Today marked the end of the Little Deputy's first basketball season.  Our team made it to the Final 4, before gracefully bowing out in a hard-fought contest.  The day did not end without some fireworks from some little league parents.  Before I discuss the idiot dad from my team, I think a little background information is necessary.

Several years ago, I coached my step-son's baseball team.  I coached his team for 3 years, and for the most part had great parents, and great kids.  I really LOVE baseball, and love teaching kids the game.  About 5 years ago, I 'gave up' coaching because of the parents.  My step-son was playing in a 7-8 year old, coach pitch league.  Basically, the 'coach pitch' was a pitching machine.  The league DID NOT keep score, every kid got a trophy kind of thing, which I think sucks, but that's another blog for another day.  However, this was the first year the kids play with a REAL baseball, and not a hard foam ball.

Believe it or don't, we have a draft for these kids.  There isn't a try-out, all the coaches get in a room, and just pick the kids.  I employed a rather simple draft strategy that has two components, 1) do I know the kid, or 2) does the kid have a hot mom?  Answer yes to either of those questions, and chances are you will be playing for my team.  Anyway, 5 years ago, I drafted a kid that fit into category #1.  The kid played on my team the year before, and I liked the kid. I liked the kid alot. He hustled, he tried really hard, and he loved to play.  Well, apparently, his parents had a problem with me.  This kid's dad went nuts when he found out his kid was on my team.  The dad felt that I 'wasn't competitive enough'.  And the dad declared himself the 4th assistant coach of 'the competitive coaches'' team, so therefore his son had to play for that team.  So, anyway, the league arranged for a trade, without discussing it with me...whatever...let's just play ball.  However, the kid they traded to my team, had the little league parents.  Little League parents, are parents that have visions of grandeur for their child.  They see their child as the best at ANYTHING they attempt to do, and do not like facts, or reality question their vision for their child.  These parents however, do nothing whatsoever to help their child achieve the visions of grandeur, but they do have no problem whatsoever casting blame on anyone that comes in contact with their child that they feel is either impeding upon or hindering their child from their own vision of greatness.

So, the kid that gets traded to my team, I'll call, Lupus.  I'm not going to say Lupus is the worst player that ever set foot on a baseball field, but he was way up there.  Lupus couldn't catch, had no clue what base to run to, which turned out not to be a problem, as he wasn't in any danger of ever hitting the ball.  Lupus's main problem was, he didn't want to play baseball.  His parents MADE him play. Lupus was dutifully assigned to right field, where he would sit down in the grass and play with the clover.  If a ball was hit to Lupus, he didn't run after it, he didn't get up from the clover.  Lupus's parents however thought their son was the second coming of Joe Dimaggio.  Lupus's mom and dad HAD NO PROBLEMS telling me how I should coach Lupus.  His dad suggested to me that putting Lupus in right field discouraged him so much, he didn't want to play.  Lupus's mom and dad BEGGED, REQUESTED and ultimately demanded that Lupus play the pitcher position.  I wouldn't let Lupus play the pitcher position, because 90% of the balls were hit in these games went straight to the pitcher, and 1) the kid couldn't catch, and 2) he didn't pay attention.  I calmly and politely explained to the parents I feared for their son's safety, and would not put him in harm's way.  After a 15 game season, Lupus's dad was just getting downright nasty with me, and at the last game did everything but threaten me with a lawsuit if I didn't let Lupus play pitcher.  I relented.  God loves me, and wants me to be happy.

As God, Lupus's mom and dad, Mrs. Commissioner and everyone on the field as my witness, the FIRST PITCH OF THE GAME, my favorite batter of all time hit a glorious line drive right of the bridge of Lupus's nose.  Blood, crying, agony, pain, followed by Lupus's parents walking their child to the car and off the field.  He is now on the swim team, and rumor has it, won't even watch baseball on tv.  Despite the glorious end to that season, I retired from coaching. 

Fast forward 5 years, and suddenly I'm Brett Favre, out of retirement and coaching again.  The little deputy wanted to play basketball, and I decided to coach.  I have 11 kids on my team.  The league has a rule, that EVERY kid on the team must play one full quarter, start to finish.  Fortunately, we had a really good team, and had several blowouts, so I had to put my best players on the bench in the 3rd and 4th quarters.  So, virtually every game this year, every player on my team played nearly 2 quarters.  The little deputy, wasn't the worst player on the team, but I would say, at least at the start of the year, was the least enthusiastic.  Consequently, no child on the team played less than MY CHILD.  Another child on the team, who I will call Junior, was probably 9 out of 11 in skill level on my team.  Junior is a good kid though, and I like him alot.  I do not like his dad, Senior, or his mom, Bitchzilla.

Earlier this year, Bitchzilla approached my assistant coach after a practice, and complained to her about Junior's playing time.  She said, she wanted him to PLAY MORE.  My assistant coach, pointed out, that in the previous game, we only had 6 players, and her son had in fact, PLAYED THE WHOLE GAME, just how much playing time did she want him to have?  They then got into a discussion about his playing time in practice.  To quote, Allen Iverson, "we are talking about practice"....My assistant coach was confused, because we don't play games in practice.  We do drills, we shoot baskets.  So, we don't hear anything else from them again, until today.

