Beer Blog

Beer Commissioner Speaks on Little League Parents

2010-03-07T02:47:00Z

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.

Beer Commissioner Speaks on Professional Wrestling and Valentine's Day

2010-02-12T23:50:00Z

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.

Beer Commissioner Speaks on the "R" word

2010-02-05T22:53:00Z

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.

Beer Commissioner Speaks on Taco Night at the Fantasy Ranch

2010-01-19T02:43:00Z

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.

Beer Commissioner Speaks on Coaching Basketball

2010-01-10T16:38:00Z

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!

Beer Commissioner Speaks on Inventions

2009-10-28T21:51:00Z

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!

Beer Commissioner Speaks on the Fall Classic

2009-10-27T13:54:00Z

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?"

Beer Commissioner Speaks on the Nobel Prize

2009-10-12T15:56:00Z

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

Beer Commissioner Speaks on Having Beer with the President

2009-07-26T22:31:00Z

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."

Beer Commissioner Speaks on Committing Adultery

2009-06-24T21:37:00Z

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!

Beer Commissioner speaks on whining....

2009-06-18T16:19:00Z

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.

Beer Commissioner Speaks on his More Great Places to Drink Beer

2009-06-16T20:36:00Z

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."

Beer Commissioner Speaks on Being Cat Free

2009-05-25T16:12:00Z

My wife's cat has gone to the litter box in the sky. Those of you who are faithful readers of my blog know of the long tortured relationship I had with my wife's cat. For those of you, who do not know, I'll give you a little background. When I first met Mrs. Commissioner 7 years ago she had three cats. All three of them were given as gifts to the engineer who designed the Great Wall of China. Talk about winning a booby prize?

The first cat, Chelsea, actually liked me. Mrs. Commissioner said she knew I was 'the one', when Chelsea liked me, because Chelsea didn't like anyone. Chelsea was an old grey cat, who lived under the bed, and only came out to hiss at people. Chelsea went to visit the litter box in the sky, the day after Thanksgiving, approximately 6 years ago. I had no issues with Chelsea. She used the litter box, she rarely left the underside of the bed, and I think she would have tried to claw someone's eyes out had someone tried to attack us.

The second cat, Fooshie, didn't like me, but he was mostly an outside cat. Fooshie was an independent sort of soul, would run off for days at a time, and come home to eat. Fooshie was voted most likely to have fleas forever by his high school class , and a little known Fooshie fact, is that he taught Andrew Zimmern how to eat all those weird foods. Fooshie too, was kind enough not to wear out his welcome. One day, I'm outside grilling steaks, drinking an ice-cold beer, and Fooshie walked up the driveway after one of his 3 day vacations from the family with a golf ball sized tumor right behind his eye. I immediately took poor Fooshie to the vet. That was 4 years ago. Keep in mind, of the three cats my wife had, both Fooshie and Chelsea were younger than Dacquiri A. Cat.

Perhaps Dacquiri hated me because I took the other 2 cats to the vet. Perhaps he hated me because I didn't like him, and didn't hide it very well. Dacquiri was approximately 6,000 years old. He hadn't used a litter box in years. He was stone deaf, and blind in his right eye. He didn't have most of his teeth. He vomitted approximately 400 times a day. He ruined all of our outside furniture. We had to replace the carpet because of him. I'm going to miss pressure washing the pool deck every Saturday. Dacquiri caused my beloved Crimson Tide to lose their final two games last year by hexing my blanket (see prior blog). I have been rooting for Dacquiri's death for quite some time.

Mrs. Commissioner was out of town for a few days, and I was left to tend to her beast. I noticed the cat was leaving strange things in his food dish, and was otherwise not seeming like his evil self. He didn't seem like he wanted to eat me. I took him to the vet on Thursday, and the vet checked him over. She deemed him senile and dizzy, but that he 'had a good 6-8 months left'. The next day, Mrs. Commissioner and I get the kids in bed, and we decide to get in the hot tub. We pour some adult beverages, and open up the door to go to the hot tub. Mrs. Commissioner lets out a blood-curtling scream, I sincerely hope NOBODY on earth ever has to hear, ever. Right there in our swimming pool was Dacquiri A. Cat doing the dead-cat float in the swimming pool. Mrs. Commissioner jumps into the pool and pulls the cat out. She hands me the cat, who weighed three times his normal size, because he was filled with water. I put the cat down on the ground, and Mrs. Commissioner is screaming, FIX HIM, FIX HIM!!!

