The horse that couldn’t swim

God-

Remember the time we all took a bunch of acid and thought it would be funny if we gave my friend’s dads favorite horse a bath—in the swimming pool—and the damned thing drowned?
Who saw that one coming?
In practically every cowboy movie I watched as a kid, there was always at least one scene where they had to ride across a river and those horses seemed to swim just fine—their skinny little legs trotting away as they dog-paddled their way to safety.
So what was it with this fucker?
He didn’t even try to swim, even as we shoved him toward the steps. Instead he just stayed in the deep end where he finally did a 1-2-3 under and never came back up.
I know it’s not funny now as an adult who doesn’t take LSD any longer, but it sure as shit was funny then.
That’s why I’m writing.
I need forgiveness on a couple levels.

First, for laughing our asses off as the horse was drowning. I don’t think any of us would’ve been laughing if it wasn’t for the acid, vodka, and weed, but in terms of laugh potential, the combination of these three make for some jocularity that’s right off the fucking charts!

The other thing I’m sorry about is how we accidentally messed him up with the backhoe when we fished him out of the pool. None of us had any business operating heavy equipment when we were that high, but we had to get him out of the pool and make it look like an accident before my friends dad got home. So for both of these counts, really sorry.

I’m not sure if any of the others have ‘fessed up with you on this event, and I’m sorry it took so long for me to come clean, but with age comes wisdom and I now realize how the sins of ones past can actually help others from repeating the same mistakes.

Although, for anyone to make this big of a mistake, they’d have to have a friend with an ample supply of LSD, and Chronic, a friend whose dad is a contractor who raises horses, a really nice swimming pool with a deep end for diving, a backhoe, and a crazy notion that giving a horse a bath in the pool would be super funny.
It’s not.

God, I’m not sure if any of this actually counts as a sin or not, since the acid, vodka and weed were all organic.
The fact that the horse couldn’t swim really wasn’t our fault, and the last time I checked, laughing wasn’t a crime.
However, mutilating a a dead horse with heavy equipment could however be the kicker here. I know it doesn’t break a commandment or anything, but it sure can be a buzz-kill.

Sorry excuse for a dog-paddle

In the end, even I know the combination of these events add up to something unholy, so if you would indulge me, I’d like forgiveness on the event as a whole, and not just killing the horse.

Anyway, if David, Greg or Alex check-in with a different story, don’t buy it.
I’m the only one who didn’t take qualludes that day so we’d at least have a designated driver.
That counts for something one would think.

Contritely,

Diego

P.S. If you do charge me with killing the horse, could you prorate my portion? There were four of us so it’s only fair I get hit with 25% of the crime.

Diego

Choosing the vehicle that’s right for you

God-

What kind of car do you drive?
If you’re a celebrity here on earth, more specifically, Hollywood, you’re probably driving a Benz or a Rolls.
You’re a celebrity (of sorts), so how do you roll?

You don’t impress me as much of sports car guy. Although, you are old, and that’s what old dudes do. They get to a certain age, begin questioning their virility and realize, there’s no better way to increase one’s sex appeal to young chicks than to drive a flaming red Corvette.
Given your age and God status however, I can’t see where you’d need to do that. I bet you have chicks lining up at your door who’d pretend to love you in a heartbeat. But be very careful, some of these chicks don’t really want you, they just want to lay their hands on your retirement funds.
Forget the Corvette.

Not for you!

No, you impress me as either a minivan guy or pickup truck guy.
I can totally see you in a pickup truck. It’s the perfect disguise, and they have a lot to offer.
You can drink and drive in a pickup and everyone expects you to do so. They’ll know you’re a redneck and steer clear. You can also come home from the bar drunk, run into the neighbors hedge and the next morning, as long as you get up early and haul ass to work, can conveniently blame it on the landscaper or somebody.

The other nice thing about a pickup is how inconspicuous they are, increasing your sleuthing superpowers.
After all, no one expects to see God come tooling up in a light green ’71 Dodge pickup. This will allow you to observe wrong-doers and bust them right on the spot.
The only downside to a pickup is how all your friends will expect you to help them when they move. This is a real bummer and you’ll need to have some canned responses ready for when this happens.
But as old as you are, you could probably just tell them you have a bad back or something and totally get out of it.

A real sleeper!

The minivan idea? The minivan doesn’t work for you.
Minivans are for soccer moms and middle aged dudes with no sense of identity. This isn’t you.
There is one good thing about the minivan and before ruling it out entirely, consider how easy it is to load up your friends, a keg of beer, a couple of strippers, and have yourself one sweet mobile party.
The minivan allows you to keep the party fresh by moving it to different locations just before the po-po show up. I suggest if you are going to do this, get a police scanner first or else you’ll wake up the next morning in the slammer.
If you do choose a minivan, don’t forget to tint the windows. It’s highly likely jealous onlookers will report you, like you’re dangerous or something.
But seriously.
How dangerous can you be with drunken strippers onboard?
Jeez.

The party is here!

If you need more friendly tips on how to choose your next vehicle God, let me know.
I’m here for you.

Love,

Diego

Adam beats Eve

God-

Did Adam ever smack Eve around after you kicked them out of the Garden of Eden? I probably would have.
Not that I’m prone to domestic violence, not like O.J anyway, but when you consider how fucked Adam’s life was after eating that apple, it’s hard to imagine him not wanting to give Eve a daily whatfor.
The way I understand it, Adam didn’t have to work or even help out around the house and was, for the most part a lazy bum.
What a life.
In a way, he was kind of like my dog, except I doubt Adam laid around all day licking his balls or humping the stuffed animals in the kid’s room.

