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!

        

I've officially had it.   Americans need to get their collective sticks out of their nether regions.  The people in this country whine entirely too much.  I'm not sure when it started.  My grandparents walked 20 miles to school each day, up-hill both ways, got an orange in their stocking for Christmas, and ate cardboard every meal of the year, and they didn't complain.  They didn't have tv, telephones or the internet. Hell, they couldn't drink either, because they were in their teens and 20s during prohibition.  They never whined. They told me so.

You didn't read about the peace-niks and the Greenpeacers being human shields during WWII.  People didn't care if our president spent the week in Georgia with his mistress, let alone, going to dinner with his wife in New York.  It seems everyone has to whine about something. Constantly.

A friend of our family broke his collarbone yesterday, doing of all things---PLAYING OUTSIDE.  Kids just don't break bones anymore.  Mrs. Commissioner and I were talking about that yesterday. I told her to think about it.  When we were 7, there were 12 channels on the TV, there was no internet, Atari hadn't come out, and we were still 7 years away from the Commodore 64.  We had to play outside, or, at least my dad would've used that white belt he had in his closet to spank me.  As a consequence of playing outside, we fell out of trees we climbed, broke bones trying to jump things on our bike, or broke arms playing football in the backyard.  My parents personally sent all of my orthopoedic surgeon's kids to college, with my help. 

I'm not sure when the whining started.  It starts around 6:00 a.m. every morning in my house.  It starts with "I want a poptart", "I want milk", " I want Wow Wow Wubbzy".  Every morning, and every evening ends the exact same way.  The middle of the day is filled with whining too.  And not from the little deputies, but from the news and our elected officials and professional agitators.  I'm telling you, I've seen the most absurd news stories of late coming out of Washington.  Today, Senator Boxer was whining to some General to call her Senator, instead of the highly offensive term, "ma'am".  Since when did "ma'am" become a derrogatory term?  It is proper ettiquette to address the Queen as "ma'am", although they pronounce it as mum, yet Senator Boxer felt the need to berate and whine to a general that she earned her title and wished it to be used.

Then yesterday the President is about to give an interview.  A fly was buzzing the tower. The President did what apparently everyone not in PETA does, he swatted the fly and killed it.  The PETA folks went completely nuts that he killed the fly, and suggested he should have a humane fly catching trap to safely and humanely release the fly back into the environment.  I'd suggest putting one in his Christmas stocking, but surely someone will whine about the hanging of a Christmas stocking in the White House. I only mention PETA because I tried to send my wife's, dearly departed cat to Peru for the cat eating festival in hopes of getting PETA to protest me, but no such luck.  I noticed PETA apparently had no problems when the President ordered the Navy Seals to kill 3 teenagers a few months ago for swashbuckling activities in the Indian Ocean.  Imagine the outrage had the President ordered the seals to take out a whale instead of the three kids?

Since when have we reached the point in this country when we cannot refer to a woman as "ma'am", or we can't swat a fly?  If things get much more out of control, Jose Canseco is going to sue baseball for allowing him to use steroids.  Oh, but that will never happen. 

C'mon people, relax a bit, enjoy a nice cold beer, and don't sweat the small stuff.  It will be ok. I promise.

        

The Commish had a great weekend.  Mrs. Commissioner sent me on what she affectionately referred to as a bro-mance weekend with my friends Brad and Kevin.  Brad is stationed in the Navy in Japan, and Kevin lives 'just' outside of Philadelphia.  The Navy saw fit to send the good Lieutenant to Naval Justice school in Rhode Island. Brad was furloughed for the weekend, so we converged on Philadelphia.

After being picked up at the airport, we of course headed straight to the bar.  I enjoyed a few Yuengling's then it was home. Of course, we made the obligatory stop for snacks. I picked up 3 cases of Tastykakes.

On Saturday we basically pub crawled through Philadelphia, prior to seeing the WORLD CHAMPION PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES.  Two places stood out as superior beer drinking establishments, which will now be awarded the Beer Commissioner's Award of Distinguished, and are now therefore, among the Beer Commissioner's Best Places to Drink Beer.

First, we went to Monk's Cafe on Spruce Street.  Monk's specializes in Belgian beers.  I'm not sure how many different varieties of beer they had, but let's just say if you went there every single day and had a beer, it would take you way more than a year to have one of everything.  In addition to the vast selection of beers, all of the Belgian beers were served in the appropriate mug.  The ambiance of the place was great.  Certainly no fern bar, but just a good old fashioned drinking pub.  After having a beer or 3 at Monk's we strolled a bit further and found Tria. 

Tria is a fern bar type of place.  Definately the type of place you take a sophisticated sort of date.  They serve fine wines, good cheese selections and a wonderful beer selection.  I tried the Stone IPA, which was absolutely wonderful.  The wait staff was great, and our bar babe was a major hottie. 

After our pub crawl we headed to Citizen's Bank Park to see the WORLD CHAMPION PHILLIES.  Of course, more beer, cheesesteaks, rain delays, terrible fielding, but a wonderfully great time.  I wish the trip would have been longer.  The weather was wonderful as well.  Highs around 72 with no humidity.   Of course when I landed back in New Orleans, and it was 98 with 100 percent humidity I was reminded of the old WC Fields quote, "All in all, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."