I do not do well with women screaming at me. I do not do well with women crying either. When I hear screaming and crying, my instincts are to make it stop, immediately. So, Mrs. Commissioner is screaming FIX HIM, so, like the good lifeguard that I used to be, I started performing CPR on the cat. After about a minute or so of this, I declare to Mrs. Commissioner, "Sweetie, he's gone." She screams, HE CAN'T BE, FIX HIM!!! So, back to the CPR. I perform CPR on the cat for 10 minutes or so, to the background of hysterical crying, and I'll be damned if that cat didn't pick his head up and meow. I'm not kidding. This cat came back to life. Needless to say, we never did make it into the hottub.

We stayed up with the cat for a better part of the night. I'm not sure if he had a stroke, which caused hiim to fall into the pool, or if he suffered brain damage from being in the pool. In any event, poor Dacquiri never really could walk again. On Saturday morning, we fed him breakfast, and Mrs. Commissioner brushed him real good and said her goodbyes, and I took him to the vet. R.I.P Dacquiri A. Cat.

Beer Commissioner Speaks on Missed Opportunities

2009-05-15T19:44:00Z

Life sometimes serves up disappointment. You deal with it and move on to other things. Nothing is more disappointing than missing out on an opportunity you didn't even know existed. I am distraught on the opportunity I apparently missed with the passage of the latest federal budget. The story is here: www.foxnews.com/politics/2009/05/08/government-funds-study-gay-sex-argentina-bars/.

Folks, this goes down into the Greatest Missed Opportunities Ever by the Beer Commissioner category. Our United States government decided to give some college professor in Argentina $400,000.00 to study why men have risky sex in Argentine gay bars. For real. I'm not making this up. Why was this not posted on monster.com? Why isn't there a website that publishes these opportunities? Why did I not get an email from my congressman that said, Dear Beer Commissioner, would you volunteer to take $400,000.00 to study and tell us why gay men in Argentina engage in risky gay sex in bars, because if you don't take it, we are going to find someone who will?

Now, the obvious question is, what makes me qualified for this? Do I speak Spanish? No, but I can find a couple of Mexican guys at the Home Depot who do. Have I ever been to Argentina? No, but I have seen Evita, and I still think Madonna is hot. Am I gay? No, but I do think Madonna is hot. Have I ever been in a bar? Well duh. Have I ever been in a gay bar? I live in New Orleans, of course. And finally, do I have any idea what causes people in bars to engage in unsafe sexual activities? Well of course I do.

So, I have concluded the in-depth study, citations included. People go to bars to drink and have a good time. (See the epic film Roadhouse). Bars traditionally serve alcoholic beverages, including beer, wine and hard liquor. (See the classic television show Cheers!). When people go to bars, and consume alcoholic beverages, their libido tends to rise, creating sexual arousal and the loss of inhibitions. (See the epic film Cocktail) If toward the end of the night, the drunk and uninhibited person has still not found a hook-up, their standards and inhibitions lower even more in an attempt to satisfy their sexual needs. (See generally, the term 'Beer Goggling'). This phenomenon is not limited to heterosexual couples (See the film, Priscilla Queen of the Desert). Based upon these undisputed facts, gay men in Argentina go to bars to drink and have a good time. As a result of their drinking, they get horny. The later it gets in the evening, the drunker and hornier they get, they throw caution to the wind and hook up with any random guy they see fit to satisfy their urges and desires. They'd most likely engage in safe sex, but the condom dispenser in the bathroom was broken.

Please forward the $400,000.00 to me as soon as possible.

Beer Commissioner Announces....

2009-04-10T12:02:00Z

The First Annual Beer Commissioner Awards! Yes, you heard me, the Beer Commissioner is giving out awards. Does this mean I'm straying off course from my stated mission of not endorsing one beer over another? Oh heavens no! After all, Gary Bettman gives out the Stanley Cup every year. The football commissioner hands out the Lombardi trophy. Bud Selig gives out MVP awards, Cy Young awards, etc.

