Tag Archives: iPhone

What the #$%@ do you people want?

I bet this girl doesn't check her stats. She doesn't have to, what with her being hot and all. http://finsnation.typepad.com/

I bet this girl doesn’t check her stats. She doesn’t have to, what with her being hot and all. http://finsnation.typepad.com/

I quit. Really, I fucking quit. There should be a Blogging 101 class you’re required to take before you start this crap.  Lesson one, day one should read something like, “Stats are a fucking mystery to us all, we recommend sacrificing a virgin at dawn to ensure good stats.”

This blogging shit is hard because I’ve become addicted to stats. Fran (editor extraordinaire)  says I am a people pleaser. She claims I’m eager to do what ever anyone wants to keep ’em coming back. But I don’t even really know Fran. She’s just some broad in North Carolina who (brilliantly ~ Fran) edits this drivel into a fun easy read. (She hopes ~Fran)

I don’t know why I obsess about it.I get the same exact amount of nothing if one person or a million people read this, so my obsession is similar to following Justin Bieber’s career.  I mean, if his career tanks tomorrow, sure you’ll be sad (dork), but you’re not out much. Same here with this effort.

Still though, what the fuck do these numbers mean?

There was a big uptick in March. Why?  February was down — man, it was down!  Why did so few people come here in February?  Was it something I said? In December and January we were up, baby! We had a lot of hits then. What the fuck does all this mean?

It means jack and shit. Nothing. It’s as pointless as changing your profile photo in support of a political cause. Which should mean SOMETHING to some of you, but likely won’t because no one reads this shit that deep except Fran and Marni … Sometime Maggie, but usually not and — fuck, what is this about again?

What the fuck is interesting to read here? Really, what do you find interesting to read here?

I didn't make this. I actually found it on a blog about gutters. A gutter cleaning blog by a gutter cleaner. He also wants people to read his blog. http://www.sparkle-king.com/

I didn’t make this. I actually found it on a blog about gutters. A gutter cleaning blog by a gutter cleaner. He also wants people to read his blog.
http://www.sparkle-king.com/

I think we need a poll. A good old-fashioned honest to “jebus” poll.  A poll that not only says, “This is what I expect out of this retarded blog, but also, this is what I would like out of this blog,” because if stats have told me anything it’s all about you, and I’m fucking all ABOUT you, or at least making you happy.  That sounds funny but it’s really, truly, honest. (See, I told ya. ~Fran)

I want to write things you will enjoy and read.

So, in an effort to figure out the whys, we can and shall — I decree — take a no-shit poll.

It’s right there above this paragraph, can you see it?  For the first time in the history of “Had a Few Beers” we have an real poll. You can’t vote 12 times, you can’t vote for “I like ponies.” You can’t do anything but vote.

Like a good ol’ I-love-God-and-Country American, we’re gonna vote.

I’m curious to see the results. So please vote.  Or leave a comment, comments are also good.

Hey, can you Google that for me? Thanks …

Hey does anyone know the number for the take-out place down the road? No? Fuck. Maybe you know the movie schedule for Friday? Perhaps someone would be kind enough to answer for me what “Google” is, or better yet, tell my fucking wife.

Pardon that rude introduction to this blog. It was rude only because I’m at my wits end. Some of you, well a few of you anyway – OK, probably none of you – have to deal on a daily basis with a technophobe. If I’m somehow mistaken and you do have a spouse like mine, you have my sympathy and we should start a support group.

Hello, my name is Beers and my significant other thinks Tumblr is used for drying the laundry.

It’s fucking driving me insane.

As some of you remember, I bought my wife an iPhone 5 and WOW was she excited. Her old phone was manufactured by cavemen, had a battery life measured in seconds and weighed as much as the Apollo 9 space capsule. The new phone has unlimited calls and text messages to the U.S. and that shit excites her. She and her daughter can be “Chatty Cathys” all the live-long day and that’s “fucking awesome,” I’m told.

Seriously, with what is arguably one of the best smart phones on the planet today, she’s still no technically wiser than understanding that ; plus ) equals a winky face.

I had to explain what ROTFL meant to her yesterday. If you don’t know what that means than please leave the internet right now.

I recently received the following “instant message” from my wife Picture1

“Can you look up the community bank hours and tell me when they open?”

Now I shouldn’t bitch, prior to the iPhone purchase the concept of an IM would have been the equivalent of landing a man on the sun for her. Text messages were what all those damned kids were doing to “sex-up all their friends” on Friendster and MySpace. So the very fact that she can now text at all is a vast, vast improvement.

But for fuck’s sake, that message was 14 words long. By simply opening whatever shitty browser Apple shoves down our collective throats and typing “community bank hours (city name)” into the fucking search bar the answer would’ve magically appeared. When I suggested that the aforementioned method is really faster than asking me to do it (on an inferior phone, no less), I’m accused of being an asshole.

The emoticon that would convey the eye roll I just did doesn’t exist. It will never exist. It cannot exist. It was an epic eye roll.

This is the second example.

During a brief period of unemployment after retiring from the U.S. Army in 2009 my wife became acquainted with Facebook. I was proud of her. She never once sent me a Farmville request to water her marijuana plants or whatever the fuck it is Farmville players do, but rather made a few witty comments here and there and did the general shit we all do on Facebook. “So glad you had a good birthday,” and “the baby looks so cute” or the occasional, “Sorry about the penis cancer.” I mean, she got it. She avoided the bullshit that we’ve all occasionally succumbed to on Facebook. You know what I mean — click here to see who unfriended you (you fuckers), find out about the 18+ Facebook, and grow a larger penis in just two weeks — the type of crap we’ve all clicked on. You’ve clicked on that shit too, right? I’ll just assume you have.

Anyway, she picked up a job a few short weeks later and from then on Facebook could go fuck itself. Her hours of free time shrunk back to normal and Facebook died when matched against her desire to watch American Idol.

