The Chinchilla farm

God-

You know how PETA likes to stage naked protests?
Well I was thinking, what if I invited PETA over to the casa this weekend for a protest / pool party? I’d let them throw blood on me as I cooked the burgers and dogs, then, after they got all the yelling and screaming out of their systems, they could cool off, naked, in the pool. How genius is that, right?
And as a bonus to them, I’d even let them destroy that stupid angora coat I got my wife years ago…. but not her chinchilla wrap.

Chinchilla’s, whether PETA knows this or not, have got to be the most perverse creation on the planet, truly deserving of their fate as a winter jacket.
I know this first-hand.
I bought my daughter a pet chinchilla when she was 10, and oh sure, it was all fun and games at first—that is until she came running into our bedroom in the middle of the night, screaming; “THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH RUFUS…COME QUICK”!!!
It turned out Rufus had a nightly penchant for self-fellating, which, not only provided my 10 year old a disturbing glimpse into rhodent sexuality, (and any harmful image-extrapolating side-affects it may have had) but also caused me some fairly haunting imagery as well.

Not because he was blowing himself, I could not have cared less, moreover, it was the size of his willie.
To give you an idea of what we’re talking about here, in proportion, say Rufus was a homo-sapien, his pecker would’ve been at least 3-1/2 feet tall!
Trust me, I’m a man, I did the math, finding it impressive by most standards…unless of course your’re Rufus’s female partner. Yeeeoww!

Rufus’s cage-rattling, sex antics eventually (the next day) forced us to give him the ‘ol heave-ho, prompting our sentencing the little Satanic bastard to a chinchilla farm upstate, where we would keep hope alive that eventually, he’d wind up on a rack at Bergdorf Goodman, and not in some other little kid’s bedroom haunting them nightly, creepy little fucker that he was.

At any rate God, I was hoping you’d help me get a bunch of PETA protesters (hot babes) over to the house either this weekend for a good ‘ol fashioned protest / barbecue / swim party.
But between you and me, I could give two shits about the naked-protest, I’m secretly hoping they use real blood to throw on me instead of paint, since it’ll attract tons of desert varmints, ultimately providing me with some light target practice before deer season gets underway.

Rufus's cage was about the same size!

And if they use paint and not real blood?
That’s it.
Everyone out of the pool.
No Boca burgers for anyone, naked or not.

And oh by the way, no one’s going anywhere until the paint is all cleaned up.

Carnivorously,

Diego

I won’t use restrooms in Heaven unless you outlaw hovering

God-

How clean are the restrooms in Heaven and are they unisex? I don’t think I can handle sharing a public bathroom with women, not the way they hover when they take a leak.
That’s totally uncool, they pee everywhere but the bowl and never clean it up, leaving it for someone else to mop up….someone like me.
I know, I used to work at a Jack-in the-Box, where I routinely mopped up a small lake of piss off the floor of the women’s restroom each night at closing. Ewww!

I don’t understand this phenomenon—why the hover?
When my dad taught me to pee, I learned how to stand rigidly at attention, take aim, and fire, which evolved to include a vigorous shake followed by  a surprise body shiver, fait accompli!

This leads me to believe there are some mothers who actually teach their little girls how to hover, (4-5 feet above the bowl) which is no doubt why we have phenoms such as Lake Lady Piss.

Well, I don’t want to be the guy in Heaven assigned to cleaning lady-piss off the floor, or for that matter, fishing out Tampons from clogged toilets, so forgive me in advance but I won’t be using the facilities.

Here’s an idea.
Since tampon flushing and hovering aren’t really sins, but do generally fuck with the janitorial population at large, why not punish these wayward lady-pissers by making them clean the public restrooms in Heaven? Huh?

I’d be happy to use one of Heaven’s unisex public restroom under these conditions.
Otherwise, I’ll probably just go in the clouds when no one is looking.

One more thing, are clouds like snow?

Love,

Diego

Good thing Jesus didn’t get hit by a truck

God-

You know how Christians make the sign of the cross when they pray? Well if Jesus hadn’t been crucified—say he got run over by an out-of-control oxen cart, would we still have to make the sign of the cross, or would we begin our prayers by running down the street like those crazy f#*kers in the Pamplona bull run—arms outstretched and flailing—screaming—finally collapsing at some point to begin praying?

