A tribute to a monumental attribute

God-

I hate to put you on the spot, but I’m going to anyway.
Why did you take my friend Howard at such a young age? I think it was totally uncalled for.

Howard was a kind-hearted, gentle soul, one who never hurt anyone.
He wasn’t suspicious or envious of others, nor was he vengeful when someone wronged him.
He’d just “chalk it up to experience” as he liked to say and moved on.

Howard wasn’t competitive, in any way.
Not in conversation.
Or athletics.
Even scholastically.
And he wasn’t a bragger, although, he had plenty to brag about.

For my friend Howard possessed what just may have been the longest male member on the planet. Although I’m not sure, we never actually measured it or anything. (He would have needed a road crew with a surveying instrument for that).
But all of us kids who grew up with Howard, we all knew. And so did Howard.
And soon enough, with our help, the rest of the world would know about his monumental attribute.

We accomplished this by taking Howard to parties—our operating procedure was usually the same.
First, as a youthful, and most prodigious alcoholic whose star was ever on the rise, we’d get him sloshed with copious amounts of PBR.
Next, we’d lie to him, explaining how there was someone at the party who’d heard tale of the great beast, but was doubtful.
We would then suggest an impromptu unveiling.
Howard, always ready to prove himself would typically acquiesce with a simple head nod, march dutifully into the party, focused, as if on a mission.

Once inside, we’d single out an unsuspecting partygoer by pointing at them while their attention was directed elsewhere.
Howard would then regale the unsuspecting naysayer partygoer without reservation, his enormous mammalian protuberance practically touching the floor.
The scene quickly turned to mayhem.

Aghast from its sighting, the lady partygoers would either shriek, faint, or flee.
The rest of the women, (sluts) were busy trying to get Howard’s attention by flashing their tits, I presume in a blatant attempt to get laid.
The guys were another story.

There was no fainting, gasping and nobody running away.
Amazingly, they would relent on the #1 rule of the guy code by unabashedly gazing at it—for way too long!
I couldn’t blame them, for his was a willie that would make even a horse jealous.
And thanks to us, we shared his secret with the world.

And thanks to you he’s gone.
And with him, any chance we had of meeting sluts on a fairly regular basis.

Nice job.

Lugubriously,

Diego

Thoughts on being a man for others…

God-

Let’s say you had the choice between donating money to some starving kid in Africa, and getting your wife a new pair of tits?
Which would you go with?
I can’t decide which one will buy me more sin credits as they both contribute to humanity, albeit one more than the other.

The starving kid could grow up to be a world leader someday, like Nelson Mandela. But I doubt it.
It’s probably more likely that he’ll get eaten by a lion or something before reaching puberty.
I don’t see how that contributes to mankind.
The poor kid never even got a chance to breed and here he gets swallowed up by a pack of hungry animals—that’s a waste, even if it is a good tax deduction.

The fake tits on the other hand contribute to mankind in many different ways. First and foremost, they improve at least one person’s life—mine.
But other than stating the ridiculously obvious, they also improve other folks lives as well.

Take the doctor who gave her the double-d’s for instance, a few surgeries a month and he’ll be trading in that piece ‘o shit Volvo for a new Rolls.
And how about his staff?
They all get to keep their jobs at a time when jobs are hard to find.
Then there’s the neighbors.
All the neighboring women will be pissed off, especially when my wife’s tits enter the room a few minutes before she does. But that’s a good thing.
They’ll want new tits too. (Some chicks are like that)
And that creates an economic boom. (At least in the plastic surgery world).

Many lives can be affected by only one set of fake tits.
Whereas the only lives affected by the kid will be his own. (And the lions to a lesser extent)

I’m going with the tits.

Mammarily yours,

Diego

Tina and Me

God-

I had a horrible nightmare last night, and no Jennifer Aniston wasn’t in it thank you very much.
But Tina Turner was.
Talk about left field, I never saw that one coming.

First, I haven’t heard a Tina Turner song for ages and besides, even if I had, I doubt it would have stuck in my head.
I did like her early stuff, when she was married to Ike, but I think she left him after he hit her with a boot or something.

Anyway, Tina had just moved into my apartment complex and spotted me getting out of my truck. She invited me in.
The next thing I know, she’s asking my opinion on how best to decorate her new digs.
Fuck, how would I know, I’m not an interior decorator. But that’s not what came out of my mouth.

“Tina, love, I think you should hang the Valentino next to the kitchen window.”

I don’t even know what a Valentino is for Christ’s sakes, let alone know where to hang one. I couldn’t believe what I’d just said.
And what on earth was I wearing?
Gold sequined mini shorts, and a halter sling? Oh my God! I was a fashion faux-pas!
How embarrassing.
I should have been wearing my cute little red jumper, I like how it drapes so nicely, and I should have had on my Jimmy Choos— and my styling, it was all wrong.

ALRIGHT, now wait just one damned minute.
Where was all this shit coming from? I don’t know anything about jumpers or Jimmy Choos, and what the fuck is styling?

I told my wife about the dream this morning.
She told me I fell asleep on the couch last night, so she switched off ‘Platoon’ and watched  Project Runway instead.

What’s Project Runway?

That still doesn’t explain why Tina had moved into my complex. Is she broke or something?

Fashionably,     [Jesus,— STOP THAT!]

Diego

Golf: Me and Larry versus the universe

God-

Do you golf?
I used to, I don’t anymore.
But I’d start up again if I knew whether or not you had a game.
I like playing with people I’ve never played with before.
It’s like hustling pool.
I let them beat me mercilessly on the front nine.
Then, I reach into my bag, and pull out my game on the back nine.

Maybe you, me, Jesus, and my cousin Larry could play a round sometime?
That’d be nice.
Larry is a major crook. But maybe I shouldn’t label him. He probably won’t steal anything from you or Jesus.
Not unless you guys have anything worth stealing, that is.
I doubt he’d try to steal your clubs, too bulky, he’d get busted for certain.
I’m guessing you guys have those stupid little knitted club heads some elderly ladies gave you as a suck-up gift?
Those would be hard to steal too.
What Larry may do is try to steal a few of your balls, especially if they’re embossed with your name.
I wouldn’t blame him if he did.
A “God” ball might be worth something someday and in the meantime would make a great keepsake.

