Sasha Grey or Church? I’m so confused

God-

Is it a sin to watch porn on Sundays?
I normally wouldn’t be asking, but I was going through the DirecTV guide and noticed there’s a Sasha Grey movie playing this morning right about the same time as mass.

Normally, I’d just record it and watch it Monday, (Keeping your day holy, of course), but my TIVO isn’t working, and besides, I rarely see Sasha in the listings anymore, and when I do, it’s typically one of her really unholy butt sex films, and not her more passionate triumph; Birthday Party Orgy, as is being featured today.

God, I don’t want to miss church, especially the coffee and donuts after the service, but on the other hand, I don’t want to miss my favorite slutbag celebrating her birthday with all her ‘lady’ friends. (After all, birthdays only come around once a year).
I need your guidance.
How about if I were to suddenly get sick in the next couple hours—say, after eating breakfast, maybe with a bout of diarrhea?
Only I don’t really want you to give me diarrhea, hell, are you kidding?  If I’m going to stay home from church, I don’t want to miss one second of Sasha due to actually having to grease off a bunch of wet growlers.
Ugh…really gross God!

What if you just gave me the symptoms, like some gurgling noises or something? I’m thinking that might just be enough to convince the fam fam of my sudden bowel disorder.
I like this idea, since it allows for a quick return to my Tostito and Coors regimen by midday, and, I wouldn’t have to use up any of my fake migraines to avoid church this early in the football preseason.

Someo-n-e-'s having a b-i-r-t-h-d-a-y!!!

God, it would just be this once. I promise—that is, unless they make a sequel to “Jam my Jugs”.  I really don’t want to miss that!

So are we cool?
I’m thinking since Sasha isn’t doing her butt sex thing, and, I only faked the diarrhea, you should give me a little latitude on the sin side of the equation—especially if you come back with a no on the whole Sunday porn question.

Think about it and get back with me soon.
She’s on at 9:30 a.m.

Love,

Diego

Slim Thug doing Gospel?

God-

Why does gospel music suck so badly?
It shouldn’t, but it does, and I think I know the reason why.
A lot of people here don’t like hearing the name Jesus invoked every 10 seconds during a song—do that, and I’m frantically scrambling for my tuner to change the station, prior to the singer invoking one more Jesus.
We all know what a great guy Jesus was, is there really a need to showcase him in every fucking gospel song? Seriously?
Why can’t gospel songwriters be more creative?
Enough already with all those incessant ‘praise the lords’—JESUS!

There were other great biblical figures besides Jesus, why not write about one of them—like that prostitute Jesus healed—Mary Magdalene?
Why I’d bet if he wanted to, Slim Thug could easily pull off a gospel song about her and no one would be none the wiser, with all his “Put some back and some neck up on it” shit he’s constantly bandying about.

Or what about the biblical prophet Hosea, whom God supposedly told to marry a whore. Slim could’ve had a field day with him, and the best part is how kids would never know the name Hosea was biblical. They’d probably think the Ho in Hosea referenced one of Slim’s bitches, thinking it was cool—subliminal gospel at its finest.

You know who would be really good at writing gospel lyrics?
T.I.
No one can understand half the shit he’s talking about anyway, so why not give him a bunch of ideas about biblical booty and let him go crazy?
Just think how glorious it would be if you could get your ‘word’ out, while at the same time, we got some awesome tunage out of the deal?

I propose T.I. start with a tune about Cain and Abel,  a fine story about how Cain killed his bro-bro, only in the rap-gospel version, T.I. could have Cain pop a cap in Abel when God rejects his offering of fruits and vegetables over Abel’s ‘sacrificed’ goats or lambs. .
This would be a much more exciting way to learn about the bible than actually reading it, shit, who has time for that—not when you can get hip hop artists to deliver it directly to your headphones.

I can only guess what Eminem and Nate Dogg could do with that guy from the bible named Samson, you know—the one who screwed all those prostitutes?
Why they’d probably have Samson in a room full of pole-dancing, double-D bitches loaded on Crystal and E, shaking their asses like an Indosesian earthquake just hit.

Now that’s a gospel CD I would actually purchase for a change.

 

Diego

29 reasons you should have your own posse

God-

I want a posse, but not The Insane Clown Posse, (Have they ever had a hit single?) I was thinking more along the lines of an actual working posse.
And not one of those cowboy posse’s either—going around hanging cattle rustlers and such.

