To a fellow ‘Yelper’….

About a year ago, I began writing restaurant reviews on the popular website, Yelp.
Yelp is a site that allows everyday folks to become food critics by merely writing a critique of their experience at a particular establishment, this despite their ability to write, make a salient point, or invoke terms other than those routinely used by eight grade girls.

Realizing how everyone’s tastes are different and how that subjectivity has become the hallmark of a site such as Yelp, I enjoy reading some of my fellow Yelper’s reviews, notwithstanding the large number of reviews that appear to have been written by individuals possessing the writing skills of a fifth grader.
I accept that however, reasoning how it simply goes with the territory.
Which explains why I’ve never openly criticized anyone’s review.
I’ll accept you for what you are, if you show me the same respect.
No need for trouble, right?

Well that all changed Sunday last when another Yelper sent me a message, criticizing me for my reviews…

Diego-your reviews have a lot of personality, but they say nothing about how yummy the food was, or if the service was awesome, and whether or not you loved  or hated the place. Perhaps Yelp is not the site for you. Perhaps you should try blogging instead. Your reviews are best suited for a blogging website.

I can take criticism.
Constructive criticism that is, however, this was anything but. This was an assault.

This felt like the person on the other end of the email, the self-appointed minister of what shall or shall not be Yelped, had just admonished me for no apparent reason other than my conspicuous absence of using text he was most comfortable with.
I immediately dismissed his comment as bullshit, hit the delete button, and went on about my Sunday. For a while anyway.
Then I got pissed.
Who the fuck is this guy, telling me to I should self-exile from Yelp?
Not to get all redneck on this asshole, but the last time I checked this was America, where freedom of speech is one of our guaranteed rights.
Well fuck this guy..dry, I thought while crafting a response.

Dear Joshua H,

Thank you for your most insightful comment about my reviews. How perceptive of you to notice they’re not quick and to the point—providing you the immediate thumb positioning you’re seeking. I realize they could be much more interesting if I was to be more succinct, getting to my point more quickly, allowing you to race onward to the next review, but that’s not how I do things.

Maybe it’s because I’m older and unlike you, have learned through the years how it’s better to take ones time when writing, slowly creating theatre in a person’s mind with wordplay, rather than slap a few modifiers together and call it a review. The former serving as an eroticism of sorts—a slow undressing before getting to the final act. 
I do this for several reasons.

First,  I like to let my reader do some of the ‘lifting’, enabling them to make their own evaluation without spoon-feeding them with my subjectivity.

Second, I believe if one is going to take the time to critique a place where some mom and pop are trying to eek out a living, they deserve a fair shot. Some respect either way, good or bad. This in lieu of trying to capture ones experience in only a few short lines, or worse, a less than clever list of clichés.

Perhaps this is why I choose to not ‘blow my load’ in a couple of short sentences, invoking terms you’re so fond of, such as  yummmmmy, soooo love this place, amazing, awesome, unbelievable, Oh my god!, and the ever popular, WOW.
I hope you can grasp this concept, but somehow, I don’t think you will.

Perhaps you should simply block my reviews in the future, opting only for those which provide the depth and range you’re seeking on Yelp.
That would be so awesome and really, really amazing if you would do that.
I would soooo love it if you did.

Diego S.

Just one guy’s fantasy

Sometimes, when I fantasize about my life…I pretend I’m this guy,

 

Your daily horoscope…unabashed

A good friend of mine suggested I consider getting into astrology, given my penchant for zodialogical forecasts and my love of writing uncensored bullshit.
I think he may be right, but there’s always been something that’s bothered me about horoscopes, namely, how they’re too watered-down to actually help the masses who resort to them daily—you know, those individuals who are continually seeking some small glimmer of hope for their otherwise mundane existence.
At least that’s my opinion.

Writing horoscopes is something I think I could be good at, however, I wouldn’t feel compelled to sugar coat someone’s daily search for inspiration in favor of not being honest or worse, giving them hope when indeed there is none.
No, my brand of horoscope would be forthright and succinct, to the point, unflowery in every sense of the word. I’d do this in hopes that people will take heart—be more objective about themselves—finally unlocking their hidden potential….or not.

In short, as a zodiac prophet,  it would be my goal to inspire the masses through a daily hard-hitting brand of horoscope, a feat few have dared to attempt, that is until now.

And with that, I present my first blush at penning horoscopes.
It’s my fervent hope they inspire you to do something good today.

All the best,

Diego

YOUR DAILY HOROSCOPE

LIBRE

Focusing energy on your career could prove useless until you finally decide to take control. Today is your day. Grow a pair. Tell that evil co-worker you know she’s been ratting you out to HR and that you’re not going to stand for it. A sharpened #2 pencil-shank in the knee should do the trick. Smile and say something witty while shanking her, being uber careful to make it look like an accident, otherwise you could be perceived as ill-mannered—arousing contempt in your co-workers. You’re on the road to change!

