Tag Archives: Food

I have glitter on my hands and I smell like hooker — stay out of your coworker’s desk

I smell like hooker.

In fact, I have glitter on me.

Don’t tell my wife okay?

Thanks.

Why I smell like hooker and have glitter on my body is best described with a photo …

There were issues … I still smell like coconut chickness and I’m starting to like it.

Yeah that. That right there. That’s the issue. Coconut Carmel Whip hand sanitizer and girly girl co-workers are the reason.

They’re at fault. Not me. No sir.

Earlier in the day I purchased two bags of “Bigs” bacon-flavored sunflower seeds because they’re flavored like bacon.  How anyone can pass them up in the store remains a mystery to many of us.

Anyway, after happily munching bacon-flavored sunflower seeds at my desk all damned day long, I’d worked my way thought every drink I had at my desk. I drank an old can of Citra found in the desk drawer, the Gatorade I bought with the sunflower seeds, a carton of old milk in the office fridge (bad decision). I was contemplating collecting the dew off plants outside when I finally broke down and went to the Shoppette.

The Shoppette, for those of you unfamiliar with military life, is basically a convenience store.  They have lots of convenient products, it’s never very clean and the cashier only has like $20 in the register.

An IV for my tongue (Salt fucks a tongue up!) was what I wanted. I considered buying a bag of ice and just sucking the cubes, one after the other.

I don’t understand how something so manly, with the name BACON right in the title, leaves me feeling so very, very dirty!

After asking my co-workers what they wanted, because I’m an awesome guy, I struck out on my five-minute endeavor. Because I’m quite the clever guy, and because I am basically a lazy bastard, I decide to also buy some beer for later when I get home.  I bought two Gatorades, a bag of chips for the boss and two, four-packs of Bitburger because nothing says you have shitty taste in beer like Bitburger purchased in Germany.

Proudly, I step up to the counter and engage in small talk.

I am fine today sir, just fine and you? Ah that’s splendid.  Busy?  No?  Well sometimes that’s good, my friend. Yes, yes I would like to hear about your special …. Wait, what’s all this fucking liquid.

Thankfully the store was empty, because as the cashier bagged the beers up it became obvious that one of the beers had a hole in it. It was obvious because there was fucking beer everywhere in little tiny puddles.  All over the counter, all over the bags, and a glistening trail on the linoleum leading up to the register.

I can only assume the cashier also has a long history with beer. Perhaps he has a blog called Ilikebeer.com, we may never know.  We both immediately sprung into action trying to locate the culprit. (To discover which beer can has the pinprick hole in it, one must firmly squeeze each can.)

Can you see where this is going?  Yeah, me too.  NOW I can.

I, of course, located the wayward can and when I gave it a firm squeeze, a pressurized stream of beer shot out all over my arm. Actually, it was worse than that, it shot back into the aisle and covered not only my arm, but my shirt and hands in the process.

I replaced the four-pack, paid for my order, then desperately looked for something to clean up with. The search proved futile. I’d have to stay beer-soaked until I got to the car where I had a bottle of, I’d soon learn, empty hand sanitizer.

A good 45 seconds of cursing later, I said fuck it and drove back to the office covered in drying beer.  Which, I think most of you know, smells like ass.

Throwing my boss his bag of chips, I looked for and located what appeared to be a bottle of hand sanitizer. I plucked it off my (absent at the time) coworker’s desk and applied a liberal dollop to my hand and to my arm and commenced with the sanitizing.

But in addition to the alcohol-smelling, germ-killing goodness, I was treated to stripper glitter, coconut and caramel whip, whatever the fuck that is.

So male friends this is the lesson. You can grab anything off a male coworker’s desk and use it for any manly purpose you so desire, but reach into your female coworker’s desk and come away smelling of strippers, bad decisions, and coconut.