We are playing our quarterfinal game, and we are winning the game, 14-5.  Junior had played the entire second quarter, and he had played the last 2 minutes of the third quarter.  I put in an entire new lineup to start the 4th quarter.  Seconds after the 4th quarter starts, Senior gets up off his 400 pound ass, and waddles ACROSS THE COURT, during the game, and sits on the bench.  He says to me, "hey coach, you need to put my son back in, he hasn't played enough."  I looked at him and told him, I was coaching the team, and told him to go sit down and watch the game.  I sat there and just stewed for the rest of the game, which we won.  We had about 4 hours between the first game, and the second game, so I was at home, and I got a copy of the league rules.  I highlight the portion of the league rules that show each kid is to play a minimum of one quarter.  When we get to the second game, I walk up to Senior and show him the rules.  I tell him, this is what the rules require, your son played more than that.  He looks at me, and says, I don't need the rules.  I tell him, I don't need any more coaching advice.  He says to me, 'did I offend you?' I say to him, yes, you offended me, when you walk across the court and demand that I put your son in the game. I told him, if he doesn't like how his son's team is coached, then next year he can volunteer to coach.'  He then says to me, I don't like how aggressive you are, you need to get out of my face. 

I have spent the rest of the afternoon just furious pissed off.  I can't stand these little league parents, that don't practice or play with their kids at home.  They do not offer to help at all at practice or games, and then feel they are entitled to demand playing time for their kids.  If you are one of these parents, do everyone a favor, and have the neighbors bring your kids to the game, or better yet, don't sign them up at all.  However, if your kid really wants to play, and you are either a bitchzilla mom, or, as a dad, you can best be described as an insatiable dick, sign up to coach your kid's team.  I assure you, no other parent wants to deal with you, or your coaching suggestions.

        

Once again it is that time of the year, where 'we' are supposed to show the love of our lives how much our relationship means to us by buying, in order of importance, 1) diamonds, 2) red roses, 3) dinner, 4) tickets to some stupid chick flick movie and 5) a $9 greeting card that says all kinds of crap about your relationship.  Yes, we know I am speaking about Valentine's Day.  Most annoying day of the year.

You noticed, I used the term "we".  In this case, "we" does not mean everyone in a relationship.  "We" means, everyone that has to use the men's room.  I have yet to see a commercial, suggesting that women buy their men, 1) a rolex, 2) week at fantasy camp in Florida, 3) dinner at Hooter's, 4) tickets to professional wrestling, or, at a bare minimum a case of our favorite beer.  Women apparently AREN'T supposed to buy men anything for Valentine's Day.  Who is telling women to buy us anything?  It sure as hell isn't Kay Jewelers.

Is, this, or is this not, a holiday about "LOVE" and relationships?  If it isn't, then let's not call it Valentine's Day, let's call it buy shit for your girlfriend/wife/mother/anyone you care about without a penis day.  If it is, it is about time for some equal rights.  Gloria Allred has been running around for years screaming for equal rights.  She is on TV more than Al Sharpton screaming about something, but I promise you, she has never bought a man anything in her life for Valentine's Day.

I have brought this up to women lots of times.  They ALL tell me, oh, we always get our husband/boyfriend, something for Valentine's Day.  I say, really, like what?  Well, I got him a card.  Ohhhhhhhh.  A card.  What else?  (Picture crickets chirping). That is always the answer.  Several years ago, I decided, I'm going to take the bull by the horns.  I'm going to test this Valentine's Day is about celebrating your relationship crap.  Any good scientist comes up with a hypothesis, and then tests it.  So, that's what I did.  My hypothesis was, Valentine's Day is not about celebrating your relationship by showing your significant other you love them, it is purely about buying shit for your woman.

I tested this hypothesis about 12 years ago, when I was in a previous relationship.  Here is the completely true story.  It was a Monday, circa 1997-1999. It was Valentine's Day.  I had not done crap. No roses, no chocolates, no dinner reservations, no plans whatsoever.  I got up, drove to work to my office in downtown, Birmingham, Alabama, and was listening to my regular morning show on radio.  The radio announcers were giving away 2 ringside seats to WCW Monday Nitro, which was being held that night...Valentine's Day.  You had to answer their trivia question to win the tickets.  Now, a little Beer Commissioner background.  I have watched professional wrestling, virtually every week of my life from the time I was 3 until, well, this past Monday (and I'm not inferring that I've quit watching wrestling).  My dad used to take me to see Andre the Giant at the Hersheypark Arena. I saw Superfly Snuka come off the top rope.  I saw Hulkamania run wild.