SCORPIO

Listen to others who may be trying to convey important information, especially your mistress and drug dealer. Hand over the reigns, trust them as they know what’s best for you, always there to see you through difficult times. You typically don’t work well with others, but alcohol helps in this endeavor. Make it a special day today. Put down the vodka and try something new, like a few Jack and cokes at the pub this afternoon. Their calming effect will help steady you when afterward, on the drive home, you resist the urge to drive head-on into the nearest utility pole.
Stay away from the superfecta in todays 7th race.

AQUARIUS

Theres a general feeling of love in the air today. Take time when getting dressed this morning. Fashion is everything to you. Make sure to wear tight-fitting clothing today, an outfit that will telegraph your thong. Dressing smart is your style. Leave nothing to the imagination if you want to experience love’s total surrender. A mysterious stranger will come your way. Trust your instincts, sleeping with him on the first date can be love’s greatest reward—if you don’t count chlamydia.

CAPRICORN

Today is a good day for some quiet reflection, perhaps at a cheap motel under an assumed name. A bottle of tequila, some qualludes and a loaded handgun could prove useful in this scenario. Don’t forget to double up on your ExtenZ before the she-male hooker arrives or you could be in for a session of wanton laughter in lieu of wanton lust. Trust your inner being. Using the handgun will almost certainly stop those nagging ‘voices’.
Your lucky number today is zero.

I plan on sending these in to the editor of my local newspaper.
Wish me luck.

The fisherman?

God-

You know how some people refer to Jesus as “The Fisherman”?
Well how come there aren’t any pictures of him with a fishing rod, tackle box, boat, friends, or more importantly, holding up a prized whopper?

The only pictures I ever see of Jesus are either head shots (hanging in my Aunt’s house) or worse yet, being crucified.
But never once have I ever seen a picture of Jesus next to a 400 pound blue marlin, or with a buddy holding a stringer of fish.
You know, now that I think about it, I’ve never seen a picture of Jesus out in a boat either. Why not?
It’s not like they didn’t have boats back in the day.

Or did Jesus not need a boat since he could walk on water?
And that makes we wonder why he’d go fishing by himself?
Every fisherman knows not to go it alone, especially if you catch something and it flips off the line before you land it in the boat.
Hell, “the one that got away” is part of the whole post-fishing experience, which is precisely why you need your buddy there in the first place… to corroborate your lies story about how big it was!

But I suppose if you are Jesus, and you can walk on water, walking on water is a pretty cool way to go fishing….and a whole lot less expensive!
No boat, trailer, licenses, flat tires on the drive to the lake, engine problems, or forgetting to install the drain plug prior to launching.

Although, on the other hand, without a boat, Jesus wouldn’t have a place to hide his ice-chest and beers either. That’s not cool.

You know, I’m beginning to wonder if the real reason we don’t see any images of Jesus in a boat is because he got pulled over by Game and Fish one too many times—busted for boozing it up with his friends, had his boat confiscated, fishing license revoked, and was left on the shore to fish all by himself, sans rod and reel.
What a bummer.
I can see why he resorted to walking on water in order to go fishing.

That still doesn’t explain why Michelangelo didn’t leave us with any frescoes of Jesus holding up a 400 lb blue marlin on the Sistine chapel.

Don’t get me wrong God.
I, like Jesus, love to go fishing.
But I’ve learned over the years never to go without a close friend , a digital camera, a laptop, and some photo-shop software.

Diego

Why men seem to smell…a complaint

God-

As you know, I’ve always been fairly critical of the way you designed the male body, insofar as the non-working male tits, and how we have to go through life with exposed dangling balls, which, in my estimation could have just as easily been placed inside our bodies someplace.
I’ve also filed numerous complaints with you about our hairy backsides, earwax, and toxic foot odors, all of which you’ve seemed to ignore.

Today I have a new complaint I think you might want to look into.

I really don’t like the way you designed our digestive systems, more specifically, the manner in which we crap.
In fact, I don’t care for the entire messy proposition of taking a dump!

Why couldn’t you have designed us so that we poop like a little baby deer or some other kind of animal, with those precious little green pellets that don’t stink?
That would be pretty cool.
Only I don’t know about green. You might want to consider a more popular color—like maybe sky blue or gold for guys, and say, pink for women.
I like this idea on many levels.

First, deer shit doesn’t smell and that’s pretty cool.
And with the new bright colors, it would actually be fun to gawk at, instead of always being repulsed, the way we are now.
And just think, there would be no more embarrassing moments after that big family get-together where the host makes us all use the downstairs bathroom.
No more need for toilet paper either. The last time I checked, I don’t recall seeing deer wipe their butts.

