Monthly Archives: January 2014

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, I take pill from https://www.ukmeds.co.uk/treatments/sleeping-tablets/ambien-zolpidem/ so I usually have a heavy sleep. 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.

 

Tell us your Valentine’s day horror stories, win free stuff

Are you glad the holidays are over?

Not so fast fuckers. Cupid is breathing down our necks.

Did you feel his hot-cherub breath just then? Smells like broken promises, abandoned dreams and premature ejaculation doesn’t it?

Valentine’s Day is all up in our faces.

Married men blow it off until the last second, married women are jaded by it, dating men fear it, dating ladies look forward to it, single chicks dread it and single men play their Xbox One and laugh at the rest of us during this holiday.

Oh, how they laugh at the rest of us …

Single dudes are assholes.

We have a bit of a tradition here at Had a Few Beers surrounding Valentine’s Day. The tradition of lonely, single and (I can vouch for this part) attractive women ranting about what a crapfest of a holiday Valentine’s Day is.

First we had this and then this one. Both were spectacular rants from very attractive and funny ladies.

This year I want to open up the floor and solicit input. I also don’t want to write anything myself for publication on the 14th of February.

Because I’m lazy.

Basically, I’d like to pay you to write something for me.

Now let’s be clear, I’m not paying you in cold-hard cash, and no this isn’t an elaborate joke where I send you a photo of my balls again. That kind of thing is only funny once. I’d like to pay with a gift from the Had a Few Beers store.

HAFB-Logo-Color-RGB

Yeah, we know the logo looks like a dick with balls, but that’s what makes it even funnier. Pointing out the obvious joke in the logo helps no one.

Anyway here’s the deal , if you write something and we use it you can have one of these.

Hadafewbeers

Pictured: Proudest moment of my life…

I promise to send you a pair of smoking-hot boobs … I mean I’ll give you free a Had a Few Beers stein. That shit costs like $20.  If you don’t like beer stop reading this and … fine we’ll work out the details of whatever a “prohibitionist time traveler and Valentine’s Day hater” like you wants as a free gift. Maybe a Had a Few Beers coffee mug is your thing, or a Had a Few Beers G-string?

Pictured: every photo chicks have sent me wearing Had A Few Beers Panties

Pictured: The photo every chick has sent me wearing Had A Few Beers Panties

Point is, you’ll get something.

What we’re looking are funny Valentine’s Day stories. I don’t care if you’re married, single, dating, male or female. If you have a funny Valentine ’s Day story, let us have it. Awkward first date on Valentine’s Day with your future husband? Write it up. Had a crush on a super hot girl and it all went to shit on Valentine’s Day? Write it up. Killed your first hooker on Val … turn yourself in. Sicko.

We’re looking for anything between 1,000 and 1,500 words (more or less) and FUNNY.

Deadline is Feb. 3. Send your craptastic Valentines Day thoughts to us at admin@hadafewbeers.com

Also, did you see those tits with a Had a Few Beers mug! Look at those tits!  Awesome!

Hair, hair, long beautiful what the #&@$?!?!?

Apart from hair dressers, cross dressers and who knows what other kind of dressers I, like most men, know next to nothing about woman’s hair.

Let me say upfront that what you’re about to read contains a lot of generalizations and I know that I’m painting the fairer sex with a broad brush, or comb, or curling iron, or … well it’s a lot of generalizations.

When it comes to a woman’s hair, sure, I know the basics. I know that for every second a man takes getting his hair, I hesitate to say this but, ready a woman takes up to a minute.  If a man takes 30 seconds fixing his hair after a shower it takes a woman 30 minutes.

And that’s just for like if the woman is planning a trip to the mailbox or something.

This ratio scales up badly if the woman is fixing her hair for something more serious like work, a party, a holiday office event or a dip in the pool. In such cases the ratio explodes. The man might still take only thirty seconds to manage their hair but the woman can take, in extreme cases such great tips for planning your wedding, a lifetime .

Maybe not a literal lifetime, unless you’re the poor husband/boyfriend/guy she picked up last night waiting on her. In such cases it can indeed feel like a life time. That isn’t much of an exaggeration actually. There are creatures on this earth that born and dead in the span of time a woman might spend in a beauty salon, the humble mayfly among them.

This, well noble isn’t quite right, fly has a lifespan of 1 to 4 hours. Next time you await your lady friend to return from the beauty salon think not of how long it’s taking not in hours but in potential mayfly generations. I like to contemplate the humble fly while drinking a beer at a nearby because I think the mayfly would want it that way.

This abnormal ratio spans across all things related to women and hair. Take hair care products. If you’re a man and you’re living with a woman you already know this. Take a look at the collection of hair care products she buys for her hair and look at the matted ball of scraped up soap scum you’ve collected for your own hair. Most men I assume are like me and leave the choice of their own hair care products to the woman in their life. On the rare occasions I purchase my own I tend to pick the brand closest to the checkout counter so I can minimize my time in the store. This decision is only mitigated by what’s actually cheapest. If it cost more than a song on iTunes I cringe.

I, and a lot of men I know, am literally willing to lather up the mops on our head’s with a bar of soap.

hair cropped

Cost? The GDP of Albania in 2007.

I conducted an informal survey of female Had a Few Beers readers about how many hair care products were in their bathroom or shower. Besides the typical “are you drunk” responses I was also able to unscientifically confirmed nothing.  I did however get bitched at by a lot of chicks, all of them totally hot, cool and I hope naked, that confirmed yes my wife isn’t unique and that our shower is littered with hair care products marketed to their gender.

The answers spanned from the sensible, “only shampoo and conditioner” from some who replied too “I don’t know how many are in there anymore, I’ve lost count,” among others.

Volumizer , root detangler and other words that don’t actually seem to be words were used by those that chose to respond. Deep conditioner, as if the other conditioners only do 3/4th of the job, were terms tossed about as if that’s normal shit.

I also thought mousse was dead in the mid-1990 but I was wrong, not for the first time. It seems some of you ladies are applying that shit in the shower. I’m sure there is a perfectly logically reason.

Turns out that if you ask the always reliable Yahoo answers how much the average male haircut costs you read a lot of racial slurs and learn that it costs about $15 on average. When you ask the same question but about the cost of a woman’s trip to the salon your computer goes into blue screen of death mode the way old calculators did when you tried to multiply huge numbers in grade school.

As you all know my wife can’t drive right now so I’m her chauffeur. She nixed the idea of my being her ‘naked chauffeur’ early on so I’m stuck with a less glamorous title. Apparently her hair care needs are no less stringent now that she cannot drive and the time and money she spends in the salon remain unchanged.  Well unchanged except for the very bored husband in the bar next door wondering how long he can realistically nurse one beer (answer a long damn time). It’s one of those things; I sighed and accepted my lot in life. Her hair, like most of you ladies out there, is important. I just agreed inside that I’d have to endure this and remember next time to bring a phone charge.

Eight seven mayfly generations later she emerged. She was happy, my wallet cried and my phone was dead. Praise about the hair was dutifully given by me to my wife (although it looked suspiciously like it did when she went inside – mental note, start asking for receipts) and we drove home.

The next day, about an hour before leaving work she called me inquiring if I would mind a quick, really just 15 minutes or so, detour on the drive home.  Sure “honey bunny” I replied, “where to?”

The salon she said. I want to get my hair straightened some more.