So, the announcers ask the trivia question, which was quite simply, "Who is the greatest wrestler North of Hell and South of Mars?"  I instantly knew the answer was none other than the Macho Man Randy Savage.  Now, remember this is the late 90s. I had a bag phone in my car, and cell phone prices back then were around $9000 a minute, so I didn't call in the answer.  I listened to knucklehead after knucklehead get the answer wrong.  I get to the office, run to my desk, call the radio station, got through, and answered the question.  Friends, the Beer Commissioner scored 2 ringside seats to WCW Monday Nitro, on Valentine's Day.  I immediately called my partner, the Grand Wizard Bitch of Making Men Miserable, and told her we had plans for Valentine's Day.  I didn't tell her what they were, but I'd be home around 4:30, we'd go to dinner.  She of course, wanted to know what to wear, etc.  I told her, it didn't matter (and really, did it?) . 

Imagine her surprise when we parked at the Birmingham Jefferson Civic Center, and she saw the marquee.  She looked at me, and said, is this a joke?  And, I said, is what a joke?  She asked, if I was REALLY taking her to see professional wrestling on Valentine's Day.  I told her, not only was I taking her to see professional wrestling, but I was going to buy her a hotdog, and she was sitting ringside!  I even told her, that I thought it would be cool if we got matching NWO (New World Order) t-shirts, since we were going to be on tv.  I told her, I called my brother and told him, so he could watch.  I then said, I told him what my sign would say.  She asked me in a quizical look, 'what sign?' I proudly displayed the 3' x 3' sign I made at work, which said "I am the LOWEST COMMON DENOMINATOR'  I thought it was cool and catchy.

Can you believe, on a day, when we were supposed to be celebrating our relationship, and making our partners happy, she said, 'you go have fun, I'm sitting in the car?'  I swear to you, she sat in the car.  But this wasn't a happy, you go have fun thing.  This was a you go have fun and I'm going to think what a dick you are, and when we get home I'm going to call every woman on the planet and tell them what an asshole you are, and oh by the way, I'm a martyr and should be in the Gloria Allred Hall of Fame kindof have fun.  I left her a ticket and went into the arena.  She did come in later, but she wouldn't put on the t-shirt I bought for her, and she treated me like I arranged to have her dogs sodomized.  After this reaction, and the subsequent fallout, I easily concluded Valentine's Day, at least from the women's perspective is about getting expensive stuff.  It certainly, isn't about making your man happy, and I sure was happy.

So, my advice to all my Beer Drinking Brothers out there.  If you want to have a good Valentine's Day and be happy, YOU make the plans, and if the WWE is in town, by all means, buy tickets.

        

I just read another article today about some politician getting in trouble for saying the "R" word.   Seriously? What in God's name is the "R" word?

I've heard of THE word. It was depicted in a Christmas Story..THE F DASH DASH DASH word.  The "F" word has always been a no-no.

Then we had the "n" word.  You can't ever say the "n" word.  Well, you can't say it if you are pasty faced white guy like myself, but if you are a rapper, it is totally cool to say it.

There is or was a TV show called the "L" word.  It is on one of those pay channels, I don't pay for, so I never saw it. I'm not sure what the "L" word is, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't mean Lite Beer, but perhaps it should.  You'll never find a lite beer in my house, unless someone else brings it over.  I don't ever turn down anyone bringing any type of beer to my house, but be assured, I sure as hell don't buy Lite beer.   I like calories. 

Several years ago, George Carlin, God rest his soul, did a skit about the words you can't say on TV.  I remember one eyed wonder worm was one of the words.  I'm not sure why you couldn't say one-eyed-wonder worm on TV, but if George Carlin said it, you know it had to be true.  I haven't seen that skit in a long, long time, but I'm pretty sure there were no words beginning with "R".

There are some words I don't like being said in my house.  Stupid is one of those words.  I just don't like my children calling each other, someone else, or me stupid.  People aren't stupid. They are misinformed, or uneducated, but not necessarily stupid.  They may have a glorious abscense of intelligence, but I wouldn't call them stupid.  That being said, I wouldn't say, stupid is the "S" word.

Mrs. Commissioner told me, if I ever called her a cougar, she'd arrange for my vascectomy to be completely irrelevant.  Cougar is certainly not the "C" word, but I'm not going to say it in my house.

I remember when I was in elementary school learning about the evils of the "B" word.  You could never say the "B" word.  It always puzzled me why my mother constantly, and perpetually called me a son of a bitch.  I thought the B word was a bad thing, and I spent years in therapy and utter confusion, as to why my mother would call me an SOB, and I was further puzzled when Joe Garagiolla would say it like every other word during the Westminster Dog Show on tv.  Is it bad, or isn't it?  I'm still not sure.

I was sitting down contemplating the letter "P".  There are many good "P" words.  Puppy, Pluto, which, incidentally, I thought was doing a great job of being a planet, paper, plastic, pilsner, pinot noir...all great "P" words, but none of them are THE "P" word, which is kind of sad, but the "P" word, is really one of my all-time favorite words, and one of my all-time favorite things.  God must like it too, which is why the PHILLIES have been in the World Series the last 2 years. 

Who decides, what word gets to represent an entire segment of the alphabet?   Is there a committee?  Is there a group of teachers?  Is Katie Couric on the panel?  Is there an application process?

