Olympics update

In an effort to rekindle my old love affair with sports reporting, I’m submitting the following Olympic update. I should probably mention how I was a mere 33 credit hours shy of my degree before switching majors for the 3rd time.
What a mistake!
I should’ve stuck with journalism since business turned out to be a real bundle of joy. Fucking Wall Street and its credit default swaps. What were they thinking? I guess no-one was watching when Nick Leeson took down Barings Bank, a centuries-old institution in England. He thought derivatives were safe too. Fuckers!!

What? [voice in background]
Oh, yeah…the Olympics. Sorry.

Women’s Water Polo: Lots of wedgies here, but you’ll never know it. The camera work is detestable, all of it from an aerial viewpoint in lieu of underwater. Waiting for time out’s are excruciating but worthwhile, when upon exiting the pool to huddle with one another, the cameraman finally earns his salt. Time out’s are your only hope of catching a glimpse of these finely-tuned (and wedgy’d) athletes, that is unless someone gets hurt or ejected. I did see one woman limping back to the bench but somehow it wasn’t the same. The wedgy affect is severely diminished by a bad limp.

John McEnroe:  Apparently, NBC sports hired JohnnyMac as a reporter. I think we all know why. I’m waiting for one of his ‘off-camera’ remarks when he becomes unhinged at his cameraman after taking too long to get the lighting right. I ♥ John. #notgayjusttolerant

Women’s Kayaking:  Weird. I think I pulled something in my low back yesterday weeding the front garden. Why do I have to pull weeds anyway? And on a Sunday no less.  What are those lazy-as-mud landscapers charging me for? My only day off and I have to garden so my bitch neighbor doesn’t report me to the HOA. I hate her. The jury is still out on women’s kayaking. I’m not all about this sport just yet. This could have been a great wet t-shirt opportunity if it wasn’t for those pesky life preservers. Lots of left turns. Reminds me of NASCAR without the dub-t audience and confederate flags. Oh, and the water…duh.

Men’s Beach Volleyball:  Finally, a sport where the men’s junk isn’t all up in your face. Totally worth watching if you’re a straight male. I’m a straight male, but I’d like to point out how I’m not a homophobe. This is important. I accept people for who they are. If you happen to like dudes, well, that’s your business. I like dudes, I just don’t like their dicks or hairy butts. In fact, I can barely stand my own, but that’s another story. Anyway, I was saying, this is a pretty cool sport and fun to watch. I don’t know who’s winning, mainly because I keep backing up the women’s water polo recording in hopes I may have missed an important time out. The American men look really cool with those Oakley shades and reversed visors,  much cooler than my Chrome Heart sunglasses anyway.

Cool

An Olympic report

My take on the Olympics thus far. I should mention how I’m only 33 credit hours away from my sports journalism degree.

Bicycle racing:  Be still my fucking heart. It’s just that fascinating!

Archery:  Wait, what?

Men’s Water Polo:  Men in baby hats and weenie-huggers playing catch in the pool. Too many dicks flopping around in loose Speedos for my comfort—why isn’t there any shrinkage? Is the water treated with something? I don’t like the swimsuit fabric either…seems like it should be thicker, or padded at the very least.

Men’s Swimming:    See Water Polo above. (sans baby hat)

Women’s Ping Pong:   Get the fuck out. An Olympic event? Hang on a sec. [turning to buddy] Are you going to pass those fries or were you planning on eating them all…Jesus, you fucking hog!  Alright,  where was I?  Oh, who cares.

Fencing:   Worth watching if only to see if mom’s prediction about getting one’s eye poked out will ever come true. Appears unlikely with those goofy masks.

Women’s Weightlifting:   Chicks with huge thighs and bulging veins on their tits...gross.

Women’s Skeet Shooting:    Should be using real pigeons. It’s not like Trafalgar Square has a shortage of birds. They could inject the logy ones with caffeine.

Women’s Beach Volleyball:  Twenty one doesn’t seem like enough points for this sport.  The matches are going by super  fast. Maybe they could go up into to the eighties or nineties.  I don’t care much for  the swimsuit fabric either.  Not sheer enough for this cub reporter.

