Monday, August 27, 2012

We Are Celebrity Scum

Many of you are probably familiar with TMZ, the official, brand name Mecca of scum-sucking paparazzi everywhere. Well, here at A Beer for the Shower, we (Brandon and Bryan) are a couple of broke-ass writers who've gotta eat, so we decided to create our own gossip website.

We became BMZ.

That's right, if a celebrity even so much as makes a bowel movement, they're gonna be on BMZ... the Bowel Movement Zone.

It's amazing what you can learn about your favorite (and not so favorite) celebrities just by taking pictures of them through their windows without their consent.

The next day...

Who would have guessed that breaking into someone's gated mansion, setting up a 2 story ladder, and taking numerous pictures through a bathroom window would have made us so rich? Apparently, we had a knack for lurking...

The next day...

Even when news was slow we had ways of keeping things going.

8 hours of Photoshop magic later...

The next day...

Which led to us being in the news ourselves.

Which led to the paparazzi chasing after us.

And suddenly, a new generation of paparazzi was springing up to take pictures and video of US now that WE were famous.

Which led to our own downfall, because it's hard to be taken seriously in the world when rumors are spreading that you're incapable of pleasing a woman or that you're that sexual dinosaur-humping deviant Owen Wilson.

So after months of taking unwanted photos of celebrities, we became celebrities ourselves, and unwanted photos were then taken of us. It was too much. We turned in our baseball caps and our cameras, and bowed out of the limelight for our own good. Because we had learned a valuable lesson...

Don't take naked pictures of other dudes. They might get the wrong idea about you.

Cheers and stay classy, folks,


Beer: Negra Modelo
Music: Steven Wilson

Also, thanks again to everyone who bought our new e-books! We sincerely hope you're enjoying them. If you would be so kind, please swing by our individual book pages at Amazon and leave a review or even just 'Like' it. It's not connected to Facebook at all, so the Zuck won't use that info against you, but it does help us climb the Amazon ranks!

Thursday, August 23, 2012

The Idiot's Guide to the Female Body

The female body: an unexplainable mystery. As ICP once brilliantly asked about magnets, "how does that shit work, yo?" Well, when it came to women, we weren't sure. We were pretty sure it was magic. Or witchcraft.

Thankfully, a brilliant scientific mind emerged with all of the answers we were seeking. He's US Representative Todd Akin, staunch Republican politician and expert on the female body. In a recent interview, he dropped some serious science when he stated that abortions aren't necessary in the case of rape, because when a woman gets raped, her body has the power to shut down a pregnancy. (See vid here)

So after a long night of thorough research and investigative journalism* we wanted to share with you some other amazing findings that you might not have known about the wonderful and mysterious female body.
*heavy drinking

This is NOT a coincidence

The fact of the matter is that a woman's reproductive system is an impenetrable fortress of organic weaponry laying dormant, like a cobra, just waiting for its opportunity to strike. The following is a list of those weapons.

1. The fallopian tubes, essentially the uterus's tentacles, can lift up to 50 times their own body weight, similar to that of an ant. When threatened, the fallopian tubes will squeeze its victim into strangulation, similar to that of a boa constrictor, and if that fails, they can release a blinding ink which will allow them the chance to escape.

2. The Uterus. It was once widely accepted that the sole function of the uterus was to serve as the gestation bag for a fertilized egg-baby. However, what many folks may not know is that the uterus is also a testicle vacuum. It has the suction power of an airplane toilet and can effectively remove the sperm marbles of any male within a ten foot radius. It is not limited to defense from attackers. In fact, the testicle removing mechanism is typically reserved for unwitting boyfriends and husbands in the vicinity.

3. Ovaries, once thought to hold eggs, are actually sacs that contain a noxious nerve toxin. When released into the open air, victims have been known to suffer from projectile vomiting, bone liquification, and uncontrollable night terrors.