Fast forward to the new iPhone 5 purchase and the installation of the Facebook app. Just days after its purchase I get a concerned look from my wife.

“Honey, can I talk to you,” she asked almost in tears. “Why are so many people mad at me on Facebook? Why are they posting mean things about me, about me being negative and mean?”

This weird question, and you’re all thinking the same thing, is the equivalent of her asking me why dinosaurs had sex with Elvis Presley on the White House lawn. I mean, she hadn’t been on Facebook for more than four years if you discount the occasional quick check to make sure I wasn’t posting photos of my testicles willy-nilly.

I looked at her with confusion. I didn’t really check her status that much anymore because her last update was literally July 16, 2010. She’s my wife on Facebook and, this is the odd part, also in real life. I get notified when she farts on Facebook. Who the fuck was saying negative shit about her? I was failing miserably as a husband for not bringing to bear my considerable 74 Facebook friends to e-beat the fuck out of whoever the fucktard was that was talking shit about my wife on Facebook!

Still though, it made no sense. In order to have an interaction on Facebook you have to, well, interact on Facebook. As a guy who’s been called an asshole many, many times on Facebook, trust me, I know this fact.

“Honey, show me what you mean,” I finally said.

Yep.  It's personal.
Yep. It’s personal.

She pulled out her phone, opened the Facebook app and showed me. I know I didn’t laugh, but I kind of chucked a bit.

You know all that shit you (we) all post? The meme’s about, “If all you have are negative people in your life blah, blah?” or “Mean people are <insert retarded Facebook meme here>”? She — I’m not kidding — literally thought people were posting that about her. It was just her normal Facebook feed.

I don’t know if I should laugh or cry …

I’ll just have another beer.

My wife finally gets a smart phone. I get unsmarter …

So after years, literally years, of pleading with my wife that she get rid of the brick she referred to as a cell phone (purchased in 2005, I kid you not) I have, at last, achieved success.

While my appeals garnered responses like, “It makes calls, that’s all I need it for,” and “Phones are stupid, people shouldn’t have them,*” I was gobsmacked when she turned to me last week and said, with a straight face, “Would you get me a smart phone?”

Just because the phone is smart, doesn't mean I am.

Just because the phone is smart, doesn’t mean I am.

Why did the technophobe become the technophile, you ask? Her daughter, is the simple answer. Her daughter asked me last weekend why her mom didn’t have a smart phone and the bells went off in my head. This, I knew, was the perfect way to get my lovely wife away from her monochrome flip phone and into something more representative of this millennium.

“You should suggest it to her,” I skillfully replied (because if nothing, I have mad skillz at … stuff). If her daughter wanted it, mommy would do it.

I was right. Her daughter asked her to do it and she did it for that reason and that reason alone.

Dagmar is now the proud owner of an iPhone 5, which is a better phone than mine. I rushed right out and got it, lest her desire to own a piece of modern technology faded and she became once again enamored with that paper weight she clung too.( I promise you it had a rotary dial on it. She would dial a nine and have to wait five minutes for the rotary wheel to reset — and most of you didn’t get that joke did you?)

I think this is a good time to point out that I haven’t used the word fuck, shit or “that really bad word” once yet.  Have you noticed?  It wasn’t intentional at all. Isn’t that a hoot?

Boobies! There I feel a bit better, not much but a bit.

Which reminds me, here I am in a hotel room without any access to images of boobs, save strangers’ on the internet, and all my lovely bride is sending me are fucking (wow I finally swore in a real sentence … I’m getting my  stride back) photos of the cat. Really honey, is it too much to ask for a little “bow chicka wow wow” at the end the evening?

So new iPhone in hand, out into the modern world she goes. I felt uncertain, at first, as if I had released a blind person from their curse. I can call blind people cursed here because blind people can’t read this. So suck on that blind people.

The first few days you watch a person with their first smart phone is like watching a toddler explore the playground. Sure they’ll eat some sand (send a text that reads “you are a butt thread,”) hurt themselves on the monkey bars, (send photos of their foot) and get pushed down by a 3-year-old but hey — that’s part of growing up!

I have noticed, in the past, when she wasn’t working, Facebook wasn’t quite the evil, retarded (it’s totally evil and retarded, honey) stop on the internet she always claimed it was.  Meaning, with a bit of leisure time and ready computer access she was quite the little commenter. She even did updates.

Even. Did. Updates.

A few of you who are friends with my her on Facebook may have noticed a slight uptick in comments from my lovely frau. You can thank the iPhone(though she still has that retarded kitten as her profile picture).

Boobalicious. I'm going to start saying boobalicious more often

Boobalicious. I’m going to start saying boobalicious more often

I will also, for the foreseeable future, not be making comments about your boobs, ladies. I’m totally kidding. I will still be totally be making comments about your boobs.

Here’s a few boob comments I’ve been “developing.”

That’s boobtastic!  You’re boobalicious! I’m boobcited about tits, I meant this.

I can’t wait for warmer weather. Can you tell?

So anyway I love boobs.  Boobs, boobs, boobs.

Oh shit, wait – this is about my wife getting an iPhone 5.

Honey, I love you. Text me baby.  Text me boobs!

* that’s an actual quote.

Buy this App and I get a free beer, if I get a free beer I’ll buy you a beer and … just check out this app

If the WordPress statistics page is any indication at all, most of you are here looking for information about sauna boners.

Who can blame you? I mean, if you get a boner in a sauna you’re going to be like totally embarrassed, unless its “that” kind of sauna, in which case, boner away.

However, if its not that kind of sauna, well you’re going to be freaked out. You could be so freaked out you might have to move. Like move-away freaked out. Which is really freaked out.

