Tag Archives: Had a few beers

Draw on my face, no trust me, draw on my face

Remember the contest to draw on my forehead? Yeah me either, or at least I’ve been trying to forget it.

Well, this is one of those good news/bad news situations.

The good news is that people read and participate in this blog. Hooray for us!

The bad news is that most of us can’t follow simple instructions, don’t own any sort of photo-altering software more complicated than MS paint and we collectively are obsessed with …

wait for it …

not dicks.

I fully expected a lot of dicks being drawn on my face. Maybe that’s all 2010 and magic-marker-on-a-passed-out-person’s-face nostalgia, but that’s what I expected.

It is not what I got.

I got a lot of “bitch” comments. As in, simple drawings on my forehead saying I’m a “bitch, “UR a bitch” and something I couldn’t read that ended in “itch.”

And scratchy maybe?

And scratchy maybe?

I like to pretend it said, “Well ain’t this a bitch,” which would have won because that’s a favorite phrase at the moment, but it didn’t.

Beyond the actual photos sent back, there were also comments left on the blog or others that were emailed to me.  One comment offered the following, “Todd, this is a great photo. You actually look young. This looks exactly like you. I don’t know why it makes me laugh so!”

But my forehead wasn’t big enough to handle all that text. I asked the guy at “Oh God my Wife is German” how much it would cost to expand my forehead in Photoshop and he guessed the time it would take could quickly reach four figures.

So, I was left to pick the winners from my email and Facebook instant messages.

There were – I think – four or five entries, Whittling it down to one wasn’t that hard thankfully. Posting a photo with the words “U SUK!” on my forehead, while mildly funny, isn’t very funny.

This entry by Nova did tickle my funny bone, however.

Trust-Me

So, its as simple as that, Nova wins.

And the winner has elected to receive a beer stein because look at this photo …

Hadafewbeers

Obamacare Schamacare, we took a five-day trip into a real socialized medicine hospital

Sunday morning Dagmar and I got out of bed at 7 a.m. She prepared some coffee for me and a cup of tea for herself. She told me she felt just a tiny bit dizzy and went back upstairs. Less than five minutes later I heard a thud that sounded an awful lot like the start of a bad day.

“Dagmar,” I yelled already getting up from the couch.

The thud was one of those sounds that even if it wasn’t what I thought it was, it http://www.dreamstime.com/-image2428045was still something that would require my help.

“Dagmar,” I yelled again as I ran up the stairs.

I’m not a doctor and I don’t know what a seizure is, but when I reached her she was in the throes of what looked like a seizure, acted like a seizure and right outside the window an actual duck had a fucking seizure.

So I’m pretty sure Dagmar was having a seizure.

I’m a U.S. Army veteran of 20 years. I’ve served my country. I’ve served in Iraq. I’ve served in Afghanistan. I’ve run across traumatic situations, I know how to handle myself in stressful situations.

When I saw my beloved wife face down on the floor I immediately sprang into action and peed on myself.

She was doing some weird sort of, forgive-me-honey  fish flop in what was obviously a shit-ton of blood.

When she fainted she landed in a spot her face was literally inches from a jagged edge along the wall. If she had hit that on her way down I knew it would be bad, teeth-missing bad in fact.

I ran to her and turned her onto her back. I made sure she was breathing, looked for gushing blood, peed myself some more, ignored the weird stare her unseeing eyes were giving me,  peed on myself again, called her name again and then ran to my neighbors for help.

They, understanding none of my incoherent babble, but surmising it must be bad, jumped into action. My neighbor’s wife followed me upstairs while he ran to phone a German ambulance.

My neighbors get the heroes-of-the-week award.

That’s it though. Dagmar’s fine. Really she is. Her face looks like <insert domestic violence joke here>,  and other than a small bruise on her shoulder (the shoulder which I think saved her face from that jagged edge) she is fine. Apart from not knowing what made her lapse into an all-too elaborate impression of Julius Caesar, she’s fine.

After five days in the German hospital she was released and she’s fine. , she left the hospital, but she’s fine.

Healthcare .govGerman hospi … holy shit my wife was just in a socialist healthcare death-bed facility while everyone is debating Obamacare.  Holy crap, thanks for doing a head plant and helping me think of a timely blog entry Dagmar!

Seriously though, think about it.

All of this occurred on Sunday and she left the hospital Thursday around noon.

Would that ever happen in an American health care facility? I’m not suggesting that because she was admitted, that suggests their health care system is at all better. Really, if it had been you, would you rather go to the emergency room, get checked out by a physician, get told you’re basically OK and that you have a follow up is with a specialist later in the week, or would you rather be checked in for four days?

Think about it, stay at home with all your creature comforts and follow up with subsequent appointments,  or be admitted to the hospital?

There was a lady who shared a room with Dagmar and was discharged the day before her.  She had been admitted to the hospital for five days — for hand surgery. As I’ve said,  I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure that kind of surgery is what’s called outpatient surgery in the U.S.  Afterward a loved one takes you home; you pop pain meds, elevate it and keep it under ice.

But not here. Four days of inpatient treatment is the prescription. Maybe it was some sort of life-or-death hand surgery that required round the clock care?

But that’s the point.

As much as anyone with a sane mind would hate the German medical system’s propensity to admit their patients for seemingly minor issues, the German medical system is seemingly focused on nothing more than making sure the patient is well. If that means admitting a patient for what we in the U.S. would consider treat-and-release, they don’t fucking care.  They’ve got you and they’re going to treat you to the best of their ability.

Which fucking sounds expensive, doesn’t it?

Look, we all know Germans pay a shit ton in taxes, so it should get them top-rate medical care.

