Tag Archives: drunk

If facebooking while drunk is drunkbooking what’s drunken-retarded spending you have to hide from the wife called?

Drunkbooking’s a word right? To hell with you Microsoft word, it should be a proper word. Someone fire off a letter the people at Merriam Webster dictionary and I’ll contact the Had A Few Beers legal team* about the matter.

Point is, even if it’s not a word, it’s a thing. If you know me at all, you know it’s a thing. I’ve proven it’s a thing time and time again.

I’m pretty sure I’ve alienated many friends, coworkers, future bosses, family and most of the GOP with my late night ill-conceived FB rants. But really what fun would Facebook be without the occasional drunkbooker here or there?

While drunkbooking may be fun you know what’s not fun, drunk online shopping.  This is also the part where my wife and anyone with access to my financial records should stop reading.

Two people encouraged me, ages ago, to start this blog. By encouraged I mean one said, “Dude you should start a blog” and the other already had a blog and boobs. So by “encouraged me” I really mean they both had boobs. In my mind that’s all it took.

Step one start blog.

Step two boobs.

Or something.

I’m kind of fuzzy on how this whole thing started.

Oh yeah, going to need at least three packs of HAFB playing cards. That's obvious.

Oh yeah, going to need at least three packs of HAFB playing cards. That’s obvious.

Blogging is fun, even if the word blog sounds like the noise you make when you vomit, its fun.  But then this exercise in an inflated sense of self worth got a bit out of control and the next thing you know I’m drunk on a Friday night buying up Had A Few Beers items off the CafePress store like I’m planning on stocking my own boutique at a mall near you.

Seriously, by the time I was done drinking and ordering I had racked up $850 individual reasons that every online store should require a breathalyzer test before the “Place Order” button can be pushed.

Here have a look for yourself …

We all want milk Wal-Mart!

… but what the hell was I thinking when I ordered 10 packs of HAFBs stickers? Some sort of gorilla marketing campaign on a very limited budget in a country where English is the second language and everyone and their mother with access to Google would know it was me doing the … yeah that’s exactly what I was thinking.

Crap, I’m an idiot when drinking.

But even the fact that I’m an idiot doesn’t quite explain three pairs of boxer shorts, six pairs of panties, three hoodies and one woman’s v-neck. Unless it does, and of course it does.

* The HAFB legal team consists entirely of my cousin an attorney who wisely ignores my late night legal needs. I’m still waiting for your opinion about the legality of sex with a monkey in international waters and the tax ramifications of adopting a Ukrainian hooker cousin!

I get beat by a leather whip while wearing a cowboy jacket and pink boxers … I missed you too

I was going to make this update private, readable by only my wife, Gina, Maggie, Adrian, Marni, Todd B, Mike G (cause he’s cool), Carmen, Craig, Greg, Brian, Leila, Lynn, Bob, Jesse, Jill of course, my cousin Cory, some dude I met last Wednesday and my Dad.

Then I remembered I’m an attention whore and if it can’t be read by everyone why write it?

Boiled down, any story that ends with Dagmar whipping my ass with an actual whip, while I’m wearing boxers and a cowboyish leather jacket (yeah the one from facebook) should be used as a cautionary tale to others.

For those of you that hate me, there’s also head trauma so stick around.

This one

The Jacket that keeps on giving … me pain.

Really though the night ended with me getting whipped, by Dagmar wearing a leather bra and leather chaps, while I was wearing that abortion of a jacket and pink striped boxers.

Some back story is likely called for.

And don’t you hate that?  Someone is writing something crazy and they cut in with, “but before I tell you the cool shit, here’s stuff I want you too read cause, context is fun”.    Yeah I’d skip too the end too.   Look for the bolded part.

About a month ago Dagmar left me.   So call me ladies!   Okay, okay she didn’t ‘leave me’ so much as she took a new job up the road in a place where I will also be working soon.    We were both moving, she just moved first.

Through luck, chance and charm a good friend of ours just moved there.   She offered, and we graciously accepted, Dagmar a place to sleep at night so she would be spared the hour or so one way drive.

