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.

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?

Why the ‘Publish’ button scares me

With over four hundred posts to my credit on WordPress, one would think the anxiety of clicking the ‘publish’ button would have subsided by now.
It hasn’t.
For some reason, a wave of terror still washes over me each time I contemplate clicking on it.

My post is finished.
I’ve checked it several times for grammar and edits.
I preview it to see ‘how it reads’, being as objective as I can given my authorship.
I like it.
It’s time time to hit publish.

It’s right about this time I begin to feel apprehensive. Maybe I shouldn’t publish this one. It’s probably too caustic.
Do I really want the blogging world to know about this event? The comments will be bad, I just know it.
What’s going to happen if any of my friends or family read this one? I know I’ll get a ration of shit over it. Don’t do it.

Fuck it.
Hit the ’save draft’ instead, you can always come back to it later, I reason. Maybe when you’re not so tired or in a better frame of mind.

Yeah, that’s it. I’ll look it over when I’m feeling more ‘myself’.
Save draft it is.
Thank God that’s over with.  [Click]

One hour later…

Hmm. I wonder how many hits I’ve had today? Fifty? One hundred? I wonder which posts people are reading?
The pressure is too much..I click on my site stats shortcut.
Five? Really?
Oh, and there’s a comment pending. Oh boy…let’s see what that is.

“You’re blasphemous! I don’t care for how you ridicule our lord, Jesus.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Let’s see, where’s that delete permanently button…there it is. Don’t need to share this comment with anyone. [bye-bye...click]
Now, where was I?

All posts, that’s right. Hmm, let’s see, there’s one I need to publish.
Argghhh, not again—Jesus!
The publish button. I hate the publish button.
[eyes closed, face squinting with brow located where my nose used to be] Arghhhhhhhhhhh! [clicks publish]

I’ve found making the argh sound is helpful when clicking the publish button. Kind of like I’m some karate dude about to chop a pile of bricks in half.
It relieves the pain of not knowing whether I forgot to check ten lines down from the end…a paragraph I put there and had every intention of coming back to, but never did, missing it altogether in the preview.

 

 

The pubish button scares me and I’ll tell you why. I rarely….fuck, why can’t I keep a coherent thought today.
shit shititithtitithththtihithh

I never like hitting publis

Tips on euthanizing your pet

The Sticklands invited us to dinner the other night as they so often do. Only this time, instead of our usual combination of drinks, dinner, and casual conversation, the evening would end early, marred by an argument over the right to life.

It all began when my wife, during our pre-dinner drink session announced she had taken our dog to the vet, getting some very bad news about our ten year-old Shar Pei, Max. It turned out Max had cancer and wasn’t expected to live much longer.

That’s when Ed Strickland suggested we bring him out to the ranch where in a ceremonial ‘last-fetch’, we would throw his favorite chew toy out into the desert while Ed stood-by, ready to shoot him with his varmint rifle.
Maybe it was the Wild Turkey imparting its typical pangs of wisdom, but as grim as it sounded, the idea did have a certain appeal.
After all, there would be no suffering.
No long painful death.
Just a dog, doing his job one last time before going out with a high level of dignity. I liked it, but I had a question.

“How do we make sure you get him on the first shot? Do you spray paint a bullseye on him or something?”

That’s when Ed’s wife Cindy chimed in.

“Ed’s a pretty good shot ever since he had his lasik surgery done.”

“Nah, I’ll use the semi-automatic and pepper him.”

I was starting to have my doubts, thinking about how Max hadn’t been the best of dogs, but that didn’t necessarily call for him to die in a hail of bullets like he was some kind of dog terrorist or something.

“Gee, I don’t know Ed, that sounds pretty messy.”

“Well the other thing I can do is just put a .22 pistol up the back of his head and let him have it.”

Having seen my share of mob flicks, I happen to know that’s what they do—three shots with a .22 behind the right ear—a signature Mafia hit. Max didn’t deserve that either I thought. It wasn’t like he ratted-out a mob boss or something.

“I don’t know Ed, they both sound kind of gruesome.”

That’s when Cindy validated Ed.

“It’s really not. That’s how Ed took care of our dog—a single shot when he was sleeping.”