And lastly, have you ever seen the way a deer shits?
Standing up, right?
This means we could shit just about anywhere, just like how men pee all over everything now.¹

I like this idea God and think you should really give it some consideration the next time you design a species such as us humans.

Just a thought

Yours,

Diego

¹ This includes the backyard, subway, park, club parking lot, neighbors hedges, and the bathroom toilet—seat, rim, and floor.

The top 10 reasons to clone me

God-

Do you have any rules on cloning?
The reason I ask is because I was thinking how great it would be if they cloned me, only with a pair of working tits. Oh, and maybe a cha-cha too, everything else stays the same.
Well, that is, except for my face, which if at all possible should resemble that chick from the cover of Sports Illustrated, everything else stays the same.

It makes a lot of sense if you think about it, in fact, I can’t think of any reason not to order up a clone of me, unless of course it breaks some kind of weird commandment or big bible rule I’m unaware of.
Anyways, I thought having another one of me around could be useful, and here’s a list of reasons why.

My top 10 reasons to clone me

1. I’ve always liked me, sort of, now I could actually love me
2. A threesome with me, myself,  and boo is now a distinct possibility
3. I’d always have someone to blame shit on whenever I screw up around the casa
4. My clone could smack the bejesus outa that asshole neighbor kid who screams incessantly for no apparent reason
   

   This could be me...or not

5. She would be my full-time designated driver, I’d teach her how to outrun the police too
6. She could learn simple phrases like; “ON YOUR KNEES MOTHERUCKER, I’VE GOT A GUN“, making routine trips to the bank much more rewarding
7. She could skate on her credit cards bills, write hot checks, and shoplift cool stuff for me
8. She could escort me into all the hot clubs I normally wouldn’t get into otherwise
9. If we get low on cash, I could pimp out her out a couple nights a week.
10. If anyone tells me to go fuck myself, I’d summon her to the event, making them eat their words. Ewww, I think. Not sure.

Does any of this makes sense, or should I just send away for one of those Russian mail-order brides.

Love, times two

Diego

Tainted

Reblogged from E-mails to God:

God-

So I've been going over my options for reincarnation lately and I've got some really tough questions.
I don't want to repeat as a man, and a woman is definitely out since I've never really gotten used to the idea of peeing sitting down.
Tell me more about this whole hermaphrodite thing.

The way I understand it, I'd be born with both a johnson…

Read more… 244 more words

Why some men like to poke the bear

We all do it.
We playfully taunt the women in our lives until one of two things happens.
She either gets pissed off, touching off some kind of major argument.
Or we go too far, saying or doing something to hurt her feelings.
Then we feel bad.
So why did we poke the bear in the first place?

I have a theory.

As kids, we were taught the importance of boundaries. Whether not leaving the safety of our front yard to walk out in the street, or coloring within the lines. The lesson was always the same.
Inside the lines, good.
Outside, not good.

In affect, boundaries become a metaphor for daily living.
Staying within the lines on the roadway.
Never crossing the pc line at work.
And not to ‘cut’ in front of another when standing in a line.

Lines are everything to us.
Property lines.
Borders of countries.
Picket lines.

And they all have one thing in common. They’re clearly defined—static, they seldom if ever move.
But there’s one line that does move.
Dynamic by its very nature. changing day by day, sometimes hourly.

A woman’s mood.
You never know where it’s going to be, never staying in the same place for very long.
When you woke up this morning, you were hoping it would be in the same place you left it last night. It’s not.
It swerves around, a lot.
One minute pleasant, the next, well, let’s just say not so pleasant.
This is where I make the connection with boundaries.
At least on a roadway, bowling alley, or neighboring property, I know where the lines are and am careful not to cross them.

But a woman’s ‘lines’, depicting what mood she may be in at any given moment is always changing, and that means one thing.
We need to test the waters to find out where the hell they happen to be on any given day.
And this requires that a man to use a variety of tactical skills to determine just that.

Some women refer to this as poking the bear, but really it isn’t that at all.

I think of it as a highly orchestrated series of verbal jabs, anecdotes, interrogatories, jokes (practical or otherwise), physical moves, or quasi-insults, all designed with the specific intention of letting us know where the mood happens to be that day.
This, in order we don’t cross it.
Knowing where your mood is keeps us safe.
Within bounds.
Careful to not cross the line by saying or doing something we KNOW will piss you off.
Only there’s one thing wrong with this methodology.

Unfortunately, by the time we figure out where your mood is, it’s too late.

A new way to say hello

God-

Why is it dogs sniff each others butts when they meet—was that by design?
If it was, I’m curious why you only gave that instinct to dogs and not us humans.