Men’s Basketball:   Third world countries should make up some excuse about getting sick from shellfish or something, save the embarrassment of getting trounced by the US Men’s team.

Men’s Rowing:  Got my fill of that shit in an eighties film featuring Rob Lowe where he attended Oxford and stole someone’s spot on the rowing team. Boring.

Women’s Gymnastics: Weird hair do’s. They all look like pixies. What’s with all that glitter and blue eye shadow? Apparently no-one approached MAC for an Olympic sponsorship.

MEDAL COUNT

Some athletes have won gold medals thus far. Interesting fact; there’s only six grams of gold in an Olympic medal. At todays prices, that’s about 350 bucks. The trend for precious metals is down. A year from now on the same trend line, a gold medal will only fetch about $150 or so. Sad. Silver is falling too. Bronze isn’t even precious for Christ’s sakes, just ask Penn State officials. So what’s bronze doing in the Olympics anyway? Platinum probably cost too much back in the day. You know what’d make a good medal? Kryptonite.  Plutonium would be way cool too but I hear it causes birth defects. Not cool.  My portfolio sucks. I should have bought gold a year ago. This is because my broker is a complete tool. Besides that, I think he’s sleeping with his new admin, I see the way she gazes at him. What’s he doing? He’s got a lovely wife and two kids. I hope she leaves him.

SUMMARY

These athletes are so ripped it’s sickening. I need to start working out this week and get off this damned Wellbutrin once and forever.
Where’s Beckham? Isn’t he an East-ender? I haven’t seen him since the speedboat thing Friday night. Does the Queen ever smile?
I haven’t seen a Cockney representation either. Shouldn’t they be doing that whole ‘Rine in Spine’ thing?
It’s early, maybe that’s still ahead.

Kinda hard to take these guys serious

Lust, and all its riches

In what I can only conjecture as all the perverted minds on the planet uniting in a common effort, I’m officially declaring July 23, 2012 Three Boob’d Women day.
For on this day, unlike any other day in my WordPress writing history, I received 811 views. 792 of them on my post; Lady boobs, a really poor design.
The post features an image of a woman with three tits.
On most days it gets a dozen or so hits.
Not July 23rd.

Who Googles ‘Three tittied woman’ images anyway?
Fucking perverts.
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Gym time (Haiku style)

Look up at the tv on the wall.
Look down at my gut.
I hate the Olympics.

The ultimate dichotomy

Being a successful businessman not only sucks balls at times, it sucks them with such wind tunnel force, it accidentally sweeps one in whole. Only you don’t swallow it. It gets lodged somewhere in your epiglottis, preventing you from using your glottal stop to utter the term; uh-oh, the all-telling notification you may have just taken one too many risks. Or in the non-business vernacular; seriously fucked-up.
It doesn’t stop there.
Lodged in your throat, your fervor for ‘The Deal’ now finds you metaphorically running around, naked and exposed with one nut in absentia, looking for someone (Investment Bankers) to Heimlich your sorry ass, but no such luck. You took too big a risk and have to pay the price.
So you swallow it. Whole. Get sick from it for a few weeks until such time as the problem has corrected, notwithstanding how the problem, now corrected, was tantamount to passing the nut in the same manner in which it was ingested—whole.

Successful Businessman. The ultimate dichotomy.
This is why you often hear others describe business risk takers as having big balls.
They’re not really big. They just seem that way when they’re lodged in your throat, and, test the upper-end limits of your sphincter.
But the money’s not bad.

A real man’s pedicure

Being a “man’s man”, I know dick about women’s fashion, styling, or any other matter involving their beautification. In fact, it’d be fair to say I know shit from apple butter in this department.
But I do know one thing.

If you’re a man, and you wear Roper boots on most days, never tending to such matters as pedicures, then, one day decide to break out your flip-flops on your way to the community pool, all the while gawking at the young women fashionistas’ finely pedicured toes and thinking; “jeez, their toes look remarkably similar to mine…go figure.”
That’s the time your wife informs you  how theirs are the product of something called a ‘French Pedicure’, while yours, the product of something called overgrown toenails.
Personally, I don’t get it.
To me they look exactly alike except for a little dirt here and there.

