Blumen zum selbstpflücken continues to baffle

There are lots of things that make living in Europe, and specifically Germany,  awesome. Bier gardens, students dressed as pirates floating up to your bier garden drunker than you are at three in the afternoon, the autobahn, mixed-gender nude saunas and did I mention mixed-gender nude saunas? These are all awesome.

I was hoping it would be a sauna photo too.

I was hoping it would be a sauna photo too.

But honestly, living in Germany is pretty much just like living in the U.S. If you make a stupid move while driving, you’re likely to get flipped off. Recycling is a mandated, but necessary, giant pain in the ass. The mail comes every day. Not every German frau is a blonde-haired, blued-eyed, buxom Bavarian farm girl asking you to “churn” her butter, and I’m constantly disappointed at how few times I can call someone a “kartoffelfopf.”

Which is sad really.

But, there is still one aspect of living in Germany (or hell other parts of Europe for all I know) that still, these many years later, continues to baffle me.

Now, I’ve talked about this before, and if you’re a fan from way back when this blog started you may remember — but one thing unique to Deutschland are the German flower fields. These are fields where you pick your flowers and then, with no one there to keep you honest, y0u slip the money for the flowers you just picked into a locked box.

Seriously, that’s it. You can pay by spitting into the coin slot, you can pay by waving your dick at the coin slot, you can pay for your flowers by yelling angrily, “No, Germany I won’t obey your rules!” Or you can pay by calculating the price using a guide posted next to the garden and then inserting that amount into the lock box.

I always insert the money, though I was tempted once while drunk to pay by shaking my dick at the box.

Point is, I am always shocked that this system works. True, you really — lacking a welding torch — can’t steal the money, and there’s probably a lot to be said about the honesty of a population that says, “Wow look a bunch of flowers raised by a person who trusts me to pay for what I harvest.”  What’s the theft rate? I’ll bet it’s close to none. I know I pay more than is required each time I stop and pick flowers for my wife because I’m just too aware of what’s expected.  I always pay a bit more out of some nervous feeling that I might just be on some German hidden camera show where the German version of John Quinones ambushes me as I try to slide into my car asking me why I underpaid for the blumen.

Yeah, I do stop at these fields to pick flowers for the wife from time to time. There are exactly zero husbands laughing at me right now because all of you have brought home flowers for your wife at one time or another. You’ve done it, fuck you, yes you have. If you haven’t you’re a filthy lair or a disgusting wretch.

And I don’t just mean flowers for Valentine’s Day, or a birthday or because you’re hoping for a blowjob that night, I mean flowers because you know unannounced flowers for no particular reason are automatic plus symbols in the ledger of life. They also sometimes lead to blowjobs.

Flowers to a wife are the universal sign that we, the man, think about you, the woman, even when you’re not around. In this world of LGBT enlightenment I’d further guess bringing home flowers for no particular reason is just a way of saying to any significant other, hey I was thinking of you.

I also like to bring home flowers because nothing says I’m sorry for that $400 Visa bill from “showyourtits.com” like flowers do.

Germany makes bringing home the posies just too fucking easy with these fields. Would that sort of thing work in America? I wrote long ago that I thought the fields would have been destroyed by freeloaders stealing flowers and/or teenagers doing donuts in the fields because, I dunno, thrashing flowers with your car is fun and/or teenagers are idiots by and large?

It likely wouldn’t work in the U.S. I grew up in the 70s and 80s on the outskirts of Phoenix. A part of Phoenix sadly now known for its bigoted asshole sheriff, packs of feral Chihuahuas and not much else. One thing I do remember growing up there as a kid, though, is the flower girls, or orange girls or fruit girls wearing short shorts and a bikini top hawking their wares at various intersections.

Even though I was only a prepubescent little shithead, I remember thinking “Holy crap, look at the hot chick wearing a bikini top.”

I don’t ever recall my father stopping at one of them, but a few of my friend’s dads did. These girls, 18 years or older, sold fruit, veggies or flowers along lonely intersections on the outskirts of Phoenix.

It was the pre-internet-days version of a savvy marketing plan and that meant tits. Still though it’s the closest thing I can think of to the German version of roadside flower pick up, and it’s still not very close at all. Sure, the German one lacks a rack in a bikini top, but I still maintain that their system is just as good.

Of course my solution to most problems is boobs. World hunger? Boobs. Our nation’s debt? Boobs of course. Russian aggression against the Ukraine? Boobs. I get voted down a lot in staff meetings at the office for reasons that are unclear to me but damn it boobs!

 

The key to life, a happy wife … where’s my beer

As you know my wife is the organized one.

She keeps our life organized.

If Dagmar ruled the world.

If Dagmar ruled the world.

Bills are paid, obligations are met and we’re solvent because she’s organized.

I, on the other hand, consider it a good day if I remember to wear pants.

That said – into the lives of even the most organized among us a bit of chaos must occasionally fall.

My wife spent several hours Saturday in a semi-controlled panic because she misplaced her house key.

Due to the fact that I’m currently our household’s only driver, she hasn’t had to use her house key once since early November.

Literally, every time she’s entered our house since that day I’ve used my key to open the door.

Really, since Nov. 5 our house’s key hole hasn’t been penetrated by any other key but mine, which is about as dirty as I can make that sentence.

To add to this story’s build up, I need to mention that she also has some weird obsession with not keeping more than one key on a key chain. Really, it’s fucking weird. There’s the key ring with the house key on it. A separate key ring for her now unused car key and a third key ring for her (gasp) two work keys.