So what was going on in his mind when he ate that apple?
Was he like super horny—had  Eve had been holding out on him?
I can see where Adam, after a couple weeks of Eve coming up with a sudden headache around bedtime, could easily lose his mind when she held up that apple. Why, hell, he’d have done anything she asked at that point if he thought for one second it meant separating her from her fig leaf.

But you know the worst part of this whole thing?
The worst part is how you could have easily avoided the whole event if you’d just made Adam a Latino male.
Latin males are muy macho. They’d never let their women get away with the shit Eve pulled. Not on your life.
Why, the minute Adam saw her skipping towards your special apple tree, her little checkerboard linen basket in hand, he’d have smacked the bejesus out her! No questions asked.
There would have been no apple theft.

This would've never happened on my watch!!

But no, what do you do?
You make Adam this like, 7th degree, ass-kissing little wuss who’ll do anything to get in Eve’s panties.
Throw in a two week coochie drought and there you have it. Banished.

It really would have been nice if you’d thought this through and made Adam a Mexican or Colombian to start with.
We’d all still be in the Garden, laying around, eating, screwing, and lapping up your wine till we puke.

Instead, you kick us out, make us get jobs, and give us spouses who are continually coming up with headaches when its crunch time. (Makes sense, since they are related to Eve.)

Jesus, God, you really messed up on this one.

I’m just saying.

Diego

My deadly creation

God-

Last night, I just may have experienced what some may refer to as the perfect fart, if there is such a thing.
It was truly a beautiful moment.
Unexpected and with no prior warning, out of nowhere came the most glorious call-to-arms I’ve ever heard in my life.

Strong and proud she bugled, and did so by heralding a tune so unique, so magnificent, one could only compare it with the opening bars of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, as it effortlessly traversed the scales from the lower to upper octaves, eventually hitting high C in its crescendo.
In a word, it was simply spectacular.
And then suddenly, in all of a few seconds, it was over, leaving me with an overwhelming sense of joy and sadness all at the same time.
Here for only a brief moment in time, and then gone.
I searched for answers but eventually was unable to come to grips with how my creation had left the nest so unexpectedly, I began to weep.
I needed affirmation.
Was it me? Was this the result of bad parenting? 
Deep down, I knew the answers yet found myself needing closure.
I knew this day would come. I knew all too well the possibility of creating a work this beautiful was only a matter of time given my horrific eating habits.
That’s when things went south.
Turns out my progeny, in all her Gershwin-like magnificence was on a path of destruction slightly akin to 1941 Nazi Germany, sending a deadly dose of mustard gas directly into our bedroom.
What a dichotomy.
Such beauty, yet, such horror. How could this be?
My baby, who I’d raised from the tiniest fleck of bacteria into the most melodious of creatures was now choking us both in a deadly rampage of asphyxiation.
I felt like Dr. Frankenstein.
What had I created?
I tried desperately to gain control of the creature, frantically opening windows, turning on the ceiling fan, but it was too late.
There was no controlling this beast.
The creature had spread its destruction, languishing—permeating every square inch of our bedroom—perniciously laying in wait for our return, until one point when I thought I heard it speak; “I’m not through with you yet.” the voice said.
“Holy fuck, this thing can talk too, It’s ALIVE” I yelled out.
And it didn’t sound like Gershwin’s Rhapsody this time. This time it sounded more like that voice from Poltergeist when it warned the family to “Get. Out.”

We were out of options. There was nothing left for us to do but sit and wait. Wait, for the creature to pass.

As we sat there, anxious to return to our abode, nostrils still burning from its horrific aftermath, I began to question myself aloud.
“Where did I go wrong?”

It was about that time my wife chimed in; “I’ll tell you where you went wrong you idiot, I told you not to order the cabbage rolls.”

Brrrrp.

Excuse me God,

Diego

Birthday or Christmas?

God-

Since Jesus is your son and all, do you throw him a birthday party each year, or do we still celebrate Christmas up there?
Huge difference between the two.
If it’s a birthday, I have to buy Jesus a gift and if I’m lucky, get to go home with a little grab bag full of Skittles or Pop Rocks.
But if it’s Christmas, that means we all get gifts. I like this idea more.
And for the most part, you should like it too.
My buddy Scott has a son whose birthday falls on Christmas day, and he’s always bragging about how he only has to get him a Christmas present, totally screwing him out of his birthday present.
I’m not suggesting you’d screw Jesus out of his birthday gift, I’m just saying with times as tight as they are right now, it’s probably a good way for you to save a few bucks around the Holidays! That’s all.
Besides, I can’t even imagine what it’s like to shop for Jesus. By now, he’s gotta have practically everything—right?
One would certainly think so.
Hell, what is he now, like 2,030 something?
I’m only a tiny fraction of that number and my family is always grousing about how hard I am to shop for.
How hard would it be to shop for two separate events?
That’s why if I was you, I’d skip his birthday and just go with Christmas. I’m sure you can couch it to Jesus in a way that doesn’t hurt his feelings, and everyone goes home happy. (And without a pathetic bag of Skittles).

So you know, if it is a birthday party, Jesus probably shouldn’t expect much from me.
The most I give my kids for their birthday is a gift certificate to BevMo, and sometimes, an Olive Garden gift card.

Quick question.
What does Jesus like to drink?

Regards,

Diego

My soul to take…on Ebay!

