BertFlex: Officially The Champs

Over the weekend, we made another significant purchase in BertFlex history:


Quit looking at my crotch...it's a championship belt! And not just some crap belt made by some Indonesian kids, this is the real deal (straight outta fuckin' Honduras!). It's a replica of the "Smoking Skull" belt that Stone Cold Steve Austin wore when he was the WWF Champion.

For that fact alone, it is very fitting that this belt belong in our possession. Now all disputes among the group of Flexers can be be decided via title match.

After "winning" the belt over the weekend, I defended it against the Mad Librarian in a heated arm-wrestling match. It was very very close, but I prevailed, putting me at 1-0 in title defenses.

So for anyone interested in taking a shot at the title, I'm here baby. But keep in mind: I'm the champ; I call the shots.

Come get some.

Alert the St. Louis Zoo

...because the pythons are loose!


Cam Janssen (aka the guy who has four points in 131 career games) was showing off the guns tonight. At least he's racking up the PIMs, giving the Blues the spark they need to finish last in the division again. I smell a top five pick next June.

Despite my negativity, I will continue to support the Blues via my living room, and in person at the all-you-can-eat game March 15th.

Someone Tell Me How Much Advertising on Chalk Talk Costs

Former BertFlex contributor Hollywood had a little free time earlier and decided to make us a 30-second commercial...



This kind of makes us big time, right? Job well done by Hollywood, we appreciate it.

Email us at haymang@yahoo.com and we'll send him 16,000 other ideas for commercials.

Brett Wallace Believes in a More Reputable Blog

After HMW showed Cards 1st rounder Brett Wallace how this whole bloggin' thing works, B Dub decided to throw up his own post on a 'professional site' compared to Bertflex...and no mention of HMW or Bertflex.

Fucking sellout.

UCB Blog Crawl

In our efforts to dominate the Innerwebs as much as possible, we’re participating in the United Cardinals Bloggers’ offseason roundtable. Approximately everyday (in keeping with bloggers’ inability to adhere to any kind of schedule), a different Cardinals-related blog will host a discussion of a given topic.

It’s kind of like “Around the Horn,” except you can read it on the can if you have the right equipment.

Hochuli-an Strength

For the second time in as many weeks, NFL referee Ed Hochuli (“Eddie Guns” to his fans) has come under fire for a questionable call, this time a roughing the passer ruling against the Panthers’ Julius Peppers. Eddie Guns’ grade already took a hit after allegedly blowing a call in the Week 2 Broncos-Chargers game.

In the face of such dire circumstances, I cannot stand idly by and ignore what has thus far gone unsaid: Much like Sarah Palin doesn’t get fair treatment because of her physiological condition, Hochuli is discrimated against on account of having the biggest pythons this side of the San Diego Zoo. But you won’t see the liberal media jumping up to defend him – they’re too busy with their yoga classes and their tall half-calf mocha lattes to go to a gym and find out what getting your swell on is all about.

Don’t worry, Eddie. This blog is called BertFlex. We get it. When you can crush a beer can with your eyebrows, you don’t have to be good at your job.

You'd Think We Wrote This Headline

The Post-Dispatch has gotten much better at titling their articles ever since the hiring of crafty veteran Jack Mehoff.

Breaking News: Prince Fielder is Fat

No, not p-h-a-t.

Fat:



Tip of the cap to TGF for tipping me off on Prince's massive gut being on display after his walk-off homer vs. the Pirates on Tuesday night.

By the way, feel free to refer to TGF by his full name: Turd Gaylord Ferguson.

That is all.

Two Tickets

I made a quick stop into the Rock Road Target this past weekend, and believe it or not, they knew I was coming!



Or maybe Sir's dad was in the vicinity, I'm not sure...

Get Fat Night

Tonight the Mad Librarian is really twisting my arm to go to the Cardinal game. She has an extra ticket to one of the all-you-can-eat sections, and has done everything in her power to make me go. You know me - I hate baseball, and I especially hate buffets that include jumbo hot dogs and beef brisket. Ah, that's the worst.

After lots of conniving and trick questions, I agreed to go. So we'll be there at the stadium, being bored, maybe eating a dog or two. We'll see.

Who's House? Bert's House

I have yet to be invited to BertFlex Headquarters (unlike one skank I know), but I hope this is what goes on there:

Bernie Miklasz: Hearing Footsteps/Feeling the Heat/Smelling What the Flex Is Cooking

I accidentally clicked on a Bernie Miklasz post just now. Even more unusual, I read more than one sentence. I'm glad I did:

[H]ere’s a quick take for now.

(In fact, get used to some shorter blogs from me from now on. I will try to avoid wasting too much of your time. … it’s just getting too thick in the blogosphere.)

I'll sidestep the obvious jokes about Bernie and "getting thick" (although it's proving exceedingly hard -- ha -- not to make a joke about the phrase "getting thick" itself).  The more important takeaway here is that Bernie knows that there is stiff competition for your time. And although  he doesn't mention us by name, it's pretty clear that he recognizes BertFlex as the harbingers of a New World Order (and not NWO Hollywood, either -- we're not going to welcome Vincent aboard anytime soon).