Not one hit single!

I want a posse like those Hip Hop guys have, you know, the ones that sit around all day kissing ass and drinking everything in your liquor cabinet.
Only my posse would have a slightly different twist.

Bad posse vibes!

 

Posse Job Description

1. Arrive at my house (crib) 8 am
2. Get me two aspirin and make a pot of strong coffee
3. Loiter with other posse members—talk shit
4. Watch cell phone videos from night before
5. Decide which videos to post on Facebook and YouTube
6. Begin kissing my ass (mark as all-day event)
7. Clean pool (and leaf basket)
8. Hose off the front walk
9. Scrub the bird shit off the mailbox
10. Bust out the dro and get high
11. Lay around, watch Scarface
12. Throw the garbage and clean the kitchen
13. Go to Salvation Army for  clubbing attire
14. AM Break
15. Wash my truck
16. Clean my hunting rifle, 9mm, and maybe put some new line on my fishing reels
17. PM Break
18. Clean my RV
19. Clean garage
20. Barbecue something for dinner
21. Mow lawn
22. Prepare cocktails, smoke some more dro
23. Go clubbing
24. Get all drunk, annoy others, transform into major douchebag
25. Bounce before the man shows up
26. Drive me safely home, don’t bump tunes, tunes draw the po po
27. Make sure I don’t pass out in the bathroom after throwing up
28. Put me into bed (with clothes on)
29. Wait at least one hour, clean yak from floor
30. Clock out, go home, don’t steal anything on your way out

It just occurred to me I don’t really need a posse, hell, I’m already a one-man posse, save for kissing my own ass….but it would be nice to have a bunch of people kissing my ass and doing my chores for me.

I’m ready for my very own posse.

Yo, mow the lawn motherfucker!

Diego

Diego’s Mortuary

God- 

Why is it only mafia guys get cool names, like, Jimmie “The Weasel”, or Tony “The Blade”?
I want one of those cool names too—but I don’t want to have to knife someone or burrow into them like a weasel. (I presume that’s how “The Weasel” got his illustrious handle). 

That’s why I’m writing today.
I’m going to change my name to Diego the Mortician, mainly because I’m thinking about investing in a local mortuary  whose business is in the tank, and to save it (besides putting $$ into it) I was thinking about relocating it to South Phoenix where we would specialize in gangbanger services. 

For example;  “Mourners will delight with our Deluxe package, as Tupac, Biggie, and ODB (wax figures) stand ready to greet you and your loved ones—with counterfeit stacks raining from the ceilings and Biggie reverberating throughout every room.”
Your dearly departed will be exquisitely cared for in his or her very own customized Cadillac coffin, a posthumous prize suitable for any young up and comer. 

Because YOU deserve the best!

Picture a posse of beautiful young ladies (ho’s, covered in fake stacks) serving Crystal to your mourners while being chauffeured to the cemetery in an all Escalade caravan (complete with spinners), where upon arrival, they’ll find a Snoop look-alike delivering a graveside eulogy…with only the dizzle Snoop can bring. 

As an option, we offer a faux graveside drive-by shooting where an R. Kelly impersonator gets popped as he pees on a nearby headstone. 

Oh yes, Diego’s Mortuary will bring the shizzle, and if that doesn’t earn me the title Diego “The Mortician”  I don’t know what will. 

Love, 

Diego

Life can be tedious…try not to lose your way!

God-

Life is so confusing.
And it became so much more yesterday, when I learned Jimi Hendrix wrote Manic Depression in 3/4 time. (Metered time, typically reserved for waltzes.)
I also learned how our government (Nixon) made a deal with Malaysia to import palm kernel oil, how to prepare cabbage rolls, that Doogie Howser is gay, salmon should only be smoked with alder chips, gasoline is cheaper in south Phoenix than in Scottsdale, Pizza al Forno deleted hoagies from their menu, the conclusion that I’m as helpless as a kitten whenever I smell barbecue, and I can’t stand Will Ferrell movies.
Which is not at all why I’m writing.