So, this year the Beer Commissioner is giving out his First Annual Beer Awards. Awards will be given in the following categories:

Best New Brewery: Awards will be given to any brewery opened from January 1, 2008 until now.

Best Import: Are you the type that likes to stick a lime in the neck of your beer bottle? Or do you like watching black bubbles in a proper beer mug?

Best Stout including Irish Dry Stouts, Imperial Stouts, Oatmeal Stouts

Best Ale, including wheat ales, blonde or golden ales, cream ales, Belgian style ales, English style Pale ales, Scottish ales and Irish Ales.

Best Lager

Best Specialty Beer: This category will apply to limited run beers put in distribution for a short period of time, e.g. Holiday Beers.

Best Weizen Beer

Best Hefeweizen

Best Brewery

Best Bock

Best Porter

Best Overall

That's 12 categories of Beer Commissioner Awards. I have assembled a distinguished panel of judges and beer tasters to hand out the awards. You might ask what does the winner receive? Well, each winner will receive the prestigious Beer Commissioner trophy, they will get notoriety on the Beer Commissioner website, as well as one year worth of Beer Commissioner goodwill.

If your brewery wants to be considered for a Beer Commissioner award just shoot me an email, and I'll let you know what you need to do. commissioner@beercommissioner.com

The awards will be announced on June 30, 2009. Good Luck!

Beer Commissioner Speaks on Quizzes

2009-04-08T19:06:00Z

About a year ago, Mrs. Commissioner thought I needed a Facebook page. So, the Beer Commissioner is on Facebook. I'll admit, thus far, it has been fun. I have enjoyed some of the random emails from people in my high school class, Who the hell is the Beer Commissioner? I have had family members ignore my friend requests, because they didn't know I was the Beer Commissioner. Imagine their surprise when they got a Christmas card from the Beer Commissioner with pictures of the little deputies. One of my cousins sent me an email....'oops, I didn't know you were the Beer Commissioner, I just thought it was some weirdo'.

My aunt said, "I guess you really like beer." This comment made me wonder if I got elected pope, would she have said, gee, you must really like mass? In many ways, Facebook has been a self-learning experience. I have become completely addicted to Mob Wars. I really like the mobster movies. When it comes to Mob Wars, I really am a vengeful s.o.b. If I get attacked, you get whacked. (I need to remember that rhyme for my next closing argument in front of a jury). Seriously, I didn't know that I am NOT a turn the other cheek kind of mob boss. Beyond Mob Wars, Facebook has all these little quizzes you can take. I must admit, I LOVE the Facebook quizzes. I'm not sure why, but they are fun.

Here are my results:

What Norse God are you?    Odin
What president are you?     Ike
What decade are you?     The 1940s.
What professional wrestler are you?     The Warrior
What liquor are you?     Vodka
What beer are you?     Light beer
What Star Wars character are you?     Emperor Palpatine
What Calvin and Hobbes character are you?     Calvin
What Muppet are you?     Beaker
What is your political ideology?     Ultra liberal.
What is your IQ?     Over 140.
Celebrity Girlfriend? Demi Moore

So, what do all these quizzes mean? It means I should probably seek psychiatric help. Some of the results were really amusing to me. I had no idea I was a 'vodka'. I haven't had a sip of vodka in probably 17 years. Light beer? Not that there is anything wrong with light beer, but I just don't drink it (usually). I like my calories. Political ideology, ultra liberal and President Eisenhower. Not two things that generally go together. How can someone be a Sith Dark Lord and Calvin? How can someone be the Ultimate Warrior and be Beaker? How can someone have an IQ over 140 and really care about what professional wrestler they are?

I'm not really sure what I should make of all this stuff. One thing I do know, I'm going to go buy a 6 pack of light beer and head to Idaho. I heard Demi Moore lives there.

