Diego’s suggestions for sensible holiday eating:
Diego’s suggestions for sensible holiday eating:
Apologies in advance for my once again ruining Thanksgiving grace today.
I know you probably won’t see it that way, but rest assured, I’ll get a boatload of shit from my family afterward, saying stuff like; ”Really dad, did you have to go there?”.
And my wife’s ever-popular; “What the hell was that mister?”. Although, I do like how she uses the mister salutation, even if it is prompted by the circumstances.
Ya see God, It’s just that I get sick of reciting that same old cliche grace year-after-year, you know, the one that goes…Bless us oh lord and these thine gifts yada yada yada?
Did you know I can recite that version in less than two seconds? It’s true. Sometimes even faster, depending upon how hungry I am. Which is why I sort of feel the need to engage in more of a
rambling diatribe dialogue, than a grace that in my opinion is overused and, over time, may have lost some of its effectivity.
My family thinks I’m showboating since I have a captive audience, but you and I both know different. I simply want your undivided attention at least once a year, this amidst all other shit that’s on your plate.
So I use Thanksgiving as my platform. You can’t blame me for that, can you? And yes, I’ll probably say some things that’ll deliver a punch, shooting a major record scratch in your direction, this despite any
possibility likelihood it’ll creep-out the fam.
Anyways, as you’re dutifully watching, listening-in today to see who is and isn’t giving thanks, and my spiel pops in, please know my intentions are holy.
PS. Don’t change anything with my wife, like somehow making her more understanding or something once you get a load of my awesome sincerity.
I really like how she does that mister thing afterward.
I’m sorry for eating all the chocolate candies for breakfast this morning, more specifically, the See’s varietal ‘Nuts & Chews’ mom was saving for Thanksgiving Day. It’s my sincere hope those of you who still read this blog will take this for what it’s worth —not a joke this time but a total act of contrition.
I don’t know what happened. I was all, “I think I’ll have one with my coffee,” then one turned into another, then another, and after a while, I was like, “Aw, fuck it.”
I know I was told they were for Thanksgiving Day, and I really didn’t see the harm in eating just one, but I guess at some point, I just lost my motherfuckin-mind and ate every damned one of them before I knew what happened.
Anyways, once again, sorry for ruining Thanksgiving this year.
PS. If it’s any consolation, when I come down off this sugar high I’ll likely be sick as a fucking rat. I’d also like to point out how I’ll probably be spending most of my day tomorrow on the crapper, shitting like a sick barnyard animal.
Your loving Diego.
Piloting a lifeless hunk of iron ore weighing in at just over a metric ton, skillfully weaving it through traffic without colliding into any number of roadway hazards is in my estimation, a miracle.
An agent of the divine in fact.
As Diego sat stuck in traffic, his car not moving for some period of time, little did he know what was brewing in the universal cosmic narrative. Two random thoughts that only moments before had never existed, were about to converge in the minds of two drivers a few feet apart from one another on the same highway.
The first, when a small gap in traffic appeared, the manifest of which signaling the driver beside him to mash his gas pedal to the floorboard, lunging his vehicle across the lane boundary and, with such heel-toe, gas-braking precision it would come squarely to rest in the gap once in front of Diego.
The second, when Diego, in full control of his faculties would elect not to respond-in-kind, mercilessly ramming this god of the gas pedal with a force certain to hospitalize them both.
It’s these type of daily occurrences that remind me, there is order in the universe and just how that order, perhaps an agent of the divine, remains steadfast in its efforts to keep me devoid of a felonious assault conviction.
As I said, a miracle.
I’m going to the farmer’s market today.
And I’ll buy all kinds of leafy shit whose names I won’t even pretend to know.
Then, I’ll bring my bountiful harvest back home, stuff it into the one drawer in the fridge where it will, following the rules of nature, wilt, rot, and eventually decompose into a repulsive greenish-brown liquid and, in such sufficient quantity that a small wave will wash over the remaining wilted rot upon opening the drawer.