During my quiet time last night, (When I toggled from Ipod to South Park re-runs) I realized something about myself which was fairly upsetting and quite disconcerting. The thought occurred to me that while I admire a great many things in this life, I’m really not an aficionado of any one thing, and this disturbs me.
I used to be an aficionado as a kid, especially when it came to such things as killing insects with a hairspray torch, shooting pigeons out of our fig tree, and starting fires.
But today?
Today I’m afraid I’ve lost my passion for killing insects, my neighbors report me to the HOA whenever they catch me shooting pigeons, and arson is illegal in most places except Hollywood.    

Which is why I’m writing.
I need your advice.
My doctor says part of the healing process revolves around finding one’s passion, whatever it may be, and since counting my money (or lack thereof) is off the table, I thought I’d go back to my roots.

Here’s my shortlist of things I really like to do.
Please review it at your earliest convenience and send me a sign, (preferably while watching Shawshank for the gozillionth time) so I’ll know which avenue to go down.

• Firing spanish rice through a straw (Mexican food restaurants and only at ladies with big hair and back turned)
• Riding my bike through the desert with my 9mm and knife attached to it. (In case of my being summoned to an impromptu desert creature  euthanizing)
  

  My assault vehicle

• Stealing my neighbors paper (Sunday edition…with all the coupons)
• Judging people at the mall
• Farting in empty grocery store aisles, or cars while traveling in extreme temperature conditions, under sheets, on sleeping dogs faces, in my sleeping bag, in church confessionals, and in public—with a friend I can point to when someone detects a foul odor.
• Crashing out-of-town (Las Vegas) business events using mislabeled name tag (Rich “Sofa King” Green)
• Groom’s best man (I’ve been best man for 7 friends thus far, but not because they liked me, because of my bachelor parties—I even had a guy ask me to be his best man who’d only heard of my party lore from a friend
• Teaching the “odds” to my kids, advising them how to win at craps, horse racing, roulette and all sports parlays
• Sneaking around (mainly anywhere requiring my sneaking prowess)
• Pickpocketing really drunk dudes coming out of clubs

I’m leaning toward opening a professional best man service, but really, I think I may just find my passion again with all of the above.

God, I need your help….you have no idea how bad.

Diego J Serrano

Jesus was in my short-ribs

God-

You know how some people claim to see Jesus appear as an apparition on a fence or a dirty window?
Well, guess what?
It happened to me last night at Applebee’s restaurant.
Never in my life did I think something like this would happen, not to me anyway, having routinely dismissed Jesus sightings as bullshit, but just as sure as you’re born (Well, not you, of course) there he was, in all his semi-bearded glory.
An unmistakable image of Jesus himself, right there in my shorts ribs, and to a lesser extent my mashed potatoes and gravy. (Part of his beard had slopped over into the mashed potatoes, presumably during the plating process).

Instantly, I alerted everyone in the place, shouting; “JESUS IS IN MY SHORT RIBS,” as the manager came running over to see what the commotion was about. Right about that time, the other patrons (I presume Christians) began to assemble around my booth, hoping to witness Applebee’s miraculous menu item as well.
One small problem.
Nobody else saw Jesus. He was only visible to me, why?

I desperately tried to point out his more prominent features to onlookers, his sorrowful face, the glaring eyes, but no one could see him, only me.
Was this a sign—a message of some kind?
It sure seemed like it, especially the way Jesus was giving me the skunk-eye and all.

The manager tried to calm me down, suggesting I sample the Jesus ribs; “Just let it go,” he said softly, but I wasn’t buying it.
I wasn’t going to eat Jesus no matter how delicious he appeared.
But I also couldn’t sit there with Jesus gazing at me like I’d just beat up a kid or something.

So, as the manager suggested, I took a couple of bites of Jesus, beginning with his beard, then a few more, and before I knew it, Jesus had disappeared as mysteriously as he first appeared, it was yet another miracle!

God, I think you know the real reason I’m writing, I need forgiveness for eating Jesus, every delicious bite of him.
I’m not exactly sure what came over me, maybe it was how well they paired with the wine.
Or maybe it was how I got a little unspooled over Jesus’s angry gaze, I’m not sure. But whatever the reason, I couldn’t take Jesus’s delectable aroma any longer and gobbled him up in an absent minded eating frenzy.

Was any part of this a sin?
Should I have just stopped with the potatoes and gotten a doggie bag for the rest of Jesus? He probably wouldn’t have liked that idea too much.
I really didn’t want to send him back to the kitchen where some busboy would shove Jesus down the garbage disposal. What else could I do?

