Do you ever laugh?

God-

Do you ever laugh?
I’ve never seen you laugh. At least not in any of the pictures I’ve seen.
You just look really pissed off in most of them. Why?
Is it stress?
I had stress once and it made me break-out in a real bad rash, right around my nose. It got all sore and red, even a little blotchy.
You don’t look like you have a rash in any of those pics.

Maybe the artists who painted you just wanted to make you look mean so everyone would be afraid of you.

Why so pissed off?

I had a mean uncle once. What a wad he was. He used to call my aunt “chunky” after she beefed-up a little, making her cry a lot of the time. But the worst thing he did was make my cousins cut a switch (limb) from their mulberry tree, then he’d whip them with it.
Jeez.
Needless to say I wasn’t too sad went he went.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe you’re not mean at all but just pretend to be so the world doesn’t fuck-up.
Maybe, deep down, underneath that nasty gaze of yours, you’re really just a big pussycat.
I hope so.
I don’t know if I can handle eternity with someone who kind of looks like my uncle, lurking around scowling at me everyday. I got enough of that shit as a kid.
I was thinking.
What if I were to paint a picture of you with a big shit-eating grin? Would you get all pissed-off and give me cancer or something? I won’t do it if you’re gonna mess me up.
Think about it. The world would love you and you wouldn’t scare the shit out of kids anymore.
Your weekly church numbers would probably go up too!
I’m thinking some shades, maybe a Yankees ball cap,—sort of modernize you a bit, right?
While we’re at it, would you mind if I painted me in the picture next to you, maybe with your arm around me like we’re friends or something?

I had a picture taken of me with a Phoenix Suns basketball players one time, he had his arm around me like we were friends. Anyone who saw the picture asked me how I knew him and I always lied, saying “we grew up together and we’re close friends”.

I won’t tell anyone you and I grew up together, but I would like to say we’re at least friends.
We are friends, aren’t we?

High Five,

Diego

Whipped cream

God-

You know how I pretty much lived on whipped cream after giving up tortilla chips and salsa for lent?
Well, I really like whipped cream. A lot!
In fact, I eat whipped cream every day, substituting it for milk, yogurt, and cheese as well as all the other food groups.
Is this ok?
Or do you think this is following too closely in Jesus’s footsteps?

Generously dolloped yours,

Diego

Slim Thug doing Gospel?

God-

Why does gospel music suck so badly?
It shouldn’t, but it does, and I think I know the reason why.
A lot of people here don’t like hearing the name Jesus invoked every 10 seconds during a song—do that, and I’m frantically scrambling for my tuner to change the station, prior to the singer invoking one more Jesus.
We all know what a great guy Jesus was, is there really a need to showcase him in every fucking gospel song? Seriously?
Why can’t gospel songwriters be more creative?
Enough already with all those incessant ‘praise the lords’—JESUS!

There were other great biblical figures besides Jesus, why not write about one of them—like that prostitute Jesus healed—Mary Magdalene?
Why I’d bet if he wanted to, Slim Thug could easily pull off a gospel song about her and no one would be none the wiser, with all his “Put some back and some neck up on it” shit he’s constantly bandying about.

Or what about the biblical prophet Hosea, whom God supposedly told to marry a whore. Slim could’ve had a field day with him, and the best part is how kids would never know the name Hosea was biblical. They’d probably think the Ho in Hosea referenced one of Slim’s bitches, thinking it was cool—subliminal gospel at its finest.

You know who would be really good at writing gospel lyrics?
T.I.
No one can understand half the shit he’s talking about anyway, so why not give him a bunch of ideas about biblical booty and let him go crazy?
Just think how glorious it would be if you could get your ‘word’ out, while at the same time, we got some awesome tunage out of the deal?

I propose T.I. start with a tune about Cain and Abel,  a fine story about how Cain killed his bro-bro, only in the rap-gospel version, T.I. could have Cain pop a cap in Abel when God rejects his offering of fruits and vegetables over Abel’s ‘sacrificed’ goats or lambs. .
This would be a much more exciting way to learn about the bible than actually reading it, shit, who has time for that—not when you can get hip hop artists to deliver it directly to your headphones.

I can only guess what Eminem and Nate Dogg could do with that guy from the bible named Samson, you know—the one who screwed all those prostitutes?
Why they’d probably have Samson in a room full of pole-dancing, double-D bitches loaded on Crystal and E, shaking their asses like an Indosesian earthquake just hit.