Beer Commissioner Speaks on the Strange Tale of Douglas

2009-03-15T13:42:00Z

Every now and then in life you run across someone you will never forget. I will never forget the day I met Douglas. Meeting Douglas was immediately uncomfortable. At the time I met him, I worked for a high starch, button-down, law firm that did high end legal work for Fortune 500 companies. The firm's lawyers sent out million dollar bills, and they were paid. The lawyers were uptight, except for the times when they'd meet up with their secretaries on Saturdays for 'work'.

So, one day I get a call from a local judge, who politely requested (read-gave me no choice) but to represent Douglas. Douglas lived in New York City. Douglas was an actor. He played Edgar Allan Poe, Charles Dickens, Galileo and one man plays all over the world. The New York Times wrote an article about his performance of Santa Claus in Miracle on 34th Street on Broadway, hailing him as an acting genius, and he was. The man quoted entire works of Shakespeare in my office. My first meeting with Douglas lasted for 5 hours. We were instant friends. Douglas was that way.

So, why was my meeting with Douglas uncomfortable? Well the tale begins in New York City. About 4 years ago, Douglas's mother passed away, and left him with a sizeable inheritance. Douglas, after years of manic behavior and heavy cocaine use, now had money to resume his acting and hard living. He bought new costumes, packed them in paper sacks and headed out to see the world. But first, he wanted to catch up with old friends. He flew to San Francisco to see an old lawyer friend of his. He showed up at his friend's house unannounced. His friend welcomed him, and Douglas stayed for several days before his friend's wife kicked him out, mainly for hard drinking and obnoxious behavior. His friend drove him to the airport, where Douglas was to board a plane for Oregon, where he had several plays booked at a local theatre to play Edgar Allan Poe in a one man show. Somehow Douglas wound up on a plane to Minneapolis. Nobody knows how. Somehow, someway, Douglas drank his way down the Mississippi River. He performed several plays along the way, spent some time on Beal Street in Memphis. He then got on an Amtrak train and wound up in New Orleans. Somewhere around 4 in the morning, Douglas decided he wanted a drink from the train's bar. Unfortunately, Douglas went to the train's bar, wearing nothing but his Russian Bolshevik bear skin hat, and his slippers (Douglas could not wear shoes because his feet were so grossly distorted). Douglas was jailed in New Olreans for public indecency. He sat in jail for 30 days or so, and representing himself, had the charges dismissed, when he convinced the judge he was sleep walking, and further convinced the judge, the DA would be unable to produce witnesses from an Amtrak train to testify against him at trial. Immediately upon his release from jail, he went to the courthouse to see the judge about suing Amtrak. The judge sent him to me.

Douglas immediately came to my office. He came carrying 3 paper bags which contained his costumes, and a plastic bag that contained his toiletries (which he clearly had not used since he was in jail). So, I'm in this stuffy law firm, with a man who is every bit of 6'6, every bit of 350 pounds, wearing a heavy suit, a Russian Bolshevik hat (in the middle of summer in New Orleans), smoking a cigarette in the lobby (no smoking building), who smelled worse than anything you can imagine. He also broke one of the antique chairs in the lobby (that had a do not sit sign on it). The managing partner wanted to know what on earth I was doing, and I explained to him that Judge so and so sent him over. His reply was "oh, well get him out of here as quickly as you can". We left to have drinks together 5 hours later.

Douglas told me his tales, and I was fascinated beyond belief. He checked into the Royal Sonesta hotel on Bourbon Street. The Royal Sonesta is probably one of the most expesive hotels in the city, and the only 5 star hotel on Bourbon Street. He checked into a suite. He was arrested on his second day there for skinny dipping in the pool. Our firm represented the Royal Sonesta so I convinced them to drop the charges, and he was released, upon the condition he not come back to the hotel. Douglas then checked into the La Pavillion, another fine New Orleans lodging establishment. Douglas lived there for about 4 weeks, which is how long it took all of his credit cards to max out. His bill was nearly $100,000.00 for the month, and most of that was champagne.