Anyway, I was hoping you’d cut me a break on eating Jesus for dinner last night.
If it’s any consolation, he was damned tasty!

Satiatedly,

Diego

Crossbreeding: Extremist style

God-

You know how some religions have extremists, like say the Mormons and Muslims?
For instance, the Muslim radicals go around blowing things up and shooting innocent people in hopes of some ridiculous afterlife prize. (72 virgins).
And Mormon Fundamentalists, shiza…now there’s a group—enslaving women, as the adult males routinely doink 13-year-old girls, forcing them to churn out new baby fundamentalists. 

So here’s an idea.

Mormon fundamentalist like to diddle little girls…right?
Radical Muslims are expecting virgins when they die… right?
So why not introduce these idiotic groups to one another?

Just think, we’d rid America of the Mormon fundamentalists, while at the same time, give those baby diddling radicals their afterlife reward right now…no more waiting, which also means no more martyrdom.
Everybody wins.

Just a thought.

-J

No hospital bed for this guy

God

I have a request.
When it’s my time, when the big one hits, could you arrange it so I’m working on a car engine (diesel) or maybe fixing a toaster or something?
I don’t want to “go” in a hospital bed like Terry Schivo…that was really uncool.
I was thinking maybe you could arrange it so the toaster electrocutes me or something cool like that—after all, no one would be surprised…given my penchant for “fixing” things I know nothing about. 

The whole hospital bed thing sucks, have you ever seen how old people die in hospital beds…it’s not pretty.
Besides, if I show up in Heaven with grease on me or electrical burns, maybe I’ll get credit for actually working.
At any rate, I’ve assembled a list of ways to go that I believe I’m well suited for. (Toaster and truck engine already taken into consideration)

• Shanked by an escaped prison inmate
• Run over by the Metro as I try to save something (preferably a kid)
• Bungee cord mishap
• Gored by charging rhino while on safari, as I’m trying to shoot a lion or something
• Fireworks display gone horribly awry
• Bus plunge (In a South American country…that’s where all the best plunges occur)
• Heart attack while splitting logs for firewood
• Struck by lightning on a golf course (but only after hitting a hole in one)
• Stray bullet from lone gunman, while in line at the convenience store
• Crossbow mishap at renaissance festival
• Run over by tractor-trailer rig while peeing on side of busy interstate roadway
• Forklift incident at Costco or Sams Club

God, I want to go out like a man, and not in a hospital bed with a bunch of tubes hooked up to me…this is not the image I want my loved ones to carry for the rest of their lives.

I want them to think of me as a “working guy” who met his end while doing something he, well, kind of liked…sorta. (Save for the bus plunge and getting shanked, and for that matter all the other stuff too).

Now that I think about it, lets just stick with the toaster.

Love,

-J

Predestiny: Totally uncool

God-

Is there such thing as pre-destiny?

If there is, wouldn’t that mean someone actually takes the time to map out our lives—every day, hour and minute?
How is that accomplished—do you have a gaggle of screenwriters on board, writing scripts for everyone’s life?
Well so you know, whoever was in charge of writing my script really sucks.
Seriously, I would have been better off in Haiti or one of those starving Ethiopian kids than to have been dealt a car crash, motorcycle accident, houseboat sinking, Mexican jail, Catholic school, (similar to jail), bicycle accident, Jeep accident(s), jet-ski mishap, fire, and my all-time favorite, falling down the steps and breaking both feet at the same time.
Who would even think to write such mayhem into one persons life—I mean seriously, not cool.

I can picture your screenwriters now, sitting around, throwing ideas out at one another when one of them suddenly blurted out;

“Oh, wait, you know what would be really funny?
What if he says he’s gay to get out of a relationship, the girlfriend feels sorry for him and writes a letter encouraging him to ”come-out”….then, inadvertantly addresses the letter but leaves Jr. conspicuously absent  from the mailing name (snail mail)….his dad opens the letter by mistake, and BAM…the dad is convinced the kid’s a homo.”

That was real f#cking funny….thanks.

Oh, and so was that all night heater in Vegas when I won 60 grand in one night….and lost it all by morning.

With all due respect, your screenwriters really suck and if there is such thing as Karma, well, I’ve paid some pretty heavy tolls thus far. You might want to remind them of this in the event they’re still writing my story…perhaps even encourage them to write in a happy ending. (Not the massage kind)

Still confused, (But not about my sexuality)

Diego J Serrano

PS. You already knew this letter was coming (if there is such thing as pre-destiny), so whoever wrote this part of my script, thank him or her for me. 
The others can all, quite literally go to hell.