Do you know how cool it would be to be able to go up to a complete stranger and start huffing her backside—freed from any social conventions—have her whip around, give you a sniff, and instantly throw down, right there in someone’s front yard?
I think it’d be cool, only I’d hate to have some angry homeowner come running outside spraying us with a garden hose before we’ve finished up. Not cool.

But I have to ask. What exactly would we be sniffing around for? What are dogs sniffing around for?
I hope it’s not poop.
I don’t like that smell. I can hardly stand it when I go to the bathroom, the thought of smelling someone else’s growler sickens me.

Or are we testing for ripeness?
Like you would an apple or something? I seriously doubt that would work. I’ve never smelled a backside that came even remotely close to fresh fruit. Not that I go around smelling women’s backsides, I don’t.
Not because I don’t want to, mainly because I think it’s illegal. I’m not sure.

I do see at least one small problem with the butt-sniffing concept.
Let say the HR Manager was going around the office one day introducing the newbie to everyone—a recent grad student fresh out of Wellesley.
She’s adorable.
Her countenance, poise, grace, everything you’d expect from a Wellesley grad.
And just when they ’round the corner into the production facility, all the dudes catch wind of her.
Oh fuck.
This is going to be bad, I just know it.

Mmmm...I think I know you from somewhere

All that ass-kissing won’t get you anywhere, take it from me.

Sometimes my friends ask me what I miss the most about my former life as a CEO after losing everything.

Authors note:

In light of recent protests, It may please some to know I was a one-percenter who three years ago, in the midst of the Wall St. debacle was catapulted back into the ranks of the ninety-nine percenter’s. You would be wrong in your assessment of  me however. Things have a way of working out, I think it’s called evolution. Survival of the fittest. The point is I’m not fit to run a company anymore. I never was. I was simply following the prescription for success the American capitalist system taught me, notwithstanding my contempt for it. At heart, I’ve always been a ninety niner, which is where I remain today and quite satisfied with it.

I suppose I could say I miss the company ride, a twelve passenger plane I had at my disposal.
Or the salary. That was nice.
I do miss the ass-kissing—the shameless attempts by my subordinates, continually ratting each other out in a selfish quest to to climb the company ladder.

Then there was my admin, who did everything for me, including picking up the kids, laundry and gifts. Covering for me when I didn’t want to speak with someone or attend an event.
And the charities. I miss the charities too. Being the big cheese, getting all the notoriety as we donated countless monies.

And my disposal to the best legal minds and CPA firms is sorely missed. The group I counted on for important decisions. Objective decisions.

I can’t forget the free lunches, dinners, drinks and front row seating at major sporting events, often meeting sport’s biggest stars.

I liked how the world was at my disposal, how everything was for sale at the right price, and how my company had few limitations on my spending as my admin made all things possible.

But the thing I miss the most?
Sitting in a boring-as-hell meeting, and just as the speaker takes the floor, aiming my laser pointer at his or her head for a split second…enough time for everyone to see the little red dot on their forehead, then quickly sneak it back into my coat pocket so no-one could detect its origin.
I loved watching everyone’s reaction.

You can have all the other stuff.
The people at that level, in all their fucked-up glory are definitely what I miss the most.
Probably by contrast as I sit here writing posts on WordPress, with nothing else to do but lament.
Not over my losses. Are you kidding?
Over how I should have ignored everyone and pursued my dream as a writer, which is now long past its prime.

How to insult your co-worker

When I was a teenager, I worked on a construction crew one summer where one of the crew members was a school teacher. Always the irreverant a-hole, I challenged him to a daily vocabulary contest whereby each of us would attempt to stump the other with an obscure word or phrase.

The deal was for the other person to acknowledge the word by properly using it in a sentence.
After a few weeks of my using words to describe what an asshole he was, and his doing the same, we both walked away with an improved vocabulary, particularly as it relates to name-calling.

And so todays post is in honor of my school teacher friend, Lee Smith.
Who in the short time I got to know him taught me much more than he ever learned from me.
Here’s to you Lee wherever you are.
You scourilous knave. (my only win in three months of daily abuse)

More tips on how to meet women

I’ve learned over the years how most women have a sixth sense when it comes to the desperate guy, being able to detect when a dude is in heat from practically across the room.
Some researchers say this is due to our emitting certain pheromones, signaling women’s olfactory senses of our need to get our freak on.
Wrong.
I say women can detect desperation a mile away.
Like from the moment you walked into the room and began unashamedly scouring the place for strays—that one girl who’s left the safety of the herd, whose defenses are down and could easily fall prey to your schtick. (not a pun)

What you need is a gimmick. Here’s what I suggest.