After our round, maybe we could get some drinks, chicken wings and a couple of dogs at the 19th hole where I’d tally up the scorecard and break the bad news to you and Jesus.
But I wouldn’t do that until I knew you guys had a good buzz on.
I hope you’re one of those overly friendly drunks, and not mean spirited.
Larry gets mean just so you know.

If you are mean, I hope you keep that shit under control and not go busting up my country club after I go around telling everyone how me and Larry just whooped you and Jesus.

I have another small request.
If you guys do win, don’t fuck with Larry, not too much anyway.
It doesn’t take much to set him off.

Oh, and if you hear me order my chicken wings ‘suicide’, I’m talking about the heat level.
I wouldn’t read anything into it.

F-O-R-E!,

Diego

Happy Halloween Central America!

God-

Carolina, my maid is from San Salvador.
When she came to clean the house last week and saw all the Halloween decorations, she freaked out. I asked her why.
She explained it like this;

“Een my coentry, we doan beleeeve een Halloween. Ees the day oaf  the deveel.” Theese theengs scare me!”

Of course she was talking about our decorations, calling them theengs.
For the next sixty minutes, as she and her crack team of fellow non-believing Central Americans cleaned the house, there was a certain uneasiness about them.
Particularly as one of them got close to our glass globe encased witch head—we call her Mistress Bethelsda.

As I sat in my favorite chair, ensconced in its wonderfully supportive broken-in foam cushion, my feet high on the table as the girls cleaned around me, each time one of them would approach Mistress Bethelsda, they’d let out the cutest little shriek upon setting her into motion.

Did I mention how it typically takes Carolina and crew two hours to clean the house?
They were finished in an hour.

Happy Halloween

Diego

 

Moles are not beauty marks, not on guys anyway!

God-

My mom once explained how my moles really weren’t moles, she said they were beauty marks.
I wish mom would have lived long enough to see my ‘beauty’ marks today.

The ones that were pre-cancerous have been replaced by cute little scars.
And the remainder have wayward hair follicles emanating from them, similar to some evil witch.

I’ve thought of combing them over, much the same way a balding man does with a long flap of temple hair, but there’s just not enough of them to conceal their host.

I have an idea.
The next time I go on holiday to one of those Caribbean destinations, and I find one of the locals who braids hair using those little colored beads, I’ll see if she can’t give me a mole makeover with my little tiny mole hairs.

I WILL be beautiful!

Soon, it won’t be long before my moles are returned to their former beauty mark status.

Disheveled,

Diego

No miracles, yet

God-

I need some clarification on just what you consider a miracle. I think we could be miles apart on this one.
I’ve witnessed apparitions of Jesus in several foodstuffs, most notably, braised short ribs and once in a large cheese pizza.
Survived a near death experience.
And regained the use of both legs, defying all medical odds. (Typically just after wheeling myself past the long lines at airport security)

I’ve been in car, boat, and bus accidents.
I’ve wrecked a golf cart, forklift, and once toppled over a dump truck.
I even crashed a cement mixer into a fence, a car, and finally a tree,
But soon I was finished, HR fired me.

I’ve been in a Mexican jail and released without bail.
Bucked off a colt named Lightning—the experience was frightening.
And ate 30 locusts while climbing a tree, to prove to a girl I was worthy of she.
And when I was finished, when it was all said and done, nothing was a miracle, not any of it, none.
And yet here I am, still telling the story.
Alive through it all, notwithstanding how gory.

My miracles exist not, mostly thanks to the weed.
While yours are in scriptures, most holy indeed.

But the weed and the drugs make no less holy mine.
Even though they are troubled, they’re no less divine.

So you and your bible and I with my dope,
Have lent to this world the promise of hope.

For you through the bible have told a good story,
While I’ve done so too, but not much with glory.

My stories are idiotic, they’re stupid, they’re dumb.
But yours express human resolve true and plumb.

I do offer hope although not quite as yours,
I tell of a life that’s been through a lot
Offering hope that others shall do as I not.

For mine’s the result of a life that’s been reckless,
Happenstance guiding the deeds of my day.

And yours is of hope and love.
Both in short supply in the world today.

Reckless, but not today,
Diego

I wish I was a girl

God-

Sometimes, I wish I had been born a girl. But not because I want to be a girl or anything.
Mainly because I would have a legitimate excuse to pee sitting down.
As it stands, I have to pee standing up, which I will say has come in pretty handy over the years, especially the time we all peed into an engine compartment of a bus we’d rented for a bachelor party. If I was a girl, I doubt my stream would have arc’d high enough to make it into the oil filler tube. (We didn’t get our deposit back in case you were wondering)

In fact, if I was a girl, I really wouldn’t want the vagina either. Well, not full time anyway.
Maybe a couple times a week at best, and even then, it would only be to tease my husband into washing dishes or doing a load of laundry.
But I wouldn’t actually let him have sex with me, mainly because I don’t like penis’s. Well, not other guys penis’s anyway. I am ok with mine however.

And then there’s the boobs. We’d have to do something about my boobs.
I don’t want those either.
Although, it would be nice to have a pair I could flop-out and gaze at every now and again, especially on days when I go to the beach. Going to the beach makes me horny sometimes, so if I had a nice pair of boobs, I’d excuse myself, go to the closest beach bathroom, and check out my own boobs. That would be pretty cool.
And while I was in there, I’d sit down and take a pee.
Although I wouldn’t actually sit on the bowl, not in a public place anyway. I’d probably hover over the bowl, maybe two to three meters above it so as not to get any beachgoer germs on my girly bottom.

Actually, at two to three meters, now that I think about it, I’d be peeing standing up.
Wait a second, I do that now.