Finally, when whoever it is, decides that this word, will represent an entire letter of the alphabet, how is that information deciminated?  Who is responsbile for letting us know?  Seriously, I would hate to be sitting in a bar, drinking a wonderful beer, and accidentally, and offensively call someone the "Y" word.   That would be terrible.  I don't want to call anyone the "Y" word.  I don't want to call them the "J" or the "M" word either.

Sometimes, people just make life too hard or complicated. I don't think things need to be this hard.  I'm going to make things easy for everyone.  If you are ever invited to the Beer Commissioner World Headquarters, just know, it is never BYOB at my house, and you can call me whatever word you want, whether it begins with an R, A, D, C or SOB.  I won't mind, and I certainly won't alert the media.

        

Every now and then life throws you one of those little surprises that makes getting up in the morning so worthwhile.  Our family traveled to Missouri to the Commissioner-in-laws to celebrate the Christmas holidays.  Our wedding anniversary is right before Christmas, and because we had the grandma and grandpa babysitting service, Mrs. Commissioner and I headed to Kansas City to have our anniversary dinner.  We met up with some dear friends in Kansas City, and had a delightful dinner and a wonderful time catching up.

We then had to make the 1 hour drive back to Sedalia, Missouri.  If you've ever had the pleasure of driving through Missouri, there isn't alot to see. The land is flat, and occassionally spotted with a nuclear missle silo here and there.  On our drive home, right outside of Warrensburg, Missouri there was an unmistakeable pink neon glow beakoning from the fruited plains.  To the untrained eye, this pink glow would be passed off as a gas station, but to the Beer Commissioner, this is a beacon of electric sex and wonderment.  As we approached, the neon signs glared GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS underneath a bigger sign that read FANTASY RANCH.  At this point  I heard the second best thing a guy can ever hope to hear from his wife, on his wedding anniversary.  Mrs. Commissioner said, "oh we have to stop at the strip club."  Yes people. My wife is THAT awesome.

As far as wonderment, and magic goes, Cinderalla's castle has nothing on this place.  We walk into the joint, and were immediately met by the door guy.  The door guy was a kind of a cross between Uncle Jesse from the Dukes of Hazzard and Ernest Hemingway.  Had he not been 5'2" you'd say he was from central casting to play Santa Claus on a pirate ship.  Right behind the door guy, was a glowing neon sign that simply stated, "Totally Nude Bed Dances".  Yes, there were little rooms, with beds, ostensibly for Totally Nude Dancing.

The door guy explained to us, the rules of the joint.  First, it was a juice bar.  No alcohol was served.  I don't know if I had visions of totally nude bed dances, dancing around in my head, or that I was still pumped my wife said, we HAD to stop at the strip club, but I never registered being upset that I couldn't have beer in a strip club.  All in all, not having beer, probably saved us $600 on the bar tab.  He then told us, there was a bar next door, and we could drink there, but not in the parking lot.  He also said, we got one complimentary drink, but all other drinks, we'd have to pay for, and those were the staggering price of....$2.  He then asked us if that would be "ok". 

Is it ok that I'm going to spend less than $10 on beverages at a strip club?  That's like asking me if I mind winning the powerball.  So, after he explains all this stuff to us, he then gives us the cherry on top, on our yet unfulfilled strip club experience.  He then tells us, if we were hungry, it was taco night, and he points us to the taco buffet, situated right outside the totally nude bed dance room.  Christmas had truly come early.

Mrs. Commissioner and I headed to the stage, took our complimentary coffee and diet coke, and enjoyed the festival of nudity on the stage in front of us.  After watching a parade of nakedness, Mrs. Commissioner then said to me, the best thing a woman can say to her husband on their wedding anniversary.  "Pick a girl, I'm going to buy you a totally nude bed dance."  Pinch me, but did I go to Sodom and marry Pandora?  Life can't be this good.  Shortly thereafter, Mrs. Commissioner, me, and T.J. (not of Baywatch fame, but she stole the name, nonetheless) headed off to the totally nude bed dance room, when the kind hand of fate peeled off four aces.  Right before we went into the room, the DJ announces, dances are now 2 for 1.  For 8 exquisite minutes the lovely TJ 'danced' for me on a surprisingly comfortable twin bed.

After the 'dancing' Mrs. Commissioner and I assumed our positions back at the stage, when the Garden of Delights offered up its final surprise of the evening.  Smack dab in the middle of this utopian paradise was a shower, enclosed fully in glass.  Seconds later, a lovely lady, and some little Air Force flyboy were in the shower.  He was wearing his skivvies, she was wearing her birthday suit.  The DJ appropriately played the You and Me Baby Aren't Nothing But Mammals song as the lovely vixen 'showered' with this young man.  Just like that the DJ announced it was 2:00 a.m., and they were closing.  We were kicked out of the strip club, and headed home, at least one of us a very happy camper.

