanity.

There are things you can, after a certain number of years as a couple, predict about your significant other yet still not explain. I could, and did predict her reaction to the broken vacuum cleaner but I could not explain it, not for a million dollars could I do that. Her bizarre attachment to the device defies any logical explanation I can come up with. I mean sexual vacuum cleaner relationships are, if Google is to be believed, mainly a male phenomenon. And that sucks.

Certain things are just given preferential treatment here.

For instance when we lived in Italy we bought a very nice, very high-quality Italian leather sofa – mainly cause I was a huge fan of the band Cake back then but also because they’re known to last a lifetime. What did Mrs. Dagmar “I loved that vacuum more than you” Oliver do with great condition couch only seven years into its existence? Did you say she replaced it with some run-of-the-mill mass produced crap from Lazy-boy that will be lucky if it survives seven years let along a lifetime?

You’d of course be right.

So why is the death of the vacuum treated as if a dear family member has passed on and the couch is carelessly tossed into a room we never use? Hell if I know. Though oddly the vacuum did break in that room so maybe there’s a connection I’m not getting. Couch hates vacuum conspiracy theories aren’t as plentiful on the net as you’d hope.

Another example is it’s only in the last year or so that Dagmar’s relented and actually used the, brace yourself, dishwasher. That’s right for years Dagmar chose to wash every single glass, pot, pan, knife, fork and plate by hand.

I’d like to say I stood my ground and maintained that with a fully-functional dishwasher literally inches away I never washed dishes but we all know that truth … I washed me some fucking dishes. But the argument drove me nearly insane.

Gina and Dagmar maintain I take shitty photos of them.   I maintain they are cute no matter what, provided they are doing chick chores.

Gina and Dagmar maintain I take shitty photos of them. I maintain they had hot sexy bubble fights after this photo ...

They went like this.

Me: Just use the fucking dishwasher, its right there, fully-functioning and meant to free you of your domestic shackles.

Dagmar: No I don’t want to!

Me: They even have crap that makes sure the glasses don’t have spots on them. You just load it and press some buttons, magic happens, and presto-chango clean dishes …

Dagmar: Washing dishes relaxes me.

Me: If that’s true why are we arguing? Look maybe you should start doing the laundry by hand? Hell we can eliminate the electric bill if we just follow this to its natural conclusion.

Dagmar: I like to wash the dishes by hand!

I took to taking photos of her washing dishes in all kinds of situations. I have photos of her and GG washing dishes in Italy together because it became funny as hell to me to see her washing dishes when poor Josephine Cochran went through all that fucking trouble of inventing the first dishwasher.

did I mention I like boobs?

This photo would have been a 9.9 and not a 9.8 at ratemyrack.com but I couldn't draw a set of boobs using her moles ... that kind of stuff counts.

GG … btw I want to be clear I voted you a solid 9.8 (because we all know a straight 10 is a kids vote) on ratemyrack.com despite what rival judge tits4life may have told you.

He’s such a hater.

Then magically in this house the dishwasher joined such modern devices as the television, the iron the FUCKING CLOTHES WASHER which is basically the same kind of thing.

I can’t explain it other than I just said fuck it, buy some dishwashing detergent and just do it yourself Todd.

No matter how well you know someone, no matter the level of your understanding, you can predict but you cannot always explain.

So explain that to me …

Stupid assumptions about the new guys turn out to be stupid …


So I'm a chick in an opera circa 1850?

So I'm a chick in an opera circa 1850?

Ever heard about something happening and jumped to a conclusion as to why it happened only to later find out you were an idiot for ever thinking that?

Welcome to my everydayoftheweek.

Okay, it happens to everyone.  

For example, You hear that Whitney Houston has died and you logically assume it’s because you wished a painful death on her because of that time you had to  hear her song “the greatest love of all” 14 uberillion times in a row while synching a slide transition for some slideshow or another.

“I hope that fucking bitch is beaten with garden hoses while angry (are there any other kind) cannibals rip at her still living flesh!” 

Then you find out she died having a glass of wine in the tub, which is basically how I want to go if you substitute wine with beer and tub with tons of naked hot chicks.

Or maybe, I know why Germany invaded France in both World Wars, the weather in Germany sucks and have you been to a French beach ever?    Oh, so it wasn’t because of the weather or the beaches, shit.

We’ve all done it and I think the older you get the harder it is to realize you did it.

Which means of course, I just did it.

Sometime between 1990 and 1991 Dave Bixler (I think that was the name) handed me a book titled The Straight Dope.   The gist of it is

also known as 'the dope'

the author, Cecil Adams (a fictional ‘world’s smartest man’ character) answered readers questions no matter how weird (why is poop brown) or conspiratorial (is the dull side of aluminum for food and the shiny side poisonous) or whatever.

Thus began my love affair with conspiracies and urban legends.   I purposefully wait a few weeks before going to www.snopes.com so there will be several additions to the ‘what’s new’ tab.   I love to read about how the government was behind the 9-11 attacks, or the fact that our president is a Muslim Kenyan Atheist and that aliens shot Kennedy with Cuban supplied CIA weapons and HOLY SHIT SOMEONE JUST STOLE MY KIDNEY … well you get the point.

Bizarre segue follows but bear with me …

In 1989, as a private at the Defense Information School at Fort Benjamin Harrison Indiana, I was informed by my drill sergeant that I was a prima donna.  

I had no clue what a prima donna was to be honest — so shit, maybe I was one.   To be fair the drill sergeant didn’t say, “Okay next week’s duty roster has been posted, we’re conducting physical training at 0630 tomorrow and Private Oliver, You’re a prima donna, dismissed.”