This offer, coupled with the fact that I was going on a three-week long business trip that consisted of retarded crazy hours meant that Dagmar and the cat were moving into our friend’s house until we were resettled.

We were effectively ‘separated’ only I couldn’t have meaningless sex with random bar chicks because Dagmar likes to split hairs.   She’s a total kill joy.

So after three weeks of cross-dressing Germans, creamer incidents and me not dying. I arrive home.

To nothing.

Seriously after three weeks of not being able to get away from anyone … of only having a 10-minute break at the end of the night alone I arrive home to an empty house.

No wife, no cat, no anyone.

I had a hand-held radio for the three weeks I was there, it would call out at four a.m. “Wolverine 17 this is Beached whale 79, I’m at check point “I fucked your mom” and I think the training unit just committed a level one poop in the bed!”

I would yell out, ‘shut up!’ at the radio and cry in my pillow.   But mostly I would just turn it off and go back to bed.

I bring that up because even when I was alone, I wasn’t.   The radio brought me, even at 3 in the morning, constant updates.

So when I arrived home on Wednesday at about 5 in the afternoon I was thrilled that I wouldn’t see another human being until Friday night.

Yeah, so I was crazy for human companionship by Friday.  I was also crazy for a shave, a shower, a change of clothes and my ass desperately needed to get off the damned couch.

I can do a day alone, I’m cool with that.   Forty-eight hours though and I’m getting a bit ‘freaked out’.   At 56 hours I’m talking to myself in the mirror and I’m disagreeing with myself.

Luckily though I get to go see Dagmar, I just have to drive an hour and a half to do it.

Dagmar is full of instructions though before I can come see her.   Pick up sausage links, eggs, white wine that kind of tastes like summer and her new domestic-partner is no better, pick up two packs of cream cheese, make sure they’re blessed by midget angels — cause that’s the kind I like.

I mean I’m just screwed all around.   It’s typical German November weather, meaning it sucks.  I’m wet at every turn but I have coffee.

Did I mention coffee?

Every place I stopped had coffee.   I cannot, on a night like this, ignore coffee.

I think the amount of coffee I drank almost equaled meth before the drive.  Had someone gave me a no shit line of meth I don’t think I could have been more white knuckled during that drive.

Pouring rain, hopped up on java, I think I peed in a Gatorade bottle at one point but I made it.

People!  Interaction!  Friends!

But there’s my wife and there’s that slight bit of awkward haven’t seen you for three weeks, fuck you kiss me, you’re beautiful, time and here we are at the end of the party.  The dinner plates are being cleared, guests are being said good bye too and I’m wearing a leather jacket …

Yeah again ‘that’ leather jacket.

Bolded part starts now for those of you that suck ….

Everyone else but the three of us has left and for a moment I think Dagmar and our host has left too.

I find myself all alone in the living room.

The girls, and my memory here is hazy, disappeared.

I assume there was much giggling.

I’m not sure if I was confused, drunk or just happy here. But part of me realizes it could have been all three so…

When they reappeared, Dagmar was dressed in a no-shit leather bra, leather chaps and holding a whip.  She spoke in an over the top German accent about my, ‘misbehaving’ and then I, for reasons I cannot explain (it was beer) stripped to my boxers.

Anyone who knows me knows that it takes about 3.5 beers for me too get naked because … well it’s me.

Well after getting whipped by my wife while another person watched and laughed with great joy, the great, penthouse-crazy sex didn’t happen because none of us are in college, retarded and it was late, like 10:30 or so.  We’re also old; do I need to mention we’re old?

When I awoke the next morning I had a headache, which isn’t at all unusual but this one was different it was only on the right side of my brain.    Had the left side of my brain just fucking quit, had I finally killed it?   Why wasn’t the pain equal?

I had no time for such trivialities as ‘head-pain level 5’.   I was wearing pink stripped boxer, black dress socks and nothing else.   The headache would have to wait.  I could have asked Dagmar but that would have led to ugly consequences like the truth.   Better to investigate this mystery myself.    I suspected old-man Winter’s did it but the mystery van and Scoobie Doo were no were to be found so I followed my other hunch, they were downstairs.

I mean there’s a pounding on the right side of my head that would have left

Porn star Jenna Jameson at the 2007 Adult Ente...