Finally, damn it, is humanity just breaking down? There was a time that hand sanitizer just contained alcohol, some gel shit and it smelled like dead germs.    Who is the asshole who started adding glitter and coconut to this stuff?   Used to be that prisoners would take this hand sanitizer and light it on fire during riots, what are they doing with it now?  Exfoliating …

Ah Sunday, relaxing Sund … A lesson in reading your spouses insane side.

Are you the early riser in your house?  If so you and I have something in common.

Go us!

You and I look forward to the few peaceful moments that come with getting out of bed early and enjoy the  precious few quiet moments we have in alone in the house.   If you watch TV in the morning you’re careful to monitor the volume.  You might even be selective about which lights you turn on in order to not disturb the other sleeping people in the house.

You’re, like I, am trying to milk every precious second out of the serene, tranquil morning that you can.*

I like to turn the coffee pot on, tip-toe into the living room and, because I live in Europe and get the American Forces Network on my TV, watch yesterday’s evening news – this morning, while surfing on the iPad.

Weekdays I get a half an hour tops.

But on weekends I typically get a lot more.   So much so that I might even, don’t tell the wife, take a quick 15 to 30 minute nap.   Because life in the 40’s is just that fucking exciting!  Don’t tell the kids …

Then two hours later she wakes up and berates me, while wiping the sleep from her eyes, for not having done ‘anything’ for the past few hours.

Read that last bit again, I’ll wait.

I, fool that I am, thought this Sunday would be like all the others.   True my suspicions should have been ‘hyper-level 10 million level’ when she not only woke up at the same time I did but literally ‘feet hit the floor’ before mine.

Still though no cause to worry, right?

I drifted down stairs to find her brewing tea and the coffee pot already on.

Full-disclosure, though I am awake earlier it does not mean I am in any way capable of making a decision more important than, “should I scratch my crotch or not” for at least 4 cups of coffee and/or 30 minutes.

But not Dagmar, oh no, not her.

She can go from dead asleep to let’s go run a marathon.  Literally, let’s go run, put your stuff on, screw it lets just run in our pajamas, come on let’s go, let’s go!

Her, and you people that are like her, scare me deep, deep inside.   I cannot understand you and I’d be sympathetic if I wasn’t so full of rage toward you.    Slow the fuck down Sparky, we got the whole day ahead of us.

Normally after this many years my morning ritual, when she sees it, is

Well who needs coffee now?

My mornings are … wait huh. Okay I had a point when I start … boobies. Photo shamelessly ripped from Newscorpse.com

respected.   I’m afforded an opportunity to drink coffee, blow my nose, scratch my crotch and make sneering gestures at Fox news anchor Sheppard Smith (an unfortunate consequence of AFN is that during the 6 to 7 a.m. time period it’s him or Piers Morgan – even in my foggy state I pick Sheppard over Piers because Piers just sucks. Plus side note, I predict it’s only a matter of time before Sheppard is caught having dude-on-dude sex somewhere embarrassing, like Florida.  Side note to the side note if you Google “fox news anchor” and select images (if you’re a guy) you’ll thank me … hello ladies!).

And that’s how I overcame my addiction to methamphetamines using nothing but a case of motor oil and a stick of butter.

See what I did there?  I used a joke about getting off track to refer back to the getting off track so we could get back on track.   I’m a geniou … maybe I should just get back on track?

So there I am on the couch yesterday morning, hot and first cup of coffee in hand and there Dagmar is with her cup of tea (when did you become British for the love of God?).  Typical morning really only she’s up of her own volition and the sun isn’t – which tells me something is afoot.

Then it happens, then the statement is made and it is matched by action.   Slamming the footrest back into the sofa without regard to ‘quiet time’ rules at all she jumped to her feet.  Her eyes were wild and her muscles seemed, at least would have seemed, were I awake, to swell.

She became Hulk-Dagmar and there would be action this Sunday morning, quiet time and coffee be damned!

It got much worse as the day went on but I couldn’t take any photos because I was holding televisions up, or something

There. Would.  Be. Action.