Or, what if Jesus drank too much wine at one of his outings, tripped, hit his head on the barbecue and died of a brain hemorrhage? I’d hate to mimic that event each time I wanted to say a prayer, especially when stuck in traffic. What would I do? Jump out of the car, run to the hood, pretend to smack my head on the hood ornament and collapse in the street—all for a 10 second prayer, hoping traffic will mysteriously unsnarl anytime soon?
Seems like a lot of work for a tiny prayer.
I wonder what roadside memorials would look like in the absence of a cross—in the drunken barbecue scenario? A statue of a guy in a robe, laying on the ground next to a mini barbecue…bleeding?  (Would the name and date of birth/death be engraved on the barbecue or the statue)?

Sometimes I wonder why Pontius Pilate didn’t just shoot Jesus with an arrow or something, it would have been much more humane. Jesus wouldn’t have suffered so much like he did on the cross, and, that scene would be easy to mimic before praying….I used to do it all the time as a kid, whenever we played Cowboys and Indians.

I’m really glad Jesus didn’t have a heart attack or else we’d be teaching our kids to do this each night before bedtime.

I kind of like how Muslims start their prayers….with some singy songy shit and everyone down on their knees…making me wonder if Mohammed was singing some kind of weird yodeling shit, then got down on his knees—and died! Maybe he was trying to seduce some Austrian babe or something.

My favorite though is Buddha…happy little fat-f#*k that he was—sitting around, probably eating veggies (meh) when his big one hit. That’d be easy to mimic—just eat a few veggies and start praying, right? 
I can totally see that. I’d simply scarf down a couple handfuls of cheesy puffs, say a few prayers, and hit the rack for a good nights sleep, although, I’d have to do something about  the powdery orange shit I typically get everywhere. That’d really mess up the sheets.

I suppose I should just be thankful Jesus practiced celebacy.
Can you imagine how bad it would suck had he died of an STD?
How awful would that be—digging and scratching at ones crotch before prayertime, or worse yet, while saying grace.

I guess maybe that whole crucifixion thing worked out for the best.

Love,

Diego

Alzheimer’s for Dummies

God-

Would it be a sin for me to fake Alzheimer’s?
I was thinking how Alzheimer’s could be the answer to all my prayers….giving me a legitimate excuse to ignore people, get out of my daily chores, and more importantly, have others wait on me hand and foot—almost like I was in an invalid. Pretty cool, huh?

It wouldn’t take much acting on my part either, since I’ve always spaced conversations, and, if you consider how I routinely sustain acid flashbacks, most everyone already expects I’ll be afflicted sooner or later, so why not sooner?
Just think, this could be the crazy-ass level of happiness I’ve always been seeking, and the best part is how I’m already proficient at lying around, ignoring people, and not doing my chores….Alzheimers just legitimizes everything!

God, I realize this may be some kind of sin, perhaps even a little wrong of me, but I would think you want your children to be happy, don’t you?
Well, the thought of me not working, listening to screaming kids, and not cleaning bird shit off the back deck makes me really happy….for that matter, so does having my meals served wherever I happen to be slouched at the moment.
That would be way cool.

And just so I don’t offend you, (or actual Alzheimer’s patients) I’d snap out of it whenever I have to take a shit or something, Helen Kellering my ass to the nearest bathroom. (I think shitting ones pants is really unholy, and maybe even a little overboard in this case).

God, I like this plan and would like to get started on it right away.
The fam-fam will be down for breakfast in a few minutes, and I thought I might kick it off by  letting them “discover” me curled in a fetal position, maybe in the closet or something—with a little puddle of piss nearby—as I rock back and forth chanting old Twisted Sister lyrics;

 “We’re not gonna take it”  
“We’re not gonna take it”
“We’re not gonna take it”

Then, I’ll conveniently slip into my condition just prior to today’s Michigan State game.

What’dya say…a little special dispensation on this one????

One more question.
Can Alzheimer’s patients still drink beer and eat hot chicken wings, or will this arouse suspicion in my loved ones?
I’d hate to ruin this whole scheme by my getting a little too drunk, getting all carried away in a first and goal situation.

Maybe if I schmear a bunch of that orange colored chicken wing sauce on my mug nobody will notice.