Ok, so lets just forget I brought it up.

Love,

Diego

The Black Knight

God-

Do you have a time machine up there? Will we have access to it?
Or, do we just think about where we want to go and {poof} we’re there.
Or do we actually have to ‘fly’ to wherever it is we’re going, using our own wings?
I actually like the “think and go” concept, since that involves the least amount of work.

The time machine means it’s highly likely I’ll need to sign up for it, (along with million of others) and then wait my turn in the queue, listening to all the other time-traveling fucks brag about where they’re going, or where they’ve been. That seems like a bit much.
I could be waiting for eons, and by that time, whomever it was I wanted to spy on having sex would probably be long since dead and gone.

The winged flight program doesn’t thrill me much either. I don’t like turbulence and besides, I’m afraid I’d travel to some exotic destination, unexpectedly begin to molt, and be stuck there for a while.
This could be dangerous. Especially if I landed on some really weird planet where animals or insects were in charge.
I could just see myself frantically running all over the place for an extended period of time, trying to flee from some hungry motherfucker, as I waited for my feathers to grow back.
Shit, that makes my palms sweat just thinking about it!

I'd hate for my wings to look like this guy's

The ‘think and go’ concept might work best for me, although, it could be a problem with my ADD.
I’d hate to be laying on a beach somewhere, enjoying the day, then, without notice, have a random thought relating to 15th century England.
One minute I’d be on a beach, sipping one of those tropical drinks, you know, the ones with the little parasols, and the next, I’d be on a horse, suited in armor and about to be jousted into little tiny pieces by some “Black Knight” douche-nozzle.
That would not be cool. At all.
Yeah, no, my ADD could really fuck with your ‘think and go’ program.

Not cool, God

Maybe the time machine is the best option for me after all.

Typically, how long is the queue?
Perhaps I should sign up now.

Diego

French toast like no other, and I really mean no other, just ask Sting!

With the holidays soon upon us, it’s time to bust out my ‘breakfast’ recipe for french toast.
But whoa there, this isn’t just any french toast, this is a special delight reserved for special occasions, such as birthdays, holidays, and the time my mortgage lender filed for bankruptcy. [yea!]

It’s decadent, full of calories, and also doubles as an orgasmic device. If you use it in the latter form, be very careful. It has the same affect as those eight-hour tantric orgasms Sting is always bragging about.

Enjoy!

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.

You’ll probably keel over after the first bite, but just hang in there. Some of my guests don’t die, but they do shudder uncontrollably, so be very cautious when eating.
I’ve never actually died or orgasm’d while eating this delight, but have come damned close.

All the best for a great holiday season!

Diego

My near death experience: or how not to drown in orange juice

God-

I think I may be the only person on earth to ever drown in a small bottle of orange juice.

I was seventeen and still living at home when I got a call one night from my school mate, Lonnie. There was something magical in his voice and I sensed it right away. This was no ordinary phone call, not like all the rest.
This phone call had his voice pitch elevated about three octaves above its normal tone,  a decided freneticism with each word spoken. I always knew when Lonnie was excited about something, every time he’d speak his voice would crackle, much in the same manner as a pre-pubescent boy whose voice was on the verge of changing.
Most calls from Lonnie began with d-u-d-e,  on this night it was, dude!  

“Dude, my brother got a hold of some hash oil—meet me at the corner market in half an hour.” [squeak]

This was a school night, there was no way I was going out on a school night, wait, did he say hash oil?
Until that moment, the lore of hash oil was only a myth—something we thought may exist, but never actually had proof it did, nor did we know anyone who’d ever tried it. But we’d heard plenty of stories.

Like the one where this kid in a neighboring town got high on the stuff, stole borrowed his dads car and drove it through the front window of a KFC in a frenzied munchy outing, later explaining to the police how he thought it was the drive-thru window.

And then there was the girl in our school who, on the bus ride to school one morning, took off all her clothes, cranked her boom box and danced melodically to Aqualung, the entire way to school!
Although, I always that that one might be a rumor—nobody dances to Jethro Tull for Christ’s sakes, and besides, anyone who’d ever told the story couldn’t recite her name. And that made no sense, because in our school, all a girl had to do to get a rumor started was to let her panties (sorry, I hate that word too) drag across her desk seat, producing a fart-like sound—she was doomed after that. Everyone knew her name.

“Alright, let me think up something to tell my parents, I’ll see you in a bit.”

I sat in front of the corner market waiting for Lonnie to show up, sipping orange juice and eating from a bag of cheesy puffs. I saw him coming.
Lonnie drove an old blue pickup truck, a camper shell attached to its bed which doubled as a nine-passenger limo on this night, because apparently, he’d called everyone he knew. As he pulled up, bodies began piling out of the camper in what seemed like a never-ending procession.

“Do you got the shit, lemme see it,” I asked impatiently.

And as promised, (by virtue of his boyish voice crackle) there it was, in all its glory—hash oil. It was beautiful—golden brown in color and remarkably similar to honey but with the consistency of tree sap.

“So how do we do this?” I asked.

“I dunno, I guess we just use the bong.” he responded, in an almost question-like manner.

And use the bong we did which, in retrospect, turned out to be an enormous mistake.
As hash oil novices, none of us were aware of its potency, or how it was the purest form of THC available, tipping the resin scale at just over 90 percent. Up until then, the only weed we had ever tried was so bad, you could get high on your school lunch break and still be able to function in 6th hour calculus, albeit, with a massive headache. So to inhale this stuff out of a device delivering ten times the punch as that of a small hash pipe, well, lets just say we fucked up monumentally.
A few minutes went by after I’d taken my first (and last) hit. I began to speak.

“Dude, I think I’m drowning.” I explained to the group calmly.

Everyone began laughing hysterically.

“No, dude, you don’t understand, I’m really drowning!” This time I announce it with a bit more conviction.

The laughing stopped as Lonnie, no doubt feeling responsible for my condition, rushed over to calm me down.