Sauna boners aside (and can you ever really put sauna boners aside – okay I’ll stop with the sauna boner references) I think a lot of the readers here are military or associated with the military and consequently move a lot. My last “professional-development counseling” with the boss (which had a lot of yelling about sauna boners, oddly) seemed to think so.

capri_anderson

I’m pretty sure everyone needed a break from sauna boners so I stole this photo of a hot chick. (photo credit: I forget)

Anyway, as you remember I just accepted the help of a no-shit professional editor here and as you might recall she charges like $1 million internet dollars per update (the checks in the mail!)

So we have bills to pay.

Thusly, we’re going to pimp an app.

I didn’t write the app, obviously. If I had, it would randomly send you photos of my testicles during odd moments (birthdays, anniversaries, Disney visits, weddings) and I know I’d pay a lot of money for that to happen. Sadly, my computer skills are only matched by the cat when she walks across my keyboard.

Actually the cat’s are better. She could accidentally write some life-changing computer program that cures cancer.

I’m just going to keep writing this crap.

Anyway military people move a lot. And a good friend, I mean a GOOD friend, wrote an app that helps the MOVr. I’ll let him do the dirty work by explaining it.

Testimonial: I bought it and it no-fuck works. It helps you catalog your high-value items with a photo and a description and provides an “if those fuckers break this it will cost me this much to replace it” field. Really it’s pretty awesome.

But before I go I want to be clear about one thing, the author of this app is fucked up beyond belief about one thing. I don’t want to short-sell him, but really.   The best anything involving music does not include Guns_N’_Roses sir, no.  It involves everything about Jane’s Addiction’s, “Three Days.”

You’re welcome.

Make a fucking app about that.

299020_10151620237964202_743093813_n

It is simple art. There also appears to be no option to send friends a ball photo, sadly.

Now, the app

Apple just released an app of mine and **spoiler alert** it sucks. Full disclosure: I have no sales experience and haven’t thought out my pitch yet. But that’s kind of my point — to make an app, you have to be a developer for sure, but also a business person, graphics designer, marketer and salesperson all in one.

For example, one app released last week is called PCSr and makes it easy to catalog all your household stuff by pic, serial number and value.

While it applies to anyone who is moving or who wants to catalog their stuff, I geared it more toward the military. Whether I should have called it MOVr instead of PCSr to apply it to a larger audience, who knows, but that’s my best attempt at marketing it.

I was in the military and have a long trail of broken household goods scattered throughout Europe and Asia. I know something like this could benefit military members, so I went with what I know and clearly defined the app’s market.

Developing the iPhone/iPad app requires becoming familiar with Apple’s programming language Objective C. That’s kind of hard for sure, but Google “iPhone app tutorial” and you’re already on your way. It’s like learning guitar; learn a few riffs you want to play first like “Paradise City” by Guns N’ Roses (by the way, the last two minutes of that song are the best two minutes in all the world of music, starting from Axl screaming, “hooooooooommmmmmmeee.. “ and Steven pounding on the drums underneath… OK, sorry). It’s like learning guitar; learn a few riffs you want to play and then you go back and learn the basics because they start to make sense and it’s fun. After like a year or two of this, you’ll be on your way to playing the first four minutes of “Paradise City.” You’ll never be able play the last two. Don’t even try, I will be so mad.

You’re also going to need to design a logo for the app when displayed in the App Store and iTunes, you won’t be able to upload your app without this. Simple is best, don’t try to do too much. One design I’m proud of is my other app that Apple is supposed to release this week called distilr.

The last step is actually selling it. Apple mostly takes care of that, but since the App Store is so large and crowded, you’ll need all the advantages you can get. My way was setting up free Tumblr and WordPress blogs to advertise it and offer tech support.

You can totally find PCSr here: https://itunes.apple.com/us/app/pcsr/id590584453?mt=8

Also it contains real human blood.

Nailed it.

Thanks,
Kevin
http://about.me/kevinpdowney

542057_10151620238379202_215416928_nHey, it’s me again the guy that runs this Blog … I’m happy to say that I’ve passed this app to the Had a Few Beers smart-phone application advisory board and they’ve agreed to test it out. Two friends bought the app and literally are using it right now (while they are moving) so we’re going to have a review unless they get too busy moving or something (the selfish bastards) and don’t write back.

I got an iPhone, I got a new iPhone! Holy everthing I got a new iPhone! Seriously I got a new iPhone!

The new iPhone 5 is out the new iPhone 5 is out OH MY GOD, the economy isn’t that bad.

Look any economy that can support a collective group of retards that literally camp out for days in order to spend $700 on what is basically a status symbol isn’t in decline.

That’s the reason this election isn’t about the economy, the economy isn’t that bad.   Interest rates for a new house are at roughly “1.pleasebymepercent” and a bunch of ‘tards are amped up because apple ‘did something’.

This economy is so bad I'll wait in line to spend $700!

This economy is so bad I’ll wait in line to spend $700! (photo credit: CNN)

Seriously how bad can the economy be when people line up and camp out to spend $700 on something that will be old news, right now?   How bad can it be?  Chelsea Handler just said the iPhone 5 was over and that she was having sex with Steve Job’s ghost while drinking Vodka.

Or something I wasn’t really listening.

I also got a new phone today.  I’m pretty pumped about it too.

I paid exactly 0.0 dollars for it and it has exactly 0.0 new features over my old phone.

Much like the iPhone 5.

Let me explain.

Today my phone committed suici … okay no MORE LIES … I killed my old iPhone 4.  I rode bareback with her, I never protected her and I gambled with her life, every day.   I didn’t ‘wrap my rascal’ and a fatal fall killed her.

I couldn’t find a case I liked but more to the point I couldn’t be bothered to look for a case because, “I’ll never drop this phone.”

Then I dropped the phone.

Today.

On the day that the new iPhone 5 goes on sale and I really, really hate apple so today was really inconvenient.  Had this happened in August or October you likely wouldn’t be reading this, I just don’t care about apple and changing phone manufactures IS a goal of mine.

