Posts Tagged ‘humor


Coffee gone wild…

Yesterday, I was walking through a German store with my friend, Annette. I wanted to buy some hiking boots or shoes for my future trips to Austria or Italy.

We crested the top of the escalator and gleaming before me was a coffee maker of astounding capacities.

Or so I’d assumed after seeing the listed price of 1800 Euros (About $2000). I blinked hard and regarded, again, the price tag.

“What’s this thing cost?” I asked Annette.

“Just what it says, right there”,  she said, as if asking if I were blind.

“Does it make sparks fly out of my ass?” I was really interested, now. “Does gold fall out of the spout? Naked women, maybe?”

“No, it makes coffee.”

Surely, the well-regarded German engineers had put something quite special on this machine for it to cost so much. I admit, it had buttons and spouts and all kinds of gadgetry sprouting from its cold, steel facing. But there must be something else, I thought.

Nope. Just coffee. Sure, I’d sell my left arm for a hot cup of Sparky Juice, but I don’t think my arm is worth $2000. Maybe $1500…


Repost: See: I do negotiate with terrorists.

To try to make ammends with pro-Hamas bloggers that are teaming in the blogosphere, I’m reposting a popular article of mine: Me making nice with militants.

Let the hate-mail resume…


Do women date down?

you know this guys got cash...
you know this guys got cash…

If her daddy’s rich, take her out for a meal. If her daddy’s poor, just do as you feel.~   In the Summer Time, Mungo Jerry

 I can’t help but notice the connection between having a beautiful girlfriend or wife and having money or power–or maybe just a nice car. (Expensive and fast, which equals money and power)

Men are considered jerks if we want a nice looking lady. We’re way out of line if we want sex. We’ve been told that sex is all we think about. Well ladies, I’m here to tell you, it is a big deal but it’s not all we think of. We think about football, video games, poker night, beer and sex. Oh–I already mentioned sex. Sorry. And beer, did I mention beer?

But maybe, just maybe, ladies, we use all of the things I’ve listed to sooth our wounded egos. See, a man pretty much defines himself by his woman (yep, we like our egos inflated by our women) and by his job. What’s really great is when you come home from a long day’s work and your woman comments on what a hard worker you are. It’s like two for one. Yea, I think our egos are hurt, because you gals can’t help but fall in love with guys who have money and power.

I walk around base here and when I see a pretty girl, I say “officer’s girl”. Sure enough when the guy turns around, he’s got captain’s bars on the front of his uniform.  I look away, so as not to be rude. (That’s not the way I roll.) Side note: Some guys say other guy’s girlfriends are fair game, they’re not married after all. Not me. Violates the Golden Rule.

End of digression.

But us Children of a Lesser God have little chance. I mean, head down to the local clubs here in Germany. You don’t see officers down there very often. They simply don’t have to be there. All they have to do is flash the rank, or rev the engine of their new BMW M5 a little louder as the smokin’ chick walks by. Maybe lean out his window: “How you doin'”?

I remember when I was in college, thinking the opposite of what I’m saying here. It seemed like some very regular looking guys with not a lot of money or much else, were able to score beautiful girlfriends. I see that much less now.

Oh, and looks and athleticism don’t matter much, either, unless those attributes bring the guy money and power. Money,money, money…

We see it in Hollywood too. When does an actress marry a guy who makes less money than her? maybe the bag-boy at Piggly Wiggly. He’s a really nice guy,I hear. Smart too. Working on his thesis in physics, about four-vector in relativity. Don’t ask me what that is. Give him a chance.

There’s this really degrading T-Shirt on It says: Fat Girls Try Harder, on its front. It’s degrading yes, but in some ways it’s true. People who feel they’re lacking in some areas try to make up for it in others. We could say, Broke guys with no influence try like fricken crazy.  I wouldn’t argue.

So maybe you should step outside your safe zone ladies. Give the guys driving Opels a chance. The guy at the gas pump who asks you out–don’t laugh at him when you drive away. He tries really hard.





I had to laugh reading one of my old posts. It got the most comments out of any.

I’m not sure if I liked the post or the dialogue in the comments better.


Sometimes I think it’s the US and Britain against the world…


Woman problems

As I sit writing this, I’m congratulating myself for an excellent choice of beer: Highland Brewing Co.’s, Gaelic Ale. I’m sitting at Chicora Alley in downtown, Greenville. Chicora is a hip little restaurant/pub situated on Main St. Their Chicora Burger rules the Known Food Universe.