I think she was also wearing a green t-shirt which likely led to the hulk analogy, also I was almost asleep.

There are certain ‘thoughts’ expressed in this house that are vocalized but never really acted upon.   For instance in all our years of marriage we have never ate ‘rice and beans’ the entire month even though I’ve been told she’ll do it, she totally can do it, and if I don’t watch out, we will do it.

Hint:  She won’t but it’s fun to hear.

That’s an example of a threat that, made during a ‘discussion about money’, will never happen.  I think it’s called a Paper-Dagmar Argument or something.   I should have paid a lot more attention in class.

Then there are the others.  They’re not threats, they’re warnings.   Things we’re going to do this weekend.  “We’re going to go hike up to the castle”, “we’re going to go to Ikea”, “we’re going to clean the house to within an inch of its life” and “we’re going to go to the blah, blah, blah.”

Any husband reading this understands that probability factors in to each of these ‘statements.’   Yeah maybe we’re going to the event this weekend but you dear wife might, you might blank-percent might, change your mind.   Most of us agree (at the time) that the plan is a good one and start influencing however we can the odds back into our favor.

Our ‘favor’ is code for those of you that are interested for, ‘staying at home, drinking beer and maybe having a fire.’

It’s in the married guy’s bible, chapter II paragraph 4.5.  Look it up.

The one that scares the shit out of me though is the cleaning one.  I can’t predict it, I’m helpless when the cleaning beast rips out of her chest ala Aliens and I know it’s going to hurt me.    The cleaning one is brought up a lot but it’s usually just a light, once over the house, nothing heavy.  But once in a while I find myself moving furniture out of a room and fear for the cat’s life.

So yeah it was the cleaning one.

This is the woman that makes me lift the TV up so she can dust UNDER it.  This request is made and granted during ‘normal weekend’ cleaning.

Can you guess what deep-cleaning consists of?

She once vacuumed a large area rug then turned it upside down and vacuumed the bottom of the rug because German-Puerto Rican people are inside.

This woman once cleaned out and reorganized my toolbox because she wanted me to start a blog or because she’s just that nuts.  You pick.

Truth be known, between moving furniture and polishing the undersides of things I was allowed to listen to podcasts and at about 1 p.m. or so was authorized beer.  The warden has a heart.

To anyone, and yeah I’m looking at you, that says, “You’re the man of the house you do what you want” well I guess your situation is different than mine.   Maybe your dynamic isn’t the same as mine.   To me when she really, really fuck really, wants to do it I’m not going to stop her and I’m going to be a dick if I don’t participate.

Besides I’m too busy holding up the TV so it can be dusted under to really argue and have you MET Dagmar?

*  I have no idea how this works with kids.  I just assume they wake up, poop on themselves, set the pets on fire, eat sugar and yell.    I’m not far off am I?  I forgot only barfing right?  Oh and the cartoons.  Never forget the cartoons.

Master Cleanse dieter not dead but wished he was… Also now eating ‘food’

Fad diet boy is back!   You can read all about his previous experience with Master Cleanse here.

Master Cleanse Post Mortem

Well, that escalated rather quickly. Nearly two days into my ten-day Master Cleanse diet, it was over just as quick as it had begun. It was a strange experience to say the least, but then what should one expect when they embark on a ten day cleansing/starvation/

On day two of the cleanse, I weighed in at 187.2 lb. That means in just 24 I had dropped 5 lb. ‘Not too shabby,’ I thought at first. Half way to my goal in just a tenth of the time allotted. My girlfriend was less enthusiastic. “That’s dangerous,” she says, “It’s not healthy. You should probably stop!”

Sweet, sugary Brach's lemon drops. Made with r...