But changing phone numbers is just too hard, or I’m just too lazy.

My wife said, and I deserved this, you did this on purpose to get the new phone.

Let me assure the world, getting a new phone, in this day and age is the absolute last thing I want to do.   I have to reload contacts, re-synch the music, re-synch the apps, re-enter passwords and … I’d rather someone punched me in the balls.  Everyone reading this knows it’s a pain in the ass.

The line at the store was fun.  Some hippy chick that was born last night asked so many questions people behind her were actively plotting her death, myself included.  I favored a diversion followed by a slow and painful strangulation but was outvoted by just punching her to death.

Seriously hippy girl had to apologize to the crowd several times.

The crowd was weird.   Lots of suits.   They were all, to a person, very enthusiastic about the new phone.   Which is cool but here I was not giving a shit about the new iPhone stuck talking to them without a device that allowed me to disengage from the conversation cause my phone was broke.  Actually I should have offered to buy their old phone, that would have been a good plan but …

Focus Todd, back to the story.

Finally, after what seemed like … well it was really only 20 minutes I reached the guy at the counter.

I told him my sad, sad story.  I dropped it, the repair guy said it was about the same as a new phone and can you help me sir?

He had a new iPhone 5 of course, one of only a few, would I want it for just *billion euros?  I sighed.  Dagmar will hate me but fuck it, sure.  I need a working phone, for work, this blog and porn if nothing else.

He typed into the computer, looking up my contract.  We chit chatted.   I don’t give a shit about iPhones I told him, I’m pissed I have to buy new chargers.   Do you have adapters for the old chargers, no?  This sucks.

Then he said the magic words.

“Have you ever upgraded?”

“No, I’m a virgin,” I blushed.

“Why not just upgrade to a 4s,” he replied, licking his lips.

“How much would that cost,” I said looking him in the eye.

“One Euro,” he said removing his shirt.

And we made sweet, sweet gay love right there on the counter.

Look the iPhone 5 is like 5 million Euros or some shit and slap that 4s on the counter for one euro, I’ll take one please.

I bought a phone condom, at the same time.   It was a 15 Euro phone case.   I gave him a 20 euro bill.  Unlike America not everyone has a cash register, he had the typical euro leather wallet of bills.  He didn’t have a much euro change.

“I guess this phone is on me,” he said.

And it was.  Now if I can just get Siri to say tits and update my contacts.

Stop F’ing with me Germany … also I feel a bit paranoid. We should go to the sauna.

Germany is fucking with me.

Or maybe it’s the weather that’s fucking with me.

It’s likely best if you imagine me as a meth addict saying those two things.   A meth addict that’s been awake for eight days, hasn’t showered for 10, is covered in sores and this has gotten way off topic.

Look, I know, just as I know I will write another retarded update to this blog that the gray clouds and constant drizzle are about to hit us but, at of this mid-September point it is all 70-degrees and sunny.   If the easiest job in the world is

Brussels, Looking Hot

Like this only in Germany and crap. (Photo credit: clappstar)

Phoenix weatherman (It’ll be hot and sunny tomorrow) the second easiest should be a weatherman in Germany (bring an umbrella!) and its taunting me because you can feel the weather SLOWLY changing but without any of that normal half cloudy, half rainy crap that September usually seems constructed of.

But I’m VERY sure that in all the Septembers I’ve been here in Germany (five of them if I recall) I’m pretty sure I was wearing a jacket at this point.   But not this fall, not this September, its 70 degrees in the afternoon and I should love it.

I should …

You see I grew up in Phoenix, hence the weatherman joke a moment ago, where the sun told you to shut the hell up and get back inside on or about March 1st and didn’t stop flailing your hide until about December 15th.

Dagmar grew up in another hot … oh wait it snows there in the winter.   Half-credit only honey and really it never was that hot when we visited.  Warm yes.   Phoenix hot?  No.

The point is we both like hot weather.   We love it.   LOVE it.  We’ve actually told friends we love hot weather with capital letters.   “Hi, we love hot weather with capital letters,” we said.   It was awkward.

But it’s a good job here in Germany.   Good people, interesting work and I’ve since learned (being from Phoenix) that snow is just water, it can’t hurt you and if you put on more clothes the cold can be tolerable.

Who knew?

Which brings me to the German saunas, always a popular topic if the word searches that lead people here are any clue (perverts!).    Besides sweating while naked next to total strangers, during warm weather, there are ample places to lie out in the sun at the Sauna we go to.   There’s also a heated pool and sleeping rooms and there’s even a natural lake, and back in July and August when the sun was just ‘a-rockin’ it was awesome to jump into its cold water.

Point is we both like to tan and if you can tan in the buff why not do it?  We even seek out the nude beaches here in Europe when we go on vacation, again if you’re going to tan and you can tan in the buff, do it.

I’ll giggle like a school kid on my death bed if the cause of my demise is skin cancer, and I’ll ask for a beer and a smoke after the diagnosis.

We went there all summer long and it was awesome.    Dripping with sweat from the good old sun Dagmar would ask me if I want to go to the next special ‘honey sauna’ and I’d laugh and laugh.

No dear, I’m covered in my own sweat at the moment and when I get tired of that there’s an ice-cold pool right there to turn-off the heat.  Why would I subject myself to being in a super-hot box when obviously Mr. Sun is right here more than happy to meet my needs, and I’m getting tanned to boot.   You’re ice sauna doesn’t do that does it?

We even talked another couple we’ve been friends with for years and years into coming with us by using phrases like, “look you’ve been in Germany for years, shouldn’t you at least try it,” and “wanna see my weiner?”

Cover of "National Lampoon's Vacation [UM...

Naked vacation with friends, we can invite Chevy Chase and make a movie … only it wasn’t. At all.