He meant all of us young aspiring U.S. military journalist and broadcasters … we were all prima donnas.  Of course this was said by the tough-grizzled drill sergeant in charge of a bunch of hopeful journalists and broadcasters, so there’s that.

Yes Drill Sergeant, I do have a question. What the hell is a Prima Donna? What's that? Do pushups? But that doesn't really ... awwww nevermind.

I heard it time and time again over my 20-year career.   Fact or fiction (let’s be honest here its more fact).  I heard it in different forms.   Rumors flew that during the Public Affairs Officer’s Course the instructors taught it as fact.  I was once told I would have been fired for some stunt or another but because I was a ‘creative journalist’ type the offense was forgotten and forgiven.

Fast forward (backwards?) to 2007 when I was told by my sergeant major that my beloved career field would for this day forward only take, as new inductees, people who were already non-commissioned officers from other military specialties.    Only people like infantrymen, tankers, artillerymen and cooks, you know non-prima donnas, would be allowed into the career field.

It was obvious, to me at least, that some higher-up fucktard in the pentagon had grown tired of our prima donna shenanigans like posting a close up photo of your testicles to face book titled “me and the little guy” constituted “artistic expression” and that the career field needed a few more hardened vets that knew the value of a hard day’s work

All my love of urban legends and conspiracy theories went out the window.

A little background for four of the eight people reading this may help.

In the U.S. Army’s public affairs career field, the officers generally don’t become public affairs officers until they’re senior captains or junior majors.   Thus when they graduate and become some commander’s public affairs officer, they’re generally two things.   First they are the most junior guy on the commander’s staff rank wise and second they have the least practical experience of any staff member.   This would seem bad but for the fact that they, at this point in their careers, understand a lot about how the Army and commanders staff’s work.   Pair them with a public affairs non-commissioned officer that’s been in the career field for 7 to 10 years, and is ostensibly a master of the nuances of the career field and you should have a great relationship.

In my own experience, paired as a young staff sergeant with a freshly graduated major, it was a good yin to yang.   I knew the basics of a broadcast news and I had mastered (or so I thought) the print side of things.    MAJ Stanford Angion, my PAD commander, understood how a brigade staff worked.

It was hand in prima donna glove love time … cue porn music.

So when I heard that they were going to only allow into the career field enlisted soldiers that were just as new to the career field as the officers, did I?

A: Understand that the military as a whole is a large, complex organization that doesn’t give two shits about my opinion?

B: Concede that the accusation of forces into our military is an ever changing goal line, more so in time of war?

C: Reach back into my bag of “those assholes think we’re prima donna’s and they’re going to fuck us all ‘cause shit should never change and also change is bad!

If you guess c, go have a drink … I’ll wait.

To my own credit I did, before writing this, question my own conclusions.   So, I turned to, among other people, Master Sergeant Mike Lavigne who during that time frame understood the nuances and realities that drove the decision. 

He looked at me like I was dropped a lot as a child (I WAS NOT, I was just shaken a lot, like a martini I hope) when I asked him if what I thought had any basis in reality.  He carefully explained the Army’s total acquisition system where the Army (I basically zoned out during these conversations … for all I know a wizard with a carrot up its butt declared it so) used force projection numbers for future years to arrive at the conclusion that only cross training Soldier’s should be allowed into the Public Affairs field.

To be fair Mike did say, yeah I can see where you might think that.   So there, I’m not a total idiot!

This was meant to be a rant, a snarky rant, not about many of the newly inducted NCOs into the PA career field over the last five years because they are innocent, but about the Army’s badly thought out process of moving the career field in that direction.  But the conversations with people that actually know what the hell they’re talking about kinda, well definitely, took the wind out of those sails. 

Finally I don’t want this to come across as a “if you just entered this career field as a NCO you suck” message.  I don’t.   I can, mentally get to where you are at.   You just left some career field or another where you were top of your game only to land in our personal little viper pit.    Someone might have told you that your news release was the biggest piece of shit they ever read and that you should hang yourself or that your news spot for AFN was so fucking bad you’re now the hand-receipt holder for the bathroom. 

You don’t suck.  Well you do, but we all do … the American Forces Network has a large room filled with broadcasters that they referred to as the shark tank.  Not because they have a love for aggressive fish but because on both the print and the broadcast side of things it’s expected that you’re going to have your products ripped to shreds and that you’ll rip others to shreds.   Fun stuff.

You, I assume picked this career field cause you thought it would be fun and great place to do some creative exploring.   To understand that a sentence isn’t always a cut and dry definition and that access to really good broadcasting equipment is FUCKING awesome gift.   If the story comes back soaked in red pen blood, welcome to the team.   It happens, always.  If your editing on the video is raped by the boss, it will happen again, again and again.  It’s always a team effort you don’t own it and those sharks make it better …

If you joined for the low cut off scores and the promotion rates.  I hope you are beaten to death with hoses while happy cannibals rip your still living flesh from your body.

 

Five reasons why living in Germany is just f’ing weird …


While making fun of America is fun (and generates hate mail, added bonus) I don’t want anyone to have the impression Europe, specifically Germany, is without its quirks.

So let’s jump right in shall we …

The music is bizarre.

Just your typical German pub

Just your typical German pub

Its 5:30 p.m. on a Friday and you and your co-workers are meeting for a ‘let loose some steam’ beer at your favorite German pub.  One minute, while waiting on your friends to show up, you’re grooving on some cool, never before heard pop song on the radio desperately hoping your soundhound application will let you know who the artist is and the next goddamn minute it’s fucking 1975 and Paul Anka is ‘having my baby’ and I’m having a shit fit because why the hell would those two songs ever be played back to back?

Welcome to European radio.

German radio seems, to my American ears at least, to make no damned sense at all.  One minute you’re listening to newest, coolest song ever and the next minute you’re in the middle of a Twisted Sister revival.   

