My nose is burning

God-

My wife says I need more fiber in my diet. She says it’s nature’s broom.
Which makes me wonder if nature also has a mop and a bucket.
A car that barely runs.
And only shows up for work whenever she feels like it.
Hmmm.

I don’t understand why she’s constantly harping on me about the fiber.
It’s not like I have ‘roids.
I rarely clog the toilet.
And my boxers are as black as the night, concealing any telltale signs of a recent mud-butt event.

I think it’s one of those tv doctor shows she’s been watching.
Like Dr. Oz.
Or the guy on CNN, Dr. Gupta.
I suppose if anyone would know about fiber in the diet, it would be them.
I think they’re both of Indian descent.
Hmmm.

Maybe that’s it.
Maybe in one of her recent fits of austerity, she’s decided to cut back on the tp to help out with the weekly shopping bill.
Fiber would help with that effort, putting the elusive one-tissue wipe well within reach.
Or perhaps she’s going green. Finally.
Or maybe she’s worried about my colon health. (That looks weird in print).
I doubt it.

If anything, I should turn the conversation back to her.
Telling her how she needs more fiber in her diet.
Because mysteriously, each morning when I wake, our bedroom smells like dogshit.

And it’s not my breath.
Or her breath.
And the dog died three months ago.

I think she may just have a flatulence problem.
It can’t be me.
Can it?
Hmmmm.

Olfactorally singed,

Diego

Lurking around

God-

Do souls lurk?
I guess what I mean to say is, is there any rule against lurking around up there?
I like lurking.
Not as a day job or anything, but nonetheless, there are times I truly enjoy a good lurking around.

I lurk in the aisles of the grocery store.
And sometimes at the fitness center.
I even find myself lurking outside clubs, waiting for really drunk chicks to stumble outside, trip, and land tits-up in the valet area.
I guess you might say, lurking is something I’m fairly adept at, having honed my lurk over the years.
A lurking savant if you will.
This is why I was wondering if lurking is frowned upon up there.
If it is, I suppose I could convert my lurk to something resembling more a loiter.

I’m proficient at loitering as well, routinely loitering outside liquor stores, malls, and bowling alleys.
Sometimes I loiter at the horse track, but loitering there is pretty much acceptable. No big deal.
And I loiter in hallways too, hallways are every loiterers paradise.
Right up until some security guard catches me. Then I quickly convert my loiter into a linger.
For some reason, lingering is much more acceptable to security staffing than is loitering.
Although, I really don’t know why. They both seem pretty much the same except for ones facial expressions.

Say I just smoked a big fatty, and I’m lost in an office building somewhere looking for my new job headquarters, I’d probably arouse suspicion in some security guard as my demeanor toggles from laughter to panic to total confusion, which could easily be construed as a major lurk once the paranoia sets in.
Another good place to loiter is the unemployment office, but be forewarned. There are so many other loiterers there, one can easily get lost in such a large sea of loitering losers.
But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
Catching the attention of an unemployment officer by lingering when everyone else is loitering can spell certain doom, delaying or canceling altogether ones weekly payday. My recommendation is to stick with the lurk, at least here anyway.

Maybe I can just lurk part-time, say, on Mondays and Wednesdays, loitering on the other days but always standing poised to linger if the occasion arises.

If any of this sounds creepy, (which to most, probably does) it’s really not.
The fact is, I don’t really lurk, loiter or even linger. I made the whole thing up.
That’s right.
All lies.

Pitiful? Not really.
I just happen to think lurk, linger and loiter are three of the funniest words ever, the way they brandish people as losers.

Lurk.
Loiter.
Linger.

I can say ‘em all day long. (chortle)

Ha.
Ha Ha.

Ha.

Throat clear, (ahem)

Love,

Diego

Use your hand, we do!

God-

My friend, who’s married to an Indian woman told me how committing a shoplifting crime in India often results in the offender having his left hand amputated.
That sounds way harsh if you ask me.
She says it’s because people in India don’t use toilet paper, they use their left hand to wipe their ass, and in its absence, a result of the criminal justice system, they’re forced to use the same hand to eat as wipe their butt as a lifelong punishment.
Unbelievable! Cut off the entire hand?
Why not just surgically implant some sequins on the palms or something similar that would scratch their asshole during the wipe? Crazy.