I had this whole idea that I’d blog about going to the naked sauna with friends and what that was like.  I even told Oh god my wife is German dude I would but in the end it was about as funny as unpacking the groceries.   Maybe even less funny, depending on what you bought.    They’re good friends, seeing them naked didn’t cause any bit of whacky-funny stories like you’d see in a National Lampoon Vacationmovie, damn it.

Friends if you’re reading this, thanks for nothing, assholes.

Dagmar’s going to proof read this in a moment and say something to the effect of, I thought this was about the weather?   And she’s wrong, because it is about the weather and the sauna because the two go hand in hand damn it.

Last week I scanned and scanned the weather.  I checked the iPhone weather app like I was expecting a call from my dealer, I hit refresh on weather.com and weather underground like a junkie.  I even asked the guy that empties our trash.   Everyone agreed, Saturday would be nice, clear with a high of 70 something.

So what happened Friday?   Sunny and 70 is the correct answer.  What happened Saturday?   Overcast with a 100% chance of rain on the way to the sauna?  Yes it was.  What happened Sunday?   Sunny with a temperature of 73ish you ask, yes it was.

Why are you fucking with me Germany?    Also I think the cops are watching from the retired German neighbor’s house across the street.   Yeah, I sound a bit paranoid.

So, what happened today after I drove home in the 70something degree weather with my windows down enjoying the clear blue sky?   Yeah, I Googled it.  There’s a dip on Thursday, with a chance of rain, but otherwise clear skies and 70s.

I’m totally buying tickets tomorrow, one more ride on the sun train.  Chase the dragon man  …

Ten THOUSAND views thank you all so … crap where’s my stuff iTunes, I hate you iTunes!

So we’ve hit a milestone, 10,000 hits, which I’m pretty sure, considering I started this crap started on a day I don’t remember back in like February , means that there have been (had a few beers math) like a million hits a day over the course of all those days.

Okay no jokes, but still it’s like 250 hits over all those days.

Most of you coming here, admittedly, are looking for sauna boners but still an impressive number.  Also the big joke there is that yes, sauna boners is still the hottest (get it?) search term here.

I want this update to be about thanking all of you, everyone that reads this.  I mean it, thanks.   The stuff I type here is, while fun, sometimes …

FUCKING ITUNES ATE MY SHIT AND I HATE MY FUCKING IPHONE.

Steve Jobs I curse you sir.

Yeah, no I don’t really curse Mr. Jobs but yeah really I hate iTunes right now.

My iPhone has exactly one band’s album on it and one song by another band on it.    I have an entire album by Mariachi El Bronx and one song by Alexandra Stan (Mr. Saxobeat).

Why, why do you hate me iTunes?   Why?

Why, why do you hate me iTunes? Why?

Both of which I bought while drunk.

Everything else has evaporated into so many digital ghosts.

So, fuck you Apple.

To add insult to injury, Apple kindly provides you with a list of every fucking purchase you ever made on iTunes and HOLY shit there a lot of stuff that never made it off my old iPod to my iTouch to my iPhone 3 to my iPhone 4 and FUCK YOU want that stuff damn it!

While on a business trip  a few months ago, while tanked, I purchased  from my iPhone mind you, three episodes of Futurama and they have been stuck in my download cue since I was born.

Can’t download them, can’t delete them from the queue, can’t stab Steve in the eye with a bar straw.

Just stuck looking at them, never deleted, never watched, never downloaded.

Everything else downloads, not them.   A constant reminder of a night-time decision to watch a video on my iPhone, forever I guess.   Stop judging my night-time video choices Steve!  You’re being a dick!

Also protip kids, never purchase video downloads like this from your iPhone while drunk in Eastern European countries, it throws your credit card into anti-fraud hysterics.

You’ll have to talk the credit card help line lady off the ledge, literally.

“Stay with me, Fatima, I was in the Ukraine on business, I bought a funny video from iTunes, no one stole anything, don’t jump please!”

Some of you Mactarded fanatics are rolling your eyes right now and closing your browsers.   Don’t hit that little ‘x’ or whatever it is you elitist freaks select to close a ‘window’ (yeah a WINDOW, as in WINDOWS based).

It is likely my fault I lost my copy of the songs, “little black backpack” and “I’m popular”.  I’m also an idiot for downloading them I freely admit.   It is my fault though; I did this to myself, somehow.   You see back in the sane and rational world of non-Apple shit you have to manage your content, and I’m VERY comfortable doing that.

Download all your photos to this folder, all your videos to that folder.   Put all your important documents into another folder and hide your porn in a folder called, “totally not porn honey, never look in this folder, only boring shit is in here.”

Then, when you have to change computers you … wait for it … COPY THOSE FUCKING FOLDERS TO YOUR NEW COMPUTER.

Meaning you still HAVE them, computer after computer after computer after …

Retardedly too simple for iTunes it seems.

Which leads me to, Apple hates America.

They do!

They hate property rights too, those assholes.    They want to punch George Washington in the balls, They hate my copy of Lord of two boobs and return of the boobs too, fuckers.

In short they hate freedom.

Why can’t I just go into iTunes and tell it re-download all the shit I ever downloaded and be quick about it?   Because of piracy I know but why isn’t there an “I fucked up” button.

My life needs an “I fucked up” button on SO many levels (shout out to you Dagmar, love you baby!) but shit how hard would this one be?

Assholes.

Sure I know ‘kind of’ how it happened.  My iPhone was full of like a million gigs of “other” which when googled told me that all I had to do was connect to iTunes, do a factory reset, resynch and LOSE ALL MY SHIT.

They left the ‘lose all my shit’ off that helpful recommendation and fuck if I know where my shit is on the old computer.   I have a lot of searching to do in C:\windowsprogramsfuckifIknowshitisitinhere searching to do if I ever want to hear another Pogues song soon.

So once more, fuck you iTunes, fuck you Apple, fuck you Macintosh and Steve, I’m sorry you’re dead but the shit you did pisses me off.