Her logic regarding her strict key segregation is that circa the 1920s or something her mother had a lot of keys on a key ring and this extra weight, pressure or, for all I know, “space alien black magic” caused her mom’s car’s ignition to function without a key. You could just turn the key receptacle and it would start.

The extra weight, pressure or whatever certainly could’ve have caused the problem with her mom’s car. I don’t pretend to know. (Todd, Dagmar isn’t crazy. You may have been stoned at the time, but that was the big myth going around in the 80s. A heavy key ring damages your ignition. I scoff at it and continue to lug around my 25-pound key ring with no adverse effects. But Dagmar’s mom’s-ignition-switch story seems like a good reason for her to be cautious. Case in point. So get off her jock. ~Fran)

Considering that Dagmar’s car starts not with a key, but with a plastic disc that she inserts and never twists like a metal key, I find her logic regarding key rings on par with someone refusing to use an umbrella because it scares horses when you open the umbrella.

I mean, it might be true, but it’s completely irrelevant.
It’s just one of those married things you just eventually ignore about your partner. Sure it’s a bit weird, but we’re all a bit weird, and if that system works for them who are we to argue?

My wife’s key habits are important because I’d be a few hundred words short of a blog post without them and because they factor into the lost key story.

On Friday, for the first time since Nov. 5, she had to let herself into the house. I had to go on a day-long business trip and wouldn’t be home until late that evening. A friend agreed to give her a ride home. I came home at 7:30 p.m., let myself in and found my wife in bed with a satisfied look on her face, two margaritas deep and a half pint of some chick-flavored Ben and Jerry’s ice cream utterly destroyed in the trashcan.

Interesting to know I can be so easily replaced actually.

Fast forward to the next morning and the ritual of grocery shopping.  In the driveway she discovers not only that she forgot something inside the house, but that her house key isn’t in her purse. She borrows mine while I impatiently wait in the car in the driveway — grocery stores are such a pain on a Saturday if you don’t go early.

I’ll spare you the details, but through the course of several hours, the key search escalated into one of those “holy crap where is that important thing I really need,” moments for my wife, and admittedly, not at all for me.

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I misplace my wallet, keys, passwords, dignity and whatever all the time. I call that shit Tuesday. I do it so often I’ve become very good at hiding the fact that I’m looking for something from my wife.
She, on the other hand, never does this, so the shock of it tilted the axis of her world view.
It’s anarchy for her and not the good kind that Johnny Rotten sang about either.

Let’s review.
1. While she keeps all her keys separate, they are all on a key ring of some sort. This one has a little beer opener attached to it.

2. She hasn’t used the key for almost six months, but she did use it the day before when she was dropped off after work.

3. This doesn’t happen to her. She’s anal retentive to the point that she would literally keep the keys in her ass if that was physically possible, along with her wallet, her phone, our bank account holdings and you can see the logistical problems this sort of storage system would present.
And finally.

4. Her husband is of no help in this situation.

Let me explain four.  See I’m of no help because I know where I would leave something like my keys — in the beer fridge, on the ironing table in my closet, behind the foot powder in the medicine cabinet, in the backyard on the self where I keep the hatchet next to the woodpile — these are all real places I have left the important, yet mundane, items we all use to function from day to day.

What she would have done with them, I have no clue.

All I can offer her in way of assistance is, “Honey they’ll turn up, or they won’t.”
Not really helpful I know, but it is a realistic approach.

Also I was sitting in the backyard drinking beer and key searching just was bumming me out. I mean, really, this is the first nice Saturday we’ve had since last fall and you want to spend it searching for keys?

A few hours of her frantically searching for the keys and me enjoying some wonderful spring weather later she presents me with her missing key hypothesis.

This, friends, is where two minds that have been together for many years split radically apart. Each understands where the other is coming from, but each disagrees with the other about the idea.

Of course I was right.

Her theory? Someone stole the keys out of the lock after she inadvertently left them in the door when she came home Friday night. We live next to a family owned hotel and obviously mobsters had been stalking our place in hopes of this very thing happening.

See, crime and wine go hand in hand as reenacted here in this episode of Law and Order.

See, crime and wine go hand in hand as beautifully reenacted here in this episode of Law and Order.

Between the time she arrived home at 5:30 p.m. and the time I arrived home at 7:30 the criminal masterminds struck. We would have to arm ourselves with weapons, buy a vicious attack dog and replace all the locks with retinal scanners because the criminals were coming, much like winter — or whatever the catch phrase from Game of Thrones is, I haven’t watched it yet.

My theory? The fucking keys are in the house. Chill out and have a glass of wine. They’ll show up or they won’t. Use the spare key in the unlikely event you need the key again anytime soon. If my theory isn’t good enough for your peace of mind fine, I’ll have the lock changed Monday. It’s a hundred Euros at best and if it puts your mind at rest all the better, but the fact remains that the key is in the house and we will someday find it.

My theory was mocked.

Living next to a hotel in wine country, we have groups gathering in the hotel parking lot on Saturdays to take wine-tasting trips on fancy wagons pulled by tractors.

This is an every-Saturday occurrence.

Dagmar pointed out the window to this Saturday’s group (parked closest to our house) and explained that they were the likely culprits.

“See, they’re changing their clothes,” she said.

I pointed out that if taking off jackets to enjoy a warm Saturday was an indication of criminal activity we were ourselves guilty at some point or another.