But I don’t feel that great right now. I’m worried about my girl–America. I love my country, so I worry about her. She’s having menstrual cramps, she’s grumpy and doesn’t seem to care about her man’s needs.  It’s all because she’s thinking about that other guy–Iraq.


I want to smooth her beautiful hair back, kiss her, but she won’t even let me touch her.


“Just calm down, Honey. It’ll all work out in the end, because we’re in love, right?” I say. Just a scowl.


It isn’t just this other guy, Iraq, that’s the problem. It’s all of her “friends”. They’ve been talking to her on the side, telling her to leave, forget about who made her great–me, the working, semi-anarchistic American. She used to love the bad-boy in me. No more. She wants an NPR listening, pipe-smoking, vegan. She used to dig my tattoos and the fact that I did what I wanted, when I wanted. But this Iraq dude has her all teary eyed and longing for better days. She may even vote for a guy for president just because he has a deep voice and a great haircut…


I’ve tried everything. She thinks these are the worst of times. I try to tell her about the good ‘ol days, make her remember the tough times we’ve been through and how we came out all smiles in the end. She says I don’t love her anymore, because I put underwear on a guy’s head when I was at Abu-Ghraib and took a liking to water-boarding. I remind her how she wanted to tear my clothes off, do it right there in the parking lot, when I burned Dresden to the ground and razed Nagasaki with a nuclear fire-storm.


But she’s having none of it. She’s infatuated with this new guy. I know I’ve made mistakes. I admit that. No one’s perfect. But does she think she’ll find love again, a love like mine? No–this new thing she has is cheap and something to cover up the depression she’s fallen into. She’s been under so much stress lately. I’d like to say that medication would help her, but I’m not so sure that hasn’t contributed to the problems we’re having.


No one loves a warrior; no one gets it. I’m a steetfighter at heart .She’s forgotten how my rough-and-tumble ways got her everything she has. How she appreciated my strength when I knocked the crap out of the Mexican Empire. California’s nice, right? Texas? Way back when I first began to court her, America sat daintily, sipping tea, as I shattered the British Imperium (twice). She rubbed the soreness out of my shoulders after that bloody affair. “Poor boy,” she said. “Work and fight so hard. Poor boy.”


Then there was that time when I got really drunk. Started having black folk do all the hard work for me. I messed up, and I knew I’d pay a price eventually. I just didn’t know how to get out of my situation without a lot of pain and suffering–and lots and lots of blood. More blood than you’ve ever seen in your life. I still walk with a limp from that fight. But I won the war with myself, and that is the toughest war anyone will ever fight. And the greatest thing is that my lady still loved me.


I’ve been in so many fights. I have so many scars. Scars used to be a symbol of manhood. No more. She wants the tender skin of the effete, now. Doesn’t she see how hard I’ve tried to do the right thing? Does she think it’s easy to be as self-critical as I am, to always be questioning your own motives and actions? That’s what I do, too.


I mess up. Everyone else messes up more. She wants me to change. She wants me to be more like that catamite, France. But like someone said, “We can never cease to be ourselves.”


Come back, Sweetheart. I know I’m a little rough around the edges, but if you look into my heart, you’ll see I’m a lot better than all the others. If you’d understood that when I fight, I have to break some bones, it would have been over by now. But I tried to make you happy, and win a fight at the same time. That was wrong of me, and it was wrong of you to expect no blood.


This Iraq guy will be gone soon. I’ll be waiting, America. You know I’m always here for you, no matter where your fluttering heart wanders.


Come back. I’ll try to do better.


See–I am willing to negotiate with terrorists–if they cook me steak…


See–I can get along too.

In an effort to celebrate and imitate Jimmy Carter’s recent meet-up with Hamas, and fearing the label which many in the blogosphere may place on me, I have made a concerted effort to see the good in all people.

At the Hayfield Lane Peace Accord, well-know Mujaheddin leader, Michael Rozos and I agreed to sign a peace treaty laying out plans for a ceasefire in Greer, South Carolina.

In exchange for a well-cooked New York Strip steak, I agreed not to hit his BMW M-3 with a Mk-83 JDAM bomb. It should be noted that his M-3 has no emissions control. Rozos is likely to find that left-wing enviro-nazis will not be as ready to negotiate as I was. ELF anyone?

To the chagrin of many, Rozos’ father drives a Prius, and his mother was married to a cousin of Libyan dictator, Muammar Gadaffi….

Yup–it’s true.

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