Love,

Diego

Bad dreams

God-    

I have to tell ya, I’m getting pretty sick of all these really weird dreams I’ve been having lately.
I didn’t mind the Jennifer Aniston dream a few weeks back, even though she called me fugly, (it was just good to have an open dialogue with her sans the paparrazi), but why on earth would you put that loser from 2-1/2 Men (Jon Crier) in my dreams?
What was that?
First, Jon shows up mysteriously in my workroom, says nothing, unbuttons his fly, and out pops his junk like that scene from Alien, only it’s in the form of a flying squirrel….its outstretched (and I mean really outstretched) scrotum resembling a US Air Force SR-71 Blackbird.
Ho-l-y…shit!
And if that wasn’t enough, it took flight..buzzing the room, in much the same way as a fully inflated balloon whose quick release prompts it to ricochet about, in lightning fast, totally erratic patterns.    

It came right at me!

I tried to follow it, keeping track of its wayward path so as to insure it didn’t get me, but it was all over the place, up and down, side to side, until it finally came to rest on the edge of my tool bench—staring at me—panting, and that’s when I woke up.    

Jesus! This isn’t right.
I mean, ok, sure, I like airplanes….and to a lesser extent squirrels, but a flying willie-squirrel attack, well, that’s just not cool. What kind of shitty dream is that?  Couldn’t you have just as easily put a couple of flying tits in my dream? I mean hell, they’re out of reach at this age anyway…so why not?
And why was this thing gunning for me—and even more important, why did it pop out out of Jon’s pants without so much as him uttering a word? Couldn’t he have thrown some bad acting into the mix, chortling a diabolical laugh of some sort before launching his furry, rhodent-like attack? At least it wouldn’t have been so frightening if I knew him and his schvance were up to something evil.

Was Jon’s scrotum squirrel some kind of metaphor, or is he really sporting a rhodent-like schlong—that flies—and has some sort of vendetta against me? (Although, I don’t know what I did to anger the little bastard).  

My friend Dave, who’s usually good at Freuding these things out for me, says I have a fear of schlongs, squirrels and airplanes. He says I may be a homophobe. I think he’s wrong.
I could care less about ones sexual preference, unless they have a squirrel where their junk should be, it can fly, and attacks me unprovocated as I try to fix my fishing reels.

At any rate, could we get back to a dream regimen of normal stuff, like me getting chased by bad guys, or finding myself in a boardroom somewhere with no pants or shoes?
The flying titty thing would be pretty cool too. (For a change).

Thank you, in advance.  

Diego

Living in a vegetative state: Arizona

God-

I saw this movie once with Mel Gibson where he played a guy whom after sustaining a head injury was able to read people’s minds, actually listening to their every thought—women’s thoughts that is.
I really liked the concept and was wondering, does that shit really happen to some people?
I once knew of a little girl in our old neighborhood who fell off her bike and one eye went crossed, then after what I suspect was a prodigious smack down from her alcoholic mother a few weeks later, her condition ”self” corrected. (Couldn’t have happened to a nicer brat!)

So I was thinking.

I’d like the same gift as Mel and thought maybe, if I had a friend whack me with a skillet or something, I could start reading minds too!
But I don’t want to wind up in a coma, so I’m curious how much of a wind-up he’ll need to make certain I land in mind reading territory and not in some vegetative state, one like say, Arizona.

Should he do an overhead swing, or just kiss me on the side of the head with it?
I like the overhead swing as it ensures I don’t see it coming and flinch, prompting a do-over.
After all, if I’m going to this much trouble to listen in to chicks conversations about me, with all their plotting and scheming, I need for this to ‘take’ on the first whack.

The other thing this could do is help me finally get a job. A good job.
One with executive pay like I’m accustomed to.
I think we can both agree how “Read’s minds“ looks pretty good on ones resume…or do you think it could scare potential employers off?

Or should I just not mention my talent at all during the interview process?
Presuming of course the noggin-kiss works.
I guess if it doesn’t, I can always take up residency in Arizona, where I’ll fit right in.

Love,

Diego

Working in Heaven Pt 5

God-

Is there a need for a school crossing guard up there? I think this is something I’m well suited for, only I can’t seem to get hired for the job here on earth.
It appears most school districts like to drug test potential employees before hiring, which, has proven to be a small problem for me.
I dont get it.
I explained how weed makes me focus—how I can actually pick out all the words in Teen Spirit after a low dose of some good doobage, and how this important fact lends itself to my guarding kids against speeding cars and trucks, but apparently I haven’t been very convincing.
I was thinking.