Lemons, God’s way of saying you’re a fat ass! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So, on I went into day two! The hunger pangs got bad every couple of hours. The diet recommends drinking (i.e. choking back) the lemonade 6 to 10 times a day. If you haven’t tried it, I can tell you, that’s no easy feat. The preparation for this stuff is annoying enough. The lemon juice has to be fresh squeezed and you have to finish it within 5 to 10 minutes of squeezing. God forbid anyone drink 11 minute old lemonade … now that would be unhealthy! That means having a ton of organic lemons available, and diligently preparing the cocktail every couple of hours. Then, it’s still just spicy lemonade, so there’s not a lot of satisfaction once it’s done.

What made day two even more unbearable was all the food surrounding me. My colleague, we’ll call her ‘Janne,’ sits about three feet from me in my office and had an early lunch. I could smell her sandwich before I could see it, but once I did, it was not a big help in my self-starving efforts. The thing was bigger than her head. It looked like someone folded a pizza over and sold it as a sandwich. ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ I thought! But that was just the start …

After skipping lunch, my task at work for the afternoon was to shoot a

This image shows a Large Cayenne.

Fad diet authors have all the luck, I’d love to trick people into drinking lemon juice with hot peppers. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

commercial on nutrition at the local school cafeteria. So this meant bringing in a wide assortment of food, (chicken wings, sandwiches, veggies, fruit salad) in for the shoot. Food that I had to smell, see, shoot etc. for hours!  This is the point when I realized, ‘Yeah dude, God totally hates me … ‘

I didn’t last much longer after that. At the end of the day my girlfriend was hounding me to go get food and go grocery shopping, so finally I caved.

I read somewhere on the internet that anyone can lose weight on a 1200 calorie a day diet (believe it or not, lemon juice, maple syrup and cayenne pepper six times a day adds up to 1200) whether on liquids or solids. So I resolved to aim for lower calories but still eat food. We picked up veggies, shrimp and brown rice. We cooked that with no butter, salt or additives and it was one of the most rewarding meals ever.

Two lessons I take away from my two-day-crash-fad-diet-bender:

A.)   Fasting is tougher than I thought it would be, but not impossible. I resolve to try it again every once in a while. We have so much around us that we have to learn moderation when it comes to satisfying urges and craving, but that’s not how we evolved. I think a little hunger is good now and then. It helps you appreciate the simple things.

B.)    Like most Americans, I pretty much believe anything I read on the internet.

By the way, did you know Obama’s from Kenya? And he’s actually gay?!

How not to buy your wife chocolate

I hope this comes across in the self-help spirit I intend. I’m hoping some level-two husband, you know the kind diligently watching Oprah reruns with his wife in hope of someday achieving level 5 so he gets the “night out with the boys” pass and eventually the level 25 “yeah it’s just us going to Vegas honey — no chicks,” uber-achievement special ability.

Or am I mixing up video games and real life again? Let that be a warning to all you young husbands out there, eventually the reward becomes you’ll agree to paint the fucking kitchen plaid if she’ll just shut up and leave you alone for 5 minutes.

Next time, I cut you.

Her: Honey I think we should paint your man-cave pink and decorate it with kitten photos …

You: Do you mean right now?

Her: No, no. Next week.

You: Fine as long as it’s not right now.

You get the drift.

The lesson, if she assumes it’s for her, it’s for her. I care not if you have to re-climb Mount Everest to get another item, the item you have that she thinks is for her, Is For Her.

You can stop reading right now, right here. That’s it in a nutshell. It’s a shitty intor to this update but it’s the gist of it.

There’s of course a reason I bring this up and that was the worst way to intro this story in the history of any damned story ever but here we are.

There’s a small convenience store not too far from my office. Close yet far enough away to warrant a general office-wide shout, “I’m going to the shoppette, does anyone need anything.” We all do this, sometimes people do want something, and sometimes they don’t.

Today the boss’s sweet tooth got the better of him and he wanted a bar of German chocolate. I was going to the store because I wanted a cup of coffee and the wife indicated she’d like a cup too she works, almost literally, next door to the store.

Yeah, yeah Dick Fucking Tracey you figured out where I’m going with this. Give yourself a ‘had a few beers special-little detective badge’ and keep reading.