“Dude, you’re not drowning, there’s no water anywhere in sight, Ok?”

I nodded.

But I wasn’t ok. I had effectively, as a result of smoking this shit through a bong, managed to convince myself that the orange juice I was drinking had gone not down my esophagus, but directly into my lungs.
I was in fact, drowning.

“Dude, think about it, if you were drowning, you wouldn’t be able to speak.”

Lonnie was right. I wouldn’t be able to speak if I was actually drowning. How stupid was it to think I could actually pour OJ straight into my lungs? And yet I believed just that as I fixated on my soon-to-be, near death experience. I spoke up once again.

“Dude, I’m dying.” I proclaimed, with all the solemnity of a Buddhist Monk.

“Diego, you’re not dying, you just smoked some really good shit, that’s all.”

All of our friends were gathered around at that point, a hushed pall now replacing the laughter.

“Dude, is he going to be alright?” “Maybe we should take him to the hospital” one guy uttered.

“We’re not taking him to the hospital” I heard Lonnie say. “We’re taking him home.”

Did he just say home? Holy Fuck. I can’t go home like this. My parents will know I’m high for sure, and on a school night no less.
They’ll kill me.

“Dude, I can’t go home, I’ll blow it for sure— I told you, I’m really drowning.”  this time very emphatically.

But that didn’t stop Lonnie. The next thing I know I was being shoved out of the camper shell right into my front yard, where from a timing perspective, things could not have worked out any worse.
My mother, who had chosen that exact moment  to take her poodle outside to “do her business” (as she puts it), was standing there watching the entire fiasco.
She looked  panicked as Lonnie and the gang sped off,  dust and gravel slinging everywhere, as I laid there in a fetal heap. She knew something was up.

I slowly got up and staggered inside, my mom and the poodle following closely behind. I slipped past my dad who was reading the paper, and bounded directly for the safety of my bathroom, where I locked the door and hid.
Another huge mistake.
As I was hiding out in the bathroom, I brilliantly chose that particular moment to stare at myself in the mirror, fixating on my opened mouth which had just transformed into a gigantic, ever-widening black hole. My mouth agape, I watched (and hallucinated) in horror as my throat opened up, allowing me to peer directly into my lungs where I saw a big pool of orange juice sloshing around.
Fuck, I was most certainly drowning, there was no doubt about it this time. I unlocked the door to go find my parents and alert them of my drowning, but to my shock, they were both standing just outside the bathroom.

“Mom, Dad—I’m drowning!” I said calmly.

In hindsight, I should have said it in a more alarming manner since they both gave me a funny look, probably in disbelief that their honor student could say anything quite so stupid.

“I need to go to the hospital, NOW, I’m dying!” I had their attention this time.

My dad,  immediately lurched at me and  began shaking me violently.

“What was it son, speed, heroin, cocaine?” he asked, while rhythmically coordinating the pronunciation of each syllable with a violent back-and-forth body shake.

What the fuck? Heroin? Really? Even I was shocked at his line of questioning and here I was drowning in orange juice. I was an honor student for fuck’s sake, not a heroin addict!

“It was hash oil dad.” I managed to blurt out between shakes.

In an instant, Dad loaded me up into the car, and took me to the nearest emergency room where some night shift intern calmed both of us down, me with a shot of vitamin B-12, and my dad, a valium. I don’t remember much after that.

The next morning, and for many mornings afterward, I noticed how my breakfast place-setting was conspicuously missing the orange juice.
I never said a word.

Anyways, that’s why I’m writing you today.
I went to confession a few years back to get this one off my chest, but the priest began laughing and gave me the same penance he typically reserved for cursing, or having “impure” thoughts.
That’s why I thought it best to come to you directly.
I always thought he should have thrown in at least one ‘Act of Contrition’ given the whole bloody mess.

So, email me back and I’ll get started on my penance right away. Ok?

Drowning, but not in orange juice this time.

Diego

Smells like adult spirit

God-

What is it about neighbors?
Was your commandment to love them some sort of joke?
I only ask because I find it difficult to reconcile my loving them with the fact that some of these assholes are likely going to Hell.

It’s pretty obvious you don’t love them, if you did, why wouldn’t they be headed your way instead of Hell?
And if you don’t love them, well why the fuck should I?

Don’t get me wrong, I like most of my neighbors. But over the years, I’ve come to the inescapable conclusion that there’s always at least one asshole in every neighborhood, like my neighbor, Hugh.
What a douchebag.

A few years back, my barber, (who apparently still thinks I’m in my twenties) gifted me with a small bag of weed for Christmas, saying how it was extremely potent, and that I should be super cautious—“a little goes a long way dude“— is how he put it.
His warning was disturbing. So much so, I was instantly paranoid and I hadn’t even smoked any of it yet, and not sure I wanted to, so instead of trying it out I found a suitable hiding place and stashed it, thinking I’d break it out on some special occasion.
Unfortunately, I hid it so well, I didn’t find it until several years later when I was searching for something else.

Hmmm.
I immediately began thinking how fortuitous it was to finally locate it on a weekend when my wife and kids were out of town, in the summer, and all the neighbors had bounced to cooler climates, leaving the hood a virtual ghost town.
I decided to toke up.
My plan was simple. I’d take a couple hits as instructed, then lounge in the pool on one of the kid’s float toys, sip some delicious, ice-cold Mexican beer, and crank the shit out of my outdoor sound system.
A good plan. I couldn’t wait to get started.

Drawing from my youth, I fashioned a pot pipe out of aluminum foil, grabbed a few beers along with an ice bucket, switched on the outdoor sound system and headed for the pool. I was ready.
Next, I loaded the pipe, took a couple hits, squeezed my fat ass into my daughters duck raft, popped open a brew, and within a few short minutes, found myself in one of the nicest euphoric funks I’d ever experienced. “Really potent” my ass, this weed was outrageous!
What a lovely afternoon, that is, until…
Hugh, my hobbit-like neighbor, completely uninvited, barged into my backyard like some Nazi stormtrooper and began staring me down as if he was going to kill me or something. I freaked.