God-

I need a favor.
I’m listing my soul on Ebay soon and wanted your input as to its fair market value prior to doing so.
Normally, I’d do my homework beforehand, looking up a similar year, make, and model so I know where to start the bidding, but in this case, I don’t see where anyone else currently has their soul on the market and my fear is that I could really lowball the damned thing.
This could be dangerous.
I can totally see where some douche might take advantage of my below market pricing, pick it on the cheap, and then expect me to sing and dance like Mr. Bojangles for his perverse delight.

God, the family business is no longer, (Thank you Wall Street), I’ve sold off all available assets, and now find myself in the unenviable position of not having enough cash-flow to support a comfortable retirement in Florida. (At least not without knocking off a bank or something).
Lottery odds stink. (Unless I live to 300)
The NFL and NBA lockouts may limit my sports betting.
I’m awful at handicapping the ponies.
Indian casinos steal my unemployment check each week.
And even if Ellen does answer any of my Pity Party Prayers, the most she’s good for is about 10,000 in cash and a new Chevy SUV.
A few small glitches with the Ellen scenario.
I need a Range Rover not a Chevy.
Ten thousand bucks is like a fart in a Category 5 hurricane when you live in Boca Raton.
And Ellen’s producers would make me appear on her show, jumping up and down, crying, and behaving like a massive tool on cue.

Well I’m not jumping up and down, not with my bad back and this sore knee. (I could manage a tiny hop, I suppose).
The last time I cried was when Eduardo (my massage therapist) twisted me into a position resembling a Vietnamese basket prostitute. (I’ve only heard).
And while I’m good at being a tool, I don’t think Ellen’s audience will swallow my bunny hop limp and cheesy smile.

This leaves me with one option. Selling my soul.
Why not?
I have a yellow star rating on Ebay, proving I’m legit.
I’m prompt at shipping. My feedback is all 100% positive.
And I’ve only had one returned piece of merchandise. Not bad, eh?

The only bad part about this whole scheme is how the Devil may likely be the only bidder, and that’s why I’m writing you today.
Maybe you could get in on the bidding too!
This way I’be be sure not to end up like Brendan Frasier did in “Bedazzled.” Elizabeth Hurley really fucked him over!

So here’s the auction information I’ve assembled thus far.
Please feel free to send me any editorials you may have so I can include them in the Item Description.
It’s going in soon so don’t drag this out.

Human Soul

You are bidding on one used human soul.
Slightly blackened from age (and a plethora of misdeeds) but otherwise in overall good condition. This soul, for all intents and purposes should skate right into Heaven, however, depending on whatever kind of devious shit the new owner has in mind, could be subject to a short stint in Purgatory.

Soul Background

• Spent time in Catholic school, until kicked out
• 8 years of Catechism (never kicked out but now wish I was)
• Confirmation / First Holy Communion recipient
• Former Alter Boy  (never abused by Father Murphy)
• Prays regularly, albeit electronically,  Emails to God©
• Have always stayed pretty true to the 10 commandments (With the exception of all the ones pertaining to coveting stuff).
• No major prejudice’s to speak of, except maybe Al Qaeda, Taliban, and The Monkees

Possible Heavenly deterrents

• Socked a kid in the head with a brick when I was eleven. He survived but is now in the Arizona legislature.
• Ran over a kid with my Jeep  (Important note: hitting kids is not a theme here) In my defense, my new Boston amp was bumping AC / DC so loud it vibrated the windshield, blurring my visibility, so he might have actually hit me. I’m not sure. He survived but since there were no witnesses, I blamed it on him.
• About 40 years of lies, most of which were multi-colored with few if any being little or white.
• Pretended to be a priest once, conducting a fake mass on a Mexican Beach so the old Mexican women selling tamales would feed me for free. (This is the only time being an Alter Boy actually paid off). I did anoint the communion goers with my last few precious drops of Johnny Walker Red from the night before. I should get some serious sin credits for that.
• Staged a phony charity golf tournament for inner-city kids and pocketed the proceeds. (They would have bought drugs with the money anyway)
• Stole 4 kegs from the Delta Sigs during Rush week. (I know, unforgivable…I still feel bad).

Soul Disclaimer

Soul will be sold as is and may have several existing Heavenly deterrents.
Soul is willing to do just about anything for money, with the exception of any illegal, immoral, or otherwise socially unacceptable activities. This includes becoming an actor, politician, car / insurance salesman, any of those awful jobs on Dirty Job’s, gay prostitute, priest (same thing), farm worker, Wall Street broker, or musician.

Soul’s job preferences include:

• Writer
• Personal Shopper
• Crossing guard
• Doorman at Jumeirah towers
• Bartender at strip club
• Sheik administrative assistant
• Inventory clerk at Victoria’s Secret
• Medical Marijuana taste tester

I was going to set the Buy it Now price at 2 million but due to my yellow star rating, I can only sell 5,200.00 dollars worth of stuff this month. A far cry from what I’ll need for Boca.

Should I try to hock it on Craigslist instead?

My wife says not to because apparently people show up at your doorstep and shoot you.

I want to sell my soul but I’m not up for getting shot.

Not yet anyway.