Now that’s a gospel CD I would actually purchase for a change.

 

Diego

Diego’s Mortuary

God- 

Why is it only mafia guys get cool names, like, Jimmie “The Weasel”, or Tony “The Blade”?
I want one of those cool names too—but I don’t want to have to knife someone or burrow into them like a weasel. (I presume that’s how “The Weasel” got his illustrious handle). 

That’s why I’m writing today.
I’m going to change my name to Diego the Mortician, mainly because I’m thinking about investing in a local mortuary  whose business is in the tank, and to save it (besides putting $$ into it) I was thinking about relocating it to South Phoenix where we would specialize in gangbanger services. 

For example;  “Mourners will delight with our Deluxe package, as Tupac, Biggie, and ODB (wax figures) stand ready to greet you and your loved ones—with counterfeit stacks raining from the ceilings and Biggie reverberating throughout every room.”
Your dearly departed will be exquisitely cared for in his or her very own customized Cadillac coffin, a posthumous prize suitable for any young up and comer. 

Because YOU deserve the best!

Picture a posse of beautiful young ladies (ho’s, covered in fake stacks) serving Crystal to your mourners while being chauffeured to the cemetery in an all Escalade caravan (complete with spinners), where upon arrival, they’ll find a Snoop look-alike delivering a graveside eulogy…with only the dizzle Snoop can bring. 

As an option, we offer a faux graveside drive-by shooting where an R. Kelly impersonator gets popped as he pees on a nearby headstone. 

Oh yes, Diego’s Mortuary will bring the shizzle, and if that doesn’t earn me the title Diego “The Mortician”  I don’t know what will. 

Love, 

Diego

My new maid

God-

I was thinking.
What if I were to send away for one of those Chinese mail-order brides—does this break any religious rules or commandments that you know of?
I have a friend that can print me up a fake marriage license, (and I.D.) and my pal from Catholic school can fake the mass….so in your eyes, I’m really not doing anything wrong—am I?
Besides, I wouldn’t be “marrying” her for love or sex, or any of that foolishness—mainly just free housecleaning and some delicious Chinese food. (Hunan style)

Currently, we only have Chinese on Sundays, but this would allow us to have Chinese at least a couple of times a week, and almost certainly always after sex…think about it—no more of my sprinting downstairs in a post-coital eating frenzy, since Ling-Ling (name placeholder for now) would be dutifully standing by with a big steaming bowl of Kung-Pao chicken and ice-cold Tingsao—allowing me to finally serve up some of that cuddle-time the wife’s been seeking all these years….that’s called win-win!

Yes

I’d fix Ling-Ling  a real nice place up in the attic, with a futon and a tv so she could learn English, but she would have to shower out in the backyard, since there’s no plumbing in the attic. I don’t see this as a problem though, since she could time her showers with the lawn sprinkling schedule.

This seems to be the best idea I’ve had so far, since Russian mail-order brides are much too whorish and their food is the pits.
Besides, I don’t want to be snuggling with the wife, only to have some babushka wearing whore sashay into my love lounge with a bowl of borsch and a bottle of Stoly….sorry, that just has no appeal whatsoever.

I’ve always had a penchant for Hunan style cooking, and thought this could be a dream come true for both us, and Ling-Ling, not to mention her parents, since we’d relieve them the burden of having to raise their one and only daughter.
And just to make sure we’re on the same page, we’d release her (Ling-Ling) into the streets of America after a year or two of service, unless we find another illegal maid in the interim…one who wasn’t scared off by this whole immigration nightmare.

No

God, we haven’t been the same since Carmen left, (Thanks, Arizona SB1070) the house is a wreck, and we have to now go out if we want Mexican food,which really sucks.

Maybe you could help somehow. 

Still seeking answers,

Diego J Serrano

Aunt Mary smelled like insect repellant

God-  

I remember as a kid when my mom used to say, “Diego, you stink to high Heaven,“  encouraging me in her own quirky way to bathe every now and again.  

Was she right—does high Heaven smell funny?  

I always pictured Heaven smelling sweet, like chocolate—or an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor,  but the more I think about it, I realize Heaven is full of old people—and old people typically stink to high Heaven! 