It's a sad day when anyone realizes that their moment in the sun has passed -- but it's even sadder when they have to be forcibly removed. We appreciate Bernie's grasp of reality. Rest assured, readers: Unlike Bernie, the Flex has no desire to make anything shorter. 

In fact, we're only going to get thicker.

The Maine Event

As much as I enjoy the hard-hitting bacon analysis and sexual harassment that are part of the Flex lifestyle, sometimes a girl needs a break. So I took last week off to lie about a lake house in Maine with my college roommate and an assortment of fun-and-bloody-Mary-loving New Englanders.

Like the lazy bastard I am, I spent the bulk of the week asleep, including an unfortunate nap on a pontoon boat that resulted in a gross sunburn. When I bothered to wake up, I ate excessive amounts of tortilla chips, read a trashy novel, bitched at the Jeter-loving kids playing the Little League World Series, and shopped at the L.L. Bean store (yes, I'm old, but my new fleece is ravishing). And now I'm back, relaxed, refreshed, and ready to kick Hack's ass in poker again.

Here are some highlights from my week away.

New England's gangster dairy:


Racism in Freeport:


Bacon and ground beef brick-oven pizza in Portsmouth, N.H.:

Fuck graham crackers; I make s'mores with chocolate chip cookies:


And this makes me uncomfortable:

10 G's

Today we are celebrating our 10,000th official hit on bertflex.com.

We'd like to pretend that it's just another day in BertFlex-land, but we truly are flattered that you take a break from redtube and youporn time out of your day to read our little website. Thank you for that, and we appreciate your support. Well, support via clicks...since you jerks don't give us money.

To celebrate the only way possible, here is a chick in a bacon bra. I think that sums up what we do here pretty well.



I suppose it would be better if she was on fire and hitting Mick Foley in the head with a chair, but this is the best I could do.

Once again, thanks for your support, be sure to tell your friends about us, and have a great weekend.

As an added bonus, while scanning youtube earlier, I remembered this MadTV video that has never been posted here. Check it out:



Be sure to play the 1:30 mark about 300 times in a row. This dude just UN-LOADS on the ball. Beyond awesome.

Truthfacts of Yesterfar

(Third in an occasional series.)

In case of emergency, hos before bros.
Richard Nixon: Not a crook.
Pluto is the ninth planet in our solar system.
Tropical fevers are best treated with leeches.
Heath Ledger is the next Sean Connery. (Too soon?)

The Mad Librarian: Your Most Trusted Source for Truthfacts of Yesterfar.

Kansas Shitty There We Go

The official Bertflex to KC trip pictures are posted. Of course, there is gorging on BBQ, bad jerseys, and more bad jerseys. Amazingly, Miss Head went along, and is somehow still dating me. She had all clearance to barrel-roll out of the car going 55mph up I-29, but she passed. I'm waiting for the 'Sex in the City' weekend that is inevitable.

A couple HOF worthy pictures other than HMW's destruction of a BBQ plate are...

HMW flexing at a meathead in a Crush Drunken T-shirt jersey

Holy fuck! Ryan Shealy has really let himself go.

The Search for the BertFlex Corporate Headquarters

(Update below)

Saturday was the first day of the much-anticipated search for the new BertFlex Corporate Headquarters. Sir and I took about five hours touring numerous locations, and we have possibly found our new home. We can't go into full details now, but we're pretty excited what news may come later today.

We will still keep our other Bureaus around the STL/ILL-side area, as well as Denver and Omaha. Because of Sir's big announcement last week, the Chicago office is shutting its doors down. But this new World Headquarters looks to be a huge improvement over my mom and dad's basement the current one.

Stay tuned for updates!


Sunday night update: It looks like this is the spot. Assuming the fine people at Pheasant Run meet our demands when we check out our exact home/HQ, they win. I wish I had a picture or two for you, but just so you know, AstroTurf is involved.

We'll pass along any further news between now and our move-in (Friday the 22nd). After that, we'll pass along all the party information.

Lost: One Non-Seriuzz Journalizzst

Update 7:18 PM. Guess who's bizack? ~HMW

You might have noticed a disturbing lack of action around these parts lately (granted, the non-married B-Flexers are used to a disturbing lack of action). Lord knows that we try to keep you informed about the subjects you care about most (chicks, bacon, etc.) – well, “we” don’t so much as Hazelwood’s Most Wanted does.

And that’s the problem: No one knows where HMW is. After Anthony Reyes got dealt for a pair of my past-their-prime undies, I figured HMW would be all over it with some hardcore analysis the likes of which you usually get from John Hadley or that one guy who looks like a troll (ok, that could describe most seriuzz journalizzsts).

Instead, silence.

So, please, we’re begging you: If you have info on the whereabouts of HMW, please pass them on. We have unconfirmed and totally made up reports of a Buffalo Wild Wings explosion in Olivette, and putting two and two together is just too painful.