Fuck you my iPhone, really fuck you.

But mostly, really mostly, thanks for reading, assuming you got down here, down this far I mean.   Some of you put up with REALLY low quality, non-entertaining cat videos, plastic toys on a BMW’s hoods, photos of beer cans, rants about the Catholic church and posts about why I … well if you read this far you read it all likely.

Thanks for stopping me in the hallway and telling me you liked what I wrote, thanks for calling me and telling me you liked what I wrote, thanks for emailing me and telling me you liked what I wrote.  Thank you to ever complete stranger, and there are many of you, that reached out.   That’s the coolest, people out of the blue saying “wow I just laughed cause of what you wrote.”  You folks are flattering and scary, I mean I thought I was funny, I thought my friends thought I was funny but … STOP STALKING ME.   I kid, thanks man it’s ALWAYS flattering.

Thanks, honestly.  I’m flattered and shocked you all read, participate and come back.

Thanks.

No bad words, no rants, no jokes.  Thanks, you reading this, sharing it (always share it)  or telling me you laughed is why I will do it again tomorrow.  Maybe it will be popular, maybe it will fall flat, I don’t care.  I’m just glad you’re here and, I hope, having fun.

A few shout outs.   Special thanks to Val Henderson of course, for kicking me in the ass to do this and putting up with my juvenile shouts of joy when a post early on broke 100 reads.   Thanks to Dagmar for calling me out (here and in private – SAUNA BONERS HONEY!).   Thanks to Marni Sandberg for always reading.

moar of these!

Moar of these! Really I need like a million more if the way ahead is going to work.

Thanks to GG for always coming through, well mostly coming through, with the twins.  Thanks to  Lynn Davis for putting up with me.  Thanks to Maggie for telling me, years ago, YEARS AGO, “wow you can really write”.  Thanks to Alex for suggesting I do this 8 million years ago (I should have listened to you dude) and …

Finally, sauna boner hopefuls, I’m sorry there are no sauna boners.  But I’m glad you’re here.

I got nothing so, ‘Condoleezza Rice’ is hot is the best I can do ….

Because I can’t think of a damned thing that is funny to write about I’m going to write about not having anything to write about.   

These are my conversations with myself when I’m thinking about what to write here when I have no clear ideas.

Internal dialog starts now …

Damn it when you started this you said you were going to post something every other day yet you haven’t posted anything in like 18 years.

Chill out, the blogs only a few months old, you’re still finding your ‘focus.’

What the fuck is a focus?   I mean really it’s a retarded blog that mentions drinking beer in the very title.   It’s in the domain name for Christ’s sake, just post any goddamn retarded thing.  The name is www.hadafewbeers.com it’s right there in the address.   Just post “I like boobs.”   Post it over and over again ala Jack in the Shining but you know, with more boobs.

Okay I’d laugh at that but I’m not sure many other people would.  

Okay, okay then what about that time the dishwasher broke and some of your Facebook friends chastised you for using a dishwasher when only two people live in the house?   That could be funny.

Okay that’s kind of a funny but it’s a quick joke.  It’s like, “What are you nondishwasher people, Amish?”  That sort of thing is all the joke is.   There are a few jokes in there about giving the car up for a horse and buggy and … gah it’s not a very long post if I do that.

See that’s the point.   Every blog you like has a lot of short posts.   They’re all quick, witty, fun and short reads.  Do more updates like that.   “Sweet Mother” and “Oh God my wife is German” are two blogs you read a lot and they never post three page diatribes of profanity, boob references and ill-informed opinion on the catholic church (although either might do a boob reference piece tomorrow and how cool would that be?) 

Make this shit shorter, shorter is better.

Blah, write it the way you want to.  If it takes up three pages in a MS word document for you to ramble on about hookers, boobs and beer, that’s not a bad thing.

Okay then but about WHAT?

How about something silly Dagmar does.  You can play the fool and she can be the wise woman but it’ll be funny.   Those work great for Facebook because they’re short and simple though.  Dagmar says something, I say something, Dagmar calls you XYZ and a comment war starts out among your friends.

I might as well write a blog update that boils down to wives smart, husbands dumb.

Okay so then what?

What about politics.   You love politics.   Half of your iPhone’s podcasts are politics.  You read like 80 million political news sources a day … do one on politics.   Really.   You once had an entire conversation with yourself about whether or not you could actually force yourself to masturbate only to images of Andrea Markel*.   I think you concluded that ‘yes you could’.   See that’s kind of funny …

I did one on politics, two I think … both, together, were read by like eight people half of whom where spammers.  How many more Viagra comments do you want or need?  None.

Okay so what was popular?   Which updates had a good number of ‘hits’.   That’s easy, ‘Merican F’ yeah, Things you didn’t know about the military until you get out of the military and anything dealing with German/European Saunas.

Go with those no?

Yes but.  I have ideas for more of each of those (okay not another ‘Merica F’ yeah cause well I don’t live in America anymore so it’s kind of tough at the moment) but refine them.   Remember how much ‘Merica F’ yeah part two sort of sucked.   Yeah refine the ideas dumbass.   Turn down the flame on the idea and let it cook.   Besides the military one you’re close to finishing …

So you have nothing, is that what you’re saying?

It is.

Does that mean this one is the next update?

I just typed it didn’t I?

* I feel this needs explanation.  Once upon a time Dagmar told me that Henry Kissingerwas sexy.   A proclamation that I

Call me!

reacted too by asking, “WHAT THE FUCK?”  She explained thusly, he’s very smart, very powerful and to hell with what he looks like.   That I understood.  It led to many, too many, what if scenarios in my head though.   Hillary Clinton is kind of hot.   There I said it.  If by some odd chance Condoleezza Rice is reading this call me, please.    I’ll cash in one of Dagmar and my ‘get out of jail cards!’  Really I will.