I quickly, (but really more like slo-mo) wrestled myself free from the ducks grip, hopping out of the pool.

“So, uhm, Hugh, [stutter] what brings you by this afternoon?” I ask innocently.

“What’dya think brings me by Diego?” he angrily retorted.

“Uh—is the music too loud?” I asked.

“Guess again dipshit!“

Dipshit? I’ll bet he smelled the weed.

“I don’t know, Hugh, did you want a beer or something?”

“Something?”  ”SOMETHING IS THE FUCKING PROBLEM, ASSHOLE!”

Shit, it was the weed! But calling me an asshole? That’s a little harsh I thought.
He must’ve been hanging out in his backyard, but why? He doesn’t have a pool and its over a 100 degrees out.
What the hell is he doing outdoors at this time of day?

“I’M CALLING THE FUCKING POLICE DIEGO, YOU’RE GOING TO JAIL!”

What an asshole! I couldn’t believe what had just happened.
I also couldn’t believe that weed either.
My barber was right. I should’ve only taken one or two hits and just stopped there. But I didn’t, and now thanks to Hugh and a few too many tokes, I was in the grips of a fully-blown paranoid episode.
I immediately raced inside, turned off the tunes, drew every window shade in the place, locked the doors, and sat there frozen in terror as if these were my final moments in an electric chair before some guard threw the switch.
To think that one minute I’m laying in the pool, enjoying some rays, got a nice buzz, and thanks to the chronic, I’m finally decoding all the lyrics to “Smells like teen spirit,”  as the next, I’m wet and shivering in a cold, dark room, waiting impatiently for the police to show up, handcuff me and haul me off to jail.
What the fuck, Hugh, really? Was any of that necessary?

Alright, so maybe what Hugh did isn’t enough for you to send him to Hell, but it should be enough for you to let me hate the little leprechaun without sending me to Hell.

At least that’s how I see it.

A denial, A denial, A denial, A denial.
A denial.

Diego

Please don’t hit me

God-

What does your voice sound like?
I’d like to think its similar to ours, except for maybe how it bellows and booms, like the subwoofers in my jeep.
I hope it sounds like that.
I’ll be pretty disappointed if it doesn’t.

I knew this guy once who physically, was extremely big. What was weird however was his voice.
I expected him to have this deep, baritone voice, so you can imagine how shocked I was when I heard him speak for the first
time. He sounded just like Minnie Mouse, very high pitched and squeaky.
It just didn’t fit.
Here was this big strapping lad, with this little girl voice. Really strange.

Anyhow, that got me wondering what you sound like.
You’re probably a big dude too, like him.
I hope you don’t sound like him.
I busted out laughing the first time I heard him speak.

If you do sound like him, when we meet, if I start laughing, would you please not send me to Hell.
And don’t sock me either.
Somebody your size could really fuck me up.
You really should be more mindful of your strength!

Diego

Not just any bad day, a really bad day!

God-

My good day versus bad day ratio, for lack of a better term, sucks!
Currently, as it stands, I typically have one good day out of thirty or forty bad ones, which, when compared with my younger days, has completely reversed trend. Why is this?
I’m routinely making deposits in my Karmic bank account with good not-so-bad deeds, and although it’s still decidedly out-of-balance, I am making an attempt to square things, at least before judgment day arrives anyway. So what gives?

Used to be, on a good day I would go to the horse races with my friends, win a bundle, have some beers, a few yuks, stop at the local strip club on my way home, where afterwards, my wife would be anxiously awaiting my arrival, greeting me much in the same manner as our little pet Maltese. (Save for the peeing on the floor).

Yesterday, I went to the track by myself, lost my ass, hung out in the beer-garden, where in an awkward attempt to look cool, (a result of being a party of one), I stacked my empty beer cups into one another until I’d constructed a 1/25th scale model of the leaning tower of Pisa.
But as the day went on and the cups got higher, I finally noticed how drinking from the top cup without having first emptied the prior, produced a nice dribble pattern down the front of my white shirt.
And since my preference of beers is of the dark-brown ale variety, at the end of my session, I had effectively managed to wipe-out any accumulation of cup-stacking-cool, replacing it with a dairy cow print fashion statement.
And right when I thought things couldn’t get worse, well, guess what. They did.

Who knew my ale-stained shirt was capable of making an even bigger fashion statement than that of a mere dairy cow.
On my way home from the track, in an homage to all my married friends who bailed on our day ‘o fun, I decided to stop at the strip club for one last pint.
I wasn’t prepared for what followed.
For those of you who don’t frequent strip clubs, you’d probably never know how they use low lighting, accentuated by strategically placed black lights everywhere. I think this has the same lighting affect on the strippers as do beer goggles, in a disco, at closing time.
At any rate, it didn’t take long to see how even in the midst of all those half-naked women, most of the dudes were looking and pointing at me. And with good reason.
The stains on my shirt, the ones I thought resembled a dairy cow in daylight, were now, with the help of black light illumination, in the unmistakable shape of an enormous penis, complete with balls perched atop each side. Jesus!
Needless to say, it was high time I got the hell out of there. I headed straight for the casa.
My sanctuary.
The place to wipe the stench of this shitty day off of me and jump (more like hop) into the waiting arms of my beloved.
Not so fast.
Remember me explaining how my wife would greet me on a good day?
Well this wasn’t a good day.
There was no tail-wagging, no piddling on the floor, and more conspicuously absent was the “I’m so happy to see you” grin.
Instead, in its place, an interrogation rivaling the Spanish inquisition as she launched into a barrage of carefully thought out questions, each designed to elicit at least one, three syllable word in its answer, exposing the word slurring evidence she needed to prove I was a gibbering mess.
Jesus, I felt like a losing contestant on Jeopardy and Alex hadn’t even introduced me yet!