Pick one goddamn type of music German radio station and STICK to it!

The toilets are well …

Before I wrote this part about German toilets, while planning the next few paragraphs in my head, a little voice said, “are you SURE that’s the reason they are designed that way?   Yeah we’ve always been told that’s the reason but do we KNOW that’s the reason?”

Let me explain.

Poop talk follows and I’m sorry.

German toilets are designed with a small shelf that literally catches your poop for, and I’m not kidding, health reasons.

Okay I understand that’s a wiki stub and I understand what the note “citation needed” means but if anyone has a different explanation I’m all ears. Maybe those shelves are for books, papers, printed out blog posts from this site so that critics can say, “I literally shit on what you just wrote!”   Maybe it’s so when … look it’s called a poop shelf for a reason.

And at a certain level it’s another example of those damned clever and practical Germans.  That’s really kind of brilliant.  

A good friend of mine, an American that utilizes German health care system, said he loves his relationship with

well you wouldn't want to put your car keys on this kind of shelf

Well you wouldn't want to put your car keys on this kind of shelf ... photo swiped from this very cool blog The Gringa Trail is pretty funny

his doctor.   It’s very personal, he explained.   The doctor knows him so well he’s even, according to my friend, able to tell when he’s stressed out or just isn’t feeling that well. 

My doctor, who I also like, starts a stop watch I think when I arrive. 

Doctor: What’s the problem?  (clicks stop watch)

 Me: My toe hurts 

Doctor: Broken toe

(Tape, tape, tape)

Doctor:  NEXT!   New clinic record bitches, less than 45 seconds!

Point is German health care may indeed allow for conversations about poop formation, color and for all I know location on the shelf.

German Patient:  I’m not pooping center poop shelf anymore.

German Doctor: What, this is terrible!

German Patient: I know!

German Doctor: Poop misalignment is a leading cause of … okay who are we kidding, you want a few days off right.

German Patient: shit you’re right

German Doctor: Fine but let’s leave the profanity out of it.

As clever and practical as that may be sometimes my American brain takes over I want to poop into a 50 gallon drum where I will never me confronted face to face with what was, three hours ago, a great bratwurst and 3 beers.

Do I need to tell anyone here what having poop underwater vice exposed to the air does for the, shall we say bouquet? 

If there are no closets, what the hell do gay Europeans come out of at the age of 23?

I live in a four bedroom, hell if you want to get a bit creative five or six bedroom house.  That’s right America, while sucking off of your hard-earned tax dollars (take that Kat … scroll down to the comments) I’m over here living in a fucking mansion with servants, a Mitt Romney inspired car elevator and

… okay no I don’t

While I’ve heard that the reason European houses don’t, as a rule, have closets is that the ‘closet is considered a room for tax purposes.   I doubt that’s true but the point is their houses generally don’t have closets, not the way we think of them at least.

So how many bedrooms do I have?  Two.  I’ve lived in 3 houses in Germany and one Italy, total “no shit that is a closet and not a room closets” in those houses?   None.

actually it looks pretty cool ...

Actually it looks pretty cool ...

So what happens?  What do you do?  Those extra rooms, they become the closets.   One, likely two rooms become places where all your clothes go.    That and you buy the European version of a closet, a shrunk, a chest or just a giant against the wall thing.  Which again on some level makes sense, you go to a store and you buy an item that goes up against the wall of your house and you pick one that makes sense to you.   But I gotta say the American system just makes SHIT easier.   

Kitchens and light fixtures

We American military and government civilians living in Europe lead sheltered lives here*.  We do.   People can and do, sadly, spend entire tours here venturing no further into German culture than their drive to work.    Like any part of the world, except that one place (you know the one), Europe is steeped in culture and filled with mystery and awe behind every twist and turn of the road.

Mysteries like why the fuck Europeans insist on raping the kitchen and every light fixture in the house when they move. 

European kitchens are modular kinds of things, unlike our ‘fuck you I’ll get moved with you remodel or burn me down for the insurance money’ American kitchens.   If you rent, or buy , a German house you start with a blank room.  Hot and cold water hook ups coming in and a drain hole in the wall for water going out, electrical outlets and that’s it.  No countertops, hell nothing even to hold up a counter top.    I mean I get taking your fridge, your dishwasher and if you’re really pleased with it your stove but literally EVERYTHING? 

So if you’re putting in a modular kitchen, think this through, it’s likely purchased from Ikea and where do you think on the durability lies on a scale of one to 10?  If you guess somewhere around a knob falls off if harsh language is used around it – have a beer, you’re right.

Yes, yes there are gourmet European kitchens and people that have KICK ASS kitchens but the crap we end up renting usually has no drawer that ever closes quite right and the counter height was designed for use by midget dwarfs.

Don’t get me started on light fixtures.   Europeans when moving take them when they move.   I have negotiated with at least two previous tenants about purchasing their light fixtures and discovered that men left to buying light fixtures don’t really give a shit.   The conversation goes this way, “and I paid 5 euro for that light, and 6 for that one and oh boy we got crazy in this room, that fixture is 10 euro.”   It ended with me handing over 50 euro because I really don’t want to spend a day buying and hanging up new light fixtures either.

*We’re sheltered here because we generally have access through our base housing office to landlords that understand we’re retarded/lazy Americans and want our kitchens to have counters and our rooms to have light.     

Everything is FUCKING expensive

The average cost of a pint of beer in the United States $1.83, the average cost of in Germany $3.37* and HOLY SHIT THAT’S A LOT OF MONEY! 

Putting aside the discussion of which currency is stronger than the other and ignoring the general idiocy of people like this model, one euro is at the moment of this writing is worth about $1.32.     Meaning something that costs €100 ends up costing $132.00 is good hard American cash.