I can’t quite put my finger on the smell exactly, but have narrowed it down to a pungent mix of the following; 

• Gingivitis…likely from ignoring flossing advice
• A mutant form of body odor, which I’ve only detected on the old and the French
• Ammonia…a nose-burning blast, typically wafting from the underpants region…directly attributable to a considerable lack of wiping prowess. (I presume)

And as if this 3 odor bouquet wasn’t smelly enough, I’ve noticed a popular trend among older women to slather themselves with a really weird smelling perfume, one that’s uncannily similar to  insect repellent….more specifically, bug spray. 

This isn’t right.  

My mom never stunk, she smelled like fresh-baked goods right up to the end (despite her prodigious use of Aqua-Net), but my Aunt Mary…oooh boy, did she have a stench. Every time she walked into a room, it smelled like death had just walked in—and died!

So after considerable thought, I have to say, I don’t particularly care for the way you designed old folks—with their stinking to high Heaven and all.
I think you could have done a much better job, making them smell like freshly baked, chocolate chip cookies, or even brownies.  

Perhaps if you had done so, high Heaven wouldn’t smell the way it does.  
What if we were to start burying them with a sack of brownies or something—would this help?  

At any rate, I’d like to request you send me to a much lower part of Heaven until you get this horrific stench under control.  

Olfactorally yours,  

Diego J Serrano  

Unusual request

God-

I want to reincarnate as a woman.
But not just any woman.
First, I’d like to be born into a wealthy English family who reside primarily on a fine country estate. (I like country estates)
Next, I want to be cute and fit…this is a must.
Additionally, I’d like to be smart, but not as smart as Hillary Clinton—I don’t want to bust people’s balls.
And the wealthy English family—they need to have at least a couple other kids, but they should be talentless and cretin-like.

Here’s the rub.
I still want to use the men’s room, more specifically—I’d like to pee standing up and not make a huge mess all over my clothing, in fact, if you could just eliminate my vagina altogether, this would be helpful.
And instead of normal genitalia, perhaps you could fashion a wedding cake (3-tier) where you were thinking of putting the vagina. (sans little plastic figurines)
And where you’d normally put my tits—I’d like a coffee mug on one side and a small laptop (Apple) on the other. (utilitarian)

The cretin-like siblings need to be jailed for some sort of huge legal offense immediately after turning 18, leaving me as sole heir to the big estate, upon which time I would hole-up in the fine country estate with my cake, laptop and coffee mug, spending my remaining days admiring the cute little rosettes, drinking coffee, and cursing my left tit (laptop).

Oh, and I don’t want kids. (this may not be a problem with the cake vagina).

Respectfully,

Diego J Serrano

p.s. If it’s too much trouble getting the cake to fit, let’s try a small serving of thin crust pizza as second choice.

Is Heaven really just one long chick-flick?

God-

Sounds like there’ll be quite a bit of time to kill in Heaven, with the whole “everlasting-life” thing and all, so what is it people do for all of eternity—and don’t say bask in eternal love…please, that’s the same line Sister Mary Edna gave us and it sounded sickeningly mushy in 3rd grade, let alone today, as an adult. In fact, she made it sound like an excruciatingly long chick flick.
I’m not sure I like this.
Don’t get me wrong, I want to get into Heaven, but for my own selfish reasons, not to sit around some “soul-mate”, while little cherubs swarm about—playing their zithers’ as we talk love smack, feed each other grapes, and get it on. (I presume souls can eat grapes and do the deed, yes?)
God, I’m not good at love smack, or the whole romance thing, not with my ADD…jeez, I wander right after my wife opens her mouth half the time!

Nah, I’m not sure I care for this whole concept at all, God.
I barely choked down “The Notebook” a few years back, how do you expect me to survive all of eternity with this love basking stuff—I’m a guy for Christ’s sake!

It’s no wonder guys are such hellions—I don’t know any man who’d voluntarily sign on for an eternal chick-flick, let alone 2 hours of one…even if he was on a make-up date! My guess is, we must know intuitively that breaking a few of the 10 Commandments will keep us out of Heaven—at least for a while—perhaps allowing us to do a small stint in Purgatory.

Sooo, should I start breaking some Commandments right away?

Or, what if I racked-up only enough sins to insure Purgatory is my first stop, and not Heaven, what are your thoughts?
I’m thinking, I’d rather sit-it-out in Purgatory for a few thousand years, rather than have to go to a nightmarishly long chick flick. (gag)

Eternally yours, but not  feeling the love basking,

Diego J Serrano

On my own

God-

I’ve always pictured going to Heaven would be like going to Disneyland for the first time—for Heaven’s sake, I hope not.
Goofy scared the shit out of me as a kid—I don’t even want to see his stupid looking ass on main street again.