You know that Vietnamese family that lives down the block? Well they can be good for so much more than making annoying dogs suddenly disappear.
Talk the parents into letting their eldest son join you for a night of clubbing, promising to show him a classic american tradition of partying until you’re kissing your socks drunk.

When you get to the club, don’t look desperate. Pretend you’re joking around with Wong or whatever his name is. Give him a few verbal jabs about some of the neighbor’s pets whose pictures are on the neighborhood lamp posts. The trick is to get him laughing, and you as well. Chicks like this. It shows you’re there to have fun and not to mac on their mysterious prize.

It also shows you’re disinterested, and they can’t figure out why. Since they’ve put on copious amounts of make-up, straightened their hair, have the perfect dress, everything. So what’s so funny over there that you can’t notice them?
Well just like Pandora, curiosity will get the better of them and before too long, they’ll wander in your direction. This is when you can solidly cajole them into your web of deceit by using the Asian kid as a decoy.

When they’re within earshot, say something like;

“I just loved that scene from ‘The Goonies’ where you opened your trench coat and the punching thingy sprang out.” 

Guaranteed, they’ll drop all poise and grace and come running over to meet you and the now grown-up Data!
Introduce him as Data, signaling him to get lost after the encounter.

You’ll tell her he’s shy. Going through a traumatic time, transitioning from former child star to busboy.
The evening is yours.

And here’s another tip.
You’re not limited to using the kid in only the Data role.
There’s ‘The Donger’ from Sixteen Candles.
And that Asian kid from Indiana Jones movies, the one who is incessantly barking “Docta Jones, Docta Jones!

Try it.
It really works.

If only…dreams of having a detachable penis

With my Ipod on shuffle, I heard a song yesterday I hadn’t heard in years. Detachable Penis by King Missile.
It’s on the same playlist as ‘My United States of Whatever’ and a bunch of other goofy songs I rarely listen to anymore, so it was a nice surprise to hear it once again.
Only it got me thinking.

How cool would it be to have a detachable penis?

I’ve long held how I could have made one damned fine lesbian had it not been for my tool. Or these calloused hands for that matter.
Such a pleasant thought.
To be dickless every now and again, whenever the mood strikes.

To have nothing but a nice empty parking lot with nothing erected on it?
Well that’s my dream.

To unhinge the damned thing, place it in the fireproof safe and head off to greet the day free of all the pinching, adjusting, (in public) getting squeezed, sat on, and envied. (Brent in IT)

Except on Fridays.
I need my dick on Fridays.
But I’m not sure things would go as planned…they never do.

Friday morning as I leave for work….

[Wife standing in doorway, one hand on hip, the other, palm outstretched, motioning, as if she wants money or something]

“Ahem.”

“What?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

I check for my wallet, keys, and watch…all good.

“I don’t think so.”

“Alright Mister, hand it over.”

“Hand what over?”

“You know damned well…now hand it over!”

“Oh…sorry, I forgot.”

“Forgot, my ass…now lets have it.”

I unzip my pants, detach my penis and hand it over.

Safe at home with the rest of our personal belongings, I know she’ll take good care of it, handing it back over when I get home from work Friday— at at reasonable hour—like say right after work when I come straight home, not stopping at the watering hole with my co-workers like every other Friday night.

I love how she always has my back.
Always thinking about what’s best for our marriage.

How to get free beer

So I’m at Turf Paradise last Saturday, our local horse racing venue, when standing in line at the beer garden I noticed the t-shirt the guy behind me is wearing. It read ‘Death Angel’.
The following conversation took place;

“Like the shirt dude.”

“Dude…really? How do you know about Death Angel…you’re like, [stammer] I mean, I’d never expect anyone your age to like Death Angel.”

“Why is that?”

“I dunno, it just seems odd…you’re old enough to be my father.”

I’m not sensitive about my age, since my maturation still continues to hover around the nineteen year-old  mark. What I am sensitive about is when I’ve just ingratiated myself to someone I don’t know to make small talk, and they insult me.
This is where I felt some kind of Morgan Freeman type lecture was in order.

“Perhaps I should explain something.  When a person loves music, more specifically, a particular genre of music, like say thrash metal, just because they age, doesn’t mean they stop liking it. Do you like burgers?”

“Yeah.”

Do you think you’ll like them when you get older?”

“I hope so.”

Well music is the same thing. It really doesn’t matter how old you are, you don’t stop liking something just because you get older.

“Wow dude, I totally get it.”

The truth is, I hate thrash metal. The only reason I knew anything about Death Angel was from it popping up on my Pandora station list, which I’m guessing my kid put there.

[bartender]  ”That’ll be three-fifty.”

[death angel guy]   “Dude…I’ve totally got this. Rock on.”

Rock on? Seriously? What, is he an extra from Wayne’s World?