During this time, Douglas had lined up about half a dozen strippers to be in plays with him. He booked a three week play in Birmingham, Alabama with the strippers. I did all the legal work for the plays. I didn't bother to run any of this stuff by the powers that be at the firm, as I knew, we weren't going to be paid, and besides, he had long since been banned from the building. I don't think he quite understood why the firm didn't want me drinking champagne with him to celebrate his 'signing' of the lovely Melissa to play his lover in his play. Douglas did in fact leave New Orleans with the strippers, and did play in Birmingham. He sent me press clippings from the Birmingham News related to the plays. For the next 6 months, Douglas directed all of his correspondence and calls to his lawyer, me. I spoke with him on the phone every day for 6 months. I spoke with his son, who hadn't seen his father in over a year. I spoke with his brother who told me Douglas had blown his entire inheritance. I spoke with his lawyer friend in San Francisco. I spoke with Douglas's ex-lovers, of which there were many, and they all still loved him. Somehow I had become the gatekeeper. I had no idea how to get in touch with the man, but I talked to him every day. His lovers told me tales of his powers. His sway with the audience. His passion. They told me about 'our time in India', 'that time in Amsterdam', 'all his lovers in St. Petersburg', 'the orgy in Naples'. I never figured out why they wanted to tell me this stuff, but they did, and I listened.

Douglas had taken to calling me collect, because as his brother had stated, he had blown his entire inheritance. He called me one day. He was stuck in Atlanta. He needed to get to New York, because his guru had died. I bought him a plane ticket. I didn't hear from Douglas again for several weeks. Then one day I got a call from the LaPavillion. Douglas had a $300 bar tab that was unpaid. He was back in town, and he directed them to his attorney. I walked down the street and paid it. His son called me, his dad disappeared, did I know where he was. I told him he was in New Orleans, but I hadn't seen him. A day later, Douglas called me, he was at the bus station in New Orleans and wanted to go home. I went to the bus station, bought Douglas a ticket and sent him home. I never saw him again. About a week later, Douglas sent me a Bob Dylan cd. He knew that I had named my son after a Bob Dylan song. I wrote Douglas a thank you letter, as his phone was disconnected, and he did not have the internet. We then wrote letters to each other every week for about 8 months. Beautiful letters. I still have them. His tales and stories were fascinating. I'm inclined to believe them, as I've talked to so many of the characters. In January of 2007, I wrote Douglas and told him I was coming to New York for St. Patrick's Day. I wanted him to pick the finest restaurant in the city. We were going to go, and we were going to get drunk, and we were going to get kicked out. Because, that's what Douglas does. He gets kicked out of every place he goes to.

About 3 days later, on January 19, 2007, I got a call from Douglas. I hadn't spoken to him in several months. He sounded loud, gregarious, pompous. He was in the hospital. He was there because of his feet. He was telling me that one of the nurses was his lover. He called to RSVP on my St. Patrick's Day trip. He told me he wouldn't be able to make it. I asked him if it was a play. He laughed, and he said no. He calmly and plainly said, I'll be dead. What do you mean you'll be dead? He said, today is my birthday. Happy Birthday wishes were given. He told me the day was also Edgar Allan Poe's birthday. Douglas had told me many times he was reincarnated from Edgar Allan Poe. I didn't necessarily believe him, but I let him go on, because the story was good. Douglas, then very clinically, but in his typical story type fashion, told me about when his guru told him, he was destined to die on his birthday. He was destined to die the day Poe was born, so that he could be reincarnated again, on the same day. Douglas explained to me that was the order of things. He told me he was going to die, and he was going to die that day, and he called to thank his friend. Three hours later, after that phone call, Douglas died in his sleep. He died of natural causes, and he was not sick, save for his feet.

About 2 months later, I got a package in the mail from one of Douglas's lovers. It was a package of newspaper clippings. Hundreds and hundreds of newspaper clippings. Douglas had 'willed' them to me. Story after story of his plays. His reviews always amazing. The stories always ended the same. The proceeds from the plays always went to a library, an orphanage, toys for tots or women's shelters. I guess he gave away what was left after his 'expenses'.

St. Patrick's Day is nearly upon us. I was thinking today of my dinner with Douglas that never happened. I wanted one more story. I miss my friend.