She was not convinced. They were sure to, at any moment on this wonderfully sunny Saturday afternoon, bust into our house in order to steal everything that wasn’t locked down, mock us for our poor key control and then they would violate the pussy …

… cat.

I again pointed out that a gang of criminals was unlikely to conjugate in broad daylight outside of their criminal target while drinking wine, carrying on loudly and boarding a fancy wagon towed by a tractor. If this was in fact an elaborate ruse, it was a stupid elaborate ruse and for fuck’s sake the keys are here, somewhere, in the house.

She was having none of it. It was part of their plan and she was serious.

Changing the locks Monday morning, as I had offered to do, gave her no solace.

Those criminal drunkards were to blame for her lack of keys.

I engaged her as much as I could for a laugh or two, she got a little mad every time I did because I wasn’t taking her innocent-wine-tasters-turned-home-invaders theory seriously and eventually she found the fucking keys.

They were in her purse the whole time.

They got stuck in a corner by some thread and she literally had to empty the purse, turn it upside down and shake it like a baby that wouldn’t shut up (was that too harsh) in order to free them, but for the rest of our days in this house I get to watch wine tasters boarding a trailer for a fun day of wine tasting and whisper to my wife, “be careful, they’re probably going to … ”

And that’s the kind of shit that makes life worth living.

Write on my forehead …

If you know my wife and me you know one thing – there are days that my wife is awesome and there are days that she would stab me in the eye with a butter knife because I sneezed.

This is a butter knife story.

As you know we live in Germany.  Living in Germany we have to keep our passports up to date.  Not a big thing, renewal for a passport only comes around …

Oh, to hell with it. I can’t bullshit you — this is a story about a “shitastic” passport photo of mine. I look like 12 kinds of “stupid” mixed with equal measures of “midlife confusion” and “anxious-scared guy in a jail” tossed into a blender where I promptly mashed the “whirl-together button.”

I mean look at the photo.

Police have asked for help ...

Police have asked for help …

It’s fabulous for all the wrong reasons.

This was taken at one of those photo booths where, after you put your money in, you cram five of your best friends inside and snap a serious of photos while as a group you look sexy, goofy, tough or whatever else was popular when these machines were in vogue in the 1040s.

These machines are the pre-internet version of a “selfie.”

This particular photo came about because my wife was mad at me for leaving her alone inside the machine to have her own photo taken (I was getting us coffee). The controls inside the machine were archaic at best and I wasn’t there to help.

So I took it without regard to my own appearance because I wanted demon wom … I mean, my wife, to calm the fuck down.

I showed this photo to Fran, my wife, a new co-worker and some hobo I met behind a bar and we all agree — it’ a funny photo.

Trouble is, we all agree for different reasons. Fran thinks my eyes look like the alien from E.T.; Dagmar concluded that someone was molesting my nether regions against my will; I think my forehead is visible from space; my new co-worker just laughed.

Separated at hatching?

Separated at hatching?

Oh, how she laughed.

I’m also just wondering what that little white blotch is on my neck. Is that cancer? Cancer isn’t a weird white blotch right? What the hell is that? Am I going to die? Also, why is my one eye a little droopier than the other … that’s a weird fucking medical condition isn’t it. Oh, god this whole blog was a terrible mistake.

This is the only pro bono work the Oh God My Wife is German dude has ever done. (www.ohgodmywifeisgerman.com

This is the only pro bono work the Oh God My Wife is German dude has ever done.
www.ohgodmywifeisgerman.com

Anyway, here’s the deal, you’ve hung in there this long — you deserve something. I want you to Photoshop, caption or otherwise alter this photo and post it in the comments … the winner (the one who makes me look the coolest) will receive a free Had a Few Beers gift of their choice because fuck my savings.

 

Had a Few Beers note: I’ve been away for the last three weeks on a secret mission that I can’t tell you much about.  I can tell you that most of it was spent on the couch, asleep, with one hand tucked into my waistband, the other holding a remote and a bit of drool oozing out of the corner of my mouth.

In all seriousness, I just took a break. No clue why. I just did it. All of your subscriptions have been refunded the appropriate amount … you can all expect checks for zero dollars and zero cents to arrive in the mail exactly now.

This laptop’s gone to heaven

Unless you’re here looking for “German mixed gender sauna porn,” and many of you are if the WordPress statistics for this blog are to be believed, you likely are a fellow blogger or you’re a friend of mine of Facebook.

 

Not a sauna blog ... this time.

Not a sauna blog … this time.

As my friends on Facebook likely know the old Had A Few Beers mainframe-roboawesome death laser shooting out of its CPU laptop went to the giant server in the sky last night.

Not in heaven

Not in heaven

So I’m writing this on a newly purchased (Toshiba satelittle S55-A5275 if you’re curious) laptop.

While there was a time in my life that purchasing a new computer was a monumental event, punctuated by furious internet searches for the best motherboards, fastest ram and easily accessed porn, those days have sadly passed.

These days it’s more of a, “Crap new computers are a lot of work” sort of event.

So here we are. I’m downloading 80 updates, reinstalling office, transferring precious files (porn) from the salvaged hard drive of the old laptop and not writing a quality update to post here.

Not to fear though I think I have something in the works that I hope to push out next week. Something a bit different and I hope everyone will find interesting.

To those on Facebook that followed along, obviously the computer is not an Apple.

Apple makes great stuff. But Apple doesn’t do what I want it to do.

For me buying an apple would be similar to using a Porsche to haul timber. Could you do it? Probably but what’s the point?