Here’s something to wrap your head around.
Do you know she (my friends wife) has lived in America since graduating from Stanford and she still won’t use toilet paper?
What the hell is that?
You’d think someone with that kind of education would at least be smart enough to clean themselves properly, with Charmin or the like, but no, she won’t have it.
She tells me its customary to use only water and only her left hand.
Which I suppose works well for her, but could never work for me since I happen to be left-handed.
Besides, I hate the smell of poop.

Anyway, I went over to their house Sunday to watch football when the thought occurred to check out their bathroom for soap. Antibacterial soap to be more specific.
Not a drop.
All she had was a bunch of little colored soaps in various shapes, like hearts and flowers. And they smelled like some kind of cologne (I presume to mask the shit smell from her hand). Interestingly enough however, none of them looked as though they’d ever been used. Probably a decorative thing. Chicks do that.
She did have toilet paper in the holder, and, it was a full roll, which said implicitly that he was using his hand too!
Both of them were hand-ass-wipers!
And that ruined the rest of my Sunday afternoon.

When I returned from the bathroom, I found myself slipping into an almost catatonic state, as during the next two hours, instead of watching the game, I was consumed with watching Ed.
In particular, his hand movements to see which one he was using to eat snacks with, as he fished out giant gobs of chips and mixed nuts from their little party bowls. But this proved more difficult than one might think.
It was like watching one of those street guys in New York play 3-card monte, both his hands flailing about in response to the game, then, without warning, swooping in for a handful of nuts.
Fuck. Was that his left or right? I’m confused.

TOUCHDOWN!
What? (big record scratch)
We just scored a touchdown and I could not have cared less for the first time in my life.
All I could think about was whether or not he was infecting our snacks with his minute shit particles.

I’d like to think I’m a bigger person than merely one who picks out people’s flaws, but the truth is, I’m not.
Honestly, the thought of Ed dipping his shit-smeared hands into the snack bowl repulsed me and as a result, I won’t be going over Ed and Sikka’s house anymore, not without a CSI team to forensically examine everything first.
There’s probably shit smeared all over everything in their place, truth be known.

Ok, so I am small minded and shallow. Who cares.
At least I don’t have to worry about getting taco-butt after a bad hand wipe.

Love, (left-handed)

Diego

Diego’s Breeding Service

God-

You know that whole ‘immaculate conception’ thing? Why do they call it immaculate?
We’re you and Jesus’s mom all dressed up in white underwear before getting your freak on?
Or by immaculate, did you mean you got her preggers without any baby-batter involved?
How does that work?
Are you so holy that you don’t use sperm like the rest of us?
Do you just look at chicks, and BAM, they’re pregnant?
I wish I could do that.
If I could, I’d market myself to lesbian couples that want a kid, but don’t want any of the fuss a dude like me would bring to the table.
I’d call myself,  ”Diego—The Immaculate Impregnator.“

I’m thinking I’d lock myself into a room with some homo babe, sit and chat for a while, putting her at ease. Then, as we discuss which acts we liked best at Lilith Fair and how Sarah McLachlan needs a new hit single, BAM, I hit her with a healthy dose of air-spooge while she’s still caught up fantasizing about Sarah’s playground. That should work, right?

Unlike you however, I will need to charge a stud fee to cover some of my costs.
Speaking of which, do you know how owners of top race horses charge exorbitant stud fees—like when their horse just won the Kentucky Derby or something?
Well I like this concept,  but I’m afraid I’ll need a few more achievements on my resume aside from ‘valet parking specialist’, or ‘food server’.
No, I’ll need something big if I want the big bucks. After all, what vagitarian couple in their right mind would want their offspring parking cars for a living.
Maybe I could say how I invented Birkenstock sandals. Lesbians worship Birkenstocks.
Having this little factoid on my resume would spell alternative-lifestyle folk hero and in no uncertain terms, inspiring hot lesbo couples everywhere to sign up for my highly coveted inventor-type splooge.

I invented these...no, really...wait, don't leave!

Changing gears.
I may need a little plastic surgery to augment my inventor status.
If there’s one thing I know about lesbians (mostly from porn), it’s how good looking they all are. It’s amazing.
They all seem to be blonde, fit, and sport double dd’s. Just like movie stars!