Then there is VAT.  The Value added tax in Germany is 19% which goes toward such programs as …

(left for three hours to play Skyrim)

Join my guild

Join my guild!

Stupid Grey Beards, those guys suck.

Value added taxes are used to subsidize poop shelves and doctor patient discussions of poop for all I know.   Point is crap here is expensive. 

Yes, I know, I know you can and should use a simple and easy to use VAT form to avoid the tax**.    But for a purchase under like $100 it’s not worth it.   I tried it at my favorite bar.  The tab was 46 (or $60 with VAT no tax saves me an amazing $11 dollars). 

Me: Can I use a vat form?

Hans: Fuck you Todd, €60

Me: That’s like 11 dollars!

Hans:  Do we have to do this every time dude?  Just pay the tab.

Me: Well then FUCK your tip

Hans: Dude stop tipping in Europe, you look like a douche every time you do it.

Me: I hate you.

Hans: See you tomorrow?

Me: Of course.

 

* The German beer verses U.S. beer price, while fun, was gathered through a ‘shit ton’ of retarded Google searches … your own price may very

** VAT avoidance IS easy in Germany.  In Italy you have to leave your first born child at the store, drive to Rome (which is a bitch from Sicily) sacrifice a goat and then two-years later your purchase arrives at your door, after you’ve moved.   They also keep your kid.

Part 3: Naked in mixed company German sauna reborn … erections and gayness


I had hoped this was going to be the third and final German sauna story but I think there’s going to be a fourth. 

Yeah, there’s going to be a fourth.  Besides being (99% of the time) a great relaxing day they can be (1% of the time) hysterical … to me, and hopefully to you.

While I’ve had some rocking days here at Hadafewbeers.com (thanks for all the Facebook shares by the way) where there were TONS of daily hits … the series about being naked in a German sauna still gets a lot of hits every damn day.   While ‘Merica, F’yah generated a lot of hits the sauna stories continually get hits albeit in smaller numbers .   On days, hell weeks, I don’t post … in the search terms that word press provides on the stats page, German sauna is still the strongest, all around, hit generator. 

Which leads me to believe there’s a lot of perverts reading this, awesome.

The other two sauna stories for those that missed them are located here (part one) and here (part two).

Last time I posted on the topic I promised the following in this update.

Gay man hits on me in the sauna and the same gay man hits on me later story follow up.

What happens exactly when the whole place goes nude.

Three erections

Yes, Dagmar, okay I was looking at those girls cause they were hot

The Pee-Pee Patrol

Exhibitionist girl

Sailor man’s penis

We’ll get to the first three this time and the last four next time … I’ll even add in a bonus, what happens when you meet a fellow American at the sauna.

Finally Dagmar and I have gone to the sauna I’m betting a few hundred times and these are the exception not the rule to the place.    If you’re ever in Europe and thinking of hitting a traditional European sauna nothing like this will happen to you, but if it does tell me all about it.

So here we go.

Gay man hits on me in the sauna and the same gay man hits on me later story follow-up.

This is the funniest trip to the sauna and also it’s the one that makes Dagmar cry with laughter whenever it comes up in conversation.  Gay men have from time to time, since I was like 13 or some shit, hit on me.   Dagmar finds every single instance extremely funny and I hate her for it.

Fuck you Dagmar it’s NOT funny!  

Okay it’s pretty funny.

Did I mentioned crowded, the sauna's are crowded.

As I think I explained in a previous post at most big sauna’s there are sauna meisters and they, every hour or at the really big ones every half hour, run a special sauna where you rub honey on your naked flesh, rub salt on your naked flesh or for all I know somewhere in northern Germany there is a ‘smack yourself in the face with a dead fish’ sauna.  Point is there are special saunas, you have to get there early because they get VERY, in a way that capital letters cannot convey, crowded. 

By the time the sauna doors are closed you are packed in like sardines, naked sardines and I don’t know of any other kind.   Literally you are squeezed into your space on the sauna bleachers desperately trying not to make skin to skin contact with anyone you aren’t married to.

So this particular sauna was a salt sauna, where you sweat your balls off and then rub salt all over your skin because according to Germany evolution didn’t allow us to shed dead skin cells effectively enough and we need the help of salt.  Alternatively my skin feels really smooth and soft after this particular sauna which is why dudes think I’m gay a lot.   It’s a lose, lose situation … point is I like the salt sauna.

‘Get to the fucking point’ I can hear you all saying and ‘FUCK you’ is my reply.  You get hit on by a gay man while you’re nude with your WIFE LITERALLY glued to your side and then YOU talk about it in a humorous manner.

Okay so during the salt sauna, when you’re rigorously rubbing rock salt all over your body you, and I’m sure you figured it out, can’t do your back.  That’s okay though I have Dagmar to do mine and I do hers. 

Then it happened. 

I speak enough German to order a beer and to prove I don’t speak German.  What I mean is, I don’t speak German.    

The man next to me wanted me to rub the rock salt on his back.   I was naïve enough to, at the time, rationalize this in my

See the guy in the center, the one with the clothes, yeah that the's sauna meister.

head.   There are, I assume, plenty of gay saunas in Germany … anyone that was looking for gay sex would never come to these huge, mixed gender saunas looking for gay sex.  To this point in my, I guess then 3 years in Germany, I knew the Germans to be fanatical rule followers and I honestly assumed this was another German dedicated to the health benefits of the sauna.  

Still though there was the twinkle in his eye.  Never ignore a fucking twinkle folks, never.

I rubbed that salt into his back with the vigor of a German.  “Do a good job,” I told myself.  Work that upper back, scrub the middle back and damn it son don’t skimp on the salt, use some of yours if you have too. 