Confused again,

Diego

Me ‘n Baby

God-

Just a heads up.
When I die, and they bury me, I fully plan on bringing my .44 Magnum with me to Heaven.
Not because I plan on shooting anyone, on the contrary, I plan on keeping the peace and I’ve found there’s no better way to accomplish this than with “Baby” strapped to my hip.
Don’t get me wrong, I never used carry my gun into public places, but when Arizona passed a law making it legal to carry a weapon without a permit, that’s when I sort of got used to carrying my heater with me.
Why just the sight of that nine inch, nickel-plated, mahogany-handled beauty has caused many a loser to think twice before messing with me, except for this one time when some guy took it from me and hit me in the head with the handle. Fuck that hurt.
I don’t know what kind of burr he had up his ass, but he followed me outside the club, called me a pussy and told me how I probably never even fired it, then grabbed it out its holster and whacked me with it, opening up a nice gash on top of my head.
He dropped the gun and took off running, as I searched frantically for the gun—blood pouring into both eyes.
I was pissed.
I wiped my eyes, grabbed the gun and caught up with him just as he was backing out of his parking space. That’s when I fired 2 shots right into his engine compartment.
Holy Shit!
I’ve never heard such a metal twisting cacophony of sound the way that engine sounded with two slugs in it. It was glorious. I wish you could’ve heard it.

I stood there,—tall—like U.S. Marshall Matt Dillon—in the middle of the parking lot, my hand poised just above my holster in a ready-to-draw position.
That’s when he and his date started sobbing. Can you believe that?
One minute, he’s beating me with my own gun, the next, he’s crying like a little baby.

I looked just like him except for the hat

“Who’s the pussy now?” I asked as I swaggered to my car, hand still poised above my gun just in case I had to do a quick turn-around-draw, like I was gonna shoot him or something.

And so you see God, this is why it’s so important to carry a large caliber weapon, here or anywhere else. Not only do they look ominous, but they can stop a car right in its tracks.

Admittedly, I had the chance to shoot his foot or leg, but I didn’t and I think that speaks volumes about me God. I don’t want to kill or even mame anyone, and I’m not a troublemaker either, but if someone’s  gonna get all pissy at me for stealing his drink and dancing with his date, well, they deserve the wrath of me and Baby, post-haste.

YEAH!

Ballistically yours,

Diego

Beer Pong Director

God-

I’ve never died and have absolutely no idea how you run Heaven,  so I’m a bit curious as to whether or not you have suggestion boxes up there.
I think these can be a useful tool for keeping your operation hip and up to date.
Speaking of which.
Has anyone ever put the bug in your ear about hosting a beer pong tournament up there? I can’t imagine I’d be the first to do so, but since most of your new recruits are real old and at least two generations detached from this popular sport, (and it is a sport) I thought we should at least explore the idea somewhat.

Here’s what I had in mind.
First you’ll need a tournament director and since my beer pong career is unparalleled, it’s only appropriate I recommend me for the job.
Next, we’ll need to market the event. I’ve got some experience with this too since I hosted a charity golf tournament for inner-city kids once. What a success that was.
The tourney made a pile of stacks, and the best part was how none of the inner-city kids knew about it, allowing us to pocket the entire event.
God, the truth is those kids would have only bought drugs with the proceeds anyway, so in a way, we were actually helping them. I think.
As result of all our hard work, we filled the course (and our pockets), saving disenfranchised kids in the process. (I hope you remember all this when I die, I want full credit).

So here’s what I had in mind.
We’d hold a tournament every Wednesday, this way it wouldn’t interfere with Two-fer Tuesdays or Thirsty Thursdays.
I’d invoke bible stuff into the tournament rules, like “The Pope Rule, and “Miracles”.
We’d hold a dub-t stripper contest prior to each tournament. (This’ll pack the house).
The Beer Pong winners would get a free pass to your VIP room and 500 in cash (One-dollar bills).
The winners from the strip contest would get to work the VIP room.

And me?
I get the juice from the door, entry fee from the tournament players, 5% on all drink sales, and half the take from the ho’s working the VIP room.
I’ll need at least that to make up for lost revenues from my not holding the “Subway to Success” golf tourney anymore.

Uh, just curious.
Do you have inner city kids up there?
No reason, just asking.

Diego

15 reasons to move church to Monday

God-

I need a favor.
You know how Mondays are always a bitch?
Well I was thinking how it’d make perfect sense to move church services from Sunday to Monday.
Genius, right?
Here’s my logic.

1. As it stands, I only get two days a week off work and church really fucks with one of them, especially if my wife gets to jawing with all her church buddies after mass. This spells trouble, causing me to miss out on a.m. sports programming.
2. I’m always hungover on Sunday morning.
3. If I’m not hungover, I have to fake sick to get out of church—then come up with a miracle cure by noon if I don’t want to get stuck inside all day.
4. If I go camping for the weekend, I never race back in time for church on Sunday. (see #2 above)
5. I typically like to play golf on Sundays.
6. If I’m really hungover, I hike Camelback mountain on Sunday morning since hiking always burns off a major hangover, and, I can always find a parking spot.
7. The Sunday newspaper is huge. If I combine reading it with going to church afterward, it wastes half a day.
8. I always fall asleep in church since it’s so damned early, the priest is boring, and the women dress like, well, like they’re going to Church.
9. I like to take my wife to Waffle House on Sunday mornings as her special post-coital reward.
   

   Her prize!

10. DirecTV has the best porn programming on Sunday mornings.  Case in point; Black Beaver Bang is playing this morning at the exact same time as mass. (I don’t think this is a coincidence).
11. I always call in sick Monday anyway. Church would legitimize my doing so.
12. I’m rarely hungover on Mondays.
13. There’s no good tv programming on Monday except Monday Night Football. No conflict there.
14. Porn channel programming is worthless on Monday mornings, case in point; Asian Anal Invasion 3 is playing tomorrow at the exact same time as mass, and I think we both know how you feel about butt-sex.
15. My wife works Mondays, and rarely calls in sick, so she’d never know if I went to church or not. I could stay home and not have to fake sick anymore.