 

Sweet dreams (are not made of this)

Dream sequence featuring Annie Lennox…

Me: “Can we go over it one more time?”

Annie: “WHAT…WHAT DON’T YOU GET?”

Me: “This. I’m still not sure what ‘this’ is? You never really come right out and say what sweet dreams are made of, only this. You point around at a lot of shit in your video, but that’s about it, nothing really conclusive. Oh, and by the way, ‘this’ doesn’t even sound like ‘this’, it sounds like these.”

Annie: “Jesus you’re dumb.”

Me: “Why? Why am I dumb? Is it those gold records you’re pointing at in the video, are those ‘this’? I get how having a number of gold record sales could give you and Dave some pretty sweet dreams.”

Annie: “NO…IT’S NOT THE GOLD RECORDS FOR FUCK’S SAKE, IT’S A METAPHOR. ‘THIS’ IS A METAPHOR. DON’T YOU GET IT?”

Me: “And what’s up with those dairy cows? Are they a metaphor for something too?” 

Annie: “Exactly how in THE FUCK did you get into this studio again?”

Me: “My brother-in-law’s the security guard.”

Annie: [Dialing 911]

Me: “Wait..hold on, one more question, please? Is that a riding crop or a cane… is it yours?  Do you ever smack Dave around with it?  You guys seem kinda weird.”

Annie: “PLEASE LEAVE…NOW!”

The non-survivor

If I was ever chosen as a contestant on one of those reality tv shows, like Survivor, I hope the other contestants would have the good sense to boot me off the first chance they got. I’ve weighed this out, taking into consideration the shame and humiliation associated with having my tiki torch extinguished on week 1 as compared with the lunacy of spending some number of weeks in front of a national audience; starving, parading around in dirty skivvies, (not quite the same affect as a girl in her dirty bikini) making alliances I can’t wait to break, grumbling myself to sleep each night, pissing and moaning about how stupid the others are, eating bugs, falling for the pretty contestant in a dirty bikini, and eventually, being voted off by same dirty bikini chick and some cool guy. (I knew I should have made an alliance with cool guy instead of that lying little bitch).
Besides, I’d probably lose it on the cab ride to the airport when the cameraman, the same cameraman who caught me trying to get my freak on with bikini girl when I thought no-one was looking, is now perched in the front seat motioning me to speak, hoping upon hope I’ll make an even bigger ass out of myself.
This would be the point where I lunge for his camera, shove it up his ass, turn and roar to the cabbie; “YOU WANT SOME OF THIS TOO?“, ordering him out of the car, take the wheel, and drive the fucking thing right into an embankment. And I’ll do this why?
Because whatever level of pain and suffering I endured over the last sixteen weeks won’t even begin to rival what my wife’s gonna dish up.

Yeah, no…I’m probably not ‘Survivor’ material.

Divine intervention

Something was dreadfully amiss Ralphy conjectured when upon his wakening, he discovered one of his nuts had mysteriously vanished. This had happened before, but as a child; when his playing with them one day caused him to discover how easily they could be pushed upward into the fleshy part of his groin, concealing them from plain view. What an astonishing feature he thought as they remained tightly stowed in the newly discovered cranny. He was equally astonished by their absolute insistence on remaining there until his administering a certain pressure, at which time they’d quickly slip back into their awaiting sack. This was the kind of secret Ralphy would share with no-one. Ever. Or at least until some years later when he would meet LaDona, a signally exotic beauty who was uncharacteristically shy, and, who was endowed with two inverted nipples.
Ralphy would eventually come to realize how his seemingly endless hours of adolescent nut-shuttling was little more than divine intervention—breaking out his finely honed skills on LaDona’s tits one night when, despite his best attempts at foreplay, her inverted nipples remained stubbornly lodged in place.
Ralphy’s nut reappeared later that morning when bending over to tie his shoes before work.

Tips on getting your content removed from Yelp

Tom’s Thumb Fresh Market
Category: American (New)
7/6/2012
Whenever the need arises to wash my vehicle….
And, I’m in the mood for delicious slow roasted brisket, ribs, or pulled pork…
And, I need to pick through a convenience store-like grocery case for some Nestle’s Strawberry Milk…
And, I want to watch international soccer games in the car wash waiting area after eating the pulled pork and brisket—with a flavorful Starbuck’s-like coffee creation from the in-store coffee bar, while my vehicle—remember my vehicle—the one that needed cleaning is getting cleaned, I come here.