Beer Commissioner Speaks on Practice Marching

2009-03-07T14:18:00Z

Next week I'm marching in the St. Patrick's Day parade in New Orleans. I'm part of the Irish Channel Walking Crew. Next week, we will don our tuxedos and march through the streets of New Orleans handing out beads and flowers, and in exchange the women on the parade route HAVE to kiss you in return. Seriously, who thought of this? You give a woman a $.25 cent string of beads and in return she plays tonsil hockey with you. Additionally, there are THOUSANDS of women who are ok with this deal. Even better, Mrs. Commissioner is perfectly ok with me lip locking a few hundred women next week. (Note: The New Orleans people know these kisses are air kisses more often than not, there is very little lip locking going on, but NEVER let the facts get in the way of a good story).

In preparation for next week's parade, the Irish Channel Walking Crew had a practice march yesterday. Again, I do not know who came up with this idea, but, they ought to be shot. Yesterday I got up at 5:45 a.m. My friend Chip picked me up at my house at 6:30 a.m. precisely and we headed toward the French Quarter of New Orleans. We arrived at the meeting place at approximately 7:15 a.m., and then began marching. We marched to 20 bars throughout the day. We stayed at each bar for 20-25 minutes or so. We were served beer at each bar. As much beer as we wanted. One of the stops thought it would be a brilliant idea to set out an entire table of DOUBLE Jameson shots.

It was interesting to watch the day unfold. Of course, we had a truck leading the parade blaring loud Irish drinking music. Early in the morning it was quite amusing to watch people walk out on their balconies with a clear WTF look on their face. If the person walking out on the balcony was a woman, she was pelted with beads. Lots and lots of beads. One particular woman came out on the balcony wearing nothing more than a teddy. To say all hell broke lose when 500 comfortably buzzed men saw a good looking woman with no pants jumping up and down for beads is a bit of an understatement. She probably thought she hit the bead lotto. I took a picture of her bottomless self on my cellphone, but I have no idea how to pull the picture off my phone. You can probably find some pictures of her somewhere on the internet today.

By 11:21 a.m., about 4 knuckleheads decided the 12 pack they bought was getting warm, so they 'shotgunned' the last 4 beers. At 1:00 p.m. one member of our lot, passed out on the floor at Coyote Ugly. At 1:27 p.m., another member of our lot threw up on the ridiculously cute waitress, Shorty at Viola. She was just giving out free shots afterall. At 4:04 p.m. we got into an intense debate as to which Bourbon Street strip club was most likely to give out complimentary sipro pills at the door. At 4:27 p.m., I BEGGED my wife to pick me up. At 4:28 p.m., I was called a pussy by 7 of the 8 guys left standing in my group for 'skipping out on them'. The other guy, confessed to me his wife was 5 minutes behind my wife.

At 5:38 p.m., one of the other guys, who had previously led the charge of calling me a pussy, was now giving me hell, for not bringing him with me, when my wife picked me up. He drunkenly said something about having a chocolate milkshake, and hiding in some bushes, hoping his wife didn't see him, because he had missed his child's school fundraiser.

I'm glad I was not summoned by the God of the Bowl last night. I'm glad I feel good today. Now, I won't feel so bad about doing it all again next week.

Beer Commissioner Speaks on HiRolers

2009-03-03T00:20:00Z

Your Beer Commissioner does not consider himself a high roller. Do I like to gamble? That's like asking if the Pope likes going to mass. I'll bet on just about anything. When I was in college, I was at the dog track every Tuesday night, which coincidentally was .25 cent beer and hot dog night. Seriously, .25 cents for a beer and a hot dog. Sure, the beer was usually warm, the hot dogs were those little red hot dogs, but still, can you really beat .25 cents for a beer and a hot dog?

I was first introduced to 'big time' gambling when I joined the Phi Kappa Psi fraternity at the University of Alabama. That's when I first learned about bookies, parlays, teasers and the juice. Guys were betting, what I then thought were huge amounts of money on football games ($100 or $200 hundred a game), which now seems like chump change, but still, was a ton of money for college kids with nothing. One of my fraternity brothers was what I'd call a degenerate gambler. One of my other fraternity brothers still fondly tells the tale of when the gambling brother offered to 'jump him' for $20. Puzzled, the one said, what the hell is 'jumping'? Sure enough, the gambler said, we'll stand here and see who can jump farther for $20. The latter turned down the former.