I think they want a baby

And this could only mean one thing.
I’ll need to look like this guy.

And not this guy.

Can you arrange this somehow?

Immaculately yours,

Diego

An Indian dilemma: Beef or Veal?

God-

Level with me.
Did you make cows sacred just to fuck with the Hindu people of India? That’d be pretty messed up if you did, especially with all those people starving and what not.
Couldn’t you have just as easily made brussel sprouts sacred?
I’m guessing they’d be pretty easy to worship too, and given their relatively small size, you could always have a few laying around in a bowl somewhere if you felt the need to say a quick prayer or something.
The cow, not so much.
I know if I lived in India, and you had made brussel sprouts holy, you’d never have to sweat me eating them, or anyone else eating them for that matter, due to the rancid-as-ass taste you gave them.

Cows, on the other hand, have got to be the most unholy animal on the planet with the exception of chickens, (who routinely eat their own shit).
In fact, by last count, cows break at least 3 of the 7 deadly sins daily, assuming the 7 deadly sins apply to the bovine realm, and from all my catholic training, I’m pretty sure they do.

Here’s a thought.
Why not make only veal holy?
They look and taste like little baby lambs which we all know is a staple of Indian cuisine.
They’re even small enough to have around as a house pet, then, when they start to get big and turn into a fully grown beef cow or bull, and, they’re not little baby veals any longer, it’d be ok to eat them—serving them up with a nice goblet of bordeaux, some herbed fingerling potatoes and a nice bernaise sauce. Kind of a celebratory supper. From veal to cow to dinner table. Yum.

God bless the brussel sprouts!

And to make the event even more holy, we could all hold hands and say something nice about the brussel sprouts before chowing down on the beef.
Even though we won’t mean it.

Just a thought.

Love, medium rare.

Diego

On birth and death

God-

Who decides when a baby is born or when someone dies—or even how they die—you?
Or do you have an agency in charge of this?
Here’s why I’m asking.

I’ve thought about some of the various jobs I might be well-suited for in Heaven, and this is one I think I could be really good at.
First of all, I can think in the abstract—like you!
Well, not exactly like you.
I mean, I’m not sure I could have coughed up an entire universe in only seven days, but I’m reasonably certain I could have at least gotten a small ocean started or something.
And this is important, why?
Well for starters, I believe whoever is in charge of the birth / death thing is doing a really shitty job. Seriously.
I mean who gives a little kid cancer, or for that matter, old people Alzheimers?
Old people are fucked in so many ways as it is, why the need to top it off with dementia? That’s just cruel.

And while we’re on the topic, what was the Holocaust?
Part of me actually believes your agency was on vacation somewhere, and instead of leaving one guy in the office managing their traditional raffle system, (which seems like the most plausible explanation for who goes and when), they simply concocted some crazy motherfucker named Hitler, put their jobs on autopilot, and bounced for the Caribbean.
Then, as if an alarm sounded, they all come rushing back to work when they learned how their freaky-deaky-moustached asshole just killed off 6 million people, as they were laying on a beach somewhere slogging down Corona’s.
They should have all been fired for that one. The entire lazy-ass bunch of them.

Really? This is how my cousin Jack contracted AIDS?

Which is precisely why you need someone like me.
I think I can do a whole lot better than mindlessly doling out cancer, heart attacks, or terrorist events.
All too easy in my book.

I’m thinking outside the box here, but if I was in charge, I think I could be just a tad more creative than these brainless twits.
Here’s what I’m thinking.

First. No more raffles!
Kids and cancer don’t mix. That’s just fucked-up and I believe your current death-raffle system has a lot to do with this.
Next, I’d make death both fun and interesting.
Nobody wants to read about car crashes, gunshot victims, or babies falling into the backyard swimming pool. Those are unpleasant media stories and as far as I’m concerned, really morbid. Some even passé.

No, if I was in charge, I’d inject a certain flair into what would be an otherwise ordinary death.
Here are some examples.