So going to the store, two coffees and one chocolate (no I don’t need a bag but thank you mister check out dude with the weird pentagram necklace) later I find the Frau.

Who snatches up the chocolate like it’s her birth rite and I should be honored that I brought it to her.

Queen Lord Emperor of Oliverdom: “I see you brought me chocolate worthless peon! I will forgive you this time, that it does not contain nuts or fruits or other wholesome goodness as you have also brought the juice of the coffee

This chocolate does not contain nutty goodness … take it away!

plant, hot as I prefer it, but do not make this mistake again or you will feel my wrath though hundreds of trips to Ikea. Now be gone!”

Okay it wasn’t that bad but I was like, ‘fuck, now I have to go back to the store.”

The boss pointed out, when I told him he owed me double the cost of the chocolate that next time he’d send me for flowers.

He’s a laugh a fucking minute I tell you …

I also noticed that when she came home, the chocolate was in her bag, unopened.

Finally yes, she insists I ‘bold’ the words ‘Queen Lord Emperor of Oliverdom’.

Cause if I don’t … Ikea.

Baggers, not a race of little people living in the potato aisle … sadly

It's really hard to find a free for use image that features boobs and beer in reference to shopping ... YOU try it.

It’s really hard to find a free for use image that features boobs and beer in reference to shopping … YOU try it.

A commissary, for those that are unfamiliar, is a grocery store that serves U.S. Military, family members, retirees and, when overseas, Department of Defense employees. It sells food and goods at a bit above cost in order to pay its employees, fund new commissaries and for general operating costs. Sometimes the item in question is cheaper at the commissary (no tax) than it is on the economy sometimes it’s not.

Generally all commissaries have one thing in common, they’re convenient as they’re close to where we work.

They’re just like your local supermarket though. They’re designed in such a way as to make you walk past all the ‘snack stuff’ to get to the healthy stuff, they play crappy music from the ‘90s and they have annoying announcements, “mayonnaise spill on aisle five, at least I HOPE that’s mayonnaise.” You also lose your cell phone signal in the back of the store which is a good thing for all my facebook friends. Otherwise, about once a week, I’d have an update from the ‘personal hygiene aisle’ with a photo of a pack of magnums and a ‘heheheh condoms’ as the comment.

As many of you are married you know that grocery shopping can occur in three different ways. From best to worst they are: She goes alone, I go alone, we both go and I end up losing my mind ½ an hour into it.

You see when she announces she’s going grocery shopping I do a little dance. I DO, cause I’m about to get an hour or two of free time to look at porn work on this blog and then, as if a friggin wizard just used magic, a crap ton of cool stuff will show up at the house magically later in the day. I didn’t KNOW I wanted chocolate covered fruit loops but damn these do look good! Wow a new shower squeegee, awesome! Yes more charcoal is always welcome, thank you kind wizard, thank you!

She can leave the house with ONE item on the list and return home magically with a car that’s FULL of stuff.

Taking a photo is better than having to return anything ....

Taking a photo is better than having to return anything ….

The second way, in which I do the shopping, is kind of fun (for VERY small quantities of fun). I sort of enjoy looking at the list and thinking what’s the fastest way to get all of these items into the basket so I can hurry up and get back to beer? If it’s a strange item hell I take a photo of it at home before I depart. The mysteries of the ‘woman’s burden’ remain a mystery (thank god) but I know exactly what aisle said woman’s hygiene product is located.

It’s about speed, it’s about getting into the store and getting out, “no time to talk casual coworker I must secure a package of ‘organic crap muffins’ and escape this evil lair before the good beer queen forsakes me!”

No one’s going to get drunk and post grammatically incorrect and largely inappropriate rants on my facebook feed for me you know!