I’ve just always wanted to include a photo Jenna here.  CALL ME HON!(Photo credit: Wikipendia)

Jenna Jameson impressed, I’m in boxers and black socks.

Solve the immediate problem first my reptile brain screamed, ‘find the clothes.’

I darted downstairs hoping our host was still fast asleep only to discover she was awake, well composed, drinking tea and completely un-shocked by a nearly naked man in her living room making wild claims about shirts, pants and shoes.

“They’re upstairs,” she replied, barely looking up from her computer.

FUCK!

I ran back up and there they were, sorta folded on a nightstand.   Dagmar is to blame, I obviously would have left them in a pile besides the bed … had I been wearing them when I went to bed.

“Does your head hurt,” came the question from the bed as I desperately tried to unfuck inside-out clothes.

Does my head hurt?   That wasn’t code from Dagmar for ‘do you have a hangover’, that question would just be asked straight forward.   What was she …

Oh shit now I remember and, ‘oh shit’ was exactly what I said when it happened.

I’d fallen out of bed that night and, as it’s a typical German house, there is no carpet.  My retarded brain collided, violently on the right side it would seem, with cold-unforgiving tile.

In my, admittedly flimsy, defense that bed is a head trauma nightmarish contraption of concussion inducing fuck all, it’ll be labeled by OSHA as a class one felony any minute now.   The top mattress is bigger than the bottom box spring and for a retard like me, pushed into the ‘danger zone’ by Dagmar, well gravity was going to win the fight.

My head still hurts.

Harlots, bosoms and Tucker Max …

I can’t give this blog the love it deserves at the moment because, work.  I’m on another business trip and sadly this one isn’t filled with strippers and angry Dagmar phone calls about said strippers.

Seriously I’m working crazy hours until Halloween so I’m not sure what I’ll be able to put up here.   Either it will be incoherent, half-sleep deprived, half-drunk rants like this one or you’ll just have to come up with your own boob and beer jokes.

Here is a free, non boob and beer joke though.

What do you call a deer with no eyes?   No eye-deer.

Okay I’m sorry I really shouldn’t do this when I’m tired.  That was just sad.

I do have two odd things and here they are.

The first, the one I hope to write about soon involves about ten bat-shit crazy comments I received here last night/this morning.  All by the same dude, different names but all the same dude.   I deleted them all because if anyone’s going to use the words harlot, bosom and sin on this blog it will be fucking me.    They were retarded but they COULD be funny because harlot, bosom and sin are hysterical words, if used right.

Trust me it will be funny, they’re deleted but saved.   All you harlots have been warned.  I suggest you wrap your bosoms up into brassieres and just fucking wait damn it.

The second, less funny but interesting thing, I want to talk about is Tucker Max.

Tucker Max

Tucker Max (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yeah, yeah get it out of your system now, 42 year old Todd finds Tucker Max interesting what a tard.

Fuck you, this is why.

Tucker, while funny and juvenile and <insert adjective here> is still Tucker there are, and I’m sure lot of fans know this, the moments where he’s really in the zone.   You can see a lot of his influences and you can really appreciate what a great fucking writer that dude is.

This is what I just read,

“The rules your parents teach you to live by are very different than the rules the world actually runs by.  Most of the conventional wisdom is not only wrong, it’s a lie told to us by people who want to control us.  It doesn’t help us, it helps them.”

English: Hunter S. Thompson, Miami Book Fair I...

By the ticket take the ride …English: Hunter S. Thompson, Miami Book Fair International, 1988 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If you’re a Hunter S. Thompson fan and don’t see a lot of HST in that, try harder.   I’m starting to discover I love rereading Tucker Max, just as I love rereading HST.  Each time you reread it, you find something new.  His stories are funny at first glance but, maybe more so in the later books, they have brilliant bits.  I think I read that he was influenced by HST, and that fits, but …

But …

But …

But I need to go to bed, early mornings and all.

Also boobies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I loved every fucking second.

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

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

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

Not a single f-bomb was thrown during this drive

Not a single f-bomb was thrown during this drive

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

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

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

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

No more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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