It’s also not an Alienware or similar gaming rig because I’ve been there and done that. The money invested isn’t, in my opinion, worth it. Those machines are just as out of date down the road. Better to go with a top end of the off the shelf model when replacement times comes around.  It’s like the Porsche model, gaming rigs are fun when they are new but just ugly when it’s time to send them off to the junkyard.

So in an effort to keep a promise to myself about updating this blog once a week here we are.

A flat apology for not putting anything of real substance out.

I’m the geek. Seven hundred or so words proving my wife is right

Do you want to know what addiction sounds like?

It sounds like this.

levelup

Weird isn’t it?

That’s the sound you hear in the online game Everquest every time your character advances a level.

Hi, my name is Todd and I am an Everquest addict.

I mean look at those boobs ...

I mean, look at those boobs …

Maybe I’m not (just) an Everquest addict. I’m more a computer gaming addict.

I’ll peruse the developer’s notes of an unreleased game for months. I’ll anxiously await news that I’ve been admitted (or rejected) for upcoming alpha or beta testing for a popular unpublished game. I’ll silently read every fan-based website dedicated to the game in a vain attempt to gain some inside knowledge.

If you’re not familiar with Everquest, I’d first like to congratulate you on having a fucking life. Secondly, I’d like take a quick moment to explain the game as a concept. Thirdly, I’d like to wish a fond farewell to two-thirds of my readers who just said out loud, “Fuck this little geek” and clicked the red X on their browsers.

I’ll miss each and every one of you.

Everquest is a massive online role playing game. Launched in 1999, Everquest was one of the first “online” games to attract a large number of players (arguably the first- of-its-kind award goes to Ultima Online – see I’m a fucking nerd).

Everquest features a virtual world with populations of hundreds of thousands (at its peak) of players cooperating to kill virtual monsters, solve quests and acquire in game items that make their computer characters “better.”

Are you still with me? (God, you’re dedicated, thank you.)

So Everquest, motherfucking Everquest, is my crack of choice.

Sure, I’ve been “Everquest clean” for years at a time. But something always happens to draw me back in.

As you’ve likely already guessed, I’m playing Everquest again.

My current relapse I attribute directly to the launch of the closed alpha EQNext Landmark. Without spending pages upon pages describing what  Everquest Next and EQNext Landmark are, suffice it to say that I consider them to be a game-changing, revolutionary in fact, next step in online gaming. Google that shit if you don’t believe me If Sony can pull it off, I think a new high-water mark is about to hit the online gaming community.

So, why am I typing this and talking about the 1999 version of EQ and not inside the closed Alpha as we speak?

Loyalty to you my readers and the subsequent discovery that my piece of crap, off-the- shelf, 3-year-old HP laptop delivered a less-than-stellar one frame of video per 20 minutes of game play during said closed alpha.

Yeah, I was woefully unprepared computer wise for the realities of tomorrow’s games.

I owe that failure — all my failures really — to beer. (All, Todd? Really? ~Fran)

But, I could still play the original EQ and hell that was the next best thing really. I launched the game, updated the patches and dove headfirst back into geekdom.

Everquest, unlike other games that I can usually turn off at a respectable hour or not obsess over, turns me into a raving ubernerd of the one-millionth level.

I become seriously obsessed. So obsessed I have two accounts and end up playing the game on two separate side by side laptops while looking up obscure game details on an iPad — which is how this particular post came to be.

Geek!

“Play Everquest on a disorganized well-lighted kitchen table,” Earnest Hemingway.

It’s an orgy of mouse-clicking, key-tapping geeking out.

Even now as I write this I’m a little bit agitated. Something in the back of my head is screaming, “Hurry up asshole, we have to log in and get to work on that quest…”

Jesus, pathetic I know.

So not satisfied with two computers of nerdiness I incorporated the iPad to answer basic question about the game like: Where is the best place to take my characters, what is the best piece of equipment I can find for this character and will any woman anywhere ever find me attractive again?

It was during this flurry of “geek” that my wife walked into the kitchen unannounced and unnoticed.

After studying my actions for a moment she announced, “You know how you’re always making fun of me on your blog? Well you should put this goddamn shit on your blog you fucking nerd.”

Touché honey, Touché.

EDITOR’S NOTE: I had a roommate many moons ago who was also addicted to Everquest. Said roommate actually met a girl from Indiana “on” the game and moved her across the country to live with us.

Things were fine at first, she seemed nice enough and he was madly in love, but goddamnit, she constantly did laundry and they took half-hour showers! My water bill was through the roof.

I had to give them the boot.

They did and went on to get there own place, then married and subsequently divorced.

But through it all, they still played Everquest. ~ Fran

Psst: show your love with hand sanitizer (Valentines Day horror story winner)

HAFBs: Well here it is folks the winner of our Valentine’s Day horror story competition.  Author, who else, Chesty La Rue* tells us of a beer and Jaegermeister fuelled misadventure into a European strip club on Valentine’s Day.

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Wood. Pole.

Please raise your hand if you have ever spent Valentine’s Day at a strip club.

Did you raise it?

You did?  Great asshole, way to screw up my story’s introduction.

Dick.

To the rest of you that didn’t raise your hand, here’s a story of a crap-tastic Valentine’s Day.  

Based on the daily boob action at Had A Few Beers, chances are you’re a man who raised your hand. But who doesn’t like a nice pair?

To those of you who already raised your hands, (dicks) if you’re a lady, like my friends Anika, Natalie and I, give yourself a high-five because you survived Valentine’s Day at a strip club.