The rod and staff

God-

I had to go to a funeral yesterday, where at one point in the service, the pastor recited the 23rd psalm. As usual, I wasn’t paying attention to much of his sermon because I was too busy looking around—seeing who was crying, what people were wearing, and more importantly, how my shirt got so f#cking wrinkled in less than an hour after putting it on. (ADD is a bitch)

Then, amidst all the weeping, in the distant background, I heard the 23rd psalm….I quickly tuned in, snapping out of my ADD stupor to catch the part about how thy rod and thy staff comfort me as I walk through the valley of death, and that made me question the whole rod and staff thing.

The staff—the staff I get…it’s like one of those walking sticks you buy at REI or Hikers World, and I can see how someone your age might want one, but the rod—what’s that?
How’s the rod supposed to comfort anyone, in fact, the rod seems more like a weapon than anything else…is it?

I’ve always pictured you as this gigantic old man who’s a little hunched over, with long white hair, beard, robe, and sandals….slowly walking around up there with a bunch of little kids (cherubs) swarming at your feet.
The staff just seems like its a natural part of your whole getup, the rod however…not so much.

Do you have to swat at the cherubs from time to time, is that what the rod’s used for? I get that, particularly if one of them attempts to take a peek under your robe or something.

God, when I was a young boy, my grandma used to beat me regularly with a small branch she cut from our mulberry tree, is your rod like that—and do you use it in the same fashion?
That’s really not cool.
Whenever I misbehaved, she put welts on my ass faster than I could count them….and that was just a small branch! I can’t imagine what kind of damage your rod would do to someone. (Me).

At any rate, it seems like more of the same up there as it is here—I step out of line, and you’re standing by with a big ‘ol tree branch, ready to smack the bejesus out of me, just as grandma did.

Great…just great.

Dismayed,

Diego J Serrano

My new maid

God-

I was thinking.
What if I were to send away for one of those Chinese mail-order brides—does this break any religious rules or commandments that you know of?
I have a friend that can print me up a fake marriage license, (and I.D.) and my pal from Catholic school can fake the mass….so in your eyes, I’m really not doing anything wrong—am I?
Besides, I wouldn’t be “marrying” her for love or sex, or any of that foolishness—mainly just free housecleaning and some delicious Chinese food. (Hunan style)

Currently, we only have Chinese on Sundays, but this would allow us to have Chinese at least a couple of times a week, and almost certainly always after sex…think about it—no more of my sprinting downstairs in a post-coital eating frenzy, since Ling-Ling (name placeholder for now) would be dutifully standing by with a big steaming bowl of Kung-Pao chicken and ice-cold Tingsao—allowing me to finally serve up some of that cuddle-time the wife’s been seeking all these years….that’s called win-win!

Yes

I’d fix Ling-Ling  a real nice place up in the attic, with a futon and a tv so she could learn English, but she would have to shower out in the backyard, since there’s no plumbing in the attic. I don’t see this as a problem though, since she could time her showers with the lawn sprinkling schedule.

This seems to be the best idea I’ve had so far, since Russian mail-order brides are much too whorish and their food is the pits.
Besides, I don’t want to be snuggling with the wife, only to have some babushka wearing whore sashay into my love lounge with a bowl of borsch and a bottle of Stoly….sorry, that just has no appeal whatsoever.

I’ve always had a penchant for Hunan style cooking, and thought this could be a dream come true for both us, and Ling-Ling, not to mention her parents, since we’d relieve them the burden of having to raise their one and only daughter.
And just to make sure we’re on the same page, we’d release her (Ling-Ling) into the streets of America after a year or two of service, unless we find another illegal maid in the interim…one who wasn’t scared off by this whole immigration nightmare.

No

God, we haven’t been the same since Carmen left, (Thanks, Arizona SB1070) the house is a wreck, and we have to now go out if we want Mexican food,which really sucks.

Maybe you could help somehow. 