Hold on TGF, there will be some pain broughtin' later tonight.

You Can't Spell Gentlemen Without the G

This morning, my homeboy Matzo directed me to the best two minutes of my day. Enjoy it. I'm off to program my TiVo.


Editor's Note: She really did. I seen it. ~HMW

Making It Happen

This will be the title of my next, first, and only book about anything. Good morning to all of you Flexers, Big Sandwich with a rare post to paint a picture of my Saturday night that had to be perfectly executed in order to bring you this nugget of gold. Sir requested I tell the story as though I am the crocodile hunter, via a text from HMW, I will decline such request as it would take away from the storytelling experience. (side note: this story has absolutely nothing to do with anything about sports or bacon, just simply an anecdote my friends can get a good laugh at.)

Saturday evening starts out like clockwork; a text from Jacob calling me a fag and asking me if I will be boozing it up tonite. I call him a hooker and tell him I'm coming over. I pick up a 12 of Miller Lite bottles (side note: I'm boycotting In-Bud or An-Bev because fuck that Belgian monopoly. Later I'm told from Ben that Miller is owned by a South African Brewery, to which I tell him that I'm more African than Belgian; I did win the B-Flex Urban Dictionary Bee!) I show up to Jacob's just in time to watch my Cubs lose 4-1 to the Ass-tros , time to drink that one off I say, as Ben walks in the door from work.

Jacob notices that I haven't shaved tonite and says it looks good and that I should grow it out. Ben promptly calls Jacob and I homosexuals. We discuss important issues of the day such as: the patch of back hair on the lead singer of Lamb of God, how the "What What in my butt" song is an actual song and not made up by Butters of South Park, and how Jacob's friends with the "big knock knock's" are meeting up with us tonite. We leave the house around 10'ish, I am about 6 beers in and feeling ready to go.

We show up at our regular watering hole, The Regal Beagle, and plant ourselves in the last 3 stools left at the outside bar. An hour goes by with us making fun of EVERYONE at the bar, watching bad MMA on Spike, drinking very fast and smoking mentholated cigarettes. I leave to go to the bathroom and come back to find Ben chatting it up with an older woman who is now in my seat. Without hesitation I tell her to get off my stool; she says I can sit on her lap, to which I reply you can sit on my lap. Jacob ends up giving up his stool and now begins my evening with a cougar.

After musical chairs, I realize that Ben might have been laying some groundwork with our cougar friend and now I was sitting in-between them. I turn to him and whispered "I'm sorry dude, did I fuck that up?" [And Pause. This where it gets hazy, I probably was almost a 12 pack in at that point, and being that today is Thursday and this happened Saturday night some stuff fades in and out which will make the story even better. Un-Pause.] Ben say's it's cool; I normally wouldn't give it a second thought but Ben has already bagged a cougar and she proceeded to steal this Illini sweatshirt from him.

She grabs my leg and says "I'm a cougar" followed by "I'm old enough to be your mother". She's drinking a Mike's Hard Lemonade which immediately let's me know she's harmless, has bad taste, and wow they still make that stuff?! She proceeds to tell me she's 40 something, has two kids, one who is 26, and she is an ER nurse. Blurry, blurry, blurry, I live in Shipman, blurry, I have a boyfriend. We were not engaged in conversation the entire evening, when I would be talking to friends or waiting for a beer I would notice her being approached by many of Alton/Godfrey's finest male suitors who on more than one occasion would try to swoon our cougar with the always money "You wanna fuck?" I tell her she is a bad cougar and that she should be hitting these assholes up for free drinks.

I throw in some radio stories, she tells me I'm sweet, blurry, blurry, we're making-out. "You are a VERY good kisser" she tells me, followed by the whole old-enough to be your mother line, which is weirding her out, but not me because I'm drunk. (side note: I swear the entire time we were there, which was a good four hours, I only counted maybe 4 drinks total for her.) I give her the whole "age is nothing but a number" line and the "it's the weekend, let's just have fun". Blurry, blurry, making-out, making-out, making-out, blurry, blurry. Let me just say, for a woman her age she was not bad looking or out of shape, which brings us to LAST CALL!

I look around to find all of my friends gone, and me telling her I'd walk her to her car. Next thing we're in the parking lot giving each other a tongue bath, looking back, I bet we we disgusted every single person at the bar. I ask her if she wants to come to my place and she says yes. No sooner we get in the door and clothes start coming off and.......... that is all you pervs are gonna get. She mentioned earlier in the night that she works out, and I believe her. I don't remember, or know, when she left but it was perfect: no last names, no phone number exchange or morning-after awkwardness.

Thus concludes my evening with a cougar, I hope you've enjoyed. I honestly didn't even want to go out that night so I guess I owe a little bit to Jacob and Ben for getting me out of the house. Here is my equation for success: alcoholic friends + don't shave + Miller Lite + mentholated cigarettes + don't be a massive tool + be me = cougar hook-up. Got that? Thanks to Pink Ass Ben for snapping some pics from that night, this is the only one I've seen and now you've seen it too.

My friends are jerks.