This Valentine’s Day there was no chocolates, flowers, cards, hearts, Cupid’s white butt, dates, boyfriends or husbands. No “girl’s night.”

Not even an emotion-laced Ben and Jerry’s binge.

I lived in Europe at the time and strip clubs there are just part of the territory. They are so woven into the European Union that various governments foot the bill for the care, health and welfare of those who practice this profession.

No matter the location, I will always feel shady walking into a strip club. At least I have peace of mind knowing “Nadia” from Eastern Europe gets to see a certified medical doctor for those awkward moments.

But to the point, when you spend Valentine’s Day at bars and strip clubs with beer, Jaegermeister, five dear friends and Nadia from Eastern Block, shenanigans are bound to ensue.

Pub crawling was our activity of choice that night and by the time we ended up at our destination, the beer and Jaeger had control of our three male friends.

Our destination: A strip club named Psst.

It’s a two-pole, mirrored shoebox with glittery disco balls (giggity), cozy couches, three stripers, and a bartender/owner/body guard/Freddie Mercury look-alike with gold chains and chest hair like taco meat, type of establishment.

The combination of brass cleaner, booze, shame and regret permanently molded my male friends into the cozy couch where they quickly fell asleep only to sporadically wake up like zombies when they realized there were lace thongs and vaginas jiggling in front of their faces.

Vaginas really do rule the world, folks.

My lady friends and I parked at the bar. We laughed, clapped and shook our heads as our highly intelligent male friends repeated this act throughout the night.

It puts the lotion on its ... oh wait.

It puts the lotion on its … oh wait.

For some reason at the end of the night, my thoughts are hazy here toward the end of the evening, (beer) we ladies brought out the hand sanitizer. I’m going to say a joke or dare (Jaeger) prompted these men to giddily get on stage and clean the brass stripper poles with the hand sanitizer.

How did they clean the pole you ask? (Put your hand down by the way, the participatory part of the blog is over. Dick!)

They cleaned the pole by using to the bottle to simulate ejaculation, naturally.

I don’t think it was a slap in the face to taco meat manager Freddie Mercury and Co. as much as it was a thoughtful consideration.

I’d like to think that small act of kindness is maybe the sixth love language.

It was like ripping a Band-Aid off to reduce the pain or leaving the room to fart.

Sure, we were all drunk but we had a level of care and consideration for one another. My lady friends and I stuck around for the show and got everyone home safely. The guys? They ultimately passed out 99.9% germfree.

 

HAFBs:  Chesty La Rue* will receive some free Had A Few Beers Swag and a photo of my balls.

* Totally her real name.

My wife creates the perfect cat bed by purging

At risk of turning this into a bloggy version of “I Love Lucy” or “Look at the goofy thing my wife did this time,” I’m going to tell one more story about my wife because, damn it, making fun of her quirky ways is one of the only joys left in my black, black heart. (Well, there’s that and there’s beer and there’s boobs, so actually there’s still a lot of joy in my life.)

Like most people, we have stacks of magazines at our house. And it’s not just the typical “Big Jugs” most would assume I subscribe to year after year.

No. We also have a lot of magazines that deal primarily with cooking. We have Cooking Light, Taste of Home, Everyday Food and Best Meals to Eat Off a Hooker’s Chest.

No copies of "Jugs" were found in this collection.

No copies of “Jugs” were found in this collection.

That last one might be made up — but the point is, my wife likes cooking magazines which is odd because her husband is functionally “food retarded.” Given a choice in the matter, I’d survive wholly on Frosted Flakes and frozen pizza. I’m exactly the opposite of a “foodie.” Left to my own devices I have subsisted on nothing more than Hamburger Helper and beer.

My two favorite foods are meat and potatoes. That’s about it. I view onions as an unusual and exciting flavor, carrots with deep suspicion and anything else not classified as meat or potatoes as exotic fare not to be trusted.

Despite my plebeian taste buds, my wife is on a never-ending quest to improve the pot roast, to make a better rib or to perfect her meatloaf when she cooks for me.  She, on the other hand, would eat squid eyes marinated in crushed poison ivy if she was given the opportunity because I can’t think of any food she doesn’t like.

This is why we have all these magazines stashed and stored throughout the house.

She even purchased two ottomans with removable tops and storage compartments so she could hide her magazine-hoarding fetish. These ottomans were purchased even though our sofa is the kind with the built-in foot rests.

The ottomans serve no purpose other than magazine storage.

But she recently and inexplicably discovered enough was enough. Did she come across an old magazine boldly declaring the whole World Wide Web thing was just a passing fancy or that the costs of “cellular telecommunications” would never be within the common man’s reach?

Most of the magazines are outdated and destined to never be viewed again. They’re probably all on the internet anyway, and that fancy iPad she owns (complicated though it might be for the Luddite wife) is perfect for calling up everything except porn. (The iPad is imperfect for porn perusal because I can’t figure out how to hide the history.)

And although I joked about my wife being a hoarder, the magazines were all neatly stacked, organized by topic and date and sitting around as an ordinary and orderly collection of uselessness.

After finally becoming familiar enough with our 3-year-old iPad (meaning she no longer saw to the creation and use of bookmarks as a ritual of black magic involving the sacrifice of a virgin to the late Steve Jobs) my wife decided finally the time had come to purge the house of magazines.