Still seeking answers,

Diego J Serrano

My winter job

God-  

Are sandals the recommended footwear in Heaven, or can I wear my ropers?
I’ve never worn sandals before, all I’ve ever worn is my roper boots, and as of late, sneakers. (unemployed)  

I really like wearing the ropers, although I’m not an actual cowboy, and I’ve never roped anything—nonetheless, they’re still cool looking, and, chicks dig the whole cowboy thing.
Whenever I do wear my ropers, I compliment them with a pair of wrangler jeans and a custom-made Tom Mix cowboy hat, which, when combined, appear to make me look anything but the lazy f#ck that I really am…almost as if I really am a genuine Arizona cowboy.
God, I never asked to be a cowboy, but I suppose in your ultimate wisdom, you inspired me to shop at western- clothing retailers, so it really was meant to be, your will so to speak—in short, your plan.

In the beginning, I really didn’t know what your plan was, with the cowboy get-up and all, but quickly caught on last winter when the tourist season got into full swing—hanging in downtown Scottsdale, where I discovered how winter visitors are a little too eager to meet someone as rootin and tootin as mahself. 

That’s when I’d leap into action—soliciting photo-ops with a genuine cowboy for only 20 bucks! (I spit right after the marketing overture, this always helps to convince them I’m for real) 

Teens rarely bite on the photo-op, but the old ones…they seem to be my biggest cash cow, rarely noticing when I make off with a purse or bag of souvenirs, except for the time this old guy caught me sauntering off with his little bag of cactus jelly…go figure. But I did what any cowboy would do under the circumstances—ran like hell, hightailing it for my trusty pickup truck where we rode like the wind.  

God, I’ve really enjoyed meeting all the pasty-white, fat people you send here to enjoy the Arizona winter, especially the crippled ones, they make the best customers, with their motorized scooters and all—no cane for them to swat at me with, and, when I get blisters from the roper boots, I’m still able to outrun their scooters!

God, it hasn’t been easy making a living as an Arizona cowboy, but there’s no arguing with your plan. 

Yippee-ki-ay,

Diego J Serrano

Birthday wishes

God-

Why don’t any of my birthday wishes ever come true?
I do exactly as I’m supposed to—blowing out the candles in one mighty swoosh, pausing for a moment to look both pensive and sincere to my party going guests, and then finally making the wish.
But the wish never materializes—why is that?

My last birthday, I wished for people to start calling me by the name of Red Jenkins. (just losing the Diego altogether).
I like the name Red because of Red Adair, the internationally acclaimed oil-well fireman, who I’ve always revered as the toughest sonofabitch on the planet.
Jenkins, well, this was mainly after Snuffy Jenkins; the famous American banjo player, who was probably really good at playing the banjo, but I’d never know it since I don’t listen to that screeching, ear-splitting, cacophony of brain damage southerners call music—besides, Red Serrano sounds like a ripe chili pepper….not good.

Shortly after my candle blowing ceremony, I suspected this would be yet another in a long series of birthday wishes that would never materialize, and I was right—not a soul referred to me as Red or Jenkins, or by any other handle, save for Diego J Serrano. (ugh).

And this led me to the inescapable conclusion that your person assigned to the birthday wish granting job isn’t doing their job, which, pisses me off to no end.
I mean seriously,  what is that lazy motherf#ker up to anyway?
What could be so damned important that I can’t get at least one of my birthday wishes granted after all these years, huh?

Why, if I had that job, I’d be dishing out ponies to little girls, and pellet guns to 13-year-old boys—hell, these are staples of the American birthday wish system…these items should always be in stock and ready for delivery.

God, I want this person fired immediately and am formally requesting you consider me for this post for the following reasons:

• I’m good with people, especially those whose maturation process stops at age 17 
• I wouldn’t make kids “behave” all year-long, extorting them for a stocking full of gifts
• I’d refuse to pay them for teeth they no longer need, or wear a pink poodle skirt in the process of sneaking dollar bills under their pillows
• I would not make them hunt for colored eggs at Easter, in some perverse reminder we crucified your son

In short, I would be a no holds barred, no strings attached, birthday wish granting mofo…plain and simple.
They’d wish, and I’d deliver—done—no questions asked.

One more thing.

I only want to be the gift grantor for the 1-13 age bracket…I’d probably get us both into some deep shit if I handled the post-pubescent age group.

Love,

Diego J Serrano aka Red Jenkins (to someone, someday)

Aunt Mary smelled like insect repellant

God-  

I remember as a kid when my mom used to say, “Diego, you stink to high Heaven,“  encouraging me in her own quirky way to bathe every now and again.  