So?
What say we try it.. for a couple weeks?

Mondays are a total bummer anyway, why not throw church in the deal and positively make it the absolute worst day of the week?

Hungover and tired.

Diego

My evil Jeep

God-

Confession time again.
Do you remember the time I ran over that kid on his way to school? I’m glad you stepped in and saved his sorry ass, but there’s something I need to get off my chest.
Remember how I told the police he ran out in front of me, and how he was in my blind spot so I couldn’t see him?
All lies.
Well not all of it. He did after all run in front of me, and yes, I didn’t see him, but that’s not all.
The truth is I’d just had a supercharger installed on my ’93 Wrangler and God was that thing fast. If you recall, that’s when AMC was still manufacturing the 401 cu. in. engine, which was fast in its own rite, but when I put that  supercharger on it, fuckkkk…game on! I couldn’t keep my foot off the floorboard no matter how hard I tried.
This may have been part of the problem.

Part of the problem, I think

So I’m sitting there at the light, having just dropped my kid off at school when Highway to Hell comes on the radio. Well seeing how I had two 12′s and 3000 watts of Boston Amp love onboard, I did what any can’t-let-go-of-his-adolescense dad would do.
I bumped that shit all the way to eleven!
God, those amps were awesome. Everything in the Jeep was vibrating, including the windshield. No really.
The windshield was vibrating so badly everything was blurred and that may have been another part of the problem. I’m not sure.

Anyways, just as AC/DC broke into the refrain, the light turned green.
There I was. Decision time.
I don’t know what it is about 12″ subwoofers and 500 horsepower but the two just seem to marry.
Things got blurry, and then, showtime.

You guessed it.
I lit that bad boy up, engine revving, tires smoking, supercharger whining, all going into a left turn from a dead stop at the light. What a huge mistake.
I barely made the corner, drifting into the lane next to the curb when this school kid comes out of nowhere and runs right into my Jeep.
I jammed on the brakes, but it was too late, the kid went down like a DC-10 as I flew into the windshield.
The next thing I know, I wake up in the intersection, AC/DC still bumping, windshield still vibrating, motorists giving me the evil eye, as if I’d planned the whole fucking event.
I quickly turned down the tunes and jumped out to see if he was ok.

Another part of the problem

So first off, let me say thanks for letting him live. What a relief.
But I’d  really be remiss if I didn’t tell you how deeply appreciative I was for his massive headwound. I’m certain if you hadn’t messed-up his noggin, he’d probably remember a version of the story that’d send me straight to the friggin hoosegow!
I’m also very grateful you blessed me with an incredible hangover that morning, making me late in getting my daughter to school.
Fifteen minutes sooner and I’d of had a gaggle of teen schoolgirl witnesses who probably couldn’t wait to rat me out to the po-po.

So, I’m sorry about messing up that kid, but in my defense, I don’t think I should take all the blame. I think you’ve got a hand in this as well.  After all, you’re the one who gave me the gene that inspires one to drive fast and bump tunes in high-school zones, especially whenever AC/DC gets involved.

120 Decibelly yours,

Diego

10 cent beer night

God-

How often is 10 cent beer night held up there—do you ever bust out?
I always used to bust out on beer night, that is until I drove my ride into a big fucking oak tree this one time. Now I just kind of semi-bust out on beer night, and that’s only if I have a designated driver since my car tends to run into stuff when I’m cronked.
Is that why you don’t bust out?
You don’t have a designated God who can sit in for you while you get cronked?
I get that, but what’s Jesus doing? Isn’t he like your son or something? Shouldn’t you be passing down the whole God business to him anyway?
Can’t you just slip him the God keys one night a month? You should be able to do that every now and again without having to worry about the place going all to Hell.
What’s the matter, don’t you trust him?
According to Dr. Phil, you should probably think about giving Jesus a little more responsibility at some point. It would be good for both of you.

So if you’re not busting out, what are you and Jesus doing on beer night?
Do you and Jesus tend bar or do you work the door?
Both jobs are a great way of keeping an eye on everyone, but I’d probably opt for the doorman if I was you.
Doormen always decide who gets in and who doesn’t, which means you could screen all the assholes right from the start. But the best part is how you can demand some serious bucks from all the ugly people who have no chance of ever getting in anyway.
Some of those losers are so desperate to get in, they’ll flip you a hundo in nothing flat.
As I say, screen the jerk-offs from ever getting in and finish off the night with a couple of stacks from the losers.  Sweet.

The bartender job?
This is one job I’d stay away from if I was you.
True, it’s a good way of keeping an eye on everyone. One small problem.
All the bartenders I know are some really sneaky motherfuckers.
They hang back for most of the night, furtively eyeballing all the hot chicks too drunk to stand, then when they find a stray, alone, no crew in sight, they swoop in for the kill, like a hyena or something.
I’m not saying that’s you. No way.
I know you’re not the type to get chicks wrecked so you can take them home and bang them. Besides, you have no business eyeballing any pootie-tang, young, old, or otherwise.
You’re God for Christ’s sakes!

Don't even think about it God

There is another job you can do on beer night.
You can be the deejay, but you’d have to bump some decent tunes and not that Gospel shit you’re so fond of, otherwise, you’d have everyone running for the doors in a heartbeat.

Anyways, I’m looking forward to 10 cent beer night up there, but only if I don’t have to drive.
Uh, I’m curious—are there any big oak trees in Heaven?