We’ve been through these purging episodes before. I purchased a lifetime subscription to Rolling Stone a few years back and once a year of so I chuck the last 12-months-worth of magazines into the trash. On the other hand, she tearfully sometimes has to admit that the November 1998 William Sonoma catalog probably had outlived its usefulness.

But this purge was BIGGER. It was a purge of Stalinist proportions. She meant to exorcise the house of all the magazines.

I quickly hid the one Rolling Stone I did want to keep (10 year anniversary issue of the death of Hunter. S. Thompson), gleefully brought out the paper recycling bins from the garage and politely left the room to give her some privacy during this painful and highly emotional time.

After some time in the kitchen (that’s where I keep my laptop) I heard a curious noise in the living room. I could hear pages being flipped, paper being torn and then a thump as a magazine hit the recycle bin.  What the hell was she doing in there?

Putting on my detective cap (Which I imagine is a tiny little purple top hat that sits cattywampus atop his dome ~ Fran), I casually walked into the living room to observe.

Dagmar would pick up a magazine, carefully thumb through it, rip out a page or two and dump the rest into the bin.

You can see where this is going can’t you?

When I asked what she was doing, she told me that, yes she was going to get rid of all the magazines, but these particular pages were just too important to get rid of.

You can read more about cats and paper here. It's official shit, yo.  http://tinyurl.com/kr5ples

You can read more about cats and paper here.            It’s official shit, yo. 

Much like the black DVD cases I immediately saw the flaw in the plan, but being the dutiful and oft-frightened husband, I kept my mouth shut.

I’m happy to report, the cat was fully onboard, because loose magazine pages, as we all know, are the Sealy Posturepedics of cat beds.

HAFB Note: We are still offering free swag from the Had a Few Beers Café Press store if we select your Valentine’s Day horror story for publication. Details are located here.We hope to hear from you.

A Testimonial: Tell us your V-Day horror stories and WIN!, WWIINN!!, WWWIIINNN!!!

I believe in providing examples when trying to convince people to do things like sending me photos of their naked lady bits, lending me money or writing for my award-winning* Had a Few Beers blog.

Regarding the last bit, the writing bit, did you know we have a contest going on right now?

A contest with actual prizes?

Yeah, we totally do.

We want you to send us your funny Valentine’s Day story. If you do it, I will send you a HAFB’s Beer mug.

I said “I” and not “we” up there because the other fuckers who work on this blog won’t send you shit.

I’m your only real friend here, remember that.

... and these. These are also your friend

… and these. These are also your friend

Anyway, I totally mean it.  If we publish your story I will send you something from the HAFB’s Cafépress Store.

Don’t believe me?  Here’s a testimonial from former guest writer Thor.

As one who enjoys HAFB, there may come a time when Todd “graces” you with an invitation to guest write.

There are opportunities in life that you must not turn down: Beer bonging at a frat party, oral in a bar bathroom, riding nude through Kanye’s green-screened universe.

But Todd’s offer to write for HAFBs? Turn that shit down.

Todd promised me fame and riches. Terms like “speaking engagements” were tossed around like they were commonplace!

Very quickly I realized those things were not going to materialize.

Still, I was excited when I came home one day to find a HAFB’s gift box. I opened it with anticipation.

Cashmere?

Crystal?

Pure Columbian coke?

No.

I got shorts — as in underwear — with the subtle HAFB’s cock-and-balls logo across the ass.

Todd’s cruelty did not end there.

See, Todd knows me in real life – he knows I’m built like a German peasant. The underwear wouldn’t even fit over one of my thighs. In fact, I think Todd’s DVD collection has warped his idea of ass size. I’m talking Thai lady boy ass size here,  folks.

So I got shafted, and not in the good way.

With nothing left to lose, and desperately wanting some pay off for the hours I watched TMZ while claiming to write for HAFB, I asked Todd to “make it worth my while.” He sent me a picture of balls; he said they were his.

It was the final insult, because I know hamster balls when I see them.

Photo credit: Who the hell knows.

Photo credit: Who the hell knows?

So it’s really just that simple!

Send us your best Valentine’s Day story no later than Feb. 10th (We’ve extended the deadline) and you’ll be famous. I’m talking book deals, multiple speaking engagements, a lunch of Thai fried rice with Condoleezza Rice** and free HAFB’s swag .

What’s cooler than that?

* HAFBs has never won an award.

** Winners will receive nothing but the HAFBs  mug and lunch with Condoleezza Rice***.

***  Condi, if you’re reading this call me please, I totally need to ask a favor!

Call me!

Call me!  Country Code 49, then 151 400 33 094. I’ll be nude when I answer, just so you know.

 

Editors Note: Todd also sent me some HAFB swag. I got a sweatshirt emblazoned with the HAFB logo, which my son promptly announced looked like dick and balls.

I was excited about the sweatshirt until I opened it. It was a 3X.For your viewing pleasure I’ve included a photo of me holding the aforementioned sweatshirt. I think it’s just gonna be a bit too big.

What the fuck is wrong with him? ~ Fran

I have mad Photoshop skillz.

I blanked out my face, but left those calves, slippered feet and the stray sock on the ground behind me, untouched. You’re welcome world.

 

On the case of the missing DVD cases

My wife organizes. That’s what she does. I’m pretty sure it’s in her blood. It, most of the time, compliments the disorganized mess that is my own life.

Her organizing is usually useful, mostly helpful, occasionally annoying and once in a blue moon fucking retarded.

As an example, she once cleaned out and reorganized my tool box while I was traveling. She did this despite the fact that she can’t locate the working end of a Philips screwdriver.