There are some interesting differences though.

When Dagmar needed an MRI during her stay, a team of medical professionals with a gurney came to transport … wait, that’s not right. Oh yeah, a nurse came into Dagmar’s room and informed her that she needed to go to radiology for an MRI. They were expecting her there in 10 minutes? Why hadn’t they told her earlier? Well, she’s an inpatient and they were pretty sure her schedule was free.

Also, she was expected to walk there —  no gurney, no wheelchair and not even a staff member to escort her.  She was just turned loose into the bowels of the facility on her own.

Granted, my hospital knowledge is limited, but the thought of an inpatient walking unescorted to an appointment blew me away. Dagmar was fine, fully capable of making the walk unescorted, eager even, but that really made us laugh. I guess lawsuits aren’t that big a thing over here.

Think about it: In the U.S. telling a patient to walk alone to their next appointment opens up more lawsuit possibilities than I could ever hope to imagine. Had the patient fallen, had another episode, or even fell on a wet floor, the hospital would be liable.

Not in Germany.

If you fall on a wet floor here, well, they cover the treatment of that with their health care too.

It’s not bad really. I’d be talking out my ass if I claimed that the German medical system isn’t profit driven. I really don’t know if it is or isn’t. I can say it seems unconcerned with cost however.

There was never once, much to my financial ruin, a discussion about what our American health insurance would or would not cover. It was just full-service medical care. The system said, “You, Mrs. Oliver, have a problem and we are going to fix it.”

Unlike other stories I’ve heard from veterans being treated for medical issues on the economy, I saw or was unaware of any preferential treatment. A lot of Americans have told me that with American insurance they get preferential treatment at the Germany hospital.

“I was seen immediately, before any of the Germans,” they’d exclaim as if their American insurance gave them privileged status because of — something.

I doubt the ambulance came to the door any faster, I sincerely doubt any of the staff were at all kinder (they are all angels anyway – you damn medical people, salt of the earth) and I’m sure we were never pushed ahead of anyone for anything.

We, well hell let’s be honest, she was just product in the machine. A machine designed to make you well again, and it’s pretty fucking awesome.

There are a million other oddities I could tell you about being an inpatient in a German hospital, like the fact that they don’t provide you with towels for the shower for instance, but that’s cultural not healthcare related.

I don’t know what Obamacare is. America does a fairly good job of taking care of its military veterans and for that I’m thankful. So while I don’t know what Obamacare is, I know that really if it’s a step towards this kind of health care, it’s a step in the right direction.

As much as Dagmar might have hated spending four nights in a German Hospital, we both know the  hospital staff was working with not a thought about cost toward finding out what was wrong with her and every other patient in the facility.

And that my friends, is healthcare.

HAFBs store now open for business. Discount Russian orphans, beer mugs and panties now for sale.

I’d like to first tell you that every dime we raise here at Had a Few Beers with our new Café Press store goes to a charity organization …

OK, I can’t even finish that sentence without laughing.  All profits go to beer, porn, gambling and to drinking beer while watching porn and gambling.

That’s actually not even true.

What is true is we’re now selling stuff.

By stuff I mean beer mugs, shot glasses, golf balls, undergarments, human organs, Russian orphans, beer coaster and that kind of stuff.

All of these things are proudly sporting the, “Had A Few Beers” logo and URL. Even the kids! I took the time and effort to have the logo and the URL tattooed right on their cute little orphan faces.

They’re sure to be a hit at your next dinner party.  I can hear your guests now, “Oh, did you get him from that Had a Few Beers Café Press store?  How cute!”

No children were tattooed during this blog.

No children were tattooed …

All jokes aside, a few months back with the help of the author of the blog Oh God My Wife is German, we unveiled our new logo and banner.  He, Fran and I were talking and decided to set up a Café Press store because the logo was that cool.

I insisted we include panties in that store because nothing makes me laugh like a guy picking up a chick at a club only to find my logo just above her sweet spot once he gets her home.  Even if the chances of that happening are .0000000000001% over the course of my lifetime it’s still a chance and the humor bar for me is sort of low.

    Totally not made by Burmese street urchins.

Totally not made by Burmese street urchins.

I want to be clear, the decision to include panties in the Café Press store was mine and mine alone but at $10.79 a pair, I mean come on, who wouldn’t include that deal?

Anyway, no joke, I promise not to keep a cent of the money earned. Not a dime. I won’t spend any of it on this blog’s upkeep or cost. All profits, however small or large are going back to the people that run this place.

Writing jokes about porn, beer and boobs really is pretty easy, I don’t need money for that shit.

It’s its own reward.

If we end up making a million dollars with the Café Press store the above statements are all null and void.

So, I’ll try not to mention the store again, well much anyway. It’s right there to the right of these very words after all. Check it out. Buy it up.

You needed a new set of beer mugs and shot glasses anyway.

Aren’t the playing cards in your house worn out, covered in buffalo-wing grease and shame anyway?

If so I have you covered .

I’d write a ton more, but I have to go buy 20 pairs of Had a Few Beers panties because nothing says Merry Christmas like this blog’s logo on a loved one’s vagina.

Jackpot still doesn’t allow me to take this job and shove it

I used to think the following fact about me was weird: I gamble and when I win, — win big mind you —  I give the winnings to my wife.

I used to think that most dudes (even ladies) when winning large pots kept their mouths shut when it came to their spouses. Hell, maybe some do, but the more I hear gamblers talk, the more I realize that we tend to share our winnings with our loved ones.

Think about every lottery winner you’ve ever heard talk about what they plan to do with the money.

No one ever says, “Fuck everyone else, I’m keeping all this shit!”