I'm not saying the Fantasy Ranch is the greatest strip club on earth.  I'm not saying this was the best time I have ever had in a strip club.  But, I am saying,  if you ever find yourself on Hwy 60 in Western Missouri, and you see a neon pink light beaconing from the highway, I highly recommend the taco buffet.  Next time, I may even try the food.

        

The little deputy turned 5 this year, and he announced he wanted to play basketball.  Our local recreation department has a Bitty Basketball League for 5-6 year olds.  The cut-off day is September 1.  The Little Deputy's birthday is September 1.  He is literally the youngest child in the league.

Naturally I decided to coach.  The Wizard of Westwood, John Wooden I am not, but I am a disciple of Coach Jim Beddall, the Sage of Selinsgrove.  Coach Beddall was my basketball coach from 7th grade through high school.  I manned the spot on the bench next to Coach Beddall for 6 years.  I couldn't really dribble, shoot, pass, and was way too slow to play defense, but I could tell if the low post guy was overplaying our #4 guy, and that the back door pass was open on the low post all day, and I would tell Coach.  He really wouldn't listen.  He'd usually grumble something about why did he quit smoking?

I enlisted my law partner as my assistant coach.  She afterall, played with Pokey Chatman, who coached a national championship team.  We are one degree away from basketball glory, there is no way we can't, at a minimum, field a competitive team, with all this pseudo coaching greatness sort of osmosizing throuh our veins.

We have 11 kids on our team.  9 boys, including the Little Deputy and 2 girls, one of which is going to be better than Candace Parker, and you heard that here first.  We play on a regulation sized court, except with an 8' basket.  Our first practice was an exercise in cat herding.  About 4 of the 11 kids can dribble.  3 of the 11 can consistently reach the basket.  7 of the 11 kids on the team, including the Little Deputy have no prayer of getting the ball anywhere near the basketball goal this year.

At one of the practices, I actually tried to install Coach Beddall's motion offense.  I have no idea what in the world I was thinking.  The idea of setting a pick and coming off it, or bounce passing on the baseline was so foreign to the kids, I probably would have been better off teaching them calculus while speaking Mandarin Chinese.  Fortunately, I have Coach Wendy, who discerned, give the ball to one of the kids that can dribble, and have them pass to one of the kids that can reach the basket.  Yahtzee!  We had an offense.  After a month of practice, we had our first game yesterday.

One of the rules in our league is that every kid on the team has to play a full quarter.  Great rule.  We had 10 kids show up for the game yesterday.  I played the best 5 players in the first quarter and we jumped out to a commanding 2-0 lead.  Because of our swarming 2-3 zone defense, the other team never even shot the ball.  Not one time.  During the second quarter, I put in the other 5 kids.  Our swarming 2-3 zone defense, turned into the run away from the ball defense.  The Little Deputy spent most of the second quarter telling me he had to poo poo, when he should have been playing defense.  (He did in fact spend the entire 3rd quarter in the bathroom poo-pooing).  We did not get a shot off during the entire second quarter.  However, #2 on the opposing team, channeled Kobe Bryant and lit us up for 5 points.  After the second quarter, Coach Wendy and I determined #2 on the opposing team, was the ONLY player on their team that could reach the basket.  He was it.  I then switched to the soon to be famous "Chaos 5 Defense'.

I invented it  yesterday during half-time.  The Chaos 5 defense involves putting all 5 of your defensive players on one guy, which in this case was #2.  The Chaos 5 defense worked wonderfully.  The other team did not get a shot off in the second half, and we forced 9000 turnovers.  Coach Wendy's daughter, the next Candance Parker, lit up the scoreboard for 2 huge buckets, and we won the game 6-5.

I was crazy happy. The kids were crazy happy. The Little Deputy's fiber intake seems to be clicking on all cylinders.   Every kid on the team played at least half the game.  All the kids had fun. Just 9 more games to go, and then its March Maddness.  Yes, the Bitty Basketball League has a March Madness!  Nolan Richardson used to call his Razorback team 40 minutes of hell.  I think our games can be called 24 minutes of confusion and chaos!  But alot more fun!

        

Today is Game 1 of the World Series, where my beloved WORLD CHAMPION PHILLIES take on the hated Yankees, whom I really don't hate, but the Yankees are in the way of me being able to type WORLD CHAMPION PHILLIES for another year, so for those purposes I hate them.

I just got back from the grocery store, where I was provisioning myself for tonight's game.  Beer, pretzels, potato chips, bacon and frozen mini-tacos were purchased for the event.  My trip to the check-out line was delayed by one of the last 12 people on earth that actually use a checkbook.  Since the Beer Commissioner is a public service oriented type of guy, I dedicate this blog to those 12 people who actually still use a checkbook.

I decided to write this blog, while standing in line at the grocery store, and watched the grocery clerk scan approximately 200 items.  At the conclusion of the scanning of the items, the grocery clerk then informed the lady in front of me the price of her groceries.  Telling this woman she had to pay for her groceries, apparently was a complete surprise, because she acted like she had no idea she actually had to pay for the groceries, because it was not until that exact time, that the lady began spelunking through her Grand Canyon sized purse for her checkbook.  The trip through the purse was not yet over.  The lady then sat the purse down in the buggy, and dove in, head first apparently to find a pen.  I say apparently, because she waved it around like an olympic torch when she emerged from the confines of her purse.  She then began to write the check.  Then, a third trip was made into the purse, this time, for a calculator, so she could subtract from her checkbook ledger the price of the groceries.