Suicide or Ikea, Suicide or Ikea, Suicide or Ikea … crap, it’s Ikea

I have some bad news friends.  

I’m going to have to kill myself before Saturday.   Okay maybe kill myself is a bit strong but I’m talking totally believable suicidal gestures.   You know the kind, I’ll eat a bottle of Flintstone vitamins and post a suicide note here, or I’ll cut my wrists with a dull butter knife (but it’ll totally hurt) while listening to whatever Goth song is currently number one on iTunes or I’ll …

Okay never mind I’m not going to kill myself before Saturday but at some point this Saturday I’ll wish I had.

The first hint that I was about to be forced into doing something I consider equal to a colonoscopy on the ‘scale of fun’ came yesterday morning when Dagmar noted she hated the curtains in the guest bedroom.

We’ve been married a while.   I knew what this meant.  It didn’t mean she’d go find new ones more on her lunch

Ikea, we destory men's souls

Ikea, we destory men's souls

break.   It didn’t mean she’d surf the web looking for the type and color she wanted.   No it meant something more ominous, something darker.  It meant I was going, with her, to Ikea.

I did the math in my head and quickly guessed that there was five percent chance that I could get out of going with her and a 95% chance I would be craving the sweet sweet kiss of death at about one p.m. this Saturday afternoon.

I did the smart thing, I kept my mouth shut and simply muttered something like “I like them but if you want new ones okay.”

It was ‘May Day’ a holiday for labors across the world (except for us non-commie ‘Mericans) and spring has sprung here in Europe.   Point is what should have been a quick (no traffic) and pleasant drive on a fine spring morning was ruined.   

My mind raced with thought about how to get out of the dreadful Ikea experience.

As I said Spring has sprung here in Deutchland.   The sun is out, there are bee’s in the flowers we planted last weekend and Dagmar has that insane’ let’s rip the house apart in a maniacal desire to remove the dirt’ look in her eye.

I get spring cleaning, I do.  It makes sense and while I’m not a fan of it (check my Facebook ‘likes’ I’m not) I understand it and don’t enjoy living in filth anymore than anyone does.   I’ll participate, if given detailed instructions I might even do the chore slightly better than ‘halfassed’.   I’m a man though I’m best turned loose in the garage with ‘clean this crap up’ as guidance.

But this, this Ikea trip, I did not see coming.   We’ve been in this house a few years, Ikea trips are what you do when you move in … this one was out of the left field.

I had to see Dagmar right before a meeting I had yesterday afternoon.   That’s when she dropped the bomb officially while we were discussing what we were going to do that weekend.    “We’re”.  Crap she used the word we’re (death sentence right at the sentence’s start.  “We’re going to Ikea.”   

I now calculated my chances of getting out of this at less than one percent.  Newt Gingrich’s moon colony and presidential nomination are more likely.  

I did what any other trapped animal does in this situation, I panicked.   I think I even started to gnaw off my own legs.

“I was going to hang that picture in the living room like you wanted,” I volunteered before realizing that would take about 15 minutes if I took a smoke break in the middle.  I needed something of substance.   I seriously considered ordering a hot tub from my iPhone (which how cool is that, we can do that today) with a hopeful Saturday delivery date.   I considered enrolling in one more college courses right that minute so that you know, “the weekends are when I study honey”.  

I had nothing, in fact I had added to my misery.   I was going to clean the garage I said which was met with, you ARE going to clean the garage but you’re still going to Ikea.

I know, I screwed that up royally.

If you’re a guy reading this you know exactly what I mean.   If you’re a girl reading this you’re saying what is the big deal it’s just a trip to a store.  

I’m going to break it down for you ladies …

We’ve seen this movie a thousand times before.  It’s a good movie to be sure and when we first watched it we loved it, but now we know that it’s the same movie.   The purchases change but the lead up the purchase is exactly the same, every time.

Every man, ever, eventually turns over these kinds of purchases to his wife, significant other, long time girlfriend whatever.   We do and we do it because you’re right and we have long ago conceded that.  When we turned those decisions over to you ladies, our input, in our minds at least, became irrelevant.   It’s not that we don’t care about the curtains in the guest bedroom it’s that we’ve learned from long and hard experience that you’re smarter about what shade of, insert trendy color here, goes with, other trendy color here, better than we do.

Thus we don’t care anymore.   If our opinion is generally, and I admit it is, wrong we stop caring about giving it.  

We’re just there as a cheer leader toward whatever side you seem to be leaning toward during the decision regarding what kind of throw pillow you should buy.  Mentally we’re going “well she seems to like that one at the moment, encourage that one.”  It becomes all about hurrying the process along so we can leave the goddamn aisle and maybe someday, before we’re old and senile, check out, go home and drink beer.

I’m pretty sure you can trace all this back to evolution or at least the study of primitive hunter-gather societies.  Studies have shown the gathers, typically woman, worked a whole lot harder than the men’s hunter role.    While women were out debating which berry was yummy and which berry would turn you into a dead person men were at the village wondering if they could ferment rocks to make booze and drawing crude stick figure porn in nearby caves.   

But when word came that the elk, buffalo, whatever herd was near the hunters of the tribe “saddled up and rode” bitches!    Meaning I can go to Ikea alongside Dagmar (and yes this is basically the same as the vacuum analogy) but I’m going to dart in, find the curtain that comes closest to the one you described to me and then get out.

You women though are going there to gather.   “Oh that shiny thing would be great in the hallway” and “Oh that would be fun to put in the bathroom” and “My cousin (twice removed and never met in person) would love this,” will be uttered countless times and the dreadful question, “what do you think” will be asked.  I’ll try to process the question but the “you’re not right, she is” gene will kick in and I’ll again boil it down to I don’t care at all.

Ikea is the worst of all the shopping trips.    The store is designed like one of those rat and cheese mazes making the possibility that even after we finally move forward three feet after an agonizing 30 minutes of looking at a

There is only one way in and one way out ...