The idea had lost all appeal now.
Maybe I was starting to sober up. Or maybe, despite my fervor for hunting, it just didn’t seem sporting.
I rejected the idea and it was a damned good thing I did because during the entire conversation, it never occured to me that my wife, who’s usually pretty animated during the cocktail hour, hadn’t spoken. I looked in her direction only to find she had a horrified look on her face.
Her mouth agape while staring almost catatonically at the three of us.

She finally spoke up.

“Please tell me you guys are kidding. Ed, you are kidding aren’t you?”

Ed’s a rancher and doesn’t have much use for small talk. He also doesn’t like to mix his words.

“Why would I kid about this. He’s a family member and deserves a humane death.” he said sharply.

My wife looked at me, asking the same question.
Given how I’m not a rancher and really more of a survivalist, I hit the rewind button.

“Of course we were just kidding—hon.” The hon part coming out unexpectedly, surprising even me.

I was hoping someone would change the topic at that point, but instead, Cindy, in a “Stand by your man” show of support, praised Ed for his willingness to help us out in an otherwise bad situation.

“Jane dear, it’s the right thing to do. It’ll be good for both of you. When he starts to show signs of failing, load him up and bring him out to the ranch. You and I can have a couple of those pomegranate martinis you like so much while Ed takes care of business.”

“Are you all fucking crazy?” my wife yelled out.

“What the hell is wrong with you people?” Who shoots their dog anyway? Ed—I’m embarrassed to call you my friend—you too Cindy!”

She got up and started for the door, but not before one last tirade.

“Ed, your’e a cruel man. And Cindy, how you can support Ed is beyond me.” I hope I never see the two of you again.”

The drive home was a long one, complete with rhythmic sniffling coming from the passenger seat, neither of us saying a word until we walked in the house and discovered Max laying on the floor next to her favorite cashmere sweater—completely chewed to pieces.

“Hi, Cindy? Jane. I hope you’ll forgive me for overreacting but….

How Taco Bell names its menu items

If I was the marketing director at Taco Bell, my first order of business would be to fire the person responsible for naming their menu items.
Enchirito? Seriously?
To me this sounds like a culinary clusterfuck derived from the ‘clever’ mind of someone who one day at lunch, pensively doodling at their food with a fork, managed to combine an enchilada and burrito into an unrecognizable mass.

“Quickly, someone run and get me a soft tortilla—I think I’ve got something!”

Voilà. The enchirito.

My second order of business would be to launch an ad campaign similar to that of Subway, where I’d find some pudgy little Mexican kid, feed him a steady diet of a tacos and diet coke for a year and watch the pounds magically drip-off.
Svelte enough for a tiny Speedo sans the overhang, I’d pimp this kid to the world as the new poster child for taco lovers everywhere.
Only he wouldn’t speak English in the ads.
I’d make him speak in his native tongue for the sake of authenticity. And with no subtitles either.

That way, when he’s speaking that mile-a-minute gibberish Mexicans are so good at,  and he tries to slip in something like;

“Señor Diego, he lock me in basement—he make me eat cabbage, I go home now—please?”

No-one will ever know what the fuck he’s saying.

I'll slim this little bastard down

Diego

Classic movies: Why I can’t watch them

I really don’t like watching classic movies, the ones where the entire cast and crew are now deceased.
The problem is this.
Despite their cinematic magic, I can never get past the fact that everyone in the movie is dead, taking my focus from the film, to thoughts of death and the like. So I simply stopped watching them years ago.

Yesterday after a long sabbatical, thinking I’ve matured enough to dismiss this kind of thinking, I watched A tree grows in Brooklyn.
A 1945 classic which yes, nearly all of the cast and crew members are gone.

And yet once again, I found myself unable to resist checking out the IMDB website, curious to see if any of these guys were still living, and as it turns out, one person is still alive. Yea!
Imagine that. One person out of the entire cast is still living, although I don’t know where, or if he made enough money during his career to support a comfortable retirement. I’m guessing he’s bunking-in with his kids. He’s probably in his late 80′s by now. I’m certain hes with his kids. I hope he’s not in one of those Alzheimer’s homes. Maybe he’s in an old folks home, bragging about his glory days.

Or maybe he’s in a trailer park somewhere. Or maybe not. After all, they are still playing this movie, and that means royalties. Although, he had a bit-part, I can’t imagine his agent wrote a royalty clause into his contract back then.
Did they even have agents back then?