After the check was written, the clerk, to the disappointment of us all, requested to see the woman's driver's license, which was in a completely different wallet, which was buried in the catycomb portion of the purse.  After all the check writing, math figuring and ID showing, we had to order up a key-turn.  I never realized why on earth the grocery store needs the manager to turn a key everytime someone writes a check, but I figured it out today.  It is much nicer and customer friendly to say, key turn on register 4, than to say, hey manager, come look at this dumbass that still writes a check.

Now, before I help you people, I need to identify who the people are that need helping.  There are three ways to tell if you are the idiot that still uses a checkbook, and you need to be told of this great new invention. 

First, are you in a grocery store and writing a check, if so, look at the person behind you, if you see me, you are a moron that needs my help.

Second, when the television stations switched from analog to digital service, and you could no longer watch television, you need my help.

Third, do you spend 4 hours one weekend a month, putting stamps on envelopes containing your monthly bills? If  so, you are wasting your life away, and you need my help.

If you fit the above, this advice is for you.  There is this great invention called a DEBIT CARD.  They look like a credit card, but they act like a check.  All you have to do is scan the card, and the money magically comes out of your checking account.  Poof! Just like that!  No more digging through big purses looking for pens, checkbooks and IDs. No sir! No more embarrassing key turns at the cash register!  No more writer's cramp! No more silly math!  All you have to do is call your bank and say, I want a debit card, and within 7 days one will be delivered RIGHT TO YOUR DOOR!  Imagine not having to spend hours paying bills.  You'll get out of the grocery store in 10 fewer minutes! 

So, assuming your bank hasn't been taken over by the government, or has failed, you too can get a DEBIT CARD.  For the love of GOD, act now!

        

It is time.  It is time for dedication and proclamation.  It is time for bestowing.  It is time to christen the Cathedral of Baseball, Yankee Stadium.  Cathedrals should be christened by popes.  The Phillies used to have a pope, Paul Owens, but he is with us no more. He led the Wheeze Kids to the Fall Classic in 1983.  How many Hall of Famers played in that Series? Tony Perez, Joe Morgan, Steve Carlton, Mike Schmidt, Eddie Murray and some rookie named Ripken. 

The 2009 version of the Fall Classic has the makings of a great one.  This is the first year of the new Yankee Stadium.  It is fitting that baseball's greatest games, be played in baseball's holiest place.  The Yankees are loaded with future Hall of Famers, and have more gold gloves than a costume party in the Castro.

The WORLD CHAMPION PHILLIES have the most potent hitting line-up in all of baseball.   Both teams are loaded with enough former Indians to make the Jacobs family wonder if they really know anything about baseball.

Hopefully somewhere, Whitey Ashburn, Tug McGraw, The Mick, Joe Dimaggio, the Babe, Casey Stengel all get together and watch the games.  Maybe they are watching the games at the Pope's house and drinking the dearly departed Frazier Beer? 

I'm hoping the Series goes 7 games.  I hope the Captain gets the key hit. I hope the Flyin' Hawaiian guns down Robinson Kano at home to stop the tying run from scoring.  I hope CC and Cliff Lee both throw complete games, and Game 1 ends 1-0.  I hope in one of the games, the Phillies 4 of Ultey, Howard, Werth and Ibanez put up a bunch of crooked numbers.  I hope that Lidge is perfect, and Mariano is at his best.  I hope J-Roll doesn't bite on the curve ball down and in, and I hope A-Rod doesn't have rabbit ears. I hope neither team makes an error in the field, and that Cole Hammels finds his curve ball.  I hope the Phillies win in 7 and parade down Broad Street.

I hope every baseball fan in heaven watches the games, and I hope that Harry Kalas and Whitey Ashburn call the games on Phillies Radio and Mel Allen and Phil Rizzuto call the Yankee games on heaven radio, but without the Money Store commercials.

"How about that?"

        

Much has been made this past week about awarding President Obama the Nobel Peace Prize.  People were quick to note the nomination deadline was a mere 11 days after his inaguration as president.  The Nobel Committee pointed out the Nobel Prize for Peace was not awarded for anything President Obama had actually done, but they awarded him the Prize to encourage him to actually do what he said he is going to do.

After all the hubbub this created, the Nobel Committee went back and revoked all other awards, and re-awarded them based on the new standard, of not actually doing anything, but just saying you are going to do something.

The Office of the Beer Commissioner was given special, exclusive access to the new awards, and I am going to announce them here.