Was she right—does high Heaven smell funny?  

I always pictured Heaven smelling sweet, like chocolate—or an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor,  but the more I think about it, I realize Heaven is full of old people—and old people typically stink to high Heaven! 

I can’t quite put my finger on the smell exactly, but have narrowed it down to a pungent mix of the following; 

• Gingivitis…likely from ignoring flossing advice
• A mutant form of body odor, which I’ve only detected on the old and the French
• Ammonia…a nose-burning blast, typically wafting from the underpants region…directly attributable to a considerable lack of wiping prowess. (I presume)

And as if this 3 odor bouquet wasn’t smelly enough, I’ve noticed a popular trend among older women to slather themselves with a really weird smelling perfume, one that’s uncannily similar to  insect repellent….more specifically, bug spray. 

This isn’t right.  

My mom never stunk, she smelled like fresh-baked goods right up to the end (despite her prodigious use of Aqua-Net), but my Aunt Mary…oooh boy, did she have a stench. Every time she walked into a room, it smelled like death had just walked in—and died!

So after considerable thought, I have to say, I don’t particularly care for the way you designed old folks—with their stinking to high Heaven and all.
I think you could have done a much better job, making them smell like freshly baked, chocolate chip cookies, or even brownies.  

Perhaps if you had done so, high Heaven wouldn’t smell the way it does.  
What if we were to start burying them with a sack of brownies or something—would this help?  

At any rate, I’d like to request you send me to a much lower part of Heaven until you get this horrific stench under control.  

Olfactorally yours,  

Diego J Serrano  

Unusual request

God-

I want to reincarnate as a woman.
But not just any woman.
First, I’d like to be born into a wealthy English family who reside primarily on a fine country estate. (I like country estates)
Next, I want to be cute and fit…this is a must.
Additionally, I’d like to be smart, but not as smart as Hillary Clinton—I don’t want to bust people’s balls.
And the wealthy English family—they need to have at least a couple other kids, but they should be talentless and cretin-like.

Here’s the rub.
I still want to use the men’s room, more specifically—I’d like to pee standing up and not make a huge mess all over my clothing, in fact, if you could just eliminate my vagina altogether, this would be helpful.
And instead of normal genitalia, perhaps you could fashion a wedding cake (3-tier) where you were thinking of putting the vagina. (sans little plastic figurines)
And where you’d normally put my tits—I’d like a coffee mug on one side and a small laptop (Apple) on the other. (utilitarian)

The cretin-like siblings need to be jailed for some sort of huge legal offense immediately after turning 18, leaving me as sole heir to the big estate, upon which time I would hole-up in the fine country estate with my cake, laptop and coffee mug, spending my remaining days admiring the cute little rosettes, drinking coffee, and cursing my left tit (laptop).

Oh, and I don’t want kids. (this may not be a problem with the cake vagina).

Respectfully,

Diego J Serrano

p.s. If it’s too much trouble getting the cake to fit, let’s try a small serving of thin crust pizza as second choice.

Is Heaven really just one long chick-flick?

God-

Sounds like there’ll be quite a bit of time to kill in Heaven, with the whole “everlasting-life” thing and all, so what is it people do for all of eternity—and don’t say bask in eternal love…please, that’s the same line Sister Mary Edna gave us and it sounded sickeningly mushy in 3rd grade, let alone today, as an adult. In fact, she made it sound like an excruciatingly long chick flick.
I’m not sure I like this.
Don’t get me wrong, I want to get into Heaven, but for my own selfish reasons, not to sit around some “soul-mate”, while little cherubs swarm about—playing their zithers’ as we talk love smack, feed each other grapes, and get it on. (I presume souls can eat grapes and do the deed, yes?)
God, I’m not good at love smack, or the whole romance thing, not with my ADD…jeez, I wander right after my wife opens her mouth half the time!

Nah, I’m not sure I care for this whole concept at all, God.
I barely choked down “The Notebook” a few years back, how do you expect me to survive all of eternity with this love basking stuff—I’m a guy for Christ’s sake!

It’s no wonder guys are such hellions—I don’t know any man who’d voluntarily sign on for an eternal chick-flick, let alone 2 hours of one…even if he was on a make-up date! My guess is, we must know intuitively that breaking a few of the 10 Commandments will keep us out of Heaven—at least for a while—perhaps allowing us to do a small stint in Purgatory.