I don’t do this intentionally, I actually have good intentions when I buy vegetables—like cooking and eating them. But I’m not sure what happens between first seeing these beautiful, freshly picked, pert veggies standing at attention in their little farmer baskets, and the time I don hazmat gloves to remove their toxic waste remains, but I suspect the daily rigors of living are squarely to blame.
Such a shame too.
At one point, I recall gawking at this once clump of bushy, bright green whatever festooning the farmer’s table, picturing it in an array of bowls on my dinner table, but this is only a dream.
Instead, reality flushes a chunk.
Stuck in traffic for over an hour on my nightly commute and now, safely within the confines of my burrow, it’s at this point where I’m poised to eat just about anything that at one time walked or crawled. I’m also ready for a cocktail served up in a tumbler, one typically reserved for iced tea or something, ruling out any possibility that with careful, sous chef-like preparation, I’ll be eating anything remotely organic in the frenzied moments ahead.
And that’s why God invented grocery store rotisserie chicken.
Last night’s dinner discussion:
Me: Ok, so I have a question. If bats are mammals, doesn’t that mean they’d have bat tits?
Wife: Probably, little tiny bat tits.
Me: Why would they be little? Wouldn’t they come in different cup sizes…like humans, like DD cups?
Wife: Are you out of your fucking mind? What brought this on?
Me: I’m not sure. [frantically thinking what I'm going to say] I think it was that special on killer whales we watched last weekend. [whew, nice save]
Wife: [head shaking] WHAT?
I was thinking. [really lying and shooting from the hip] In all the nature shows I’ve seen featuring whales breaching, I’ve never seen any gigantic whale tits flopping around when they’re flying through the air. This leads me to believe whales either don’t have tits, or, they have little tiny whale tits, which, other than making for one weird oxymoron, doesn’t make any sense. That’s when I started thinking about bats. They’re mammals too, and as I thought about it, I realized how I’ve never seen a pair of bat tits either. Not that I’ve ever looked for them or anything.
Wife: Are there any other kind of tits you think we should be talking about over dinner?
Me: Uh, yeah, no. [not unless we want to talk about our neighbor Noreen's new tits I think to myself which is what brought this on in the first place I reckon]
Wife: Are you sure Noreen’s new tits don’t have anything to do with this?
Me: Huh? Noreen? Wait…did she just have breast augmentation? [holy fuck, she read my mind]
Wife: Pass the salad and stop thinking about Noreen’s new boob job.
Me: [I swear to God, she's got superpowers]
Wife: I heard that.
My father, motivated perhaps by the fear that my not doing enough ‘manly’ things as a young boy would send me into waiting arms of practicing queers everywhere, did his level best to make sure I’d end up a man’s man¹.
By using a weekly regimen of camping trips involving hunting, fishing and getting drunk with his buddies, his hope was that it would be enough to keep me rooted firmly in the land of hetero. Dad was weird like that. This was also where he used my time in captivity to teach the objectification of women. Wait, I said that wrong.
What I meant to say was how between dad and his hunting buddies telling dirty jokes, and, their conveniently leaving coochie mags laying about, he believed this would provide just the hetero spark he believed was missing.
I needed no hetero spark.
What dad didn’t know was that my spank-bank, the part of my gray matter typically reserved for storing porn images that could easily be summoned up whenever the situation arose, and it arose a lot back in those days, had no available memory. It was full. This despite my all too frequent withdrawals. Sorry, I digress.
I’m not really sure why dad felt the need to overcompensate with all of what he believed to be manly, but I do have my suspicions. Particularly now that I’m close to the same age as he was when embarking on his “I ain’t raisin no queer” crusade.
Maybe it was the time he caught me
checking out whiffing mom’s lingerie drawer.