BUS PLUNGES

Why do most bus plunges only occur in South America? Is it their single lane roads, steep cliffs, and narrow bridges?
Sure, they all play a role, but if I was in charge, I’d have buses plunging over cliffs and bridges all over the world, and not just South America.
Bus trips are typically happy affairs, with group sing-alongs and an unmistakable sense of excitement often accompanying a good road trip.
So nobody onboard will be more surprised when the driver falls asleep at the wheel, veering off the nearest bridge, or plunging over a steep mountainside.
In fact, with all that singing, I doubt anyone would notice as they merrily, (and unwittingly) plunge their way right onto your doorstep.
I know, pretty cool idea, huh?

Next Stop....forget it, you'll never believe me

HIGH SPEED TRAIN WRECKS

Now here’s a creative way to kill hundreds, perhaps even thousands, and without the aid of cancer or Alzheimers!
Old people like to travel, right? So I’d arrange for free travel on rickety old Amtrak or Eurail trains about ready to crash anyway.
Make it one of those high-speed Eurail trains and now you’ve got something really interesting.
Everybody wins!

Might wanna try hanging on

HOT AIR BALLOON MISHAPS

Ever since those crazy Montgolfier brothers built that first hot air balloon, these things have been going down like Sasha Grey. So why not a hot air balloon? It’s  adventurous, scenic, and a great venue for dying.
One minute you’re snapping pictures over the Grand Canyon, the next, you’re laying under a pile of colored silk.
Forget about cancer. All you’ll need on this trip is a leaky gas valve and

KAPLOWEE !!!

Game over.
No pain and suffering, hospital bills to saddle relatives with, or even funeral costs, since rescue crews will never find the bodies! Just some burned-up colored silk and a partially legible Cinzano logo.
I realize this won’t give me the numbers I’m looking for as Earth’s new population manager, but it is a much more pleasant way to go than some of the current alternatives.

AMUSEMENT PARK INCIDENTS

No one can disagree with the statement “Disneyland is the happiest place on earth”.
Well it doesn’t need to be. Not anymore.
With only a few hundred accidents per year, I’m betting I can get some fairly big numbers between Pirates and that new Harry Potter ride.
Here’s the best part.
Everyone loves to have fun, so a few thousand deaths a year isn’t going to deter anyone from planning that next spring break trip, least of all mom and dad.

Then, when I need some really big death numbers, when the population is getting too out-of-control—despite China’s best efforts at birth control, I can always throw in a major virus that’s only activated by blowjobs.
I know, I know…your crew already tried this with butt-sex and AIDS, but that was a lame effort in my opinion since it targeted mostly the homo’s, whereas bj’s could take down everyone, and damned fast too!
Well, not exactly everyone.

I’m stretching here, but I don’t think the Amish much care for oral sex which could be a slight problem.
I’ll need to come up with something special for those creepy motherfuckers, like some kind of barn-raising gone bad, or perhaps a goat cheese virus.
Something organic anyway.

Love,

Diego

My address in Heaven

God-

Is it always daytime in Heaven? I’m guessing it is, otherwise there would be no light at the end of the tunnel, right?
Well if it is sunny up there all the time, that’s going to get old real fast.
I went to Alaska one summer on a fishing trip and couldn’t believe how easy it was to stay up all night. Not surprisingly, after only a few day I was totally burned-out.
So how does the light thing work?
Is it similar to Alaska where we stay up day and night, sort of like Vegas?
And when we do finally crash, where are we supposed to go?
Are there cots set up somewhere, like those in a Red Cross shelter—or do we have to sleep like birds do, standing up?

I’ve never actually slept standing up, but I’ve slept sitting up plenty of times, although I don’t recommend it since the last time I did so I ran my truck into a 1964 Chevy Impala fully loaded with illegal aliens. Assholes!

I could probably sleep in a Red Cross shelter, but I think they’re like homeless shelters—where they make you say prayers and listen to some half-ass preacher tell you how much God (you) loves you before they let you chow down. I can’t do that either.
Besides, there are way too many single moms along with out-of-control kids running around half-naked in those homeless shelters.
Who needs that shit.

My idea would be for you to have a guest casita where I could crash. That would make the whole daylight thing somewhat palatable.
A nice little cottage, say, in your backyard someplace. But it needs to have all the amenities, like a fridge, microwave, those blackout curtains—like the ones in Vegas, and, a hot tub so I’m not always ringing your doorbell bugging you to let me use yours when I bring chicks home from the club.
Fair warning though, the fridge and the microwave are important.
The hot tub is a deal breaker.