[me] “Thanks dude….rock on.”

I guess it was worth it.
I got a free beer and he got a lecture on aging lying with dignity.

Why strippers are bad for your marriage

 

Some people say ones true self emerges when they’re drinking—when inhibitions are comfortably numbed.
I disagree and here’s why.

Let’s say you have no inhibitions. That in some mystical way, they’ve vacated your being, like Elvis did with buildings.
That means there’s nothing to hide from and you can pretty much be your true self at all times, drunk or sober.
Which in turn means that when you do drink, now, you’ll actually become a more enhanced version of yourself.

For example, if you’re an asshole sober, you’ll be a much more vibrant asshole when drunk.
If you’re a contrarian sober, you’ll probably become a WWF fighter when shitfaced.
And if you’re prone to telling little white lies sober, you’ll soar to new heights, telling lies of every color imaginable when plowed.
Some caption this as revealing.
I call it success.
An alcoholic spiritualism of sorts, very much like Chopra’s Seven Spiritual Laws of Success, only I like to call this my first law of  alcoholic success.
To never hide from ones true self—to let the booze enhance who you really are.
And just like Chopra, I’ve assembled a  to-do list, which when practiced daily, will help you become the new-age, alcoholic spiritualist you really are.

In the morning…

Begin by telling yourself this is a new day, a gift from God. Then offer a toast to Jesus and the day with a healthy shot of Kahlua in your coffee. When your wife comes downstairs, practice lying, tell her how great she looks, then hold your breath and give her a big kiss. 
These are your gateway lies, low-grade lies designed to springboard you into deeper lie-waters later on in the assignment. Practice these daily.

At work…

Don’t hesitate for a minute to steal a co-workers lunch from the fridge, take it with you to the men’s room and gobble it up, washing it down with a Smirnoff Ice. When you have that warm comfortable feeling in your belly, it’s time to practice some more lies. Begin with your co-workers, explaining how your lunch is missing from the fridge, and how some dastardly fuck is stealing lunches. This should be done daily.

Midday…

Time to salute the Emporer once again. Break out that flask and make a toast before marching into the boss’s office and telling him how that new diet is really working for him, then, when his guard is down, tell him you know about him and Margaret from accounting, and how a raise is in order if he’d like to remain married.
These are what I like to call your mandatory distruths and very necessary for ones spiritual awareness. Practice daily.

On the drive home…

The drive home from work can be tricky, especially when your personality is somewhat enhanced. This is where aggressive driving is unwarranted, no matter how much you’d like to cut someone off and flip them the bird.  Don’t do it.
Instead, stop at the strip club and have a few beers. Enjoy the entertainment and prepare for a nice relaxing drive home, sans the traffic pile-up.
Not exactly lies, or even an enhanced lie,  but they do contribute to your well being from the bigger lies you’ll need when you get home.

At home…

This is where the gateway lies, distruths, drinking, and lap dances all begin their confluence into your metamorphosis, transforming you into an alcoholicly enhanced super-being. You’re ready for anything now that you’ve achieved my first law of alchohic spiritualism.

“Where have you been…it’s eleven o’clock, you smell like booze and cheap perfume?”

“Nuh-uh…really?”

Then quickly black-out.
This makes everything go away, including your wife.

Margaret...from accounting

How to make grocery shopping fun again

I don’t get women, or more specifically, their sense of humor.
It seems what I think is funny, they don’t.
You’d think that my wife would, after all these years, give me at least a half-assed smile when we’re in the grocery store and I pick up a giant stick of pepperoni, summer sausage or any other phallic shaped object, hold it up to my crotch (pointing skyward of course) and wink at her.
But no. Not even a smile as she quickly pours over the room to see if anyone’s looking, followed by quick quip, typically barbed. Something on the order of;

“Why would you think that’s funny? It’s never been funny after all these years and it’s not funny this time either. So why then do you continue to do it?”

A perplexing question.
One requiring some thought.

First, I think it’s funny, which is why I continue to reprise my faux-boner performance…in hopes that at least once before I die, I’ll catch her in the right mood and she’ll finally see the humor in it—laughing hysterically—unable to finish her shopping.
But that’ll never happen. So I begin backpedaling, and damned quickly because I know what’s coming next.

“I’m just playing around…don’t get all pissy.”

“I’m not being pissy, I just don’t see the humor in you always looking for the largest object you can find, and pretending it’s your dick.” What’s funny about that?”

Well, plenty if you must know. Your reaction for starters.
I’ve held up every phallic-shaped object imaginable from a baby gherkin to my little niece’s oboe and the response is always the same.
You’d think the gherkin sighting would have at least drawn something witty, a response such as; bring it, big boy, I’ve always wanted something little and green, with love bumps all over it….mmmm.
Conversely, that’s kept me on my quest to find the one object that she will think is funny, size notwithstanding.