Two hours of this, as I never once heard a single line from the movie.
I guess I haven’t matured as much as I thought I had.

For once I wish the movie channel would present a disclaimer prior to running this genre, for all the people like myself who have trouble watching these damned things. It should go something like this:

WARNING
All of the people in this movie are dead. Cast, crew, everyone.  Gone, kaput…finished, kicked. In in the event you have an unreasonable fear of death, dying, or are generally repulsed at the thought of watching ‘dead’ people performing in a black and white medium, you should probably change the channel now.
Otherwise you could be in for a serious mindfuck, now, and all your days to come.

Hmm...matching eyebrows and mustache...how clever!

Metaphorically speaking, I’m just another salmon

Sometimes I think there isn’t much of a difference between me and a big salmon.
Alright, so I wasn’t hatched from an egg, but we do both enter life in a hostile environment, swim downstream when its the easiest time in our lives to do so, find a mate, and finally spend our remaining days fighting upstream currents where we mate, have kids, and die.

Now that I think it through, I guess there are a couple of slight differences.
At least I won’t wind up being served on a cedar plank in a fancy seafood restaurant, or get eaten by a bear just before my wife starts ovulating.

Words are like puppies

One of my special childhood memories was receiving mail from my aunt, mainly because of how she addressed the envelope as Mister Diego Serrano. I’ll never forget the feeling that came over me upon seeing the word Mister, all spelled out, and in front of my name no less.
It was simply glorious, the way it made me feel, I felt so—so, special.

So you can imagine the mixed bag of feelings I have today as an adult, when the only person to ever address me as Mister is my wife, and when she does, it’s typically never a good thing.

“Alright Mister, just what the hell was that?”

It’s funny how a word can invoke such a special feeling as a child, and yet have such a totally different connotation as an adult.
Leading me to believe that words, in a weird way, are a good deal like puppies.
They’re all cute when they’re young.

Diego

Unpopular baby names

God-

If I happen to get reincarnated, I’d like to return as a Native American so I can have one of those cool names like ‘Ten Bears’ or ‘Sitting Bull’. However, I’m a little concerned about one aspect of that whole naming thing they’ve got going.
Apparently, if there’s some event on the day of your birth, such as an eagle soaring overhead, well guess what. You just got dubbed Soaring Eagle.
The other way, at least as I understand it, to get one of those cool names is to do something of particular notoriety, something that gets the tribal members talking—like perhaps running down a deer and killing it with your bare hands, whereupon you might be aptly named Kills with Hands.
A respectable moniker to say the least.

And this is where I have cause for alarm.
What happens if prior to my naming, my parents catch me piously continually whacking-off in my teepee? Does that mean I could get a name like ‘Whacks with Fury’ or ‘Raging Boner’?  That would be humiliating, to be coined as the tribe jack-off.
Or what happens in a case where I’m frying up some bacon for breakfast, and splash some hot grease onto my junk?
Would the tribe start calling me ‘Burning Peter’?
A name like that could keep me out of the tribal wedding pool for some time to come.

Scene of the crime

But I’m seriously hoping you don’t send me back as a girl.
I can see where I’d be hanging on the reservation somewhere—in a teepee, no running water and more importantly, no feminine hygiene products at my disposal…then what?
I’ll tell you what, it won’t be  long before the chief and his cronies start calling me ‘Rotted Flower’ or ’Angry Beaver’.

The more I think about it, the more I realize how badly this could go for me.
Especially if mom gave birth to me, while just outside the teepee two dogs happen to be fucking.

Diego

True penis envy

I checked my spam folder this morning and found over five hundred emails from spammers, most of which had something to do with penis enlargement products.
Normally, I’d delete this garbage, but for some strange reason, today, I decided to check them out.
Here’s what I learned.

Product #1

I can add up to 1/4 inch (.6 cm) per week to my johnson by using this one, but oddly enough, it didn’t mention whether there was a limit on the number of weeks it will continue to work. This makes me wonder if using it for a full year will add 13 inches (33cm) to my existing manhood.
Big, I’ll admit, but not quite what I was looking for.

Being a man’s man, (as proclaimed by others, not me) my logical thought process deduced that if there’s one product out there that will add thirteen inches, there’s probably another that will add even more. And since bigger equals better, I kept looking.