Imbibingly yours,

Diego

My perfect breakfast

God-

You know how I need to dump a shit-load of sins between now and reckoning day? Well, in keeping with our deal, (you expunging one mortal sin for one of my award winning recipes), here’s another recipe, and this one’s a winner.  No, seriously. I never give this recipe out, but considering the severity of the sin, I feel compelled to dish up this time.

So, do you remember the time my wife found me sleeping naked in the driveway, the morning after my office Christmas party? And I promised her I’d go to Alcoholics Anonymous in a last ditch effort to save our marriage?
Well it turns out I never did go to any of the AA meetings, I signed up for a 36 week bowling league instead.
I know this was wrong of me, but I felt like it was the right thing to do under the circumstances. My wife was working nights at the time, the Marauders were missing a fourth, and AA meetings were on the exact same night as bowling. And as a bonus, I got to skate on the kids PTA meetings.
Anyway, as you might expect, the cover-up lies kept getting bigger and bigger until one day when she asked the one question I’d been dreading. When was I was going to graduate?
And that’s when I came clean.
I told her I’d already graduated 2 months earlier and was now working Thursdays at the homeless shelter as additional penance.

God, I know, I’m sorry, but this was a desperate situation and it demanded a desperate lie. After all, I was trying to save my marriage.
The good news is she bought the story, the Marauders finished in a very respectable 4th place, and I made some sweet dinero selling weed to the kids who hung-out in the bowling alley parking lot. A trifecta by anyones definition!

But now that I’m older, I’ve found guilt has a funny way of manifesting itself.
I now realize how wrong I was to do such a thing and for that I’m truly sorry.
I know now that getting fucked-up before league play was the wrong thing to do and as a result, my selfishness cost the Marauders a spot in the finals.
So here I am.
At your mercy, asking forgiveness.
And in a monumentally overstuffed act of contrition, am selflessly offering up my Banana French Toast recipe to you and anyone else who might give a shit.
Enjoy, God, and let’s just forget about this whole thing ever happened.
Shall we?

Banana French Toast ala Diego

1 Large Brioche
1/4 cup bakers sugar (finely ground)
3/4 cup half and half
3/4 cup whole milk
2 tsp vanilla
3 tbsp  Grand Marnier
2 tsp ground cinnamon
6 eggs (two whole and 4 yolks)
1/2 tsp salt

Cut the brioche into 1-1/2″ thick slices
Combine the eggs, milk, half & half, sugar, vanilla, orange liqueur, cinnamon, and salt in a mixing bowl. Use a whisk and beat until smooth and creamy.
Place the bread slices in a large casserole dish and add the wet ingredients. The mixture should be almost level with the top of the bread. If not, make a smaller batch of the milk mixture and add to it.
After 15 minutes, carefully turn each slice. You’ll repeat this process every 15 minutes thereafter until the bread is saturated and the cream mixture is no longer present. The bread will become increasingly difficult to flip as it becomes more saturated, I recommend using a very thin stainless steel spatula. The entire process takes a little over an hour.

On a preheated griddle (medium to medium low heat), butter the griddle and slowly cook the brioche until golden on each side. Then transfer the grilling pan and the bread to a preheated 350 degree oven, middle rack, and bake for an additional 12-16 minutes or until a toothpick pulls clean from the center of the bread.

While the bread is cooking, start the banana topping.

Banana Topping

4 large bananas sliced lengthways
2 bananas cut into small slices
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup dark rum (Meyers or Appletons)
1 stick unsalted butter
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1 cup whole pecans (pan toasted)

In a large skillet on low heat add the butter and brown sugar until dissolved, a couple of minutes. Add the 4 bananas and cook for about a minute on each side, saving the sliced bananas for the topping Add the cinnamon. Add the rum, turn off the heat, tilt the pan away from you and ignite the rum using a long stick (fireplace) match or handheld igniter. Wait for the alcohol to burn off, about a minute. Remove from heat.

Freshly whipped cream

1 pint heavy cream
1/4 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla
Use a balloon whisk and beat to stiff peaks

Assemble

Top the french toast with the cooked banana rum mixture.
Top the banana rum mixture with fresh whipped cream
Top the whipped cream with the sliced uncooked bananas
Top the whipped cream and banana slices with the toasted pecans.
Drizzle chocolate sauce over the entire bloody mess.

Die

You’ll probably keel over after the first bite, but try to hang in there. Some of my guests shudder uncontrollably, like one of Sting’s eight-hour tantric orgasms, so be very cautious when eating. I’ve never died or orgasm’d at the dining table, but have come damned close.

Contritely, and one less sin away from the pearly gates, (I hope)

Diego

What is YOUR lucky number?

God-

You know how the Devil’s lucky number is 666? Well I’m curious why you don’t have a lucky number too? Maybe you do and I just don’t know about it.
Let’s take the Devil for example. Why at the mere mention of 666, people everywhere are quick to shit  themselves.
And this got me thinking.
Wouldn’t it behoove you to designate a lucky number for yourself that makes people shit themselves too?
You don’t want people more afraid of the Devil than they are you, do you?
My point exactly.
And this is why I’m writing today, I have some numbers you may wish to consider, that is if you haven’t already done so.

11:11

Some people say 11:11 has a holy reference. I don’t think it does. If it did, it would fit on a sports jersey. God, if you’re going to be popular, your lucky number should be limited to two digits, and the smaller the number the better.
For instance, the number 98 is typically reserved for some big fat American football player who probably eats little kids when no one is looking. And as we all know, eating little kids is most unholy. This could be a good number for you. It would most certainly scare me directly into a very uncomfortable church pew if I was a kid.