While we’re on the topic, I’m also going to need some tunage. Like a nice stereo system with those outdoor speakers that look like rocks.
Chicks dig those little rock speakers.
Especially when I play some techno, bump the volume, and load-up some E into their appletini as they’re checking out the little rock speakers.
But since it’s always daylight, I’d hate for you and the Mrs. to be checking us out when I get my freak on, so I’ll also need a little gazebo with curtains around my tub.

That should do it.

Oh, one more thing.
Will you have one of those lawn jockeys in front of our house so everyone will know where we live?

Diego

Till death do us part

God-

Just a stab in the dark, but I’m guessing we’re all single again once we kick, at least that’s how I interpret the whole ’till death do us part’ thing. Which can only mean one thing. I’ll need to join a singles club.

So are there singles clubs in Heaven?
I suppose it would be one thing if I’d died in my twenties. Back then I was fit, fairly handsome, and had all the tackle necessary to attract a mate.
But now?
Now I’m older, and if I was to die at this age, aside from flies, the only thing I’ll attract with this body is a Tammy Faye Bakker look-alike.

Not good.
Which is precisely why I need the safety and comfort of a singles club. They console you and actually help you to believe you’re still worthy of a decent mate, even when you’re not.
Singles clubs, on the outside looking in, remind me of life on the savannah. Where packs of goofy looking animals run around trying to protect each other from hungry predators by using the safety in numbers concept.
That is, until one of them fucks-up and strays from the pack, where there’s almost certainly some hungry, big-toothed motherfucker waiting to munch their shit up.
Ok, so maybe the pack animal analogy isn’t the best, since I doubt anyone is going to hunt me down and eat me if I fail the membership initiation. But there’s a more important aspect of singles clubs at play, and that’s how they provide a captive source of other singles all too eager to console you when you’re too butt ugly to find a mate. And that would be me.
So as long as I stay within the pack, I’ll find a safety net of faux friendship, where there’s almost certainly an occasional mercy romance on the horizon.
Not bad.

WITHOUT a singles club membership

There is a downside however. Have you seen the chicks in singles clubs?
I have.
Most of them are not what anyone would term the hottest of babes. In fact, a lot of them look like Russian peasants.
Which I suppose is alright as long as you don’t have any expectations of me striking up a romance with these chicks.
But I bet they can cook so it won’t be all bad.

Bad pooty vibes

 
Singles clubs dudes?
The dudes are a different story altogether. They look like idiots.
But this is mostly due to their total lack of fashion sense. As if a uniform, they all seem to dress uncannily similar—stupid-looking plaid shorts, flip flops with black socks, and these oversized Hawaiian print shirts that make you secretly wonder just how fat they really are underneath all that polyester.
Wearing a getup like this is going to be a problem, at least for me anyway.
Such a dichotomy.
The safety aspect of belonging to the pack while simultaneously morphing oneself into an anti-poon fashionista.
I’ll take neither.

Then there’s the other piece of the singles clubs I nearly always forget while fantasizing how glorious they are.
Their activities.
I typically don’t bike, hike, swim, white-water raft, sky-dive, go on cruises, or play volleyball in the nude.
Nope. None of it.
I do however like to bowl, shoot assault rifles at trees and other inanimate objects, go fishing, shoot pigeons off my neighbors roof, watch sports—hell, all tv for that matter, drink beer, eat beef, fart, go to the horse track, strip club, and NASCAR events. (In no particular order, of course).

Not exactly the fabric singles clubs are looking for one might conclude.

So are there other types of singles clubs, maybe just not as docile?
I mean, I’m not exactly looking for biker chicks, but then I’m not looking for a former accountant babe whose idea of a good time is going for a hike and gobbling down a pint of yoghurt afterward.
And don’t even think about the Russian peasant thingy. That’s not going to happen. (Unless copious amounts of vodka are involved).

WITH a singles club membership

So how about it?
What’dya say you e-mail me a registration form for one of your more “adventurous” clubs.
But not like those swinger’s clubs either. The last thing I need is to wander around for all of eternity with a fiery STD I pick up from one of your more careless members.
That’d be a real downer.

Love, as always,

Diego

Are those real pearls?