I introduce him to Dagmar shortly thereafter because even I, with the gay radar of a dead raccoon, am starting to get it.   I believe he told Dagmar at this point, “You are married to a beautiful man”.

Okay fuck …

Dagmar laughing her exposed boobs off the entire time.  

The sauna ends and I think nothing of this episode, other than glad that’s over.   She and I exit and shower.  She now has wonderfully smooth skin.  I now have wonderfully smooth skin and a wife that is in hysterics laughing at me. 

Outside of the main sauna area there are, in the summer time, numerous lounge chairs.  I mean we all love a cancerous tan right?  I do …

As Dagmar and I sunned ourselves, au natural, mister “you are a beautiful man” came back.  To again assure Dagmar that she was still married to a beautiful man.

Seriously.

What happens exactly when the whole place goes nude.

What happens when the whole place goes nude is the best, if only, transition to three erections.   It’s also telling me this is a four or five part update, not just a three part. 

Remember that as soon as the Sauna opens until it closes, most days, there is a clothed part that consists of fun slides, wave pools, mineral baths and then there is the nude side that has, in addition to the sauna’s a large heated pool and a few other things like a massage  area and a bar.   These are separated by an imaginary line on the floor.  Beyond that line everyone is naked, except when they are not.  Which is usually.   Outside of the sauna or the pool most everyone wears a towel or a robe.

Yeah there’s always some naked dude or 80-year-old woman that’s just said, “fuck it, no one is checking me out anyway,” but generally, everyone wears something.

This, obviously, was not after 7 p.m. on a Saturday. It is however the place we go to.

At approximately 6:55 p.m. though, on the clothed side there’s an announcement over the intercom that I think says “hey clothed people the naked weirdos are about to come over to the clothed side of the place so flee if you want to,” or something like that.   And then it just sort of happens, some people leave, some strip, others stray in from the sauna side and by 7:15 it’s a done deal. 

Not that exciting except it leads directly to three erections which, I at least, found hysterical.

Again even after 7 p.m. most of the people who are still there remain wrapped in a towel or robe when not swimming or laying in the sun (in the summer it stay light here until almost 10 p.m.).  

Most people.

Three erections

I don’t remember what time of the evening it was but it was just after the whole place went nude.  While having a cigarette (outdoors – near the snack bar) during one of our trips I noticed three 15 or 16-year-old males seated at a small circular table yelling at each other and apparently masturbating.   Yeah, masturbating …

Now before you close your browser and draft an email where you call me gay and/or a disgusting liar hear me out.  The three were seated at the table in such a way that they couldn’t see what the other was doing, though it was painfully obvious and the fact that they were yelling at each other made it a train wreck that I could not turn away from.   

I should have stamped my cigarette out, fled the German sauna world forever and immediately entered therapy but I was baffled and wanted to see what the fuck they were going to do.  

Besides the obvious I mean.  

And the yelling?  It seemed like encouragement but I have no clue what they were saying because again I don’t speak German but who the HELL encourages their other friends while they are … I know, I know get to the point.

What these three adolescent masterminds had in mind was this.   At a certain point in the, literal mind you, circle jerk they stood up, boner all a-poppin and marched directly through main area in what I guess was an attempt to scandalize the masses and or get a ‘rise’ out of my gay friend in the salt sauna.   Prank wise I think it’s a 4 out of ten.   Balls though?  You bet.

Things you don’t know about the military until after you leave the military


It doesn’t matter if you’ve been in the military for four or 34 years you’re going to get out. I was in 20 years and five days … here’s a few things I’ve noticed.

1. Uniform vs. Civilian Clothes:

Look your ACU, battle dress or ‘look pretty with ear rings’ (yes you Air Force) uniforms are a few things, chief among those things are predictable and easy. If a piece wears out you go to the military clothing store and buy a new one. Camouflage patterns hide dirt and stains. I drove a 1995 Jeep Wrangler for 15 years. The Jeep, which my good friend and co-worker Erika Fields once referred to it as “that thing you drive”, is not known as a smooth ride and it spilled coffee on me every time I drove to work.

Camouflage uniforms don’t care, they make coffee stains their bitch.

In the civilian world though…

Spilling coffee on yourself, in the civilian world, is a turn around and go home, full-blown emergency!

Forget dirt and stains the simple number of choices will make you insane.

This guy designed his own uniforms!

A uniform, no matter if it’s a camouflage based uniform; a uniform for wear in the office or the one this dude has to wear … is still a uniform. There isn’t a choice, even if you are choosing the type of uniform itself, the morning when you get dressed you know exactly what you have to put on.

In the civilian world though…

HOLY FUCK welcome to an infinity of choices. Maggie Menzies warned me about this when I was getting ready to retire from the army and for the first six months after I retired I thought she was a dirty, filthy liar but then one morning in the shower it happened.

“Jesus! What the FUCK am I going to wear?”

Who am I dealing with today is a question that factors in to what you’re going to wear. As does, what am I doing today, where am I doing it and will they make fun of that pink shirt at work? (Hint: They will). It becomes this retardedly complicated question that once answered can be rendered moot by one bump in the road that causes a bit of spilled coffee.

I once worked for a Major who told me a story about his ranger squad, group, cluster (it’s hard to keep these things straight) that was asked to test out a new night vision mount on a helmet. One ranger intentionally banged the mount against the wall and when the company representative complained the major said, hey this shit happens. Point being the stuff the military buys is generally well made.