What if I went in to my next interview with a vaporizer, some chronic, and a pirated copy of Frogger?
I still hold high score from 1993 and even today when I play, I almost never get Froggie hit when he tries to cross the highway. I will admit however, I have a harder time when Froggie tries to cross the river…he almost always gets hit by a log. But since there are no major water features near the local elementary school, I don’t think this should be a problem.

I’m guessing, but once my interviewer sees  how I can get Froggie safely across the road a few dozen times without getting him squished, there’ll be little doubt as to who’s best suited to protect kids on our busy 4-lane crossing.

Anyways, I’d like to apply for this job when I get there.

Love,

Diego

Touched (inappropriately) by an angel

God-

I think—no, I’m pretty sure I was visited by an angel in my dreams last night, which is why I’m reporting the incident directly to you…I think she may have crossed the line.
From everything I’ve learned about angels, (which isn’t much), I thought they’re supposed to offer guidance—like providing winning Powerball numbers, or where to dig up some seer stones—something really important.

Well not this one.
First off, my angel looked and sounded like Jennifer Aniston, which is impossible, because unless she died last night, Jennifer couldn’t have possibly been in my dream.
But, let’s  pretend she was for real, and was on duty,  I think Jennifer Angel gave me some really piss-poor advice.

She instructed me to venture out into the woods and start-up a summer camp for adult men, naming it Camp Carnivore.
I know, ridiculous—right?  It gets better.

Jennifer Angel then snuggled up to me, held my hand and whispered softly in my good ear; 

“Diego, my love, you’re the dude when it comes to  eating meat products, concealing your emotions, disagreeing with women, killing most of Gods useless creations, and in the simplest of terms—being a prodigiously perfect jackwad. (Jennifer Angel really wasn’t very nice)!

She continued.
You see, Diego, it’s God’s will that you help others (Hetero male WASP’s) by educating them—teaching them how they were actually born with a pair of balls—how to rediscover them—eventually becoming “At one with the nut.”
Now, go forth Diego…go forth, and teach men the ways of the testacle—help men everywhere to discover the holy power tucked away in those awesome little bad boys.”  (Wow…really, Jennifer Angel?)

Jennifer Angel then kissed me (no tongue—damn) on the forehead, patted my thinning hair, and whispered; “Diego, your teeth are slightly yellow and you’ve got a big nose,” and with that, she vanished. (Poof)

WTF???
What kind of shit was that?  I could have said something really mean too, like how she still might have Brad if she were more of a woman, or how her last four films grossed about the same amount collectively as “Surf Nazi’s Must Die,” but I didn’t.

Bite Me Jennifer Angel...these guys whupped your ass!

God, was this for real? I know Jennifer Angel was goofing on me with the nose and teeth bit, but am I really supposed to open Camp Carnivore?
If I do take her advice, if this truly is your will, should I limit camp activities to only the things I’m really, really good at, such as:

• Talking back to women—arguing over any little thing that doesn’t matter
• Routinely rejecting salads and other “bunny” foods for meat or meat by-products (Spam, hot dogs, etc.)
• How to kill spiders, swat flies, capture insects (and torture them)
• How to never cry in front of anyone, and especially on camera—holding it all in for a major meltdown in a public venue (hopefully,  assault rifles are not involved)
• Shoot stuff (pellet guns, 9mm, and 44 magnum)
• Barbecue (charcoal, not gas)
• Creating a convincing argument on why men don’t need new underwear, irrespective of their “vintage” appearance…
• Pee in public places (non-bathroom) 
• Dominate the remote
• Properly tell a really disgusting joke
• Dog-Whispering—reminding the little shite of how he’s less than 3 miles from the nearest shelter, and how one more carpet accident will land him in his own mini Auschwitz. 
• How to never ask others for help, especially when lost

God, I suppose I can do this, if in fact this is really what you want me to do, I will,  but again, I’m not truly convinced Jennifer Angel was for real?

Shouldn’t angels have clothes on when they come to visit…or are they all naked, like Jennifer Angel?

I may need another sign.

Love,

Diego J Serrano