God-

Tell me more about this whole pearly gate thing—is it like the one at the State Fair, only with a whole lot of pearls glued on?
Or is it like the guard gates at the state prison, with a guard tower and some guy who likes to shoot people perched atop of it?

If it’s like the one at the Fair, that would be pretty cool, since I routinely sneak in each year simply by jumping over the gate when no one is looking.
But if its like the one at the state prison, well that would suck. Not that I would know, but it just seems so, having seen my fair share of prison movies.
In those prison flicks, there’s typically a bunch of guards posted up in big towers along the fence line, and from what I gather, they just as soon shoot you than even mess around with a warning or anything.
Which brings up a good point.
Since I’d be a soul at that point, would the bullets pass right through me? Or do they have some sort of high-tech gadget like a stun-gun or laser beam that only works on souls?

Another question.
Are there long lines to get in and will I need an ID?
I’m not sure about the ID. I can certainly bring one with me when I die, but the picture doesn’t look anything like me thanks to that dumbfuck clerk at the DMV.
Normally, they at least give you a warning when they’re about to shoot your picture.
Not her.
I think she was having a bad day because as soon as I stepped up to the yellow line—my gaze focused on my foot placement, making certain I had both my size 13′s in the little yellow shoe silhouettes painted on the floor—she snapped the photo.
To her credit, she did at least say ‘smile,’ but in such a grumbly, irritated manner, that while you knew she had just uttered something, your brain didn’t quite comprehend what she had just said until it was too late.
Camera flash.
What the fuck was that?
I was looking down you dumbass, I thought to myself. Could you have at least given me a moment to get ready?
Anyway, I looked up just in time to manage an expression so completely dumbfounded, I now appear as a fucking halfwit on my drivers license. Which I presume will only help me in the event I get pulled over for drinking and driving.
Perhaps I should be more appreciative of LaTonya’s photography prowess.

Ok, so lets pretend for a moment jumping the fence isn’t an option, and, my accumulation of sin credits isn’t enough to get me in, what then?
Do I go to Hell and if so how will I get there?
Is it like that one scene in the movie “Ghost,” where a flock of evil looking birds attack me, picking me up and carting me off to Hell?
Or do you always have a bus waiting nearby, knowing there’s usually a few fuck-ups like me who’ll need a ride?
I’m down with the bus concept, except for how I never manage to have exact change, which I’m guessing I won’t.

Who does the bus driver work for?
You, or Satan?

Totally confused,

Diego

Humble Servant

God-

Remember the time when I pinned Butch Andrews in a porta-potty with my truck and then drove the truck and porta-potty (with him inside) all over the job site until it toppled over?
Well, I’d like to apologize.
Not to him.
To you.
I realize that if you’d had things your way, you probably wouldn’t have us playing practical jokes on people—especially the kind that end up with them being covered in shit from head to toe.
But then again, I recall how Sister Mary Anne used to always tell us that as God’s children, we’re supposed to be happy— that you actually want us happy and filled with joy.
Well, I’ve got to tell you.
This was one practical joke that not only made me happy (as I was driving him and the potty all over the place), it made me fucking ecstatic when he popped out all covered in shit!
And not only did it make me happy, it made the entire jobsite happy, with everyone laughing their asses off!
I guess you could say the level of happiness that day was pretty high for a lot of people.
Except for Butch.
He wasn’t very happy.
In fact, he was pretty fucking hot, to be truthful.
So hot, he went to his truck, grabbed his gun, (we do live in Arizona) and started shooting my pickup truck bed full of holes. (By the way, thanks, if you had any hand in him not shooting me that day.)

Which brings me to my question.
If you play a little joke on someone, and it makes a ton of people happy and only one person pissed-off, like say, Butch, well isn’t that a good thing?
Or does the shit add an unholy aspect to the whole thing?
I can see where it might.
After all, Butch was really pretty stupid and everyone knows stupid people can be some totally unholy motherfuckers.
Especially Butch.

‘Ya know, God, now that I think about it, maybe you should be thanking me instead of me apologizing to you.
After all, I did help get that unholy fuck convicted for attempted murder even though he was trying to kill my pickup truck.

OK, so never mind about the apology. Let’s just call the whole event good since I was out there doing your work.

Yup.
God’s work.
That’s my business!

Your humble servant,

Diego