“Uh, Massssa-tu-shitsss?”
[sound of buzzer alarm]

I grabbed my pillow and headed for the couch, hoping to stave off any further questions relating to the Kennedys.
Why couldn’t she have just given me a battery of yes or no questions, like, “Was it hot out today?”
I could have passed that one.

Anyhow, thanks, for yet another in a series of excruciatingly bad days.

Stained,
Diego

One good reason to hate Vikings

God-

Theologically speaking, is it against any rule you know of to shave off ones bush?
I’m not asking for me.
I’m only asking because I accidentally stumbled onto a website where this Hollywood actress, who shall remain nameless, (Lindsay Lohan)
was getting out of a car and you could see all up in her business.
Normally, I don’t care much for that kind of stuff, but what got my attention was how demonic it looked, as though it possessed evil powers or something.
It was horrible God, just horrible.
It was all blotchy, and crooked, and had a viking-esque quality about it, but even more frightening were the teeth.
Yes, it had teeth, no fooling!
Or maybe they just looked like teeth. I’m not sure.
It sort of reminded me of this movie I saw once; “Bride of Chucky.“
Did you go see that one?
Well do you remember how the evil little doll had an amulet that turned people into weird shit—like those really expensive Lladro figurines?
Well that’s exactly what her cooch looked like.
Like it could really mess you up. Badly!

And that’s when I got to thinking how I might have never seen any of it in the first place had she not taken a razor to her business and shaved it all off clean, right down to the nub.

I’m guessing that in your divine wisdom you had a reason for designing pubes, although I’m not sure what it was.
Maybe it was to hide our junk from plain sight so some animal wouldn’t sneak up and take a bite out of our shit.
Or maybe it was to gross out my maids when they clean my toilet each week, and find deserter pubes lounging all around the rim.
Then again, it could be you just wanted to freak the shit out of seven year-old me, like the time I saw my grandmothers bush piling out of her onesy at the beach. Fuck.
As if I really needed that image seared into my brain at seven.

One thing is for certain, all that hair does make our shit look mysterious, making sex some sort of adult version of hide and seek or something.
Not a bad thing.
Anyway, girly parts aren’t all that attractive in my opinion, so having a big hair jungle down there that hides their business is just fine by me.

Hirsuitly yours,

Diego

Planet Bonerville

God-

I know I asked you this before but you never wrote me back.
How exactly did you get to be God?
Did you fuck-up in another universe and some high and mighty council sentenced you to rule Earth, where fuck-ups abound?
Or, did you have to beat out a bunch of other would-be Gods in some kind of competition, like on that tv show Wipeout?

Maybe there was a gigantic war in the universe, and your Army prevailed, so you got promoted and along with it, your choice of jobs. (Just like Tom Cruise did in Top Gun). So you chose Earth.

Or perhaps you and a bunch of your friends staged some kind of coup d’ état, overthrowing some big douchebag of a God and his entire staff.

Or maybe were you just born God.
If you were born God, wouldn’t that make you God Jr.
If you are God Jr., why did you drop the Jr.? Because it does sound kind of dopey.
That’s the main reason I don’t go to Carl’s Jr. restaurants. Grammatically speaking, the name is an abortion.

It’s like going to a WaWa or Piggly Wiggly market, both of which I won’t go to either.

Anyhow, that’s not why I’m writing.
I was wondering how I could get my own little universe someday. In effect, I’d like to be a God too. Like you!
But I don’t want to stage a coup, or be a contestant on Wipeout. And I’m not much of an Army guy.

So I was thinking.
What if I just paid you some kind of royalty fee, and you awarded me my very own God post somewhere.
Only I don’t want to be posted-up on some bullshit planet like Mars.
And Uranus is definitely out.
All my friends would give me major shit if they knew I was the God of Uranus. Are you kidding?

No, I want a planet that’s like Hawaii since I like to lay out, snorkel, and go deep sea fishing.
I also want a boat I can charter to pasty-fat people from somewhere that resembles Minnesota.
And I’ll need to change my name to God Bobby Ray McFadden.
I also want a wife named Waynette, Georgette, or Opal Ann, it doesn’t matter.
I want a pet monkey named Theodore who torments the neighborhood kids by throwing shit at them on their daily walk home from school.
And I’d like a couple of children too.

A daughter named Thelma, who goes by Sunset at our local strip club.
And a son whose real name is Earl, but his e-mail address is Whakinit24-7.
Together with a 1959 Ford Skyliner with the retractable top.
A soviet built rocket launcher.
And a waterbed that leaks just under Opal Ann’s hoo-dilly.

As God Bobby Ray, I just might have me a mistress named Earleen.
My very own restaurant named God Bobby’s Place, where me and Earleen would screw in the kitchen on slow nights, in the back, right next to the walk-in freezer. And if one of my Meh-hee-can workers caught me and Earleen, I’d have him deported for having phony papers.
I’d have a big meat smoker out back, where I’d smoke ribs every day and drink Budweiser while the ribs are cooking.
Sometimes, a few of my friends would come by and we’d smoke a bunch of weed too. Then we’d eat ribs and I’d make Earleen bring us all wet-naps to clean up.

There’d be days when I’d cheat on Earleen with her little sister, Beulah, but Earleen wouldn’t mind since she’d be a chronic alcoholic and wasted most of the time.
And if Earleen ever gets pissy and threatens to tell Opal Ann on me, how we’re screwing on flour sacks in the kitchen, I’d have Theodore throw shit at her till she looked like the dude from that movie, Weird Science.

Earleen best be keeping her shit on the DL

My churches would be refurbished KFC restaurants.
And my services would cost an arm and a leg. And I wouldn’t take any discount coupons either. Everyone pays, full boat.

And all my preachers would don hockey masks and have regular face-offs with male parishioners during Sunday service, the winner gets to sleep with Earleen.
But Earleen would complain during their lovemaking, telling the face-off winner; “Once you’ve been with God Bobby Ray, there ain’t no goin backwards,” which in turn would prompt the face-off winner to commit suicide.
Again, I’d blame Earleen.