Anyway, that’s not why I’m writing today.
I was wondering if I could bring along some stuff with me into Heaven, like the Pharaoh’s did…only I wasn’t planning on gold or weird-looking pottery.
I was thinking more along the lines of my George Foreman grill, a futon, and my mom’s barbeque sauce recipe.
I don’t need gold or pottery because I don’t plan on showing off, but I will need these 3 items if I am to have any kind of decent afterlife.
I need a good supermarket too—one that sells lean ground beef (4% fat) and liquid smoke (for the sauce).
I’ll also need some help lifting the futon…my back goes out regularly these days.

I'm ready for Heaven

Will you be starting me off in a studio apartment or something a little bigger—if it’s bigger, I may bring the kegerator along too.

This will be kind of fun…being on my own for the first time and all in Heaven.

Love, (coozy in hand)

Diego J Serrano

Try the ribs, not the red velvet cake

God-

Why do so many people (women and gay men) compare eating something delicious with going to Heaven—I don’t get it.

“You’ve got to try this red velvet cake Mary…you’ll think you died and went to Heaven!”

What’s that?
I never feel like I died and went anywhere after eating, let alone Heaven.
In fact, I don’t recall ever hearing any of my friends recommend eating something so delicious that I’d die and go to Heaven afterwards—my friends say things like; Dude—if you’re going to the Pork Palace, order the babyback ribs…they’re the shit!

I think guys may have this one right. (the shit part, that is)
I’m not going to Heaven after eating unless I have a massive coronary, right there, on the spot.
The only place I’m headed after a major wolfing is my recliner, where I will promptly swell up like a tick and feel like shit…sitting there lamenting over how I ate too much—hating myself all the while for doing so.

Good...but not Heaven

That can’t be Heaven, God.

Is it?

Not hungry now,

Diego J Serrano

Is cursing allowed in Heaven?

God-

Is cursing discouraged in Heaven—I hope not, it’s one of the few things I’m really good at.
As a matter of fact, (I may be going out on a limb here) I don’t know anyone who curses better. (this includes rappers and Vice-President Biden)

But so you know, it’s really not a mean type of cursing, it’s more of an expressive (almost artistic) type of cursing, used to punctuate my limited vocabulary.
And here’s the thing….people really like my cursing style because it’s so genuine and because of how well it flows.
I think if you gave me the chance and we got to talk for a few minutes, you’d like it too…why, who knows, you just might be LMFAO in a matter of minutes!

God, I just wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t allowed to express myself, I need my expletives….serious.(even in Heaven)

I'm eloquent like this

Please reconsider.

Diego J Serrano

The envoy

God-

If I get a yamaka, can I be Jewish?
Once I find a yamaka with the Arizona Cardinals logo, will I still have to read the Torah and take the Mitzvah test—that may be a tall order with my ADD and all.

I’ve always been fascinated with the concept of being “chosen”, since I’ve never really been chosen for anything, except the time I was picked to play the Stocking in my 4th grade Christmas pageant, but never got the chance because Sister Mary Catherine caught me punching Larry Booker in the mouth.
God, that wasn’t fair…I wanted that stocking role, and always felt my life took a funky turn after losing out on it.

This was all her fault God; my ADD, my contempt for authority (especially Mexican-loathing governors), my disdain for cruciferous vegetables, all of it—Sister Mary Catherine.
I hope she’s decaying (like most nuns) right before your eyes up there. (sorta like Joan Rivers is here).

Back to the choosing.

Can you give me some idea what I’ll be chosen for—and please don’t say you’re doing a reprise of the pageant, I can’t handle any more rejection if for some reason I get beat out of the hanging stocking part, that would be totally uncool.

I was hoping maybe you’d choose me as an envoy to some other God, like Allah…that would be pretty cool.
Why an envoy?
Well, first of all, chicks love envoy’s, that’s a fact.
But just as important, I could try to mend relations between you and Allah so his half-wit followers stop with the underwear bombs and all—we have to stop this underwear bomb nonsense, God.

Envoy Diego

Anyways, I want to get started being a Jew right away—but please dont expect me to be one of those cliche Jews, I have no intentions of taking over Hollywood, Jewing people down at the swap meet, or going on expensive cruises over the Christmas holiday—shoving the goys out of my way in the buffet line. (they shouldn’t be on a boat at Christmas anyway)

Speaking of cruises,  I won’t have to give up Christmas, will I?