To this day, I still don't bet on football, and I certainly wouldn't jump anyone for a beer, much less $20. I will go beer for beer against just about anyone though. I've been to Vegas numerous times. I've played in some pretty high stakes poker games, and I've even cashed at the World Series of Poker. There isn't much anyone call tell me that will surprise me when it comes to gambling. I've seen and heard it all.

On my first trip to Las Vegas, I played in the Four Queens Poker Classic. This is by no means a big time tournament, but it was my first. It was No-Limit Hold-em, multiple rebuy, and I actually cashed in the event. That very first tournament opened my eyes to a new level of 'high rolling' I had never heard of or thought was possible. That first Vegas tournament I played in 7 years ago, I was introduced to some 'characters', one of which was "Silent Bob", who is a very accomplished poker player, having won a couple of World Series of Poker bracelets. I was moved to a table where I sat between "Silent Bob" and another player who had previously won the main event at the WSOP. Silent Bob was about 2/3 into a bottle of vodka, and he was apparently about 10 minutes into a 20 minute story about how the waitresses sucked, because he had asked for a vodka with cranberry juice, and the waitress came back and asked if apple juice was ok. Silent Bob was completely indignant, and was going on and on about the general level of incompetance of the scantily clad waitstaff. Finally, the player who won the WSOP bet Silent Bob $10,000 he couldn't keep quiet for one hour. Silent Bob immediately accepted. I thought this was a fools bet, since Silent Bob, apparently got his name because he talked more than any human being alive, and he was already drunk as Cooter Brown on a bender. Since, I was sitting between the 2 men, I was deemed the keeper of the loot. So, here I was holding $20,000.00 sitting between these two guys. After about 40 minutes, the WSOP winner offers anyone $1000 that can get Bob to speak. He of course doesn't. At 1 second past one hour, Silent Bob turns to me and says, "Did the White Sox win?" Silent Bob bet $25,000.00 on the White Sox to win. He showed me his betting slip.

During that tournament, I was exposed to lots of high roller activity. I saw men bet $1000.00 on who the waitress would ask who wanted a drink first. I saw another guy purposely get knocked out of the tournament when he realized he sold 105% of himself, meaning if he won the tournament, it was going to cost him money to pay off all his backers. I saw 2 guys flip a quarter for $5000. I saw other guys betting red or black on the flop for $3000 a flop. I couldn't believe it, but I certainly did love it. All of these guys would pull wads of cash out of their pockets thick enough to choke a horse, and they'd peel off hundred dollar bills like they had a tree of them growing in their backyard. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, and I've seen it dozens of times since.

I've certainly never bet anyone $10,000 that I could keep quiet for an hour, although, I would. I've never bet $25,000.00 on a baseball game, much less the White Sox. I do not consider myself a high roller. So, what is the point of all of this?

Well, tonight when I was driving home, I passed a car on the road with the license tag 'HIROLER'. Either this guy likes rolling joints at altitude, or he fancies himself a big time gambler. What image do you have of someone with HIROLER on their license plate? I immediately thought of Brioni shirts, someone probably wearing a gold necklace, Rolex presidential watch, big, fake, chested bleach blonde girlfriend. The kind of guy that makes it rain at strip clubs with $20s. The kind of guy that tips the maitré de $100 so he doesn't have to wait for his table. The kind of guy that has a tux, and has worn it in a casino in Monaco.

However, the HIROLER I spotted today, was cruisin around town in his raggedy black STATION WAGON. If you happen to see this poor bastard, please, buy him a beer, but only a light beer. Apparently he ran into someone who 'jumps' farther than him, and all he has left of his dignity is that license tag. At least, that's what I hope.

Beer Commissioner is here to help!

2009-02-23T15:44:00Z

People ask me all the time what I want to be when I grow up. As if being Beer Commissioner isn't rewarding enough, I either respond with Benevolent Dictator or Eccentric Philanthropist. I believe I'd be well suited in either profession. However, hard as it is sometimes, I do try to live in reality. I don't have enough money to be eccentric or a philanthropist, and last I checked there isn't a vast citizenry anywhere calling for me to lead them.