No one does that. It’s all “I’m going to buy my mom and dad the house they’ve always wanted, my wife’s getting her dream vacation and I’m totally having sex with three strippers.”

At least that’s what I’d say.

I bring this up because of two things. First I had a good night conning a bit of luck out of lady luck and second because my wife is insane.

Ding, ding, ding ... yet I'm still moping floors ...

Ding, ding, ding … yet I’m still mopping floors …

I was $40 into my bet when I won $630. That’s what I call a “walk away moment.” I don’t care if my drink is still fresh. I don’t care if I just arrived at my game of chance,. I don’t care if the lady next to me is hot, naked and offering me a hand job if I’ll just play a bit more. A return like that is one I have to cash out immediately.

Makes sense right?

I gamble. I enjoy it. Like all gamblers I also have days that I don’t win. Those suck. My rule is pretty simple. Never lose more than $200 and any winnings of $200 or less don’t get reported to the boss.

Actually it’s simpler than that. I play until I’ve had one beer and then quit. Up or down, my rule is one beer and out.

So, there I am Monday $40 into the bet and a half a beer left and shit got real. I was suddenly $630 ahead. Clearly, it was time to quit.

Quit I did.

As I still had half a beer to finish, a fat wallet and time to kill I texted my wife, with a photo of the winnings. Prior to this, we had a deal that I would mop the kitchen floor when I got home that night and I asked, along with the photo of my winnings, if I still had to mop the floor.

She asked how much I had won.

I told her.

She said, “It’s not a grand so yes you do.”

Quickly I queried three female friends of ours about this dilemma. One replied, “You would not have to mop the floor tonight.” One said she, “I would mop the kitchen floor naked for that kind of cash,” and the third wisely ignored me for a while and mocked me several hours later.

In my head I was stuck. Dagmar, as I’ve mentioned before, likes to squirrel away in shoe boxes (despite a robust and healthy banking infrastructure) cash for vacations, rainy days and emergencies.  This bounty would be a hefty addition to her 1930-era investment plan.

Also, I didn’t want to mop the fucking floor.

I called her on the drive home.

Me: Hey, that was a nice win, huh?

Her: It was, awesome.

Me: I can give you 630 reasons why I shouldn’t have to mop the floor tonight.

Her: Whatever, look I’m busy.

Interestingly I could have hired someone to mop my floor naked. Next time.

Interestingly, I could have hired someone to buff my floor in the buff! Next time.

We hung up and I took that to mean that at least for the next 24 hours I was mop-duty free. I mean, $630 has to count for something.

Assuming you’re still with me on this tirade, however, you may have already guessed the outcome.

No, I didn’t mop the floor, but the second phrase out of my wife’s mouth after, where’s the money, was “Why didn’t you mop the floor?”

Furlough fun day! A blog post with 20 percent fewer jokes

Hi and welcome to the first installment of Furlough Fun Day!*

I guess I could have called it Furlough Monday but it doesn’t have the same ring to it. Come to think of it, federal employees who are furloughed on Fridays have all the good names.  Furlough Friday people get all the breaks.

Anyway, this is the first in a series of what I hope is only one blog written on my furlough day.

If you haven’t been following along with the news let me bring you up to speed.

FurloughDepartment of Defense employees are being forced to take a day off every week, which is awesome. We are also being forced to take this day off with no pay, which is not awesome. All told it equals a 20 percent pay cut.

As a result, this blog is going to be 20 percent less funny. (Math jokes are tough to write. That was the best I could do.)

I think technically during the furlough day, I’m not legally employed by the government. I can’t get another job during that day, but I’m not “technically” not a federal employee on furlough day either. That fact opens a lot of creative windows actually.

*Cough* Is it just me or does Gen. Dempsey look just a little bit like Gollum from

I'm just saying if you were viewing a line up could you tell who stole the elf bread?

I’m just saying if you were viewing a line up could you tell who stole the elf bread?

Lord of the Rings?

There. I’ve committed an act of civil disobedience and I feel awful.  Gen. Dempsey is a great man and a great leader.  I suck at civil disobedience.

Anyway, it would have been great if Dagmar and I had the same furlough day off but we don’t. She has Fridays off and I have, as you know, Mondays off. At first, the lizard part of my brain thought, HA! This is awesome, PORN PARTY on my day off. But after some rethinking, it kind of sucks because three day weekends together would rock harder than even the best porn party. Actually porn party sounds really, really pathetic.

But, as I said, we don’t have the same day off. This fact highlights a basic difference between us. She spent her day off in productive productivity and I spent my first day off curled up on in a ball of “damaged-dignity-hangover-smell” on the couch. That’s why I didn’t write this last Monday.  Between dry heaving into the toilet, crying and fiendish masterba … well I was really hung-over.

I did wash the windows though. She told me that was my chore and by-god I did it. By contrast she did five loads of laundry, the dishes, dusted the upstairs, mopped upstairs, ironed four of my shirts, extensively cleaned the cat litter box (extra hard because I had neglected it), changed the bed linen, called her daughter and purged the bar of old and no longer drinkable spirits.

So I’m feeling pretty good about my accomplishment.

Anyway I think the only thing from this point forward is to have a contest between Dagmar and I. Call it: Who used their unpaid day off the wisest. I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a quick score sheet for everyone reading so they can keep track of who is winning.