Shalom,

Diego J Serrano

Hand Model

God-

I would like to be a hand-model.
As I understand it, most actors and actresses have horrible looking hand features, so this is where I’d come in.
As you know, I have nice looking hands except for a few small scars, and if I shave the hair off my fingers, I could probably double for Tom Cruise or some other notable celebrity….especially someone whose hands are really small, as mine would make them look like they could play in the NBA.
It may take a couple of manicures to get them in “movie-shape” but once I get all the dirt dug out from under my nails, I’m in business!

Loving hands,

Diego J Serrano

My new volunteer post

God- 

I need some sin credits…fast! 

After taking stock of my sin ledger, it would appear the sin debits are frighteningly out of balance with the sin credits—I think it may be time for another volunteer post, although I’m not sure what to do this time.
This is why I’m writing…I need your guidance. 

I tried Hospice for a year or two, but as you know, that didn’t work out.
Each time I got comfortable enough with a patient to ask them for their pin number…guess what? 

The rescue shelter didn’t work out either.
I’ve never met a more whiney, sniveling bunch of no-counts as I have there….it was always—”These mashed potatoes are too runny“…or, “I’d like seconds on the spam, please.”  For beggars, they were awfully choosy, but at least they were a well-mannered lot, I’ll give them that. 

I’ve thought about the Boy Scouts, but the first time one of them caught me smoking a doob, all huddled by my lonesome in my little pup tent, I’d probably make the 6 o’clock news….f*#k that! 

Can’t volunteer for most raisin ranches either….not with that injunction Hallowed Halls has against me. 

School volunteer work is out, I hate kids. (other than mine) 

I’m thinking I may have it narrowed down to PETA, or the Humane Society. 

I could paint signs

I seem best suited for the Humane Society, since I’m good at killing “euthanizing” most desert varmints—maybe I could work in their gas chamber section…I’d be a natural. 

I so like the idea of PETA however. 

With love, 

Diego J Serrano

No more flies in Africa

God-

Why are there so many flies in Africa and why hasn’t the concept of a fly swatter caught on yet?
Shouldn’t Oprah be on the case, doesn’t she typically champion causes such as this?
She’s always talking about rebuilding villages and what-not….why can’t she take a load of fly-swatters on her next visit. (G-5′s have ample cargo space)

Or, are all those flies staged—drawing on most American’s easily undone heartstrings— hoping for a cash donation so we’ll adopt some kid named Mbutu for as little as 30 cents a day?

Who would do such a thing—so heinous—so contrived?
I raised rabbits when I was a kid, what a mess…but raising flies, seriously?

Or, is their fly population directly attributable to all the wild animal shit Africa produces? (which does seem more likely)

God, if it is the animal shit, I have a suggestion. (albeit extreme, but just hear me out)

America should invade Africa, just as the colonists did America.
Extreme? Perhaps, but it does make sense if you think about it.
Our first move could be to annihilate all the wildlife…just as we did the buffalo when we invaded America—rendering most, if not all of Africa’s indigenous wildlife extinct.
After all, we are good at killing stuff, so why not kill a bunch of animals no one eats anyway, instead of people?

This could be a new twist for America, as we satisfy our lust for killing on useless prairie animals instead of good ‘ol fashioned human beings. (which we are good at btw)

This accomplishes two things.
First, it eliminates the threat of some villager getting eaten by a vicious animal like a hyena or lion or something. 
Second, it eliminates the massive fly population—no rhino piles—no shit…voila!

Africa would love us…why hell, the entire planet would love us when they see we’ve changed our modus operandi from killing humans to animals. (PETA, not so much)

Then, with the threat of flies eliminated, we’d withdraw the troops—but only after we’re satisfied the kids are swarm-less. (they’d still have big tummies, but there’d be enough wildebeest to feed an entire country at that point).
Oh, one more thing.
They’ll need freezers…and maybe electricity would help too.

How great is that?

Are you still listening, or did you check-out at “America should invade Africa“…I hope not.

Ever your earthly solutionist,

Diego J Serrano

The Sloth-o-meter

God-

You know how you liked it when people used to sacrifice lambs in your honor—well how do you feel about pigeons?
Should I be using an altar—reciting a bunch of holy stuff prior to snuffing them—or will “take that, you miserable little piece of shit”—followed with a swift round of pellet gun justice suffice?
There are no lambs in my neighborhood, otherwise, I’d probably “sacrifice” one of them every couple of weeks.
There is a dog that won’t stop barking, but I’m not much of a dog killer, even if it was a sacrifice in your honor—besides, I don’t have any dog recipes…not like I do lamb.
Anyway, thats not why I’m writing.