What can only be captioned as an innocent little whiff while helping put away the laundry turned into a debacle beyond proportion. Mom’s undies positioned squarely against my mug with both arms outstretched, I was holding them up as if I were a high priest giving praise to a royal chalice. Little did I know dad was in the next room checking me out.
He came bursting into the room in a thunderous rage.
“The fuck are you doing you pervy little shit?”
Uh, oh. This isn’t going to end well, I thought during the millisecond it took him to lunge at me. Ripping the panties out of my hand, which as panties go, these were pretty cool looking with all the lace and see-throughy fabric, he proceed to slap the shit out of me while simultaneously removing his belt. Quite a feat, now that I’m able to re-live the scene more objectively.
“I was putting mom’s clothes away like she asked.”
“L i k e [belt] h e l l [belt] y o u [belt] w e r e [belt].
I have to admit, dad was good at this. Rhythmically timing his flogs as if they were commas. Good thing he wasn’t an educated man and the sentences he was able to put together were short, or I wouldn’t have been walking the next day.
I know, it was a creepy thing to do but in my defense I did like the way mom smelled, so huffing her garments was really tantamount to how a child finds comfort with a thumb and a blanket, at least in my mind anyway. Vive l’inocente!
Besides, it wasn’t like I sat around the house snorting mom’s panties like they were a line of coke, then rushing off to the loo to rub one out. Now that would have been creepy. But at least had I done so and, got caught in the act, it would have altered dad’s cocksure belief I was headed for a life of anal fissures and semen encrusted sportswear.
That having dad know inherently boner gagging was not in my immediate future seemed worth the price of him catching me rubbing one out with one hand, a Playboy in the other, in my mind was a small price to pay for not having to endure his seemingly endless gauntlet of testosterone fueled events. Even if he did believe I was a soul-less perv.
Or now that I think more about it, it could have been the ‘Mandy Incident’ that sent him to his grave convinced I was gay.
Amanda Fishbein and I were neighbors.
She was also my friend from our very first day of school, right up to the time of the incident—our second year of middle school. Quiet and unassuming in public, Mandy was anything but in private, often dogging me to me play doctor with her as kids, eventually stepping-up her game to downright crotch assaults whenever the two of us were left alone together. This went on for years until finally one day I hatched a plan, a brilliant plan I thought, one that would free me of Mandy’s unwanted overtures forever.
I’d simply tell her I was gay, and I’d do it in a letter.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I don’t think I can hang out with you anymore. I’m going through a difficult time right now, questioning my sexuality. In short, I think I might be gay. I need time to sort things out, so for now, please stop calling and coming over after school, and please stop coming over to visit with my mom and sister.
I hope you can respect my request while I try to figure out who the real Diego is.
Your friend forever,
I snickered to myself when I wrote the letter, elated with the idea that I’d never again endure one of her crotch attacks. I wouldn’t be snickering for long however. Sadly, my letter pre-dated e-mail, and since my name and dad’s were one in the same, guess who opened the letter concealing Mandy’s response? I found her opened envelope and crumpled-up pink stationary on my dresser.
I’m sorry to hear you think you might be gay, but I always kind of suspected something was up so I asked my mom how to tell if someone was gay.² She got all pissy and told me never to bring the topic up again. So I asked my friend Mary Beth and she said I should try to get you alone and show you my tits, cause she said guys get boners when they see tits. But I really don’t have any tits just yet, so that’s why I was always trying to give you a boner by grabbing at your stuff. I wanted to know if you really were gay, but I guess we both know the answer to that one now. I guess I shouldn’t have been so mean. Anyways, I’m really sorry if I hurt you.
PS. I asked mom if you could come over for dinner this weekend, since my brother will be home from college this weekend. As you probably know, Dirk is gay too, so I thought he may be able to give you some pointers on boy dating.
Anyway, I hope you’re not mad at me. Call me.
PS. Is it ok to tell Mary Beth you’re gay? I’d make her pinky swear before I told her anything.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was the ‘Mandy Incident’.