This guy eats kids!

7

I like seven because it references a bunch of holy stuff, like the 7 deadly sins, and winning at craps. Bigger yet is the fact that John Elway wore number 7 all those years he played for the Broncos. Who knows, with a little practice, maybe you can be a celebrated sports figure too!

God, this could be you (with a little practice)

21

Twenty-one has an exceptionally holy inference as it’s the legal drinking age in America. This is huge. Most kids worship this number, looking forward to the day they can drink til they puke in their dorm room, and legally no less. If you want to sucker kids into the world of religion, 21 is your ticket.

Wanna bet Morgan will be sick tonight?

777

Its bigger than 666, and, on most slot machines signals a huge jackpot, which I guess could make people shit themselves.

Troubles are over

999

This sounds like something Adolph Hitler would have screamed real loud in one of his public addresses. Kinda scary.

NEIN! NEIN! NEIN!!!

420

Very popular with druggies, but since most of them are going to Hell anyway, don’t waste your time.

This won't scare anyone

867-5309

Jenny’s phone number, she’s probably old and fat by now, and, I don’t know her area code.

I think Jenny was a major slut

 

 

God, are you starting to get the idea?

 

Numerically yours,

 

Diego

Cremation is a really bad idea

God-

How exactly does cremation work?
No, not the burn-my-shit-up in a massive bonfire part, the part where I show up in Heaven as a sack full of ashes?
I was kind-of looking forward to catching up with the fam-fam in Heaven but I don’t see how that’s even possible if I’m nothing more than a pile of soot.
Besides, how will they know it’s me anyway—will the sack be labeled; Diego ala Fuego?

I hate to break it to ya, but I come from a pretty big family, all of whom will be waiting for me, cute little Diego, not some pile of ashes.
Yeah, I can see them all now, gathered around me, befuddled, as my smart-ass cousin Petey says something stupid like; “What the hell happened to you, you’re looking a little ashen?
To which I’ll respond, “______”.
That’s right. I won’t utter a word, and do you know why?
‘Cause I’m a fucking pile of ashes that’s why, and ashes don’t speak.
When was the last time you spoke to your ashtray—and it actually answered you, huh?

And what about my wings? I didn’t expect I’d be the “perfect” angel up there anyway, but how is this supposed to work? Do you just plug a pair of wings into my pile and expect me to take-off?
Fuck, I’ll blow all over the place like a duststorm, and then poof, vanish right into thin air.

Anyway, I saw this ad in the Sunday paper for Cremations for as little as $695 and thought this might be the way to go, but not if you make Petey watch my ashes. That’d be like a remake of “Home Alone”.
The fam heads off on a European vacation and I wind up getting flushed down the toilet ’cause Petey’s an asshole.

Yeah…no, I don’t think cremation is for me.
I look forward to seeing my mom again, but I’d kind of like to give her a big hug without making her look like that chimney sweep dude from Mary Poppins.

Posthumously yours,

Diego

Library

God-

Is there a public library in Heaven and if so how does it work? Do we get library cards, or can we just check stuff out anytime?
I can’t go to my public library anymore since I have a bunch of overdue books and quite the list of late fees to go with them.
Besides, the old guy who works the door caught me stealing a copy of 4-Wheeler magazine and reported me, I think.  I got a letter in the mail telling me to return it or else pay something like forty seven bucks. Really? It’s a dollar ninety-five retail.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was him. I see how that old fucker looks at me.
Anyway, that’s not why I’m writing.
I’m wondering if anyone can get published in Heaven, cause it sure as hell doesn’t look like it’s gonna happen here. Not to me anyway.
Why I saw a guy on the David Letterman show whose claim to fame was writing a novel—about his experiences as a dishwasher!  
Honestly, who gives a flip.
And then there’s that Palin family.
Tell me again, how exactly did Sarah Palin’s daughter get her shit published—memoirs at age 22—seriously?
Did she have sex with the entire Inuit population of Alaska or something? I’d read about that. I don’t think she did though.
I hear she had a baby, dumped the daddy, bought a house in Arizona, and wrote a book about the sordid mess. Isn’t that just fascinating?

Really, forty seven bucks?

God, I live in Arizona, (which should count for something) have kids, never dumped my wife, drive an old jeep, have a botched tattoo, and can tell stories of my psychedelic years that’ll straighten your pubes, (presuming you still have pubes at your age).
Now there’s a story for ya. I doubt that Palin kid can drive a car while in the grips of a major acid funk, not like me anyway.

Anyways, seeing how I like to read an awful lot, and there’s an eternity to kill up there, I was hoping you’d have some sort of library.
Do you have 4-Wheeler magazine?

Literately yours,

Diego

Male models

God-

Do you need any male models in Heaven? If so, I’d like to sign up.
I think I have what it takes to be a male model, that is if looks aren’t important, and from what I’ve seen in biblical paintings, they’re not.
Why do I think I have the right stuff to be a male model?

Well for starters, I like to lay around in my robe all day.
Most of the models in bible paintings look like they’re in robes.
I rarely shave, opting for the George Clooney stubble look. It seems no one shaves in Heaven either.
I have good looking feet, and since everyone in Heaven wears sandals, my dogs would be prominently displayed.

Nice dogs!