So I branched out.
From my grocer’s deli section, to the produce, baked goods, even detergent aisle. Still nothing, as parsnips, eggplants, baguettes and Swiffer’s produced the same old response.
Until last week when I tried something new.

The meat department in our local grocery store often has a chafing dish full of free samples—meat samples, and on this day, the sign read ‘try our bratwurst’.
Perfect, I thought as I spun around, fashioning, actually, more like wedging a small two-inch steaming brat between my zipper and jeans.
She immediately began to laugh.
This was it.
This was the response I’d been seeking all these years.
The only problem was, she wasn’t laughing at the sight of the sausage.

She began laughing hysterically when the sausage, which I thought was firmly wedged in my jeans, fell backward into my boxer shorts, burning the shit out of my business, causing me to flail about wildly in front of her, and now other meat department patrons who’d snuck-up on me in the process.

Not wanting to unzip my fly in public and whip out a small steaming bratwurst, or attempt to explain what on earth it was doing there in the first place, I stood there, silent, writhing in pain until the coast was clear and I was able to rid myself of the hot little fucker.

So that’s the answer.
Umpteen years of marriage, and the old faux-woody bit finally gets the response it deserves.

Too bad my shit had to get toasted in the process, but what the fuck, it was finally worth seeing her laugh, and knowing deep down it is slightly funny.

C'mon...this is funny, isn't it?

My holy sacrifice

God-

In the bible, it says how people used to go around sacrificing shit in your honor, like all those little petting zoo animals—lambs and goats and such.
But in all the bible study I had to go through as a kid, I don’t recall ever seeing where anyone sacrificed a longhorn steer in your honor, or for that matter a chicken or pig.
Why is that?

The chicken I get, since they eat their own shit. That’s totally unholy, eating ones shit and all.
And pigs are filthy motherfuckers. Smart, but filthy nonetheless.
But cows? I see no reason why Abraham or Isaac couldn’t have just as easily sacrificed a little baby cow for you and braised up some nice veal chops.
Maybe a nice garden salad with blue cheese on the side, a baker, and a hearty glass of red vino.
Now that wreaks of holiness.

Or did they not cook whatever it was they were sacrificing? That seems like more of a sin, at least to me anyway.
I know if I lived back in the day, and wanted to get some sins off my chest, I’d probably sacrifice something in your honor I didn’t have to eat.
Like maybe that rooster down the block that wakes me up every morning three fucking hours before work.
Or the pigeons, which I routinely sacrifice anyway, but will probably never get any holy credits for doing so.
But just so you know, don’t expect me to sacrifice a dog or cat in your honor. I like dogs and cats.
Unless it’s that worthless fucker that shits on my lawn every day whose owner won’t clean it up.
I’d probably sacrifice him in a heartbeat.

Here’s an idea.
What if I were to trade my neighbor, Jason, some of my wife’s spaghetti and meatballs for one of his kid’s pet rattlesnakes?
They’re pretty much worthless, right?
I could mumble a bunch of holy stuff, then whack him with a long handled shovel. He’d make a nice sacrifice don’t you think?
And in the snake’s remembrance, how he sacrificed his life for my bartering a loge seat in Heaven, I’d tan his skin and use it for a band on my cowboy hat.
That sounds reasonable don’t you think?

Sooo.. what’s say we bring back the whole sacrifice thing?
I’d like to get started right away on this javelina who visits once a week, tipping over my garbage can and making a huge mess I have to clean-up before heading off to work.
I could even throw him out in the same can he’s been tipping over all these months after shooting him, bringing a kind-of holy symmetry to the event in a weird way.
Or maybe it’s not that weird after all.
You decide.

Thanks for listening.

Ever your holy euthanizer,

Diego

And on the seventh day, he went to Costco

God-

You know how you created the world in only six days and rested on the seventh?
That was a pretty big project, was it not?
I presume you started in on a Monday morning, finishing up late Saturday night, right?
So on Sunday, what did you do when you did rest?
Did you lay around the house all day, eating, taking naps, and drinking beer?
Or did you just sleep all day?

Here’s why I’m asking.
Like you, I work all week too. And on Sunday, I’m tired as a motherfucker, both mentally and physically. Which means all I pretty much want to do is lay around and veg all day.
But my wife has other plans.
She wants me to go shopping with her, usually to Costco, where they sell everything by the dozen and load it all on big push carts, and in boxes no less.
And that spells one thing—work, which wasn’t in my grand plan, but now is.

So how did you get out of going to Costco with your wife on day seven?
Did you just smack her around, like dudes did back in the day? I don’t want to do that.
I don’t hit women, for two reasons.