Like this one ...

Like this one …

Not this one.  Photo courtesy of G-Gank

Not this one. Photo courtesy of G-Gank

This is the story about one reorganization effort even more fucking retarded than that.

I returned from Iraq in 2004 only to learn that my wife and I would be going to Afghanistan a short 12months later for another year-long tour. We lived in Italy at the time and as our deployment date drew closer we began to discuss what we were going to take with us.

Because we were living in Italy, mailing items to ourselves via the Military Postal System was free. So while neither of us shipped boxes of lead to our future home, neither were we mindful of how much the boxes weighed.

Based on my prior deployment I knew there would be ample time for movie watching and that meant we were going to ship a significant portion of our DVD collection ahead of us. As I loaded DVD case after DVD case into a footlocker a look came across Dagmar’s face.

The wheels inside my wife’s head were spinning. All these loose, randomly stacked up DVDs were sending her OCD levels into outer space.

“There has to be a better way” I could almost hear her thinking as I stacked a copy of “Groundhog Day” atop of copy of “Pulp Fiction.”

Clearly, this was anarchy, or at least the first sign of it. Comedies were mixed in with dramas, which were also mixed in with – gasp – TV shows.

It was almost as if the terrorists had already won.

She hatched a plan then and there to fix the chaos that was our DVD collection.

That plan has been a major pain in my ass ever since.

Several hours of intensive Internet searching later she found her solution.  Black DVD carrying cases that zip closed. Inside were pages with pockets where DVD jackets slid into the clear plastic-covered side and the actual DVD had a fabric pocket on the other.

She bought seven of them while having some sort of “organizer orgasm,” I think. When they finally arrived she, without anyone holding a gun to her head, spent an entire Saturday organizing them. There was a case for comedy, a case for drama, a case for comedy series, a case for romantic movies and (I’m not kidding) a case titled “Todd’s Mess,” because my collection of “Girls Gone Wild” DVDs didn’t meet her ridiculously high definition of documentaries.

Because she likes the pain I guess, she put all the subcategories into alphabetical order.

There was one flaw in the plan that was apparent to me from the moment I saw the books.  They were going to be completely useless when a new DVD came into the house. A new DVD would mean a gargantuan effort to shuffle every movie so that the interloper could be cataloged in the its proper place.

Sure, she’s organized, and a bit anal but I knew the moment I saw the cases they were going to be completely worthless after 10 new DVD purchases. No one is anal enough to keep doing that time after time.

I was, of course, correct and even before we left for Afghanistan we shipped the cases and a collection of five or six new DVDs (in their original cases) ahead of us.

Several years later something else about the DVD cases became apparent — they were extremely easy to forget about and even more so today because of streaming video.  We had nearly forgotten they existed until one recent weekend when the Apple TV wasn’t working and my wife was in the mood to watch something.  She or I suggested getting the cases out in hopes of finding some long-forgotten gem of theater brilliance hiding inside them.

Now, in her defense, I’d been the only one to open the cases for years and I’m basically a lazy-unorganized bastard. As she will tell you, I make very little effort to ensure I put the movie back into its proper place. Some movies had magically shook loose of their sleeves during numerous moves and the whole thing looked like a library that was organized by drunk meth-addicted chimpanzees.

Like this only inside a DVD book and with more meth addicted monkeys.

Like this only inside a DVD book and with more meth-addicted monkeys.

After several frustrating minutes and some failed attempts to find the DVD associated with the cover label, my wife declared the books to be “fucking useless” and I agreed.

“They’re a pain in the ass to keep straight, you can’t tell half the time if you’re getting the movie or the extras DVDs out,” I helpfully explained.

“That’s because you never put them back the way I told you,” she said with a smugness only an organized person can muster.

Regardless, they were a hopeless mess. So hopeless that I saw that look again, the organizational wheels in her head were shifting into high gear.

After some furious Internet searches she made the announcement. No longer were these particular DVDs sentenced to life inside the black cases. And why did I make her buy them in the first place?

She was going to remove them all and, in a very bold move, put them into DVD cases.

“No Todd,” she explained. “Not exactly like the old ones. The new ones will be the smaller CD cases like we used to keep music in.

I reminded her that the original DVD cases she had thrown away years ago would have come in handy right about now, but she insisted that they wouldn’t work.  She needed small, clear cases because all the DVD jackets weren’t going to survive this round of purges.  I rolled my eyes, opened a beer and gave up. She again took to furiously searching the Internet for the exact match to the item in her head.

Weeks later the 300 or so clear CD cases arrived and Dagmar commenced to furiously sorting the now-stacked DVDs into separate piles and then gingerly placing each into its new jewel case.

I foolishly considered this to be the end of it, because I hadn’t thought far enough into the organized future to realize those jewel cases would need a new home. Not only had I not considered that, but I had also not considered that the new receptacles for the cases would have to go somewhere. Preferably near the TV, Dagmar said, and yeah we were headed to IKEA because nothing less than a new book shelf was going to accomplish the goal.

Downtrodden and with heavy heart I resigned myself to my fate. IKEA does everything it can to encourage you to walk through the entire store which leads women to purchase far more items than were initially thought needed. Prior to this trip for instance, I had no idea my bathroom needed a complete redesign because the previous renters were colorblind retard monkeys or something. I thought my toothbrush holder and trash can were perfectly functional. I found out they were not.