I’m good with knives—swords, not so much, but that doesn’t mean I can’t learn. A lot of the guys in those bible paintings have helmets and swords. I have a motorcycle helmet, and an old Star Wars sword I kept from when I was a kid, so I’ve had some practice.
I love beef jerky and diet soda. Models live on beef jerky and diet soda.
I chain smoke.
I’m pretty stupid, if I do say so myself.
I routinely make bad decisions.
I breathe with my mouth open.
And I have this cool tattoo of a really cute little squirrel, arms outstretched, located just under my sack. Pretty unique actually and very photogenic.
I should think this qualifies me.

How about it.

35mm yours,

Diego

Paid time off

God-

How many annual holidays do we get in Heaven? As it stands, we get seven here in America, all of which with paid time off.
But since most of these are in remembrance of dead people who may or may not have landed a spot in Heaven, I can see where this number could easily be cut short, fucking us out of some serious pto.
Not good.
I get you screwing us out Thanksgiving, President’s day, Labor day, Memorial day, and New Year’s day…that’s just a given.
And I doubt seriously you’ll cancel Christmas, so by my math, that leaves one paid holiday—Martin Luther King day.
That really sucks.
Not MLK day, only having one paid day off work—Shit!
See, typically I wait for a holiday to land on a Monday or Friday, then call-in sick two or three days beforehand, getting some insane vacation time out of the deal.
But if we only get one paid holiday in Heaven, that means I’ll have to come up with some new strain of Ebola if I want my other 6 weeks of paid time off.
This could be dangerous.
Not the Ebola part, the fact that I’ll probably be seen in public by a co-worker while on “vacation”, whooping it up.
And if my co-workers in Heaven are anything like they are here, those rotten sons-’o-bitches will rat me out to you or Jesus in a New York second.
Which is why I’m writing today.

What’s the punishment for getting caught stealing sick days up there?
Normally, I’d just get yelled at by my boss, but I always get out of it by giving him my dad’s box seats to a Diamondback’s game.
However, I have an odd feeling that one baseball game isn’t going to cut it with you. I’m just guessing you’re a big ticket guy, like say the Super Bowl or something, and not just nose-bleed seating either.

And these are the cheap seats!

So if it’s not too much trouble, let me know as soon as possible, ’cause those seats cost an ass-load of money and I’ll probably need to start saving now.

Feeling sick already,

Diego

Skip the wings and give me beaver teeth

God-

I don’t understand how the whole  angel wing thing works.
Do we still have arms in Heaven or just wings? I’ve always wanted to fly like a bird, so the wings would be totally cool, but only if I get to keep my arms in the deal.

If I think about my daily routine now, I’ll  need my hands to flip people off and make pancakes for breakfast. I’m uncertain wings will allow me to do either.
Besides, wings have feathers and feathers molt.
We had a parakeet once, he molted constantly until one day when he lost all his feathers and keeled over.

Why wings anyway? Why on earth would you pattern us after a bird with only the wings and no beak? This makes no sense.
Why couldn’t you have patterned us after a really cool animal, like a beaver or a sea otter. They’re really cute and playful, very family oriented and they have huge choppers. (I like big teeth, I know, its weird).

Check out his Chuck Taylor's

By contrast, birds are a nasty sort, reptilian by ancestry, and, the last time I checked, related to snakes.
Again, this seems to go against all the stuff in the bible about serpents and what troublemakers they are.

I think its high time you updated the whole angel image. A newer, fresher approach that gets folks excited about coming your way.
What about one of those jet-fueled backpacks instead of wings? It seems like a much better technology and it doesn’t molt.
I can’t speak for others, but the flying around with a backpack would sure get me watered-up about dying.
Do the Chuck Taylor’s come with the  deal? It’s alright if they don’t, they’re not a dealbreaker.
Not getting the huge teeth is, however.

Gnawingly yours,

Diego

Biblical abs…fact or fiction?

God-

A few years ago I went to France where I took a day trip to the Louvre museum. It was fantastic, especially the renaissance section where they house all the marble statues and biblical paintings. But there’s something that’s bothered me about the experience.
Namely how all the statues and paintings of old dudes, (like in their seventies) depict them as being absolutely ripped, with six-pack abs and bulging muscles.
Conspicuously absent however was anything resembling a wheelchair, cane, walking device, or portable oxygen rig. I would’ve expected to see at least one painting of some old dude dragging along behind a walker, all hunched over, but no. These dudes were total studs.

So what gives—how was that possible back then?
They didn’t have Wi, or PX90, training supplements, steroids, Suzanne Somers crotch-busting thighmaster or a shakeweight.

Now this is more like it

Why don’t any of those paintings or statues look like this guy?
That’s what old people really look like, at least nowdays anyway.
Not like some 20 something posing for Shape magazine.

Do you think it was diet related? I know my abs have never look like those guys, even when I was young and went on that dumb-ass food pyramid!
My parents made me go on it as a kid until I swelled up like a blue tick. Then they threatened me with fat camp that same summer to lose it all before school started. How ironic.

What a load of shit!

Was it goat meat? As far as I know, they ate lots of goat back in the day. Personally, I won’t eat goat. Goat binds me up and I can’t take a dump, and when I finally do, I nearly bust a ‘roid in the process.
I can’t imagine getting that buff on goat alone, not without hemorrhoids the size of Texas anyway.

Or was it the fruits and veggies?
Sister Mary Cannissia told us they did have fruits and veggies, at least initially, in someplace called the Garden of Eden.
That is until you fire-balled it over some dude stealing one of your special apples. Way to go.

So after a lot of thought, I’m calling bullshit on all those paintings and statues.
If you wanna know what I think, well, I think it was an ill conceived plot by your artists to promote goat-eating and Preparation H.

I’m on to you God.

Investigatively yours,

Diego