Product #2

This one promises to add both girth and length in relative proportions, but it doesn’t say anything about adding thirteen inches over a year’s time, not like the first one, but it does say “Adds up to two full inches!”
I kind of like this idea, since it did promise to add both girth and length in even proportions, and by my math, that would mean my dick would look like a butternut squash. I’m not sure how I feel about this.

This thing could hurt someone

Ok, let’s move on.

Product #3

Alright, here’s one that looks as though it’s got some real promise by adding up to 1/2 inch per week and no limit on the number of weeks.
Ding..Ding..Ding..WE HAVE A WINNER!
Why in just three months, I’ll be the size of a horse, in six—a rhinoceros, and in only one year, I should be the size of a small humpback whale, measuring in at just over three feet (1 meter) long.
I like it.

Use your imagination!

I can’t wait to get started. I’ll start taking my medication daily, and in the meantime, find a good tailor who can alter my jeans to include a train, since I have a feeling I’ll need to drag the little fellow behind me.

What?
Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I heard someone say “penis envy.”
Hah!

Diego

StumbleUpon this

God-

Whenever I publish something on WordPress, I get this message along with a link telling me how I can increase my site traffic.

Remaining true to the original intent of my blog, that is, to write for me—to publish stories about my life’s experiences, and other random stuff that makes me laugh, I routinely dismiss the idea of clicking the link. Until last week.

Last week I heard a news report suggesting how a single YouTube video gone viral could fetch as much as $100,000.00 dollars, or as they put it, enough to pay for a child’s education.
And that got me rethinking my stance on who the blog was really created for—me or the viewing public. I clicked the link.

Hmm. So far so good I thought as I looked over the site. I’m already signed up for Google, Yahoo, and Bing, but not StumbleUpon. I clicked on the StumbleUpon link.
What an interesting concept. For a small fee, StumbleUpon will direct traffic to your site, increase your numbers and possibly, with a little luck, get your blog to go viral, ultimately garnering enough sponsors to pay for your child’s education.
I signed up for it.
I paid my fee, filled out their lengthy registration form, answering all their dopey questions, and then waited.
Waited for my site numbers to go up.
Waited for the news of my blog going viral.
And waited for CocaCola or Nike to begin calling. School was as good as paid for. I was on my way.
A few days after signing up, I received an email from StumbleUpon, informing me they had rejected my blog, citing the following:

Vulgarity
Profanity
And graphic subject matter

I couldn’t fucking believe what I was seeing. I had to re-read it. Several times in fact.
It was like the day my first daughter was born, when the obstetrician pulled her out of her mommies tummy and I noted the conspicuous absence of a penis. I was shocked. This simply wasn’t going to do.
I wanted a boy. I needed a boy. In fact I wanted four boys and this was a bad start to that program.
Very much like my rejection by StumbleUpon.
I’d never get big site traffic numbers now.
Or the 100 grand.
Or a guest spot on talk shows, speaking eloquently about how the blog came to be, and where I got my inspiration, and where my next book signing would be held.
None of it.

But things as they say, always work out for a reason.
And I’m guessing my experience with StumbleUpon will ultimately prove no different.
So for now, I’ll accept their rejection with grace and aplomb, notwithstanding their implicitly painting me as a cretinous vulgarian. (Which I probably am). But that’s not the point.

The point is, I have a message. And while that message may be to the dislike of StumbleUpon, well, the truth be told, it’s much to the dislike of many others as well. (I’m only going by some of the death threats I’ve received).
Wait, that’s not my point.

My point is this.
WordPress likes my blog.
And so do at least a couple dozen others. (Including actual writers, go figure)
So, with my child’s education squarely on the line, it is, in the truest spirit of vulgarianism that I say to StumbleUpon, Fuck You!

One day, my blog will be all grown-up, just like my little girl.
And when it is, when that special day comes, and my blog asks if she can borrow the car for some Friday night event, unlike StumbleUpon, I will not reject her. For even though she’s a novice at driving, I won’t crush her spirits. (My blog just sprouted a vagina).

I’ll toss her the keys, suggesting she drive directly over to StumbleUpon’s offices, crash through their front window, and (just prior to getting arrested) remind them of the old fabled children’s story; “The little vulgarian who could.”

With love and irony,

Diego

P.S. Thank you WP for all your support.