Category Todd Dagmar
Hours of Porn Viewed 2 0
Windows washed All of them 0
Windows rewashed because of the shitty job done the first time 0 All of them
Episodes of Family Guy viewed 7 0
Episodes of Family Guy not viewed because of napping 3 0
Naps 3 0
Legs shaved 0 2
Episodes of the Today show about summer flip flop fashion   viewed 0 1
Number of dry heaves in the toilet 8 0
Crying silently 4 0
Video Games played 3 0
Number of balls scratched 2 0
Poops 3 1
Floors mopped 0 5
Beds made 1 1
Beds changed 0 1
Shirts ironed 0 4
Cat poop cleaned 0 All of them
Retarded decisions 7 0
Total 4,659 14

So clearly, as you can see (math doesn’t lie friends) I’m winning the furlough fun day competition.

*I’m really, really not smart enough to comment on the politics of furloughs. I’m not. I know my wife and I can weather it and be OK. I know a lot of my friends can, and will. But I also know that a lot of my friends and co-workers out there are seriously affected by this and I hope they don’t take offense to what I just wrote. Furlough and sequestration is, at the end of the day, not very funny at all. To a lot of folks, a 20 percent pay cut is no laughing matter. At the end of the day, it isn’t to us either. If I’ve offended anyone, I’m sorry.

Two things that piss me off: “I’m blessed” and bumper stickers.

This happened to me today with a total stranger.

Me: Hi, how are you?

Stranger: I’m blessed, thank you.

Ever have that shit happen to you? You’re on the way to work, you stop for a quick cup of coffee and you say mindlessly to some stranger, “How are you,” and they fuck up your day with this moronic bullshit?

That’s not even a real answer to the question. Your day is either good, bad or in between — those are the fucking answers you’re allowed to give.

“How is your day” isn’t a question that invites a response of, “I love baby Jesus.” You’re phishing and hoping the person you say it to will magically find Jesus afterward.

Here’s a fact, you’re a total twat for saying that.

Seriously, if you’re currently answering the aforementioned question with, “I’m blessed,” is the verbal equivalent of spam. Its unsolicited bullshit put into my head in an effort to trick me into doing something you want.

You’re doing this because you’re a twat.

I’m going to start wasting the time and energy of every one of you twats by asking a shit ton of questions after you give that response.

Me: Hi, how are you?

Stranger: I’m blessed!

You forgot, "and a twat."

You forgot, “and a twat.”

Me: You’re what?

Stranger: Blessed.

Me: What’s that mean?

Stranger: You know, by the Lord.

Me: The who? What are you talking about?

Stranger: Our lord and savior, Jesus Christ.

Me: Look you don’t have to swear at me. What lord and savior? I thought we had a president?

Stranger: Jesus Christ!

Me: Stop swearing at me! Who is our lord and savior?

And so forth.

Right back at you bible thumpers. You want to say stupid shit to a question that every sane person answers with, “I’m good, how are you,” then I’m going to find out exactly what you mean. We can Who’s-On-First that shit until the apocalypse, fuckheads.

Jesus Christ, you people piss me off.

You know what else pisses me off? Bumper stickers, that’s what.  Not all of them. That would be stupid. The stick family on your back window, that’s cool. The stick family on your back window being chased by a chain-saw wielding maniac? Great, I love it. Do you break for yard sales? Awesome!

What I’m talking about are political bumper stickers in general and election bumper stickers, before and after an election, specifically.

So Jesus and George Washington, after killing all the French people, got together and wrote the constitution, and that's why we have Christmas boys and girls.  America!

So Jesus and George Washington, after killing all the French people, got together and wrote the constitution, and that’s why we have Christmas boys and girls. America!

If your bumper sticker says that you support giving aborted fetuses handguns because Jesus said it was OK when he wrote the constitution while high on legal marijuana, you’re an idiot. But you’re a forgivable idiot and at least there’s a remote chance you convinced someone to read up on the merits or pitfalls of arming aborted babies. I mean it’s their constitutional right — the bible says so.

This is one of those areas where I don’t care which side of the political spectrum you favor. Putting a political statement on the bumper of your car just makes you look like a drooling idiot. It’s the same, almost, as the “I’m blessed” crowd.

Look fuckheads: The messages on your bumper should be reserved for snark and/or telling us what great fucking crotch fruit you’ve produced. (Even then I think it’s slightly retarded but not nearly as retarded and someone affixing one as it relates to an election.)

I’m political, very political in fact. I’ve donated money to candidates before. I’ve even received bumper stickers for that money. Did I put them on my bumper to show the world my “support?” Fuck no, because no “undecided” voter in the history of democracy has ever, ever saw one and said, “Well that’s it, I’m voting for that guy because it’s on that dude’s bumper.”

And if I’m wrong with the above assumption and some moron did vote for the candidate of my choice because of my bumper sticker, well, that person is a fucking moron and shouldn’t be allowed to vote in the first place.  I’d love to read the exit poll quote with that mouth breather.

Pollster: And why did you vote for that candidate?

Moron: Ummm, because the bumper sticker told me too?

So — at best — putting one on your car is fucking pointless, and at worst it encourages the uninformed to vote.  You’re simply not fucking helping.

Finally let’s move on to the retards who leave the stickers on after the election is over, because Googling how to remove a bumper sticker is too hard.

I can kind of see how, if you picked the winner, you’d be tempted to leave it on to gloat, but really after like six months aren’t you just advertising to the world that you once, way back when, made the same decision the majority of the people did? Really, you’re proud of that? Way to follow the herd.

And those that support the losers? Don’t get me started.

There’s a car at my work with a bumper sticker that says “Romney 2012, Makers vs. Takers.” This is hysterical to me because, I promise you, the driver of the car is a federal employee.

But I digress.