And I’d like to name my new planet, Planet Bonerville.

My ride on planet Bonerville

And there would only be one doctor on the whole planet. Me.

Sophmorically yours,

Diego

On the topic of reincarnation

God-

Tell me, how does reincarnation work exactly?
My wife says it’s a system based on Karma. For example, she says if I continue to shoot pigeons off my neighbors roof, it’s highly likely you’ll send me back here someday as a pigeon, whose fate will rest in the hands of some 12 year-old wad who just got a BB gun for his birthday.
I say that’s all bullshit.
Because if what she’s saying is true, then why wouldn’t you send people back as say, a two-iron?
I’ve wrapped plenty of two-irons around trees, thrown them into lakes, and even beat an Igloo water cooler to death with one. And I can say with some degree of certainty, I’m not the first or last person to ever abuse a two-iron in this manner.
Yet, by her definition, I should expect to return for a short stint as a rarely used, (and highly overrated) golf club? Seriously?
No fucking way.

I say reincarnation is a system much like college.
You get a pamphlet from the registrars office showing the various courses, which in this case would be a listing of all the animated life forms, review the syllabus denoting what you can reasonably expect as say bigfoot or perhaps the Loch Ness monster, (if you so choose) check the appropriate box, pay a nominal tuition fee, and voila, you’re dodging tourists with cameras for the remainder of your days.
It’s that simple.

Here’s what I’m wondering.
How specific can we get when filling out the registration form.
I presume it asks for basics, like gender, race, and all that. But more specifically, does it allow you to choose a particular family, by name? Because I would choose the Windsors.
Yes, I would like to come back as the Queen of England. But not the old Queen, a young Queen like the one Emily Blunt portrayed in Young Elizabeth.
I thought about coming back as one of those Sheik’s with billions of dollars, but I hate the idea of walking around in a sheet and a tablecloth hat all day. Plus the fact that they always look dirty and unshaven, have huge noses, and don’t drink alcohol. Not for me.

Not for me!

The Queen on the other hand would be a cool adventure. Except for one thing.
I might be just a smidge on the slutty side.
I know, that’s probably not cool with the palace staffers and all, but my subjects would never have to know about it. Unless you plant some treasonous fuck in my midst.
But I’d have him beheaded for betraying his sovereign. Right? Isn’t that what the Queen does?

Off with his head! I can totally hear myself now

Anyway, back to my slutting activities.
I think it’s only appropriate that I have my way with all the Dukes, Barons, Princes, and to a lesser degree, a Viscount or two.
I’d also like to have a Lesbian experience with my Ladies in Waiting, but only if they’re very pretty and fit. And not a fully-blown Lesbo girl party, with all the sex stuff.
I was thinking more along the lines of getting naked and dancing around to some oldies. Maybe Madonna.
But as far as your sovereign cooch-diving, well that’s definitely out!

I’d also like a pet Jaguar, presented to me by some Amazon jungle fuck named Sibobwoo. I would name the Jaguar Lenny, and poke at him with my royal sword.
Over time, I’d send Sibobwoo pictures of his former pet, but I’d have my royal photo-shop guy cover up all the sword wounds so that Lenny looks pretty normal.
Lenny and I would eventually become friends due to my feeding him my ugly sister’s (Princess Bethelsda) favorite Yorkie. I hate Yorkie’s.

H-e-r-e L-e-n-n-y It's lunch t-i-m-e!

As for Sibobwoo, I’d wait till he grew up, (if he doesn’t get eaten by some Amazon monster first) and have my way with him too.
It would be like The Lion King in the sense that I would be completing the circle of life through Sibobwoo somehow.
Although I’m not exactly sure how.

Don’t those Amazon dudes pierce their schlongs with sharp sticks in some kind of ritual coming-of-age ceremony?
Maybe I won’t do Sibobwoo after all.
I don’t need sharp sticks breaking off in my royal cha-cha.
That would be hard to explain to my royal obstetrician.

Bewildered,

Diego

 

 

Security guards

God-

Do you have security guards? Are they like white secret service guys or are they those big fat G’s from the hood?
Personally, I’d go with the G’s and here’s why.
Secret service dudes are often jumpy, like they’re always on high-alert or something. One minute, I’d be walking toward you trying to get your autograph, and the next, one of them would be whispering into his little collar microphone;

“We’ve got a stalker, I repeat, we HAVE a stalker, BLUE TEAM MOVE, NOW, NOW, NOW! THE CHICKEN IS IN THE POT, COOK IT!”

I don’t know what any of that secret service chirp means, but I think it’s code for; “Lets blow this fucker into lint, NOW!”
Like I said, way too jumpy. All I wanted was your autograph and now I’m laying in a pool of blood, all shot up. Shit.

These guys look jumpy

This is where having G’s would be different.
First, they’d be buzzed most of the time, so nobody’s gonna do any shooting. Not right away.
And there wouldn’t be any of those little collar microphones or anyone telling some blue team to cook my shit up like a chicken.
G’s don’t need a team.
They’re big and fat and wear overcoats that conceal enough ordinates to level Milwaukee.
And being fat, they usually have nicknames like Tooty or Bubba. And that means they’re at least approachable because every Tooty I’ve ever known has always been friendly.
Until you piss him off. Then you’re a goner for sure.

Tooty will mess your shit up!

There’s always another option. Ninjas.
Those wiry little kung-foo bastards seem to just pop out of nowhere and start wailing on your shit for no reason. And not with their hands either.
No, they use all kinds of cool weapons, like swords, and numchucks. They even have those little metal blades to throw at you, which if they hit you will slice off your head, or maybe an arm.

Ninjas might be your best option (for me anyway) since they don’t use guns.
I can run from a sword. Bullets are a different story. And those spinning slicey things? I don’t even want to think about them.
Yeah, the more I think about it, if I was you I’d probably go with Ninjas.
Unless of course you have something against Chinese dudes, which seems likely since most of them worship a little fat dude named Buddha, and not you.

I'd worship a cow before I'd worship this guy!