4.Boobs. Everyone loves boobs. And that's perfectly cool. Unless you try to love someone else's boobs with your hands without first asking their permission. See, breasts aren't just squishy fistfuls of fun for all. No, it's not fun when the needle shoots out of the nipple and drains all the blood out of your body, leaving behind nothing but a pruny, perverted husk of dessication.

Lastly, you might be wondering why this hasn't all created a bloody mess. Well, as the reproductive organs feast on human flesh, excess build up of blood can get trapped in the uterus. When a woman has her period, it's actually the monthly purge of her victims' blood.

So fellas, next time your lady is having her time of the month, and she's irritable, and all she wants is for you to rub her feet or grab her a chocolate bar, do it. She's going through an awful lot right now, and if you had to expel the viscera of your mortal enemies through your baby canal, you'd probably be moody too.

Cheers and stay classy, friends,

Music: G. Telemann
Beer:  Shiner Blonde

Monday, August 20, 2012

Demetri and the Banana Flavored Rocketship

          Hey folks, Bryan here, and I've got something special for you. Even more special than the time I drew Hitler milking himself in a seedy back alley.

I affectionately call him "Titler."

            That something special is my debut solo novel, Demetri and the Banana Flavored Rocketship. It's a love story between a man and a blowup doll, and I guarantee it's unlike anything you've ever read before.

What it's about:

             This novel is a comedy/drama about a lonely, frugal young man named Demetri and his disabled sister, Laney. Demetri has 1 million dollars in cash, but has to live like a poor person because he can't get a job and needs that money to last him and his sister the rest of their lives. When some local HOA nazis dig up an archaic law that states a wholesome, married couple is required to raise a disabled child, Demetri needs to find a wife, fast, otherwise he's going to lose his sister.
             So like any sane, reasonable person, Demetri sends away for a mail order bride that he sees advertised on a very poorly worded website. Her name is Mai Keungern, she's from Thailand, and she's advertised as the perfect wife: won't cause trouble, won't talk back, and won't spend his money. And when she comes to him, he discovers that that's because she's a blowup doll. Mai Keungern simply means "no refunds!" in the Thai language.
             This leaves Demetri with no choice but to pass off Mai as his wife in an attempt to allude the HOA nazis, but things get even more confusing when the doll actually starts talking back to him. Worst of all, she's kind of a bitch. Is it Demetri's overactive imagination, or something more? And will Demetri be able to keep his sister?

The cover, which I designed in something that's definitely not MSPaint. Also, as another friendly reminder, my last name isn't pronounced Peedus. It rhymes with 'lettuce.'

           This book was written 4 years ago, and it even landed me a big time literary agent. Unfortunately, that agent turned out to be a huge douchenozzle who wasted years and years holding this book hostage while he screwed around and sold mindless, ghost-written celebrity tell all novels. But it hasn't left me bitter. No, it's left me optimistic that this can finally get into the hands of the readers it deserves.
           Below is a sample, not just to show you the writing style and the humor, but to show you how politically incorrect it is. If this part offends you, then you will absolutely hate this book. However, if you enjoy what you read, you should really consider buying it. I promise that it's worth your time, and for $2.99, you're getting a whole lot of book for the money. 
           Also, for those of you who don't have a Kindle (hell, I don't even have one) you don't need an E-Reader to read this story. You can read it right on your computer using your browser, and the interface is actually really nice. Just click where it says Available on your PC, which will direct you to the Kindle for PC software. Then, when you buy the book, you can read it on your computer.

           Onto the sample. To set the scene, Demetri the recluse is about to go on a date for the first time in almost 10 years, and he needs to find a way to preoccupy his sister, Laney, for a couple hours.