There is only one way in and one way out ...

picture frame we’ll stop again to see which vanity set for the bathroom would look ‘cute’.    The Ikea here even has a small restaurant/bar thingy in the middle of it (I think for asshole husbands like me) but I can’t even work up enthusiasm for it because there’s BEER at the goddamned house.

I even asked for suggestions on how to get out of this on facebook but honestly that compounded my misery is all as Adrian Schulte reminded me that Saturday Ikea trips were worse than ALL OTHER Ikea trips.   Cameron Christianson alluded to the mythical shortcut through the store but this kind of exploration isn’t authorized during our trips and Jerry O’Hara suggests a badly timed “gas” incident that just might work but in the end I resigned myself. 

I’m going to Ikea.

When I die. Boobs and booze … seriously boobs and booze, or so I hope.

We all die.  We all also poop so the statement that we all die is about as shocking as that, when you boil it down.  Also the sun will rise tomorrow.

I want to give very specific instructions here about what should happen when I finally pass but realize, “well fuck I’ll be dead” so do whatever you want to with my dead ass.

I’ll give guidance and hope it’s followed.

Let’s just launch into that list and see who is in charge of what …

Adrian Schulte and Sarah Leslie get to pick the music.    I hope they fight over it, honestly I do, but they get to choose the tunes.    Back off peeps, I decreed from up above they get the final say.  If they pick anything by Celine Dion then that’s what it is.   They are further authorized to tattoo my dead body but only with Gary Larson “Far side” tattoos … they know what that means.

They also have to pick a wake venue that equals slip-and-slide level awesome but also incorporates hot tubs.  I suggest slip and slide into a hot tub but you’re both in charge.

yeah I have a woman I can turn too when I need a quick turnaround, original cleavage shot … don’t you?

yeah I have a woman I can turn too when I need a quick turnaround, original cleavage shot … don’t you?

Gina Gray I bequeath you ‘toplessness’.  Meaning you don’t have to be topless but I demand, DEMAND in the sense that I will haunt every woman that disobeys this order, all the women be topless during my wake.  Small tits, don’t care.  Big tits, don’t care.  Floppy tits, not an issue at all either.  I want all tits on full display at my wake.   Gina make this so.  GG … you have awesome tits, be the only chick at the wake with a top on.  You are authorized three other “exempt” rulings.    Use them wisely.

Rob Gowen also has to follow Gina around the entire time wearing flip flops, boxer shorts and a brown tee-shirt with a bottle of hair gel demanding of everyone, “where is my hair gel.” This will make me happy as I look on from the ever-after.

Mike Gianeeeteee …. You sir will ensure everyone is drunk as shit. 

If my grave isn’t muddy with beer (and piss) you fucked up. 

Don’t fuck up. 

Someone has to later donate me to a medical college.   I want college kids who will later view my autopsied corpse to go “HOLY fuck those lungs are torn up.  That is the most fucked up liver I ever saw and holy shit that’s a big dick!  Which is also why I expect Ray Coley to … never mind.

I want Nick Sternberg and Jerry O’hara to shoot 9 mm (13 rounds) in to the air, Saddam Hussein style … while drinking beers.

Ruth Sternberg has to ensure my foreskin is reattached.  If my foreskin cannot be located, she gets to direct a reenactment of that Monty Python skit where a ton of topless chicks chase a condemned man over a cliff.   I suggest you get Rick Bumgardner to help with the camera work.

I also give Rick my collection of plastic army men and dinosaurs.

I expect Maggie and Alex to supervise it all, I suggest an elaborate system utilizing clipboards, reading glasses, annoying whistles and safety vests. Don’t forget disapproving looks when some lady shows up and refuses to be topless.

Darcy Debase, bet you didn’t see this coming, you have to cater it.     I liked ribs.  So it should be ribs.  You should also be topless, figure it out.

Side note to Gina: There are no pasties allowed (Darcy will totally try to weasel out that way). 

Gina already knows this.  I’m just reinforcing the message.

Bron Berry has to show up and proclaim, “Holy boobs!”  You also have to announce a best tits winner.    From the crowd I mean.

Maggie and Alex will have to organize a best boobs contest, because that’s how I would have wanted it and because I just wrote that thing about Bron being a boobie judge and crap.

Dagmar, one year after my death, has to go online to buy something and surf for the highest price.  If she finds the same spatula for sale for $20 and $40 she has to buy the $40 one.   She also has to yell out during the wake, “That mother fucker fucked me again!”  I’ll be giggling from the afterlife I assure you.

Val Henderson and Lynn Davis will print out every post on this blog and hand correct, with red pen, the untold millions of grammatical, spelling and WTF errors.   They will then pass them out to the people in attendance.  They’ll be topless so you won’t mind.

Mike Lavigne has to take over this blog.   He also has to rename it, “Was that Todd dude a dick or what?”  I’d suggest asking Jesse for ideas Mike.

Matt and Marni Sandberg have to proclaim loudly during the funeral while whatever Christian priest you all pick is talking, “I thought he was Jewish?”

Mel Raymond and Mellissa Novakovich are in charge of snark, turn it up to 11 ladies.   They’ll understand why they were paired the minute they meet.  Also fuck you both.

Chad Oliver gets my remote control helicopter IF he promises to annoy Amanda once a week with it.

Eric and Bianca get my beer fridge, full circle kids.

Little Edward Oliver gets a car.  Nothing that exceeds like 30K IN TODAY’S prices so don’t be bankrupting my widow.   Also if he doesn’t have one, his own computer.

Leila and Jill get all revenues from my many super top-secret iPhone game ideas.   Hint they all suck and will garner like $2 at best.

Bucky, start raising funds now, this is gonna cost us.  By us I mean you.   I want a shit ton of hot tubs …