Here’s a constant reminder of the day the members of my democratic country disagreed with me. Right here, on my car! For fuck sake stop and remove that reminder of your failure. I’d be equally pissed if Obama lost the 2012 election and I saw a bumper sticker supporting him today.  You need to get rid of that shit, it’s a mobile billboard shouting, “I backed the wrong horse!”

Anyway, bless you all! Maybe I need a “Romney blesses you all, 2012,” sticker.

Ten tips for American’s newest Sailor (hint: boobs are mentioned)

Dear John,

So you’ve graduated from Navy basic training. Good job. I mean that. You know better than all of us it was hard. In the eyes of a lot of people, myself included, you’re officially a man. A young man sure, but a man nonetheless. You should be proud.

My own father did a pretty fine job raising me too. Look at me, I have a blog and everything! Nothing says success like a blog* my friend.

Here are few lessons he shared with me. It’s good stuff, take notes.

10. Shave before you shower.

I’m assuming you’re using a razor and shaving cream these days. If so, shave

slap some chap on that

slap some chap on that

before you shower. That way, if you nick yourself, it has time to stop bleeding during the shower. This works 99 percent of the time. During that 1 percent of the time it doesn’t work, keep some Chapstick in your shaving kit and run it over the cut. Apply pressure if needed. If you don’t have Chapstick in your shaving kit deodorant also works as a backup.

9. Always, always, always look good.

I can’t stress this one enough. The military, I think it’s obvious, is about to go through some pretty radical transformation as we move from wartime footing back to a peacetime footing – people are getting fired in the near future. So, obviously, do your job well. But there’s more to it than that. A lot of your peers are going to push the boundaries when it comes to military regulations about appearance. Don’t do this. Uphold the standard, be better than the standard and never, in the military at least, test it when it comes to appearance.

8. It’s okay to fail.

No matter what job you get in the military, I can tell you with absolute certainty they will tolerate your retarded 19-year-old failures. And there will be a few. Get used to it, you’re going to fuck up. Don’t get me wrong, if you fuck up too much there is hell to pay. Trying and failing is natural, expected even. The trick is though, to rack up wins. Ninety-nine percent of the time wins are easy. Be first to show up for the shift and be last to leave. Do the thing that no one wants to do. If there is nothing to do for the organization, find something productive to do for the organization. Be an asset. Do those things and falling on your ass once in a while is viewed more as a learning experience on your part by your bosses rather than another fuck up by a fucked up person. I can’t stress this enough — if you’re always trying to do a good job, occasionally falling short of that goal isn’t viewed as a bad thing.

7. Have sex with tons of chicks

Yeah, John, we both made the wrong choice.  Damn Air Force.  Get used to saying that.

Yeah, John, we both made the wrong choice. Damn Air Force. Get used to saying that.

Got your attention there didn’t I? I mean it. Be safe about it, put a condom on your penis and respect the woman you’re with, but have fucking fun. It’s what you’re going to do anyway so any advice I’m offering here is really just after the fact. The point is, explore and have fun. When you meet her — you’ll know. Until that time, call me with your awesome stories of your hot sexcapades (call often please!)

6. Be first. Second place is literally the first loser.

This plays off rule three. None of your successes in basic training matters — not a one. Sorry to be a bummer. You’re about to go to your first duty station and I’m here to tell you that being the best now is what matters. You won’t always be the best and that’s OK (see rule three) but be the best as often as you can. If there is a competition, fight for first place. You might have heard the saying about the military, “Don’t be first and don’t be last, be in the middle.” It’s a bullshit bit of advice from here on out. Be first, always.

5. Always, always be a gentleman.

... lots of ribbons

… lots of ribbons

Hold the door for the person behind you, regardless of sex, age or anything. Hold the door. But this rule goes beyond that. Offer to help with the hard stuff, always. If a person is carrying a shit ton of stuff, you’ll see this in the military more than once, offer to help carry the load. Once in 1996 I was literally carrying two duffle bags and a rucksack from one barracks to another when an officer stopped his car and insisted I toss my bags in the trunk of his car so he could drive me the last few block to my new barracks. He was right to do it, we always, always help each other. That always extends to the world at large. You wear a uniform now, it’s your duty to help. If you see someone struggling, help. It’s that easy.

4. Invest.

Do the TSP investment. Do it to the maximum amount they will let you. It’s a generous investment plan that will 2 or 20 years later have a bit of cash in your account. Take advantage of every investment opportunity they offer, grab those with both hands. If the investment plan has a .mil on the end of it invest in it. Also put a portion of your check in a savings account, every month.

3. Go to fucking school.

Take advantage of the educational opportunities the Navy presents you. Don’t be like me. I only milked them out of an associate’s degree in general studies which is like if someone said, “You can have whatever you want in this ice cream store,” and I ordered a fucking vanilla scoop in a cup, and no I didn’t even get sprinkles. Don’t be like me, I’m an idiot. Milk it for every penny it will give. Go to school.

2. Be yourself

Be you, my friend, be you. You’ll have bosses you don’t like, assignments that suck and jobs you hate. That’s part of being in the military, hell its part of life. Through all of it though, be you. There will be clique’s that see it different, fuck them. They’re retarded. Be you. Always.

1. Call your mom.

Always call mom. She’s gives better advice than this piece of shit blog ever can. Mom loves you, she will always give you rock-solid advice. A fact I think you’ll soon discover. You’ll be out of the training environment soon and on your own. Make it point to call home once a week on a regular basis. Mom will be there if you need to talk to her more than that. Once a week, call home.

* Everything says success EXCEPT a blog.

Not all European beer is equal, some have the ability to punch sobriety right in the face!

I had a super awesome Saturday. It was so awesome I’m still basking in its glory.