Laney noshes her oatmeal, slapping wet oats between her teeth and gums in a way that sounds like two fat people having sex (simultaneously ruining both oatmeal and sex for her older brother) as Demetri sits staring blankly into the TV. He’s not focused on the machine-gun laughter of an anthropomorphic sponge or the girl who’s running in circles with the energy of a thousand Jack Russell terriers, but rather the endless possibilities of what could go wrong later: What if he says something stupid? What if she hates his car? What if she sees him in direct sunlight and realizes he has the complexion of spoiled milk?
“Today can only end badly,” he announces to Spongebob Squarepants and Alaina Gainer, neither of whom are paying attention.
Today he has a date. Oh shit, he thinks, he has a date, and the Jack Russells need to be put down first—tranquilized, not euthanized, though the thought’s certainly floating around somewhere in the darker alleys of his mind. This means a trip to the medicine cabinet.
The sedative is now locked firmly in his hand as he marches from the bathroom, internally strangling the soft spoken conscience that is telling him this isn’t a great idea. Of course it’s not—it’s never a great idea—but on those rare occasions that he needs a moment to himself, or needs to catch up on his sleep, or (today) needs to go on a date for the first time since high school, he has enlisted the help of the most viable babysitter six dollars and fifty six cents can buy—Nighttime Nyquil.
“Want some juice?” Demetri asks, in a lulling tone that would not trick most but will snare his sister easily.
“What kind?” Laney asks, as she savagely ends the life of her oatmeal. It’s a rhetorical question she’s asking, because her lips are already stained red with the cherry elixir; Demetri has to pluck the plastic measuring cup away from her before she swallows it whole. “Cherry, Meechie? Is it cherry? It tastes like cherry!”
“It’s cherry,” he confirms, as he washes out the cup and slaps it back on top of the bottle.
“I want more,” she whines, and lusts for it with her hands. He escorts it back to the bathroom and has to slam the door shut to keep her out. As he’s hiding it behind the other chemicals, cleaners, and toiletries she would happily drink given the chance, she’s still calling from outside: “Meechie? I want more!”
He has considered giving her more. He imagines a softer, more anticlimactic rendition of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men—Lenny is sitting by the river, thinking happy thoughts of Bugs Bunny, Dora the Explorer, and Elmo, shortly before George pulls the metaphorical trigger and puts him out of his misery… sending him into a drooling, glossy eyed coma with a big, fat double dose of Nyquil.
“What’s in there?” Laney asks, trying to paw into the door that Demetri closes behind him. “Meechie, what’re you hiding in there?”
“My self respect,” he says, as he ushers her to the couch and changes the channel. “It’s right next to the cold medicine I just doped you up with. Look, Blue’s Clues is on.” He points a finger at the little blue dog that’s jumping up and down beside the presenter whose enthusiasm could strip wallpaper. Laney is instantly sucked in.
“There’s a clue!” she chirps. “Oh, lookit Meechie, he just found a clue!”
“I already saw this one,” Demetri remarks over his shoulder. “It’s the one where Blue helps Joe find his dignity—it’s hiding behind a green screen and a big, fat sack of money.”
She is blinking her eyes at him, confused, but is quickly pulled back into the program when a song breaks out about the mail.
The Nyquil will take about fifteen minutes to tranquilize her, which is just enough time for Demetri to wander back to the bathroom and study the tangled shrubbery on top of his head.
“What do I do with this?” he asks his sallow reflection, as he pins a lock flat that springs right back into place. He eyes the economy tub of hair gel on the counter and considers how terrible he would look with wavy hair plastered to one side like a lacquered combover. Instead, he parts his hair with his hands and then lightly tousles it. Good enough.
He gargles from the economy jug of mouthwash that tastes like gasoline and leaves his breath smelling like… well, gasoline, and then swabs some unscented dollar store deodorant under each arm. The pièce de résistance is the dollar store cologne typically reserved for a thoughtless last minute Father’s Day gift, which is now surrounding Demetri like a musky, pheromone-filled cloud that permeates the trailer upon his return. Laney, who is right on cue, is bobbing her head in sleepy frustration as she struggles to catch Blue’s last clue.
“Go to your room and get ready for nap time,” Demetri instructs, as he checks the clock on his PC. Right on time.
“Don’t wanna.”
“Come on,” he says, and is now guiding her by the hand toward her room.
 “I wanna know what happens,” she says softly, eyes rolling back in exhaustion. “Tell me what happens, Meechie.”
“It was a murder-suicide,” Demetri replies. “Mr. Salt smothered Mrs. Pepper with a pillow. He then opened fire on the police, so the SWAT team came in and dropped mustard gas. Mr. Salt had no choice but to use Mr. Kitchen Knife and end it.”
She giggles. She doesn’t understand it, but his tone is funny. “Okay Meechie, it was Mr. Salt. The clue was salt.” She’s dropped into bed and is peering up at him sleepily as he slowly closes the door.