That is not to say that I won't help where I see injustice, or a person in trouble. Imagine my surprise this morning when I got an email from the 'Contact the Commission' feature on my website. The email was a desperate call for the Beer Commissioner's help (I note the email said 'Dear ,' with no name). Here is the email, and below, you will see my response.

From:Miss Liann Koko.
LOME-TOGO.WEST AFRICA
contact with your private email... libaby.1990@yahoo.com

Dear ,

Please forgive any inconvenience this email might cause you considering the fact that we have not communicated with each other prior to this message.I am 18 years old Miss Lilian Koko,from Lome-Togo,I am an orphan an an only child,Please Permit me because I want you to help me transfer my inherited fund USD$3,350,000.00 (Three Million,Three Hundred And Fifty Thousand United States Dollars)to overseas.

Please let me know what will be your commission in this regards since i will also like you to assist me to come over to overseas to further my education after the funds is transfered into your account. As soon as i receive your reply i will give you the information of the bank where the money was deposited by my late father of which i am the bonafide heir.

All I require from you is your honest cooperation to enable us see this transaction through.

Thanks and God bless.
Miss .Koko.
Contact with your private phone & email...
libaby.1990@yahoo.com

Dear Miss Koko,

Thank you so much for your email, and let me begin by saying how very sorry I am for your loss. Let me assure you your email is not at all an inconvenience to me. In fact, you are the second person this year to email me through the 'Contact the Commish' feature on my website, and the first submission was an email from a pharmaceutical representative asking me if I wanted a bigger penis. So not only is your email not an inconvenience, it is a welcome distraction in light of the windfall of cash I'm about to receive for assisting you.

Please understand, I fully intend to assist you, but your email has several questions for me that I need answered, so I can determine the best course of action in assisting you. I read Oliver Twist, and I understand the plight of orphans, and the guilt I would feel by leading you astray would weigh mightily on me.

I had a friend that went to Togo several years ago. He told me a tragic story about how one of the rigging lines to their ship broke, and tragically killed one of the Togalese workers at the port. He said, the village cheiftain came on board, and demanded damages for the life of the lost worker. A price was worked out to pay the family of the deceased 3000 CFA Francs, which represented 20 years of wages. Someone quickly determined the sum worked out to be about $6.20 US. The family was paid, and the ship left. Interestingly, my friend left the country of Togo with the distinct impression the GDP of the entire country was about $500,000.00. So, out of curiosity, I wonder what line of work your father was in to have such a vast sum of money?

I am also very curious as to what bank your father used? This could be important to know, as several of these banks have been flagged by Amercian banking regulators, and it may not be possible to transfer money to an American bank. Fortunately for you, I have an account in Antigua, which I was required to open so I could continue playing pokerstars. Unfortunately for you, most of the banks in Antigua were closed last week because yet another billionaire hedge fund manager had set up pyramid schemes using Antiguan banks. Because of the world financial crisis, many banks are being closed, and several assets have been frozen. Time may be of the essence, and I would urge you to send me your father's banking information immediately, so we can get working on this funds transfer. I'm sure there are legalities involved. As an heiress, I know you understand.

Also, you stated you wanted to enroll in school. Where would you like to go? What would you like to study? If I'm going to arrange for you to travel overseas, I need to know. As you know 75% of the world is covered in water, so virtually everyplace is overseas. I need to know where you'd like to wind up. I'd hate to enroll you at the University of Tehran, especially if your parents, God rest their souls, were Israeli immigrants. That could make your situation more difficult. On the other hand, if your father was a goat herder, it might make sense to enroll you at Auburn, which is located in Southwest Georgia somewhere. Burt Reynolds made a movie about it back in the early 70s. There was lots of banjo playing. If you don't like banjos, you might not like Auburn. As you can see, I need answers to these questions.

Only after I have an answer to these questions will I be able to inform you of the commission I would charge.

I look forward to helping you, and anticipate your speedy response.

Sincerely,
Beer Commissioner