Pro tip for husbands that cannot locate that special package of Guatemalan cheese flavored hair balls the wife wants for her salad, ask ANY woman in the store.   All women, above the age of 18, have committed to memory the location of every item in every grocery store ever.   Weird but true.  “You need what young man?  Cherry flavored puss cream, oh that’s on aisle seven, towards the end, bottom shelf.”

The commissary and any grocery store could do a lot to make the third option better (namely, instituting a no men allowed policy but baring that at least they could serve beer) but as you already know the worst option is when we both go grocery shopping.  See, as it turns out, there is no wizard that magically fills the wife’s car with goodies, she does it herself. She does it not by making her run through the commissary a timed olympic style event where seconds count but by, and get this, going down every aisle. Yeah everyone, even that aisle filled with yucky crap, she totally goes down it.

Somehow, and maybe magic is involved after all, by staring at a bottle of creamed yams baby food she remembers that we’re out of ice cream … the mysteries of the female mind aye?

It’s during these trips that I become the cheap labor. I push the cart of course, load the heavy crap into the cart and become the runner.

Her: Honey, we’re about to reach the last aisle I know but I forgot something near the entrance, can you run back and get it?

Me: Umm sure, what is it?

Her: 5 cases of bottled water, the big bottles, not the little ones.

Me: Crap, umm yeah I can do that, can I use the cart?

Her: No, sorry I need it to hold the shopping list. Also can you take this 5 gallon can of cat litter with you while you get the water?

Me: Why can’t it just stay in the cart? That thing’s super heavy.

Her: You really don’t understand shopping at all do you?

So yeah I’m convinced grocery stores need a bar. Maybe they could offer a service like they do on the golf course where some cute girl drives up in a beer-cart and sells you and your buddies a cold one. That would really hit the spot as we round the dog food aisle and contemplate which brand of paper towels we need.

“Yes, yes ma’am! Here please, two coronas! You’re out of lime? That’s okay I picked them up back in the produce section … five for a dollar you know! Honey (as we clink our beers near the bacon selection) I love grocery shopping god damn it! This is awesome, we need to do this shit more often!”

Another, key difference between grocery stores and commissaries are the baggers. Baggers, which oddly aren’t a family of hobbits living somewhere near the potatos, are a collection of people that bag groceries at the commissary and then carry your purchases out to the car for you, all for a tip. No wages involved, strictly tips only. It say’s so right at the end of the cashier’s conveyor belt. There’s a sign there that reads, typically in big bold, underlined, authoritative Times New Roman, size 33, font, BAGGERS WORK FOR TIPS ONLY!

Which I’m pretty sure is code for you, ‘listen you cheap fuck, I’m schlepping your ho-hos and twinkies to your car so your fat ass doesn’t have to, I’d appreciate a few bucks’. I’m sure most people do tip, I do.

Tough, tattooed 19 year old with dreadlocks and a Frisbee through his ear lobe, tip two bucks.

Middle-aged slightly downtrodden looking woman in sensible shoes? Tip three bucks.

Obvious military retired person just doing it for the work?  Tip four bucks.

But everyone once in a while there’s that 20 year old home from college and … HOLY CRAP THAT CHICK IS HOT bagger. The one where if the wife and I are together I make her deal with the tip, cause I guarantee you I’m getting in trouble if I do.

But god help me if I’m alone.

best part of this is I was in and out of the store in like 6 minutes! Sadly we now have to take out a new loan cause the bagger was kinda hot.

Best part of this is I was in and out of the store in like 6 minutes! Sadly we now have to take out a new loan cause the bagger was kinda hot.

Her: Okay sir, and where are you parked?

Me: Girl pretty, make pretty talk with pretty. I like pretty. Boobies!

Her: Umm thanks? Where’s your car?

Me: Car make pretty go home groceries home pretty boobs … wow I kinda lost my shit there didn’t I.

Her: Yeah happens all the time, this your car?

Me: Yeah it is, look here’s seven bucks, let’s never speak of this again.

Her: You bought like four things!

Me: Fine here’s ten bucks.

I hate shopping.