What made it so good? My wife spent the entire day on the couch, nearly comatose and completely chagrined, nursing a hangover of epic proportions which meant I was free to do whatever the fuck I wanted.

Not once during this glorious day were the phrases, “Can you do this?” or “I need your help with …,” or “Is that porn?” followed by an accusatory, “Are you drinking another beer?” uttered.

It was arguably, the greatest Saturday I’ve ever known.

Chimay beer -- it will get you drunk!

Chimay beer — it will get you drunk!

Now — the Olivers are no strangers to alcohol  and normally the missus can hold her booze – though she may shake the occasional stranger’s penis while doing it. But Friday was not normal.

This came to light when I got an  invite to a c0worker’s home Friday night for an impromptu barbecue.

“Of course I’ll be there to regale you with my heroic tales of shit,” I said. “And I’ll bring my bride, who, as you are aware, is quite a lady and super duper impressive.”

A quick message to Dagmar, and the plans were confirmed.

When she got off at 6:30 p.m. she met me at my favorite watering hole to follow me to my co-worker’s house.  After her one glass of wine and my 47 beers (46 of which I had to sneak-drink in the bathroom), we left for the barbecue.

Keep track with me — she had one glass of wine.

At the barbecue, like cavemen, we quickly fell into all of our “roles.” The men gathered around the grill and talked about killing stuff and the women gathered in the kitchen to discuss sewing patterns — the way God intended. (I like to pretend that when they weren’t cooking they stripped to their bras and panties and had tickle fights or practiced “making out” with each other.)

As we men stood around the grill, farting, swilling beer and scratching our balls, I noted Dagmar was carrying a fresh glass of wine when she walked out to see what we were up to.

That’s two. Two drinks. At this point we were nowhere near an event that would call for a blog post. She’d accepted a drink after arriving at a party and seemed perfectly normal and charming as she usually does.

Then, an hour or so passes, meat is introduced to fire, and Dagmar, I notice, has switched to beer. Not a red alert in my mind at all, a bit odd maybe, but still OK.

When the meat was cooked, we all moved inside and had an awesome meal. Fucking awesome, as in “I ate asparagus” fucking awesome. It had bacon on it, so by law, it had to be eaten, and bygod it was delicious.

During this time I was focused on my coworkers and the food, not my wife.

Then, after dinner, because I’m a filthy smoker, I excused myself to a nearby exit and hammered another nail in the coffin. Dagmar joined me.

And she was fucking TANKED. Tanked as in the Exxon Valdez-captain tanked.

“We have to go home now,” she slurred, crossing and uncrossing her eyes uncontrollably during the brief conversation.

As she stumbled back inside I assured her we’d leave as soon as possible.

Realizing the seriousness of the situation, I snuffed out the cigarette and went in to collect our things and my drunken wife. But she was no where to be found.

I looked in the living room, in the kitchen, back outside and then, as I moved toward the dining room, the host’s teenage son said with a barely contained giggle, “She’s in the bathroom.”

I should have known this. In our many years of marriage Dagmar has never passed out anywhere but a bathroom floor. I could, and should, write a book about the bathroom floors Dagmar’s passed out on. Movie theater bathroom floor? Check. Bar bathroom floor? Hell, that’s called Tuesday for her. Bathroom floors in various foreign countries? Sure! The only explanation she can give for this behavior is that they’re always nice and cool.

I collected the sprawled-out Dagmar from the bathroom, and with her barely conscious and teetering by my side, I explained to my coworkers that we were going to have to leave the party early.

It was barely 9 p.m. I was baffled. She only had about three drinks in about three hours.

Upon literally pouring her into the passenger seat of my car, she immediately starts to lower the seat back. During this process she, or her seat rather, encountered a small cardboard box that fucked up her mojo.

Fuck your car!

Fuck your car!

Before my eyes she turned into Rick James as impersonated by Dave Chappell.

“Fuck this shit,” she growled, smacking the box and spilling its contents everywhere.

There is rarely a day my wife gets into my car and doesn’t declare it a disaster area.

“This car is disgusting. When are you going to clean this pigsty,” is her usual mantra,  yet here she was making my basically clean car more of a disaster.

This was going to be a long ride. Good thing – like the card-carrying dork that I am – I had the podcast The History of the Byzantine Empire to keep me company. I assumed I could enjoy it because Dagmar would be passed out by the time I put the car into reverse.

But on this night, my choice of podcasts apparently didn’t sit well with my inebriated princess. Every two minutes, during the 15 minute ride home, the podcast would be rudely interrupted by unsolicited editorial comment from the gallery.

“Turn this goddamn boring shit off, I hate this shit, turn this shit off!”

She would then, before I could even react, fall back asleep.

Peace only came when we reached the house and my  wife went to her favorite place — the bathroom floor.

I grabbed a beer and then sent a text to the host and my other coworkers letting them know we were home safe and apologizing for my wife’s inexplicable, intoxication.

The replies from majority were normal, “No problem,” or “Hope she feels better.” But the reply from the host was classic.

“Guess we should have warned her that Chimay is 9 percent alcohol and very smooth. Thought she knew.”*

Well, she does now. She does now.

* Unbeknownst to me, she drank an entire bottle of it, refilling her glass unaware of the potency.  Still though, had it been simple Bitburger like in the mast of this blog, you wouldn’t be reading this.

Moms and their funny ways as recalled by their rugrats

Mother’s day is coming right the hell up so if you haven’t done anything for the mother of your children and/or your actual mother, stop reading this shit now. Close the browser window and go do something nice. Stop reading and do it. Go. I’ll be waiting right here, you lazy fuck.