One, I don’t like hitting people.
And two, if I was to hit a woman, in this case my wife, I’d be a goner in the pussy department if you know what I mean.
Like that’s going to happen.

So I go to Costco, and Home Depot, and all the other shitty little places I need to go in order to keep the peace piece.

I’m such a sellout.

Yours,

Diego

Proper Super Bowl terminology

My friend’s mother used to tell us as kids how cursing was little more than a feeble mind attempting to express itself.
And like having a bad song stuck in my head, so too has her little pearl of wisdom over the years.
One problem.
Cursing has become popular in recent years and when used properly, really does show ones speaking skills…or not.

For example, under her axiom, this might be considered feeble;

“HEY…you can’t park there!”

“Fuck-you… you fucking fuck!“

Personally, I don’t consider any part of this response feeble.
Quite the contrary.
I think it shows plenty of grammatical prowess—using one word in so many applications, eg.;  verb, attributive, and noun—and all in one short phrase.
That’s anything but feeble!

This would be feeble.

“Hey…you can’t park there!”

“Bite-me, fuckwad!

Bite me, fuckwad? How precious.
Fuckwad, at least in my mind shows little or no creativity and is exemplary of a feeble mind at work.  Not even a little inflection can save a term like bite me fuckwad.

My point?
Simply this.

When invoking a curse word, one should always be mindful of its grammatical application and whether it serves the sentence, or more importantly, the thought one’s trying to convey.
For example.

Feeble…

“That fucking Brady…worthless piece ‘o shit, did you see what that fucker just did?”

This sentence would be considered feeble, particularly if all you’re trying to do is express your disapproval of Tom Brady and his QB skills.

Not Feeble…

“Holy fucking Hell….can you believe what Brady just did…the fucking fuck.

Now this shows creativity on many levels.
By modifying Hell, one is actually expressing disbelief, as if Hell was somehow Holy.
And the pause between Hell and can you believe gives you time to think, to replay Brady’s last move in your mind and surmise your position…allowing you to provide feedback to the commenter.
And Fucking fuck?
Well, isn’t that just a modern day term for expressing ones highly emotional, perhaps even supercharged feelings on a day such as this?
I happen to think so.
 

So remember this when you’re watching the Super Bowl this Sunday.
Fucking fuck, while heavily laden F-bombs, really does show-off ones grammatical prowess.
So much more than does the term ‘fucking asshole’ anyway.

 

Why I’ll never be a food critic

I love food.
I also love to write. So it only follows these two should one day cross paths. They did.
I sent this restaurant review to my local newspaper in hopes of catching the editor’s attention.
This was his response:

Dear Mr. Serrano;

Thank-you for your recent submittal in our restaurant review contest. However, we are unable to accept your submission due to its vulgar and explicit content.
If I may, I’d like to refer you to the contest rules which clearly state we will not accept any reviews that are offensive, vulgar, or contain explicit language. Your submission violates all three of these guidelines.
Accordingly, we ask that you refrain from submitting material of this nature in future contests.

Sincerely,

XXXXXX X. XXXXXX
Food Editor
The Arizona XXXXXXXXXXXX

 

My Submission….

 

One of the benefits of being a native Arizonan is knowing all the best kept secrets our state has to offer.
That doesn’t mean I’ll share them with you, because I won’t.

However, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, mainly about how I do little or nothing for my fellow man and how the karma from that might bite me in the ass someday.
So I’m going to share one secret with you about a Phoenix restaurant this one time.
xx xxxxxx xxxxxxx, or xxx as us locals refer to it.
The food is superb, the service is quick, the ambiance, fantastic. That’s not the secret.

The secret is xx’s breads.
xx xxx is an award winning baker whose breads are the best in all of Phoenix.
All us natives know this, and now you do too.
xxx not only uses his breads in their sandwiches, they offer them by the loaf.
And here’s the secret that hopefully keeps me out of the karma-cancer hot seat.

xx offers a signature chocolate-cherry french bread that’s quite simply the best bread on earth.
The color of chocolate—dark brown, it looks like no loaf of french bread you’ve ever seen, almost like a pumpernickel.
Outside, the crust is perfect.
Inside, the crumb is moist and chewy, with large chunks of what I can only presume is world class chocolate along with whole fresh cherries.

And as if the chocolate french bread wasn’t enough, biting into a chunk of chocolate or a cherry in every bite is the experience of a lifetime, one you won’t soon forget.
But plan ahead.
LGO doesn’t shelf this bread, it’s a special order requiring a one day notice.

Here’s another tip.
Order at least two loaves.
One for the drive home, as you incessantly pick at it until its DOA.
The other to present to your wife in a blatant attempt to barter something other than jewelry for a blow-job.