Tom’s Thumb Fresh Market.

Where I can satiate all my worldly needs in one fell swoop—save for getting laid.
But I’m guessing if one got really creative, he/she could manage to find a place to throw-down somewhere on this huge property.
If you are going to have a go at it, I suggest you steer clear of the men’s room, it smells kind-of weird and is likely to sour the mood.

From this reviewer’s perspective, the only thing missing at Tom’s Thumb is a place to take a nap after your getting laid.
Yes, a short nap after a furious jaunt is always refreshing and one would damned well think the proprietors could have thought through this a little more carefully when building their business plan, because had they done so, this place would receive a perfect five stars!

Why just think of it.
A place to get ones truck washed, eat barbecue, drink beer, watch soccer, conjugate, nap, and revive with a soy latte, as the attendant tosses you the keys signaling your vehicle is cleaned and ready. Now that’s the shit!

I’d like to summarize by suggesting how Tom’s Thumb may indeed be, despite its lack of non-conspicuous enclaves where one might seek a romantic interlude, a mere fuck and a short nap away from heaven.
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Tip # 1

Reviewers should limit their objectivity to only those features materially affecting the experience. Perniciously suggesting a business establishment could improve its star rating by offering patrons a place to sleep and fuck, not necessarily in that order, is just wrong and offers both the reader and the business no useful advice. I recommend not invoking this type of rhetoric in ones review.

Tip #2

Fantasizing about the perfect car wash does no-one any good, especially you. Stop thinking about how cool it would be to eat, sleep and fuck in a car wash. The very notion is ill-conceived and could land you in jail with a lewd and lascivious public act conviction.

Tip # 3

Stop submitting fantasy reviews to Yelp that invoke car washes, Anna Sharipova, and your wrinkle-rod.

Learning to hover

Peeing is such a chore. I hate how it interrupts my day with its unexpected timing, forcing me to drop everything, trot to the restroom, and stare at the tiled wall above the urinal— a hand-scribbled message reading; “Don’t look here..the joke’s in your hand.” Oh joy.
I suppose I could use a stall, but there’s always a gigantic turd laying in wait, probably left behind by the same left-handed Hemingway whose inspiration only occurs while urinating. And besides, even if the stall was clean, I still wouldn’t use it, mainly due to my unwillingness to learn the hovering technique. Although, I did notice an article on last month’s Glamour, talking about 5 workout tips for a flatter tummy. I’m pretty sure you need a flat tummy if you’re going to hover.
A vagina helps too.

 

 

 

Something is seriously wrong

Well, the best way to describe it is this….

Think about the existence of some old hermit lost at sea many years ago. Shipwrecked and marooned to an island, yet he somehow managed to survive all these years. Miraculously, the only thing he was able to salvage from the wreck was the ship’s radio; a short-wave radio, capable of tuning in to all sorts of radio stations, albeit mostly ham radio frequencies.

Now imagine there’s background static—white noise that sometimes, often times, renders his entire broadcast unintelligible—key words or phrases fading from the static, causing you to fill in his missing words with your own.
This all plays out nightly in my head. The static, the in-and-out fade of his voice….

Doctor: “Hmmm. [condescendingly, I'm certain of it] Does this person have a name?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s Gums.”

Doctor: “Gums?”

“Yeah, Gums. Anyway as I was saying, Gums is kind of creepy, often asking his fellow broadcasters the color of their underpants after only a couple minutes into their exchange. Super weird.”

Doctor: “What do the other broadcasters do? Or rather, better yet, what do you do?“

“They hang up on him. Me? I just listen intently, I kind of like Gums.”

Doctor: “Go on, please.”

Anyways, I like where Gums is headed most of the time, but because he’s so rude, the conversation never really develops and the next thing you know, all I can hear is Gums repeating his call sign, looking for another ham radio operator who speaks english to sign on.
Actually doctor, just hearing me say all of this out loud makes me realize how fucked-up Gums really is.
Is this a breakthrough, or what?