DVDs organized

No so bad really …

Regardless, several hours and several hundred dollars later we were home. And thus began the task of IKEA assembly. While I contemplated what the fuck the little guy in the assembly brochure meant with his wordless instructions, I was struck by a simple fact: Here I was, 10 years removed from the time my wife decided she could improve on the worldwide practice of storing DVDs in their original cases, and I was still getting screwed.

 

HAFB Note: We are still offering free swag from the Had a Few Beers Café Press store if we select your Valentine’s Day horror story for publication.  Details are located here.We hope to hear from you.

Screw that screw that unscrewed its screw hole … I’m screwed

A screw is loose, right now, inside my house.

I know, it’s a Breakfast Club level tragedy or something, but here we are living our lives with a screw that’s loose.  If only my high school crush, Molly Ringwald, would come fix it.

Actually that’s a lie. The screw isn’t loose, it’s gone. It’s fallen out of its “screw hole,” (which isn’t half as dirty as it sounds) and has been lost. I’m assuming the vacuum cleaner ate it, but I have very little evidence to back that up.

For all I know, ice-weasel ninjas stole it in the middle of the night.

The point is — a small screw that keeps nothing together that gravity isn’t capable of holding together has vanished and this travesty has made its way on to the calendar my wife and I share.

I don’t know if you and your do this or not, but my wife and I sure do. We have a calendar that’s hung on the wall upon which we write down significant, albeit sometimes mundane, appointments and events. A birthday party, we’re invited to? Yeah, that makes the calendar. An odd bill comes due for one of us? Oh indeed we put that on the calendar. Dental appointment? You bet your front tooth that goes on the calendar.

Basically, anything of any sort of significance goes on the calendar, until recently.

My wife violated our calendar’s sacred trust. She wrote down “Fix Screw” on the calendar. Look, its right there. I’m not good enough with Photoshop to fake that kind of shit.

Calendar shame ... the worst kind of shame

Calendar shame … the worst kind of shame

That’s her reminder that (New Year’s Day no less –way to start off the year babe) she directed me to replace the screw that held almost nothing together. Because, she frequently claims in a statement made out of whole , (what the hell does that mean by the way) I “never do anything.” Well, if that was true, how is this being written? Huh, honey? Writing this is doing something, so that pretty much blows your theory right out of the water doesn’t it?

Now to be fair, I did toy with the idea of absolutely not fixing this screw because I’m a dickhole when it comes to stuff like this. “What? You’re going to write a completely pointless task you’ve arbitrarily assigned me on our calendar in the mistaken belief you can calendar-shame me into fixing it? All I can say in response to that is ha-ha-ha-ha!” I played around with the idea of seeing how many months, or even years, I could go without fixing this screw.

Again, the screw did little if anything at all. It, in theory, held two cheap and lightweight pieces of metal together on the completely detached bed “frame” of her bed.

Yeah, her bed. We sleep in separate beds because, if half her stories are true, sleeping with me is akin to sleeping in a war zone alongside a violent psychopath. When not snoring, farting, scratching my ass, wildly flailing around and, for all I know, running an illicit online gambling operation, I’m still constantly kicking the covers off and then pulling them back on the entire night long.

I, of course, deny all of this* and maintain she just dreams these things happen, but she’s more rested in the morning if she sleeps in a separate bed and I can leave the Simpsons DVDs in the bedroom on repeat in case I wake up at 2 a.m. and need to catch up on what type on shenanigans Bart and Lisa are up too. Hey, it happens.

The point is that little missing screw in no way, shape or form had any sort of negative impact on her bed. Not physically and not cosmetically. If you were unaware of its existence you’d look at her bed and think, “Man I could get some good ball-scratching night’s sleep in there.”

It was a pointless little “fuck all” task that could have been and likely should have been completely ignored. Last winter I remarked on Facebook that one Sunday afternoon while I cleaned the garage my wife came and told me I should, move the stack of fire wood to the other side of the garage, sweep under where the stack of firewood was and then move all the firewood back again. This was at the start of winter. The initial stacking of said firewood had taken an entire Saturday afternoon, so yeah.

Not a woody

Not a woody

It was a request I promptly rolled my eyes at and ignored, while popping open a beer and entertaining 10 topless models if I remember correctly. Regardless, I do know no firewood was moved and there was zero sweeping under the firewood that day.

But fuck this one was on the CALENDAR. She put that shit on THE calendar. Now I couldn’t ignore it. It would be there looking me in the face every day.  A great big “FIX SCREW” in Dagmar handwriting and fuck, it’s already past due.  I mean it was “pointlessly past due,” but past due none the less.

But friends, I’m strong. I totally, and with steel as my backbone, completely and totally fixed that shit on Sunday. I went up there, took the bed frame apart, carried the “screw hole” portion of the frame to the garage, found a screw compatible with the empty screw hole and then put the damned thing back together. I did this because of a calendar, because the paper on the wall told me to do it. (Todd, why didn’t you just carry the container that holds to the screws up to the bed? ~ Fran)

This year, it no longer has a few screws loose.

* Her assessment of my violent sleeping is of course 100 percent spot on. On weekends we do sleep in the same bed.  Last Sunday morning I was rudely awakened by screaming, cries of pain and vicious fists on my back. While, gently, turning over in my slumber I had inadvertently clocked her on the back of the head.  If it wasn’t for the fact that I am asleep, even I wouldn’t sleep with me.

HAFB Note: We are still offering free swag from the Had a Few Beers Café Press store if we select your Valentine’s Day horror story for publication.  Details are located here.We hope to hear from you.