Dagmar and I lost our moms years ago, but with the upcoming holiday we began reminiscing about some of the funnier things our moms said or did.

Both of our moms had their quirks, which makes them funny to us.

As Dagmar’s participation in this blog has sunken to the “knows it exists” level, I figured it might be best to query her brother, Ray and sister, Sheila; and my brother, Chad, and sister-in-law, Amanda, to see if they had any funny or heartwarming stories they wanted to share about The Moms.

Turns out they did.

I’m going to let Dagmar’s side of the family go first because my side of the family is boring.

In a lot of ways, the Olivers were the C-Span of families – one video camera, no narrator and an audience of post-graduate Dungeons and Dragons fans.

Dagmar’s family was the MTV of families. They played rock videos and punched viewers in the faces with their stories.

The Oliver Family was all, “Ha, Ha, Mom burnt the rolls,” but the Rohena family’s stories start with, “Well, after being released from the hospital, Albert got so drunk he stripped naked and …”

See? No contest, right?

What you need to know about each of today’s contributors is the following: Sheila has a nice rack, Ray is grumpy, but brilliant, and Chad married way above his station, but that’s something everyone knew Chad would do.

Dagmar’s Mom was as German as they come so any quotes you encounter below, should echo in your head in a Colonel Klink accent.

Let’s start with Sheila, the rebellious middle sister.

I got into a few (a lot) of fights in school.

One day this girl pushed me over a trash can and we got into a fight in the backyard of an empty house. While we were pulling each others’ hair out, who shows up but mom, curlers in hair, yelling “Sheila! What are you doing!”

She grabbed the other girl and I ran off. The fight was over. Mom made me get in the car, told me not to fight anymore and took me for a Slurpee!

There was also the day me and the girl who lived near our house went into the mobile homes down the road.

They were models, so she figured we could take what we wanted, right?

Afterwards they smeared their chicken greeze on the lens ...

Afterwards they smeared their chicken greeze on the lens …

Well, the cops “helped us help ourselves home to our parents,” but mom was OK, just told me never to hang around that bad girl anymore.

The last time I ran away (I ran away a lot) she came to pick me up and we had Church’s chicken on Trans Mountain together. If you’re not familiar with El Paso, Trans Mountain is a very scenic road there.

We just sat together and ate chicken. She just loved me and let it be okay.

It never mattered what you did or why, she just loved you.

Life with mom was always funny. We always laughed, like the time we went out to eat and she opened the ketchup the wrong way and got it all over her clothes and glasses. She just cleaned it off and continued to eat.

I could go on but, enough already!

Ray, my over-parented, college-educated, successful and grumpy-as-shit brother-in-law really brought the “hil” to hilarity. Ray writes …

I remember one time me and a couple of friends decided to have a mini-party at my house when my mom went out and wasn’t supposed to be back for a few hours.

We were all teenagers (15 or 16 years old) and didn’t have much money, but we all pitched in our $5 or $10, and bought some weed and beer (legal drinking age was 18 then and it was rare to get carded).

We congregated in my room, had my stereo cranking and were all pretty much lit up and carrying on. Little did we know my mom had come home undetected and had been in the house at least 15 or 20 minutes listening to us act like fools.

I suppose she finally had enough of us when I heard her say “Vell, vell, vat do we haf here?”

I turned around and to my surprise she was just standing in the doorway.

One friend was trying to hide our rolling tray, everybody was covering their beers, all of which she had already plainly seen and I said, ‘What are you doing home so soon?’

Next she yelled “Everybody out!” like Sgt. Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes. After everybody was gone, I thought I could salvage the weed tray, but as I was down on all fours looking for the tray … I hear my mom say “Vell, you looking for dis?'”

I looked up to see my mom holding an empty tray and she says “I flushed that crap down the toilet already.”

My mom showed much restraint and patience in not flipping out, and handling the situation the way she did.

The following tidbit Dagmar has told me before, but baby Ray filled in so many details. Every time I hear it I just laugh…

Prior to the start of the school year, our Mom took us kids to Beaumont Army Hospital for our vaccinations. As we left we met some other family we were friends with that lived near us. The older kids on both sides of the family were saying it was going to be a race home and our mom was reluctant, but we were all encouraging her to race home.

The whole ride it was, “Faster Mom, faster!” from all of us kids.

At some point our paths home diverged and we were on a road called “Magnetic Drive” that had two unique features — it was long and bumpy, (thus fun to drive fast on) and because of the limited visibility, at the end of the road it was a great place for police to run radar.

The speed limit was a boring 35 mph and we were driving a ’61 Fairlane Town sedan 390 Super V8. (Google that shit, it was a testament to American craftsmanship.)

This magnificent piece of rolling steel was capable of 0-60 in six seconds with a top speed of 132 mph. Not bad for a four-door vehicle that weighed 3,920 pounds and had a 119-inch wheelbase. Not to mention it only got 10 miles per gallon.

Mom finally gave into us kids (all of us unbuckled by the way) yelling “Punch it,'” finally hit the gas.

I felt like I was on roller coaster the way the vehicle would come off the peaks and nearly bottom out on the dips. Then the cops got her for what I can only assume was 60 in a 35.

We got finally got home, my mom called her friend who was also German. She started speaking in German and I couldn’t follow most of it, but “lieber Gott” and “scheisse” were used a lot, so, yeah, she was pissed.

Finally, here’s a quick mini story about the time me and my mom drove from El Paso to Fort Polk to visit Dagmar.

My teen years involved cannabis on nearly a daily basis, so I’ll try to make this a mom story and not a pot story, but the inherent nature of my teen pot-headedness nearly limits everything to involve weed.