Doctor: “Seriously? ”’GUMS”’?”

Me: “What, is something wrong?”

A different kind of yogini

I met an older gentleman once, whom, as a young man, advised me how being older was merely a presence of mind, stating emphatically “that a person is only as old as they feel.”
His advice still echoes, similar to the overly prodigious use of a reverb pedal by a teen rock band.

I’m only as young as I feel.
I chant this daily, usually in the mornings, as part of a chakra ritual. But not just any chakra ritual. My chakra ritual.
Yogic tradition dictates the belief in seven well defined Chakras, which when used conjunctively, produce well-being within the yogi.
I use one, not seven.
Sort of a hybrid approach if you will, using a combination of chakras that suit my very specific needs—again, to not feel my age.
I call it my mega-Chakra, it goes like this….

Diego’s daily Chakra:

At some point today I will feel my age, but if I don’t, if I happen to make it through the day feeling youthful, it will have been for two reasons.
First, I had the good sense to not stare into a mirror after smoking too much weed.
And second, because the day gifted me with never crossing paths with a young know-it-all co-worker, whom after an ascending progression of barbs, finishes me off with the always fatal, “Well fuck-you old man.”
I am not old.
And there’s a convenience store, in fact, several convenience stores situated between my workplace and home, where I shall stop, purchase a twelve-pack of something alcoholic, drink three on the ride home, smoke a blunt in the driveway, and proceed to my mancave to ponder the day’s events. It is there where I shall find tranquility as I lie on the floor, squinting my eyes at the ceiling lights until just enough refractive light has passed through my eye lids and lashes that I now have a kaleidescope with which to properly color the day’s events.
I will do this until the door to my mancave swings open abruptly, my wife questions what the hell I’m doing on the floor, announces ‘dinner’, then shakes her head and walks away in mild disgust.
At dinner, a much more calm and peaceful me will actually listen to her, hanging on her every word as if it meant something.
I will understand what she’s saying, thanks to the weed, much like the first time I got high and realized the lyrics in Purple Haze were not “Excuse me, while I kiss this guy.”
When she is finished speaking and the conversations lags, I will use the time wisely, to regale her with stories from the competitive mart we call business, conspicuously leaving out any part where some newly—minted college grad called me an old ignorant fuck.
Yes, I am not old.
And I have a job, unhealthy addictions, and a curiously kaleidoscopic life that prove otherwise.

Dreaming big

Me, to gayest part of brain upon my awakening from really weird dream…..

“Was all of that really necessary? A full Broadway production?”

GPofB: “I sure liked it. Did you get the Ricky Martin reference in the second act?”

Me: “No, and fuck-off. I’m not talking to you today.”

GPofB: “Oh, who are you kidding…you liked it and you know it.  Now be a dear and go put some coffee on.”

Me: “You’re such an asshole.” [staggering into kitchen, scratching self]

GpofB: “Why yes, of course I am—I’ll inform the media…now hows about that coffee?”

Me: [inaudible grumble] “Get your own damned coffee for once ya little fucker.

Maybe heaven has a back door

Me, bartering with St. Peter….

“I.m.p.o.s.s.i.b.l.e!”

“Our records are quite accurate Mr. Serrano, I assure you.”

“19,000 just seems like a lot.”

“19,312-1/2 to be precise sir.”

“A half?  Seriously? I’m getting tagged with half? How does that even count?”

“Mr. Serrano, you know how God has a zero-tolerance policy on Catholic’s masturbating.”

“I did not. Does this mean the half-whack counts?”

“Sir,  I wouldn’t worry about it with a record such as yours.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right, so ugh, tell me, is there any wiggle room on this one?”

“Wiggle room, sir? There was, but you surpassed that number on your first day of puberty. He allows for twenty occurrences, citing youthful curiosity.”

“Any ideas about his take on older curiosity?”

“Let’s move on, shall we?”

“What’s next?”

“Let’s discuss your blog, sir.”

“Ohhhh fuck.”