Diego

A pet bull for my birthday!

God-

Seeing how today is my birthday, I thought instead of making it about me, (which it is) I thought I’d make it about you this year. And toward that end, I’d like to do something special in your honor.
I thought about knocking off a liquor store and giving all the proceeds to Father Donnolly, but he know’s I’m broke so he may suspect something, and besides, he’ll bust me for sure at confession this Friday if he hasn’t already figured it out.

Then I thought about plinking off a couple of accidental rounds with my pellet gun into the neighbors new car, since nobody in the hood likes her. (and now her car). That would make everyone around here happy, but you might be a little miffed.

I even gave some thought (not much though) to running a bunch of red lights in your honor, just like Mick Jagger once suggested in a country western tune he did. But I’m not at all sure what Mick was doing singing country western songs. Maybe he was at a low point in his life.
Anyway, that might get me killed, or busted up pretty bad, not to mention how it would likely mess up my ride. Red light running—definitely out.

And that’s when I decided the best thing I could do to honor you today would be to buy a farm animal, like a cow or a bull.
I think I’m going with the bull.
Cows require milking and that grosses me out, with all those titties and everything. Not for me.
Bulls on the other hand seem pretty cool. And if I raised one from scratch, I could probably teach him tricks and other stuff when I get home from work.
For now, I’ll keep him in the garage until we find a place with a backyard, so I think he’ll be quite comfortable. I have an Ipod deck I can leave out there with him and have it repeat or shuffle songs all day, but I’ll erase the death metal playlist first. I don’t want to come home and see where he’s gone all Marilyn Manson on me.

Then, when he gets a little older, I’ll take him places with me. Like on road trips. Just me and him, two guys bonding.
And when he’s not looking, when his headphones are turned up real loud, I’ll say a few words in your honor, hit him with a cattle prod, and send him running out into traffic where a big truck will hit him. The trucker will be ok but Fernando (my pet bull) probably won’t make it.

I’d get the trucker to help me cut Fernando up into a bunch of steaks and roasts, give the trucker some of Fernando for his trouble, and take the rest home, where I’d stick my Fernando steaks, chops, and roasts in the garage freezer.
My wife would be shocked at first, but she’d like the idea of reclaiming the garage. But then she’d like drop this big bombshell on me that she won’t be eating Fernando because he was our pet. (Actually, he was my pet, she never fed him once or cleaned up any of his bullshit).
So Fernando would lay in the freezer, and after a while get freezer burned, when I’d have to throw him out.

Fucking Fernando, why’d you have to get hooked on my oldies playlist?
I think “Safety Dance” just may have pushed him over the edge, God.

God, raising a bull was not an easy task, not in the least.
I thought I was up for it, but it turns out I wasn’t.

Looking on the bright side however, I’m fresh out of bullshit.

In your honor.

Diego

 

7 billion here, but how many there?

God-

I read in the news this week how the Earth’s population is somewhere around 7 billion.
So just for fun, I Googled  ”how many people have been born since the beginning of time?” The answer, or at least the best guesstimate I could gather from multiple sites was somewhere in the 107 billion range.
Using simple math, I quickly deduced that if 7 billion are currently on the planet, that means over 100 billion people have lived and died since the beginning of time.
Then, using the laws of probability, I reasoned at least 50 percent of them made it into Heaven. That would be fifty billion people in Heaven?
That’s a lot of fucking people in Heaven don’t you think?
But that’s not what bothers me.
What bothers me is how almost half of the 107 billion lived and died prior to 1 A.D. and that means, again, using my probability formula, you’ve got an assload of barbarians up there with you.
Unless you sent them all to Hell for some reason. Which I totally get.
After all, they probably didn’t attend Catholic school. (Like me).
They probably broke all the commandments.
And I doubt seriously they atoned for any of their sins prior to kicking, making it fairly easy for you to send them all to Hell.

But now that wouldn’t be fair, would it?
You provided them with no formalized education. (At least not with nuns anyway)
They didn’t have the 10 commandments or seven deadly sins.
And, you never taught them to do anything other than grunt and run around clubbing shit to death.

So I’m guessing, as your first batch of folks, and considering there were no holy rules in place, you let them in anyway, probably out of some weird sense of guilt.
I can see that, and I get why you did what you did.
But that doesn’t make it any less fucked-up—the fact that half the population of Heaven is running around grunting, looking for someone or something to bludgeon.