Civilian clothes on the other hand are scared of sick, dying kittens. Everything tears, snags and pulls apart. I found, early on in my retirement a great pair of Steve Maddenshoes that I LOVED. I LOVED those shoes, I kissed them at night. Everyone complemented me on them. Trouble was they wore out after like a day. I bought

I'm hiding ... so I can destroy your clothes

literally 10 pairs of them before I admitted defeat and realized I was not going to win. Wearing a different pair, of the SAME TYPE OF SHOE, every other day just prolonged the death. They may have looked good but they were made by meth addicted Chinese sweat shop eight year olds that were anxious to get back to their world of warcraft gold-mining jobs.

Those shoes sucked, but I loved them.

Don’t get me started on slacks.

2. Rank … it lets you know so goddamn much.

I don’t care if you were a private or a colonel when you left the military, when you walk into a room you know you’re place. It’s just that easy.

Seriously toss 50 military people into a room and within .0003 seconds they know who is in charge. Hell you know who’s second in charge, who the senior enlisted guy is and who will head up the moral and welfare part of the group. It’s just that simple.

In the civilian world it becomes decision by committee. Everyone’s opinion matters. I think I’ve seen the cleaning lady get asked about her thoughts on an invasion of Iran. Everyone has a voice and it sucks. I’m pretty sure I could tell my boss tomorrow that I think we should consider the feelings of puppies when we go forward with the plan and he’d have to pause to think about it. In the Army you’d be stuck doing pushups, which are GOOD FOR YOU.

3. You’re generally taken care of:

You are. You’re taken care of. Fuck you, you are. Everyone has a story about how the military fucked them. Here’s a stop on the clue train for you, you weren’t and you ignored some key bit of information that allowed you to feel like you were fucked while the U.S. Military put on kid gloves and tried to make it as easy as possible for you.

And you fucked it up after all that effort.

I have dug down into more people’s lives, asking where that last dollar went when I was in the military than I care to think about.

“Why are you buying the good cheese when WIC approves the other cheese? I’m asking because you’re in debt and I want to know, fuck you answer me.” That’s a legitimate question in the army if you’re having financial trouble. Your leaders can step in and tell you that you’re making dumb decisions with your money. They can and literally do make you write out your budget.

mmmmm ... cheese

Sure it looks good but is it W.I.C. good?

They can’t make you buy WIC cheese but they can call you an idiot for not doing so.

This is just one example of hundreds, if not thousands, of things the military does in an effort to take care of their service members

In the civilian world NO ONE GIVES A SHIT. They say they do. Hell they might try to make an effort toward helping you but at the end of the day, after 5 p.m., it’s your problem.

Living in a cardboard box? Fuck you be in on time.

Daughter dying from cancer? So sorry but while you’re at her bedside don’t run out of time off.

I exaggerate but the military puts so much effort into seeing you succeed that you never realize it and when you do realize it. It’s too late.

4. Organizational predictability:

Even the most super-duper, ultra, if you read this blog we’ll kill you, secret ninja military person, if they’re married, has a spouse that knows they might be gone tomorrow and might be gone for a year or forever. The average person in the military KNOWS full well when they are leaving for deployment or to change duty locations. The military takes great pains to let you know so the process is less painful for you, your family and your organization. As a squad leader all the way up to the very top movement from one station to another, or from one job to another, is predictable to a large degree. Knowing that your personnel action specialist is leaving in 6 months makes replacing that person that much easier.

But in the civilian world it’s like a bomb is dropped, mostly. Civilians can, and do, out of nowhere come up to their bosses and say, “Hey, I love it here but I’ve got a job on the other side of the world and they want me there tomorrow so we need to have the going away lunch now.” Meaning the organization now has to function one person down and, perhaps, has to operate without a key set of skills.

There are generally exceptions to any rule so if you want to think you’re a special little butterfly and one of these didn’t apply to you fine, generally though it’s spot on.

Now there are a myriad of ways that life outside of the military is better/easier/whatever but that’s another update.

‘Merica f’ yeah part 2, Tractors, good food, nice people and … HOLY CRAP IS THAT A FAKE BABY?


I have to admit, I was stumped. 

While “’Merica … F’ Yeah!  HOLY CRAP America its food, booze, anger and food — deep fried thoughts from Baltimore” blew away my previous best days here (I hate Valentine’s Day” and the always popular “naked in a mixed gender German sauna”) people were asking for the upstate New York update.   There were emails and a few personal requests.    

So basically seven of you read it … each of you will recieve your $10 check as promised.

I tried, honestly I tried.  Back home here Germany safe and sound in my own house, in my own bed I thought and I thought.  But really what the hell is funny about upstate New York? 

Answer: nothing.

That the lady at the diner near my Dad’s girl friend’s house called me honey while refilling my coffee that was sort of funny.   My Dad’s girl friend’s daughter Darcy DiBaise puts on an awesome dinner party (better than Dagmar and I ever could), that’s not funny.  She’s pretty funny and her five year old daughter Mia throws a mean left hook but the situation isn’t funny. 

Everyone makes really good home cooked food, not funny.  Everyone is super nice, also not funny.  

Everyone is FUCKING nice.   Aunts, uncles, cousins, spouses of cousins (cousins-in-law?) are all nice and further everyone is a lawyer, doctor or about to be elected president.  Shit what’s funny about that?  Also please don’t sue me.

Dagmar was not impressed

If there's ever a job for driving tractors up and down hills, I'm your man

My dad likes tractors, so much so that he bought one.   Well its farm country so what’s so funny about the fact that he bought, restored and uses a tractor in his retirement to plow snow, mow brush and tinker?  

It wasn’t a funny ride. 

So there you go.  Upstate New York, YOU’RE NOT FUNNY, in fact you’re a bit boring but I think you like it that way.  Hell, I think I like it that way.  

8-month-olds sit still for no camera, they're rebels like that.

8-month-olds sit still for no camera, they're rebels like that.