Poor Mrs. Sprat

“….and so between them both, you see, they licked the platter clean.“

2012 ending:

…and so between them both, you see, they licked the platter clean. Later that evening, after complaining of chest pains and labored breathing, Mrs. Sprat was rushed to Children’s Mercy Hospital where after several resuscitation attempts, she was pronounced dead. A victim, according to emergency room doctors of a massive myocardial infarction.
Mrs. Sprat was preceded in death by her husband Jack, whom a number of years earlier died in a local eatery of asphyxiation, brought on by choking on a piece of poorly chewed lean meat.

I wonder if the 2012 ending will make my little niece cry.
I hope not.

Happier Days

 

Politically incorrect

Me, backstage at a recent Bangles concert:

“So, ugh, do you guys still touch yourselves?”

Bangles:        ”SECURITY!”

Organic beef

Other than sleeping-in as one of my favorite things to do on a Saturday morning, I like going to farmer’s markets.
Don’t ask me why. I’ve no interest in organic foods or their hippie-esque purveyors.
Nor do I care for the whole pop-up tent scene, or watching as passers-by stop to barter with these societal throwbacks for that matter.
But I do like beef, and even more so, beef not heavily steeped in antibiotics, hormones, or steroids.
And that’s why I go to farmer’s markets. To buy organic beef.

Conversation at the farmer’s market today:

Me:   “Hi, is this stuff organic?”

Hippie beef-guy: “First, it’s not ‘stuff”,  and YES it’s organic. Our animals are brought up on a ranch near Douglas Arizona—we have three cows to select from today, Thad, Damien, and Orvis.

Me:  ”Douglas? Isn’t that where all the Mexican drug-runners enter Arizona?”

HBG: “I said NEAR Douglas, anyway, that doesn’t have anything to do with our cows.”

Me: “Cows or bulls? And did I hear you right? Did I not just hear you call them by name? What’s that shit all about?”

HBG: “Ok, they’re male, yes, to answer your question.”

Me: “Tell me more about this whole name thing, seems weird.”

HBG: “Like, what’dya wanna know?”

Me: “Like, why they have names? Shouldn’t they just have ear tags with a number or something?”

HBG: “Not our animals, our animals are nurtured from birth, named, and cared for in the most loving sense of the word.”

Me: “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

HBG: “Wow maaaan, I don’t think I like your ‘tude.”

Me: “Alright, sorry. It’s just that I’ve never heard of this concept before today—it seems really fucking weird.”

HBG: “Duuude, it’s not weird at all. Take Thad for instance. [thumbs through a notebook with named dividers until he locates 'Thadeus'] Thad was born to Julian and Delilah as a spring calf. He spent his first year with Delilah before taking out on his own where he spent the next few years by himself—actually a bit of a loner. Thad was smaller than the other bulls and rarely got the chance to breed. We saw some of this in his disposition, being particularly angry most of the time.
In May of this year, we decided to finalize Thad, and bring him to market.

Me: “Finalize? You mean slaughter?”

HBG: “We don’t like to think of it as slaughter, we prefer finalize.”

Me: [Shaking head in disbelief] “Anything else I should know about ‘Thad’?”

HBG: “Just that he led a life of quiet solitude, other than his frequent attempts to procreate with some of the cows. This should come through in his flavor.”

Me: “This is too much, you’re fucking kidding right. Please tell me you’re kidding?“

HBG: [holding up Thad's papers] “Would you like to buy Thad or not?  And NO, I’m not kidding. We take our beef very serious. Ya know, I really don’t like your attitude.”

Me: “Oh yeah, well I think this whole name thing is fucking creepy—quiet solitude—what a crock ‘o shit!”

HBG: “That’s it, Thad isn’t for sale, please move along.”

Me: “Really, Thad isn’t for sale? Well how about Orvis, or maybe Damien. Is Damien for sale? He sounds evil…was he into Satanic shit or what? Open his file up, what’s it say?

HBG: [sits in silence]

Me: “What about Orvis—was he into fly-fishing? C’mon dude,  let’s check out Orvis’ story. What say you?”

HBG: [sitting in silence, with frowny face, like he just smelled a fart or something]

Me: “Orvis, what a fucking joke….” [walking away shaking my head]

Guess I should have slept in today.