Or maybe you don’t use bodyguards at all. Maybe you just have a bunch of little cherubs swarming around you.
That would be pretty annoying I would think. I’d want to swat at them every now and again.

 

Love securely,

Diego

Black or white?

God-

I have this friend who asked me to ask you a question. I told him I would, since I have a dialogue with you and all, but prior to doing so—due to the touchy nature of his question, I’m afraid I’ll need your word you’re not going to get all pissy and start throwing lightning bolts, or give me some kind of horrible sphincter disorder.
Deal?
Ok. Here it is.
Was Jesus, racially speaking, white or black? My friend says he was black.
I think mainly because my friend is black. He’s also an asshole but that’s another matter.

I remind him how you’re white, and Mary was caucasian as well, and that combination means one thing—Jesus can only be white.
This is where it gets dicey.
He says the whole family was black. Mary, Joseph and little baby Jesus. Can you believe it?
Can there be anyone more ignorant on the planet than this a-hole?

I tell him he needs to read the bible a little more often because if he did, he just might notice all the clues that Jesus was anything but black.
Like his name for starters, Jesus.
The name Jesus isn’t a black name. J-Dog is a black name.
If anything, Jesus is a Puerto Rican or Mexican name, but certainly not black.

Then there’s Jesus’s relationship status.
Jesus was single, leading a life of celibacy.
No self-respecting black man would ever lead a life of celibacy, not with their Godzilla-like dicks, are you kidding? (Why I saw this guy in the locker room once whose johnson was so big, I’m guessing he had to kick it to get it started, like it was a motorcycle or something).

And while it is true, Jesus didn’t have a job, was poor as a church mouse, and homeless, those aren’t necessarily clues he was black.
That simply means he was lazy. That’s all.
Besides, if Jesus was black, there would be no such thing as ‘Jesus on Velvet’ paintings.

How much more proof does this guy need?

Black Jesus on Velvet.....yeah, right.

But the biggest clue is how Jesus got his name in the first place.
Very few people know this story, but since my family tree goes back to early Rome, I have it on good information that Jesus got his name as a result of his step-father blowing up at the innkeeper upon being told there was no vacancy. Shaken and visibly upset, Joseph began shouting at the innkeeper; (in a decidedly white man tone) “WHAT’DYA MEAN ALL YOU HAVE IS A FRIGGIN HORSE STALL? J-E-S-U-S C-H-RIST!!!”

And Mary liked the name so much, voila, baby Jesus was born.
I don’t know why I’m telling you this, you already know the story.

So please, could you write back and tell my buddy he’s full of shit. Tell him how you and your entire fam-fam are all white.
Unless for some strange reason you are black.
If you are, please forgive me—Dawg.

Later Brochacho,

Diego

My Non-bucket List

God-

Everywhere I turn on the internet, it seems there’s always someone posting their bucket list. As if it means anything to anyone but them.
Go figure.
Why just yesterday, I overheard some guy at Starbucks tell his friend; “Well I guess I can cross that one off my bucket list.”
I never heard the rest of the conversation, or the context in which he had just determined to flippantly cross one more epic (in his mind), bullshit (in mine) priority off his list, only the part about how his list was now one item shorter.
Which leads me to the conclusion that while the bucket list may have started out as a coping mechanism for someone facing end-of-life issues, today, it’s anything but.

The bucket list, for all intents and purposes is now little more than a cliché, and in effect, a modern day to-do list.
Which is why I will never publish a bucket list.
I will however publish a non-bucket list. Primarily because a bucket list only serves one’s persons individual goals, whereas the non-bucket list can serve all of mankind—mainly through inspiring them not to undertake various actions almost certain to land them in an “OH SHIT!!” cathartic moment.
So, in an effort to serve my fellow man (aka the dumbass risktaker) I present the following:

1. Don’t sit in a 20 below freezer for 10 minutes with no clothes on to win a bet. Even if the wager is a mere ziploc full of supposed Panama Red.
2. Do not eat locusts at a summer high school party to impress Cynthia Magnuson. Just because John the baptist lived on them, doesn’t mean you can. (I think they were a tastier breed back in the day).
3. Never give a thorobred race horse a bath in your friends swimming pool after ingesting LSD. Things will go wrong fast.
4. Don’t play strip poker at a high school party  about to get broken up by the police. Especially if you’ve never played poker before.
5. Don’t play Texas rules when golfing at an NBA charity golf outing.
6. Never wear white shorts to a strip club. Especially if the stripper has just poured Hershey’s syrup all over her bum and your ‘friends’ buy you a lap dance.
7. Don’t pretend to be a Catholic priest (despite your alter-boy training) and conduct an entire mass (in latin) on a Mexican Beach just because you’re broke, haven’t eaten in two days, have no gas money to get home, and several Mexican women carrying pots of tamales come wandering by.
8. Don’t ever tell the host at the London Eye that your group of 5 male friends will require a gondola (designed for 40) all to themselves, just because one person in your group has Tourette’s syndrome. If you do, make certain your newly saddled Tourette’s guy can muster up some real expletives and not simply,  ”nice tits!“
9. Don’t try to outdrink a House of Lords member on the train from London to Edinburgh. You won’t win.
10. Never demonstrate “The Helicopter” in a crowded room full of your wife’s drunken friends. This can be disastrous.
11. Don’t ever record a telephone sex conversation and use the tape recording to replace the work schedule phone recording at your office. If you do, be silent and let her do all the talking.
12. Don’t run under sprinklers on a Mexican golf course if their water system is connected directly to their sewer system.
13. Don’t run your jeep into:

• a tree
• a kid
• another jeep
• the Pacific ocean
• off a small cliff
• a fireworks display

Oh yeah, and don’t put a Dodge Viper Engine in your Jeep. This may help with number 13.

Non Bucket list winner

God, I’ll be adding to my Non Bucket list from time to time seeing how I seem to have a knack for misadventure, but then you should know that.

You made me.

Love,

Diego