The Nobel Prize for Medicine is awarded to M.D. Anderson hospital in Houston, Texas.  Yes, M.D. Anderson has just built a brand-new $8 billion dollar cancer wing at their facility.  Truly M.D. Anderson is a wonderful hospital, and if I ever draw life's short straw and am diagnosed with cancer, that will be my first trip.  That being said, M.D. Anderson wants to cure cancer.  Their research doctors are among the best in the world, and they are diligently working to cure cancer, and the Beer Commissioner certainly hopes they do it.  The Nobel Prize for medicine is awarded to M.D. Anderson hospital because they say they actually want to cure cancer. They haven't done it yet, but they want to.  I'm sure this will get done shortly after that $8 billion dollar edition to their hospital is paid for, but, they are getting the award, because they intend to do it.

The Nobel Prize for economics goes to Robert Mugabe, the president of Nigeria.  President Mugabe has quietly presided over one of the greatest redistribution of wealth exercises in history.  He has taken farmland that has belonged to generations of farmers, and has given it to the poor and displaced of his country.  The result is that the poor and displaced in the country have no idea how to farm, and they are now starving because the farmers have been driven from their land.  The entire economy in Nigeria has collapsed, and the inflaction rate is something around 20 million percent (I am not making this up).  The country actually issues 100,000,000,000 billion dollar notes.  President Mugabe says he is going to fix the Nigerian ecomony.  He has no intention of giving the lands back to the farmers, but he says he wants to do it.  He is going to start by reducing the price of eggs from $3 billion to the more reasonable price of $1 billion per dozen.  The Nobel Committee wants to help him with his efforts, and is awarding Robert Mugabe the Nobel Prize for economics.

The Nobel Prize for chemistry goes to InBev.  Since buying American Brewing giant Anheiser Busch, InBev stated they wanted to keep the great American beer drinking tradition alive and well.  InBev then gave us Bud Light Wheat.  InBev, bless their hearts wanted to give us a good beer to help keep the American beer drinking tradition alive and well, but unfortunately they gave us Bud Light Wheat.  We want to encourage InBev and all beer makers to give us great beers to drink.  Imagine giving the peace prize to a guy who just announced he is sending 40,000 more troops to a country to escalate a war? Makes no sense.  That is why InBev deserves the Nobel Prize for chemistry!

The Nobel Prize for literature has been given to....surprisingly, me!  Yes, I haven't posted a blog in 3 months.  Yes, my website gets approximately 10 hits a day.  The Nobel Committee wants to encourage my efforts in writing more about strippers.  Apparently there is a huge gap in that literature.  It turns out the Nobel Committee is gravely concerned that Adult Book Stores actually do not carry books.  Apparently, by giving the award to me, they are trying to encourage more beer and stripper related literature. 

Let me say, I am surprised and deeply honored by the award.  Hopefully, one day, I'll be able to live up to the lofty ideals for which it was established!

Deeply Humbled,
Beer Commissioner

        

This week I was thinking how wonderful it would be if one of my neighbors saw someone trying to shoulder jam their way into my house, and they would be so concerned they would call the police.  I also thought, how wonderful it would be that the police immediately showed up.

What a utopian world?  Your neighbor sees someone breaking into a house, they call the police and they immediately show up.  That is the kind of stuff that only ever happens on the Andy Griffin Show. 

However, we live in the 2000s, so let's screw this story up.  Let's say the above happens.  Now let's say the person who was doing the 'breaking in' was actually the resident, who is a highly regarded professor at the best university in the world outside of Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and he was busting his shoulder against the door because the door was jammed.  Let's assume then when the police officer shows up, the professor who was busting in the house calls the cop a racist.  Then let's further assume, the President of the United States, on national television says the police officer acted stupidly.  Then let's further assume that the New York Times sends whatever reporters they don't have in Alaska to this guy's house to ask him why he is a racist cop.

Oh, but we aren't done, let's further assume that when the 'racist' cop's black partner says he would have arrested the professor for his actions related to busting into this own house. And let's further assume the racist cop actually teaches other cops how not to be racist, and how not to profile people of color.

Then, let's assume the President goes on national television again, admits that he regrets committing a huge controversy, but refuses to apologize to the cop, but the president invites the professor and the cop over to his house for a beer.

Had the last part not have happened, the Beer Commissioner would not be involved.  But since the President of the United States is having a beer with a Professor Gates, Sgt. Crowley at the White House, I just had to interject myself into the situation.  It is a little known fact, but, my beer sources told me what happened at today's meeting. Of course, I had to share with you.

President Obama: "Gentlemen I invited both of you here today to have a beer, hopefully let bygones be bygones.  I also invited Vice President Biden here.  As we all know, we all say things we regret, and Joe here, well, he's about as good as it gets in saying things he later regrets."

Joe Biden: "Actually I just came because I love Schlitz Malt Liquor."

Professor Gates: "This is what it's like to be a black man in America."

Sgt. Crowley: "I wouldn't know."

Joe Biden: "Hell Barack doesn't know either, he was born in Kenya."

President Obama stares intently at Joe Biden.

Joe Biden: "Did I miss something? Are we having Colt 45 instead?"

Professor Gates: "I should have stayed in China."