Sooo, should I start breaking some Commandments right away?

Or, what if I racked-up only enough sins to insure Purgatory is my first stop, and not Heaven, what are your thoughts?
I’m thinking, I’d rather sit-it-out in Purgatory for a few thousand years, rather than have to go to a nightmarishly long chick flick. (gag)

Eternally yours, but not  feeling the love basking,

Diego J Serrano

Doctor’s orders

God-

I went to the hospital last week where my doctor informed me I could die if I get a sudden nosebleed, saying how my blood is too thin and I could bleed out.
Was he just trying to scare me, and why on earth would he say such a thing…as if I pick my nose regularly.
I explained how I rarely pick my nose, and when I do, it’s generally to extract one of those annoying whistlers, and this doesn’t occur often enough to kick-off a nosebleed!
I also informed him my Cardinals seats are pretty high up in the stadium, but not in the nosebleed section….that’s where all the losers hang.

Could cause death

Which brought up the question;
What exactly does one have to do in order to get a nosebleed to the magnitude that it warrants death—is it more a function of finger depth…how vigorous one pursues a wayward boog, or is it a function of frequency—chronic non-stop picking?
I don’t do either, but it still bothers me that he brought it up—why didn’t he bring up cutting myself while shaving, or my dog biting me when I kick the little motherf*#ker!
He must think all I do is lay around all day, eat fritos, drink Coors banquet and mine for boogers.

I think someone ratted me out.

Argh,

Diego J Serrano

On my own

God-

I’ve always pictured going to Heaven would be like going to Disneyland for the first time—for Heaven’s sake, I hope not.
Goofy scared the shit out of me as a kid—I don’t even want to see his stupid looking ass on main street again.

Anyway, that’s not why I’m writing today.
I was wondering if I could bring along some stuff with me into Heaven, like the Pharaoh’s did…only I wasn’t planning on gold or weird-looking pottery.
I was thinking more along the lines of my George Foreman grill, a futon, and my mom’s barbeque sauce recipe.
I don’t need gold or pottery because I don’t plan on showing off, but I will need these 3 items if I am to have any kind of decent afterlife.
I need a good supermarket too—one that sells lean ground beef (4% fat) and liquid smoke (for the sauce).
I’ll also need some help lifting the futon…my back goes out regularly these days.

I'm ready for Heaven

Will you be starting me off in a studio apartment or something a little bigger—if it’s bigger, I may bring the kegerator along too.

This will be kind of fun…being on my own for the first time and all in Heaven.

Love, (coozy in hand)

Diego J Serrano

Try the ribs, not the red velvet cake

God-

Why do so many people (women and gay men) compare eating something delicious with going to Heaven—I don’t get it.

“You’ve got to try this red velvet cake Mary…you’ll think you died and went to Heaven!”

What’s that?
I never feel like I died and went anywhere after eating, let alone Heaven.
In fact, I don’t recall ever hearing any of my friends recommend eating something so delicious that I’d die and go to Heaven afterwards—my friends say things like; Dude—if you’re going to the Pork Palace, order the babyback ribs…they’re the shit!

I think guys may have this one right. (the shit part, that is)
I’m not going to Heaven after eating unless I have a massive coronary, right there, on the spot.
The only place I’m headed after a major wolfing is my recliner, where I will promptly swell up like a tick and feel like shit…sitting there lamenting over how I ate too much—hating myself all the while for doing so.

Good...but not Heaven

That can’t be Heaven, God.

Is it?

Not hungry now,

Diego J Serrano

Is cursing allowed in Heaven?

God-

Is cursing discouraged in Heaven—I hope not, it’s one of the few things I’m really good at.
As a matter of fact, (I may be going out on a limb here) I don’t know anyone who curses better. (this includes rappers and Vice-President Biden)

But so you know, it’s really not a mean type of cursing, it’s more of an expressive (almost artistic) type of cursing, used to punctuate my limited vocabulary.
And here’s the thing….people really like my cursing style because it’s so genuine and because of how well it flows.
I think if you gave me the chance and we got to talk for a few minutes, you’d like it too…why, who knows, you just might be LMFAO in a matter of minutes!

God, I just wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t allowed to express myself, I need my expletives….serious.(even in Heaven)

I'm eloquent like this

Please reconsider.

Diego J Serrano