I need your opinion on something.

What’s a safe level of lazy before registering on your sloth-o-meter?
My TIVO’s on the fritz, and I don’t see me getting enough spare coinage to get a new one before football season starts this August.
So I was thinking.

Would it be wrong of me to get a Foley catheter and an IV stand—so I wouldn’t have to leave the room to go potty… or would you consider this too lazy?
I only plan on using Coors Banquet beer, and not those unholy light beers if it makes a difference….and, I would actually get up if I had to grease off a big heater. (tortilla chips and bean dip do that to me)
Now that would really be a sin—to just sit there and shit your pants during a major scoring drive with only a few minutes left…now that’s just plain lazy!

Please give me a sign if you approve, and quickly if you don’t mind, as it will likely take some time to find a disgruntled hospital worker—one who I can talk into stealing this stuff before pre-season gets underway.

3-34-hut-hut,

Diego J Serrano

A humble request

God-

I want this guy’s life….

Yours truly, (truly wanting this guy’s life, that is)

 

Diego J Serrano

Mr Hawking, please…

God-

You know how folks from England sound so intelligent—the way they enunciate when they speak?
Well why hasn’t anyone figured out how to make Stephen Hawking’s voice box sound intelligent?
He sounds just like Ned from South Park.
This is troubling.
Can’t researchers find a way to make the mechanical larynx imitate a persons native dialect, instead of making them all sound like robots?
That would be so much more interesting.

If Stephen sounded like Rex Harrison, I’d probably pay attention to him the next time he launches into one of his diatribes on how we’re all destined to become slaves to an alien society in the not-so-distant future.

???

Diego J Serrano

The new me

God-

My weight keeps going up and nothing I do works—I feel like a tick.
As you know, I’ve tried diet and exercise, but they interfere with my eating-sleeping regimen.
I even tried going from pounds to metric, which worked…at first.
Then I found a scale that displays what a person would weigh on the various planets…I liked Jupiter the best, where I reduced down to a svelte 100 pounds overnight, but eventually that stopped working.
Now what?
I’ve got a class reunion coming up…I need help fast—and not that cabbage soup—shit the pounds off hourly, kind of help.

I was wondering.
Remember that movie “Heaven can Wait”—was that for real?
If it was real, do you think you think you could accidentally take out a news anchor or popular actor—or better yet, LeBron James—switching bodies with me?
Just like the movie—I get his body, he gets mine—along with an untimely ending, and a visit up at your place.

The new me

I’ve always wanted to be a sports star, and LeBron probably always wished he had an open dialogue with you, like I do, so I can see how we’d both benefit—at least until after the reunion, when we’d switch back…only I’m not necessarily ready to come visit just yet.

If you did this for me I would be so grateful, as would the rest of Cleveland.

Just wait until Mary Beth Erickson sees me now, I bet she won’t even recognize me—neither will that idiot upperclassman she married, Tony—whateverthef*ck his last name was.

Oh, yeah, can I get a couple o’ bitches to go wth me to the reunion?
I’ll need some bitches, God…maybe even a ho or two.
Oh, and a limo.

Thanks in advance.

Love,

Diego J Serrano

Formal Complaint

God-

I’d like to make a formal complaint about our (mens) body design.
I don’t like how you designed our junk—why is it so sausage-like?
Couldn’t you have designed it to resemble a pizza or birthday cake—why a sausage?

Lets say you went with pizza, think about it.
The first time a person disrobes in another’s presence, and he/she gets a good look at their personal pan-sized pizza (Chicago-style) with at least 3 toppings—how glorious would that be—what a treat!

Or, think how festive if our junk was shaped like a birthday cake—one with little blue rosettes (butter cream, not that fake whipped cream) with some clever script that read— “Happy Birthday Diego!”

And you know how you disapprove of homos?

Kids: Leave the room

Well problem solved.
I’ve never heard of anyone shoving a birthday cake or pizza up their partners ass—have you?
What a mess!

God, when I get to Heaven, you can bet your sandals this’ll be the first thing I put in your suggestion box.

You do read the suggestions from time to time, don’t you?

Love,

Diego J Serrano