To top it off I had a great time , I met my nephew for the first time Edward Oliver and Dagmar immediately set off to kill Diane’s dog with rigorous death marches because she hates animals.

Maybe there’s a cow joke in here somewhere but Gary Larson I ain’t.

So basically I was stuck. Until yesterday when Dagmar came home from the gym and showed me this clip from the Today Show.

Please take the next six minutes and watch this clip.   I’m willing to risk your going away and not coming back because that clip is just the bizarre.

Okay, did you watch it?   If you’re at all like me right about now you’re thinking about suicide, gouging your eyes out our becoming Amish.   Basically, anything that will prevent that kind of news from entering your brain ever again you’re in favor of … amiright?

Jesus that's fucking retarded!

Jesus that's fucking retarded!

At about 1 minute in we get to look into Becky’s charming idea of fun freaking out older people with her fake baby.    Becky you’re going to give one of those women a heart attack with those shenanigans so knock it the hell off!    Also Becky I seriously suspect you should have your IQ tested and I’m fearful that you vote.    We know, that you know, it’s a doll and that makes it just that much fucking retarded. 

Then there’s Dori and Gary, who have their own goddamn real-life kids and grandkids by the way.   Gary.  Gary, Gary, Gary … Jesus man what happened to you?   You still have that penis right?   I mean okay I get it, she’s your wife and it’s worth it to you not to bitch about the dolls but don’t let her drag you to the convention for Christ’s sake.  What were you thinking sir?

Let’s take this quote from Fran Sullivan, who is SIXTY FUCKING TWO by the way.

“Children talk to their dolls, and they express their feelings toward their dolls,” she told Lauer. “And as a 40- or 50- or 60-year-old woman, you do the same thing. You’re still the same person you were when you were an 8-year-old.”

Maybe you’re the same person you were when you were 8 Fran?   Mentally it seems very likely you are the same as an 8-year-old but 60 year olds DO NOT TALK TO DOLLS AS IF THEY WERE REAL PEOPLE.   Fuck what’s next, a little show and tell with bobby in the janitor’s closet.

Did you catch old Becky and Karen about four minutes into the story? 

Oh boy! 

You know I’ve met Ann Curry.  She’s awesome, really nice, and friendly and I cannot understand how she kept herself from punching these two chicks back into reality.   I think she skipped part of the question she wanted to ask when she says “what made you want to have these dolls?”  I think she meant, “other than being bat-shit insane and obviously borderline retarded, what made you want to have these dolls?”

Not to call into question Ann’s professionalism but I think she missed a few questions.   Questions such as, this is all big joke to get on TV right?   Are both of you fucking kidding me?   Who let you into our studio?  I bet Katie Fucking Couric doesn’t have to do stupid shit like this and Are you all just really mad at your husbands and using these dolls as some sort of revenge?

When I first saw this I assumed it was an April Fools’ joke.  I was secretly hoping Mall Lauer would run in at the end of the segment and violently slay the dolls with a chainsaw or that Ann would, mid interview, reach over grab a doll and bite its head off. 

That, obviously and sadly, didn’t happen.

‘Merica … F’ Yeah! HOLY CRAP America its food, booze, anger and food — deep fried thoughts from Baltimore


You can put anything you want into the Chocolate Fountain ... food, drinking cups, fingers ... not your wiener though; I found that out the hard way.

You can put anything you want into the Chocolate Fountain ... food, drinking cups, fingers ... not your wiener though; I found that out the hard way.

Living in Europe for the past ten years might, just might skew your perspective on things.  Although I have had a few chances to come back, mainly for work, nothing beats visiting family – for showcasing how bat-shit whacky this place really is.   Coming back to the U.S. for work means, hotels, meetings and hotel bars, boring.  Coming to spend a week near Fells Point in Baltimore means distilled crazy, and I love it.    Next week we head to upstate New York where I hope there’s nothing more to make fun of than cows and well cooked food – Baltimore it ain’t.

Holy shit the news isn’t lying.    Has 33 percent of America spent the last ten years in a non-stop donut eating contest?  Fat jokes are easy to make, easier when you’re skinny sure, but easy none the less.   I can’t say I was shocked by the overall weight here but I was shocked when visiting, all you can shove down your food-hole franchise, the “Golden Corral.”  Having made the rookie mistake of ceding that night’s dinner choice to a 17-year-old (‘Let’s go to the Corral, they have a chocolate fountain’ – should have been a clue that bad decisions were afoot) we set our GPS to deep-fried mistakes and off we went.

I want to call the Golden Corral a war-zone but that is very disrespectful to war-torn cities across the world.   Gluttonous, filthy and all around ‘gross’ seem more appropriate descriptions but they lack the ‘holy fuck are you eating MORE’ eloquence I was hoping to convey.  

Fine, I’m being uptight prick, but dear lord the this plastic dinnerware, heaping plates of half eaten food and the micro layer of something best described as ‘sticky’ that covers every surface (including I think the food) made the meal interesting.   One wishes they had a sociologist friend alongside that could help define or at least attempt to explain the ravenous herds of people vying for a plates full of pan fried shrimp covered in turkey gravy (I’m only sort of kidding).     Sadly, I think I can explain it without the use of a doctorate.  American’s like to eat, they like to eat NOW and every dish can be made better by deep frying.

I confess I’m very used to being the drunkest person in situations where no one is drunk at all.   I think nothing of having a beer(s) at the airport bar at 9 a.m.   I have no issue navigating a check out line in Germany with a head full of beer.   Eyes forward, greet the check-out lady, hand her the cash, bag the purchase and get out.  It’s really quite simple.   