Anyway, I decided to bring a dime bag with me on the trip.

As we leave El Paso and near Sierra Blanca, I had no idea there was a border patrol checkpoint. It was really small in those days, basically a little toll both-sized shack with a couple border patrolmen asking your citizenship. Nowadays it has ballooned much like the rest of our government and many notable celebrity drug busts have been made there (Willie Nelson, Snoop Dogg, Nelly, Fionna Apple, etc.)

My ass puckered up when we came up on the checkpoint. Thank God they didn’t have dogs back then. But we passed through with no problem and when we stopped at the next rest stop I had to pack a bowl in my one-hit pipe while I was in the restroom.

We ended up staying in a crappy motel in one of the worst sections of Austin that night. A family friend made the reservation and planned the trip for us. Not saying he was cheap, but did we really save much staying in that dump at the risk of getting robbed or worse. I was to afraid to venture far from the motel, so I smoked a bowl in the motel parking lot near the dumpsters.

I suppose my Mom couldn’t sleep well, so we were on the road before the sun came up and made it to Fort Polk early in the afternoon.

As soon as we settled in, I needed an excuse to go smoke another bowl, so I borrowed Dagmar’s 10-speed bike to cruise around the base, and I ended up getting so stoned I got lost.

I managed to flag down a cab and by chance knew the name of Dagmar’s street. The cab took me home and Dagmar and my Mom were outside when we pulled up.

I just tell my mom, “Pay the man, I got lost with all these houses looking exactly the same.”

Mom never even got upset. She just payed the cab fare and laughed at me for being an idiot.

Here’s my sister-in-law Amanda. She foolishly married someone with similar DNA to my own, my brother.

I recall when I was walking down the aisle of our wedding. The slow march to music, being so nervous, everyone looking at me. I get to the front row and your mom is right at the end of the row. And in what seemed so loud a voice in this serene and intensely quiet moment says, “You look beautiful.”

Another funny story we can recall, is your mom always wanting to paint the kitchen wall a rotation of green or white. So one day she shows up with this pale, puke-green color. She painted part of the wall and she decided she didn’t like it. So instead of waiting for your dad or us, she placed the gallon on the front seat, with the lid on. Note- the lid wasn’t on very tight, she didn’t hammer that thing down. So at the first stop, the paint spilled all over the inside of the seat on the car!

She came home and your Dad was there to clean it up.

Why she couldn’t just wait for him to go with her I have no idea? The seat was stained for the life the of the car and forever reminded of the puke green.

These are nothing like the purple bloomers we purloined from Mom. Our mother did not live in the Victorian era.

These are nothing like the purple bloomers we purloined from Mom. Our mother did not live in the Victorian era.

Another childhood story Chad and I remember is a neighborhood scavenger hunt.

One sought-after item on the list was a pair of purple panties.

We scored a pair from Mom’s lingerie drawer and were thrilled since we thought no other team would have such luck.

After the scavenger hunt (we lost) we ran those silky skivvies up the flag pole at a nearby park.

When Mom spotted her her purple bloomers flapping atop the flag pole for God and everyone to see, she exclaimed in her favorite expletive, “AHHH pickle juice!”

After I joined the Army, Chad happily stayed in Arizona to take care of our mom as cancer took its toll on her. As you would imagine, hospital visits became more and more frequent and she hated each and everyone.

Here’s Amanda again with a quick finale tale to finish this blog post.

We even can laugh at when Chad wanted to take her to the hospital because she wasn’t right, and he would have to trick her and tell her they were going somewhere else.

As soon as Chad grabbed the bag of medication, she’d shout, “AHHHHH!” and run back in the house.

To all the mother’s out there everywhere … Happy Mother’s Day.

A quick update: holding your junk in front of your spouse and exercise in awkward

My wife just caught me holding my penis.

It was not like a giant, engorged penis either, just a limp little wiener being walked to the toilet.

What happened was this:

Like this only without the stylish orange jesus suit ...

Like this only without the stylish orange jesus suit …

We were watching television and the show we were watching ended. My wife went upstairs to change out of her work clothes. After a moment or so it occurred to me that I had to pee. The bathroom is about 15 feet away, not a marathon at all. I didn’t have to pee badly, but it was enough to get my otherwise lazy ass off the couch.

Because she was upstairs and because I wasn’t at all thinking about much of anything, I stood up, unzipped my jeans and took out my penis in the living room. It wasn’t sexual, it wasn’t a “statement.” It wasn’t anything other than preparation to pee in what I estimated would be a few more seconds and about 10 footsteps.

Because I think our house was designed by a really stupid Hollywood set designers and was only very narrowly rejected by the Gone With The Wind directors, we have a spiral staircase that is visible from the home’s entranceway.

So, as I absentmindedly walked to the guest bathroom, penis in hand, wearing jeans and a T-shirt and oblivious to the world, the wife came down the Scarlett O’Hara staircase and gasped. It went like this.

Me singing in my head: “I’m going to pee, la da dee, I’m going to pee lucky me. Got me wiener in my hand this is the time to understand … that I have to pee.”

I had mindlessly walked from the living room, into the foyer with the dick out, just holding it. I thought nothing of this at all. I was just going to pee.

The Frau came down the racist staircase at exactly the same moment I was about to turn into the bathroom.

For the first time in many, many years of marriage I felt a bit awkward. So did she.

“Are you holding your dick?” she asked.

“Well, yes, obviously,” I replied, still holding my dick.knock1st

“WHY!” she yelled.

“I have to pee,” I answered, still holding my penis.

She looked disgusted and ran back up the staircase, likely reciting some sort of line from Gone With The Wind.