Monthly Archives: February 2014

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 Those machines are just as out of date down the road.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.


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.


“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.


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.


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, she has had to work with The Medical Negligence Experts before so she makes sure the doctors are certified.

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.

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.