President Obama: "Sgt. Crowley, like I was saying, we all say stupid things,and that's why I asked Joe to sit in on this meeting."

Sgt. Crowley: "Yes, Mr. President, sometimes you just can't help who you work with some days."

Professor Gates squirms in his seat.

President Obama: "Well, lucky for you, you can arrest people that piss you off, Joe was on the ballot, so I'm kinda stuck with him for the next 4 years."

Joe Biden: "Hey Barack, do you have a funnel?"

Professor Gates: "Was Oprah not available?"

Sgt. Crowley: "Wasn't your book in her book club?"

President Obama and Professor Gates together: "Yes."

Joe Biden: "Hey, I plagarized a book once."

Professor Gates: "I think its time we cut Joe off the beer."

Joe Biden: "Oh its ok, I'm taking the train home."

President Obama: "Gentlemen, I'm really sorry about all this."

Sgt. Crowley: "Sir, I appreciate your apology."

Professor Gates: "I have got to get that damn door fixed."

Joe Biden: "Oh look, pretzels!"

President Obama: "Gentlemen thank you for coming."

        

Once again the Beer Commissioner is here to help.  Yet another politician has lost his away, and has thrown his career down the proverbial toilet.  I don't know about you, but I'm sick and tired of these poor politicians getting caught with their pants down, and having their promising careers ended long before they have the chance to sell a Senate seat, stuff cash in their freezer, or get indicted for making huge profits on land deals.

So, I've decided to write the Beer Commissioner's Adultery Primer for Politicians.  By following my simple rules, any politician will save themselves from the shame of having to resign office long before they have the chance to swindle millions of taxpayer dollars, setting up their families for life, right before they are indicted.

First, say you are a Senator or a Congressman and you happen to like gay sex.  Like I said many times before, the Beer Commissioner is a progressive guy. I don't care what kind of sex anyone has, or who you want to have sex with. That's your business, and I'm quite happy to stay out of your business.  However, if you are a Senator or Congressman and you like having gay sex, avoid having gay sex in airport restroom stalls or with Capitol pages.  You Senators and Congressmen go on junkets to high dollar resorts all the time.  Do what everyone else does. Meet your boy toy through craigslist.  Odds are the boy toy isn't going to know you are a Congressman or a Senator.  Only about 40% of Americans know who the Vice-President is, do you really think they can identify the senior Senator from Idaho?  I couldn't pick Larry Craig out of a photo line-up, but airport security had no problem frog marching him to his mug shot when he decided to play footsie in a airport bathroom.  Also, avoid Capitol pages.  Seriously, nothing good is going to come from having sex with a 16-18 year old employee.  Besides, the pages only work for 6 week terms.  Would it really kill you to wait 7 weeks when they are an ex-page? 

Second, say you are a governor or a United States Senator and you like having sex with prostitutes.  A Hollywood movie star was once asked why he paid for sex with a prostitute?  He replied, I didn't pay for sex, I paid for them to leave.  He didn't say I paid for them to leave and keep a secret.  Ben Franklin once said, three people can keep a secret if 2 of them are dead.  Seriously guys, do you really think a prostitute is going to keep her mouth shut about having sex with you?  About once an election cycle, Larry Flynt offers up $1 million to anyone who has sexual dirt on a politician.  Let's pretend for a second.  Pretend you are Elliot Spitzer's prostitute, and Larry Flynt has just offered up $1 million for any dirt on a politician.  What do you do if you are the prostitute?  Easy, screw Gov. Spitzer, make him pay you the $4K, then make a copy of his credit card (for verification purposes) then call Larry Flynt.  A little hint to the politicians: hookers are in the hooking business to make money, not friends, and not political connections.  David Vitter, do you really think your hooker was just spending time with you because she wanted a vacant federal judgeship?  If you politicians are so dumb that you think these hookers are not going to turn on you in a heartbeat when they have a chance to make money standing up, then you do not deserve the opportunity to hide $90,000.00 in your freezer.

Third, say you are a governor of a small southern state. And, let's just go crazy and assume that you like having sex with Argentine women.  Hey, nothing wrong with that.  Argentine women are beautiful.  However, if you are a governor, it is generally not good to leave the country without telling ANYONE, including your wife, as to your whereabouts.  Surely to heavens, the governor of a state can come up with a reason to visit just about any place.  If you are so dumb, so as not to be able to come up with a reason to substantiate a weekend outside your state, then you are too dumb to have the opportunity to sell a Senate seat.  Frankly, any wife who sits by, on Father's Day weekend and 'allows' her husband to go out of town for 5 days without knowing where he is going, or how to contact him, doesn't really have the right to be sitting in a governor's mansion either.  As a married guy, with children, on Father's Day, I think it is reasonable, for a wife to insist, hemispherically speaking, where you will be. 

Fourth, say you are President of the United States.  Well....just don't smoke cigars with interns in blue dresses and you are home free.

Guys, it isn't that hard.  Please follow the Beer Commissioner's Rules for Committing Adultery, and you too, will have the chance to fleece the electorate at will!