Here in Baltimore, I’m an amateur.  At 1 p.m. on a Tuesday while the girls shopped for groceries I ventured across the street to pick up a six pack of beer.   Beer, wine and liquor can only be purchased in liquor stores here for some reason.  I was going to spend some time making fun of America’s draconian laws regarding liquor until …

While the young lady behind the counter and I had a pleasant discussion about the location of Heineken I was accosted by what I’m sure is the drunkest person in the world.  First, after stumbling into the store in what I was sure was the start of some brilliant street comedy skit, she corrected my greeting the clerk, informing me (with breath that would kill a lesser man) that she was not to be referred to as “Ma’am” but as “Mom”.    The 50-something African American Mom could barely contained her look of disgust and I can’t blame her.   The drunken 30-something Caucasian lady would have been (correctly) drown at birth if “Mom” had her way.    Then the drunken lady notices I’m purchasing cigarettes and loudly, but in the drunk loudly-slurish way, asks that I provide her with a cigarette.   This, and it’s obviously testament to my lack of dealing with drunk skills, seems like a way to sever the conversation so that the clerk and I can continue our discussion of the weather.  Cigarette in hand my drunken entertainer then informs Mom that I’m also going to buy her a 40 ounce … I’m not making this up, a 40 ounce. 

I loved every fucking second.

Dear America.  For a country that seemingly has the automobile as a centerpiece of its culture you fuckers can’t drive.   No one, that includes you reading this right now, bothers to signal a lane change.   Everyone passes on the right and that’s because there’s always some shithead in the passing lane doing exactly the speed limit.   Any attempts to merge are seen as a direct threat to the other driver’s manhood, patriotism or sexual orientation.    In fact most every maneuver that doesn’t include driving forward at a constant speed is met with a string of profanity that has taught me several new swearing lessons.  For instance I did not know I was a “rat-shit bastard fuck stain”.

You Baltimore, you’re the guy; right there you’re the guy.

Point is, for a nation that literally forces you to drive to the bathroom, the ‘rule of the road’ seems to be, ‘fuck you, go around.’  Look Germans are funny for a lot of reasons, driving isn’t one of them.   There are, to be sure, asshole German drivers.  I cannot count the times I’ve been passing a truck on the autobahn only to discover mister, my penis is too small

Not a single f-bomb was thrown during this drive

Not a single f-bomb was thrown during this drive

so I bought a Porsche, ramming the hood of his car up my ass while vigorously flashing his light in an attempt to let me know that he would like to continue driving at a safe and reasonable 310 Kph and I should kindly complete my lane change.  But it really is the exception and not the rule.   When German’s merge lanes they use the zipper effect meaning that if you’re in the lane being merged into you let a car merge in front of you and the driver behind you does the same.    Generally it works out for all parties involved.

Not here.   In a quick and simple trip to the mall I watched at least 5 different drivers fly into spittle flying, fist shaking rages of self-righteousness all due to some dickhead that had the balls to (without signaling) pull in front of them.  You need to watch it fatty; you’re ticker’s already working overtime keeping the blood pumping around all that girth.

 Okay when the hell did fucking pajamas become acceptable attire anywhere outside the home?   Even the endangered slim and attractive American female seems to have embraced this crime against the eyes.   Pajama bottoms, baggy sweatshirt and flip-flops?   Sign me up for the ballet, I’m ready to go!   At the airport rental car counter there was one young lady, who was either pregnant or a typical American, whose choice of apparel that evening seemed to say, yes I am fat and here’s a direct look at my fat.  Yes sir, I’m keenly aware that my shirt does not only fail to cover my ample stomach but that it literally screams look at my fried-food educed blubber. 

I used to love, literally I would become giddy and start to giggle, to make fun of the American Forces Network.    I’ve devised hours and hours of ways I could make fun of their command information commercials espousing those of us overseas to be good neighbors, pick up after our dogs and to not rape women.

No more.

Here’s my apology AFN:  I’m truly sorry from the bottom of my heart American Forces Network.  You provide quality programming to those of us living overseas at little or no cost and your commercials are generally (if not comically) correct, raping women is bad, turn down your goddamn stereo and pick up your dog’s poop.

I mean it.   My step daughter has something called ‘on-demand’.   Which, with a simple push of a button, shows you every television show ever made, anywhere in the world, in any language and at any time. 

No, no honey go on without me, I've got to catchup on every damn show ever...

No, no honey go on without me, I've got to catchup on every damn show ever...

Look, I know I can come off as a prick and saying things like “I don’t watch TV” makes it worse but fuck, I think I understand why America is fat (aside from deep-fried everything).   America is fat because holy fuck there’s ANOTHER show I want to watch and it’s on right fucking now.   Such wonderful television adventures as ‘Mob Wives’ ( what’s wrong with that woman’s mouth) to every single ‘I want to be famous show’ is available whenever you want.  No waiting until next week, no waiting until its 7 p.m.    It’s on right fucking now so grab that extra large bag (available at Walmart) of chocolate flavored Doritos and have a seat.

Sure making fun of one’s country is fun but man did I forget some of the good stuff.   America is convenient.  Anything you want, at anytime you want it is available with minimal effort.     I was informed at a clothing store that if they didn’t have the size of jeans I needed they would happily deliver them to my house.    They would literally call the other stores until they found the size jeans I needed and then DELIVER them to my house while I ate Doritos watching Tosh.o reruns using ‘On Demand’.  If you decide you need a chainsaw, lubricant and a blow up doll at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday (and who hasn’t)  you can get it here, no questions asked with minimal effort.  

While dinner at a restaurant in Italy can, and typically does, take four or more hours German is not much different.   Waiter service isn’t bad it just not speedy.    Here my beer is barely drained before the server is sloshing down another frothy cold one and asking what else I might desire.  Service is beyond good, the scientists studying the hadron collider should look to American restaurant staff member if they’d like a better understanding of how objects react at or near the speed of light.