          Don't lie. Those of you with kids are considering this now.

          Thanks to all who purchase or even just consider purchasing this book, and as always, if you buy it, please leave a review on This isn't just to massage my ego and kiss my ass, it's because every review, whether good or bad, helps this book get into a few more hands. And with books like Fifty Shades of Grey at the top of the charts, I think it's time another fucked up book claimed that particular throne.    

Cheers and stay classy, friends,

Music: Porcupine Tree
Beer: Newcastle

Thursday, August 16, 2012

The Idiot's Guide to Fantasy Football

Summer is drawing to a close, which means that football season is about to begin. And while there's nothing quite like watching real, professional sports teams duke it out on the gridiron, for the rest of us, who are most likely too soft and squishy to be slamming each other into astroturf, we have to play in our own way: fantasy football. Here, by compiling and analyzing the numerical stats of the professional players we choose, we can pit them against the numerical stats of our friends, family, and even fellow bloggers, to see whose numbers reign supreme.

It's kinda like the NFL equivalent of Dungeons and Dragons.

So here at A Beer for the Shower, we realize that many of you (being the questionably "sane" people that you are) may have no clue about the glorious lifestyle that is fantasy football leaguing and might be interested in joining the fray. Well, today we've put together a guidebook for those looking to learn about the many necessary sacrifices that such a competitive hobby demands...

First, you absolutely have to take off 3 days from work to watch the NFL draft. This is rookie level dedication, and if you can't do it, well, sorry bub, but you deserve whatever chump you get stuck with as your quarterback.

Second, if you aren't paying at least $100 for a league entry fee, you are most likely a pre-pubescent girl. Because, everybody knows that free fantasy football is for chumps, and this is the year you're going to win big.

And speaking of monetary investment, you'd damn well better be dropping $50 to your TV provider for the NFL Redzone channel so you can watch every single game and constantly evaluate your players.

Next, you have to neglect your wife and family while evaluating said players at least 6 hours a day. Watching hour after hour of muscular men in tights falling on each other instead of having sexy time with your beautiful wife isn't gay at all.

Then, spend more time crunching player statistical numbers than you did working on last year's taxes. The number of times per year a quarterback has scrambled out of the pocket is totally relevant to who you're going to pick and could absolutely be the difference between whether you win big or not.

And if anyone asks why you have Aaron Rodgers' medical records, you just tell them that you aren't going to invest your time drafting some sissy that gets the sniffles and costs you first place!

Next is the draft, and then the gameplay itself. Little of that is important, since you're such an expert now. What's most important is trash talk, which is especially menacing over the Internet. So what are you waiting for? Get in that little chat room and talk some shit!

Then, when the season is over, celebrate the fact that you took 8th place, which out of 10 people isn't last place! Sure, you lost over $200 (plus lost wages from all that time off), but there's always compulsive gambling to win it all back, right? Also, don't take shit from those who won, like the teenage girl who took 2nd place just by picking who she thought was hottest (we can't help it if Tom Brady is good AND good looking). Because yeah, she won $250, but she doesn't know football like YOU do, sport.

Cheers and stay classy, friends,
Bryan and Brandon

Music: Spector
Beer: Stella Artois