I’m seriously hoping you learned a lesson from all of this.
Even I know to throw the first batch in the garbage whenever you’re making something for the first time.

Somewhat concerned,

Diego

“HB” seriously?

God-

Birthday week is finally here, and thanks to Facebook, I no longer need to shamelessly promote the event as in years past.
Yes, thanks to the wonders of electronic social media, my friends will be pre-warned of the event, (allowing sufficient time to shop) and again on the actual day.
Not like in years past when I sent these to everyone:

Unfortunately, since the advent of FB, what was once a splendid celebration has now been reduced to a bunch of stupid FB posts saying things like; “Happy Birthday Diego, or, the even more eloquent, “HB”—sans the Diego for Christ’s sake!

“HB?” Seriously? How fucking lazy can a person get?
There used to be a party to commemorate the event, with booze and weed, and a cornucopia of gifts. (Typically more booze and weed).
And now it’s simply “HB?”
Maybe FB could work on this.
Maybe, when someone attempts to enter “HB” in response to a persons birthday, it would trigger a pop-up saying;
“Hey asshole, its someones birthday, try to show a little class!
But I doubt that’d ever happen.

So this year, on my special day, I hope I don’t, but if I do get a bunch of two-letter posts from well-wishers and they even remotely resemble the letters HB, I believe I will respond in-kind with my own two-letter post.

“FY”

Sans pomp,

Diego

The dirty thong: A gentlemen’s theory

God-

I was in a yogurt shop yesterday, shamelessly accepting free samples of their offerings when an older woman entered the store, her grandkids in-tow. Nothing unusual, or so it seemed.
As I stood there wolfing down samples, she walked by. It was then I noticed she was wearing low cut jeans with a halter top. Ok, a bit unusual for someone her age, but what the fuck, who am I to judge.
Holy Shit, stop the presses! [sound of record scratching] She was wearing a thong.

Not just any thong. A pink one, with laced ruffles.
It gets better.
It was loose fitting—sagging over a flap of wrinkled, 60+ year-old muffin top.
And for the coup de grâce, there were soiled hand prints all over the ruffles. Ewww!

This was one of those rare moments when you quickly pour over the room to see if anyone else just saw what you did, hoping for a non-verbal exchange validating your level of disgust. No one was in the vicinity.
I tried to remain poised, and from outward appearances, I was. But on the inside, it was if I’d just watched a gory scene from Caligula.
My brain was writhing.

In my logical way, I examined the possibilities as to why her thong had dirty handprints, and why it was so loose fitting.
I deduced the following:
It was a nice day out today. Not the 100 plus degree temperatures we’d been having, today was in the mid 80′s—a perfect day for gardening.
As she lovingly cared for her fall garden, her loose fitting undergarment had sneakily made its way toward her ass crack, when, without a moment’s hesitation, (typically required to realize that perhaps one should first wash their hands) she firmly grasped both sides of the thong, hoisting it well above her jeans.
This produced two deleterious side affects.

1. The repeated hoisting sufficiently loosened the garment by ruining the elastic waste band. Once this happened, a continual sagging-hoisting cycle was set into motion, causing further damage to the garment.
2. Throughout the day, her gardening activities took precedence over any random thoughts relating to hygiene. Once the sag-hoist cycle was in play, her mulch-ridden hands were left to the business of the day—planting, mulching, and hoisting.

It was about then one of her grandkids dropped their yogurt on the floor—so much for my theory.
As she bent over to clean it up, the thong was not present. (I presume it was well into the sag part of its cycle) However, when she stood up, she had very inconspicuously pulled off the hoist, because there it was again…in plain view.
Only this time it had chocolate-vanilla swirl handprints on its ruffles.

Ok, so my theory had proven at least half correct.

Hand sanitizingly yours,

Diego

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

God-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So how do we do this?” I asked.

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

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

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

Everyone began laughing hysterically.

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

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

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

I nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drowning, but not in orange juice this time.

Diego

Not just any bad day, a really bad day!

God-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stained,
Diego

One good reason to hate Vikings

God-

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

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

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

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

Hirsuitly yours,

Diego

Planet Bonerville

God-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Earleen best be keeping her shit on the DL

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

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

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

My ride on planet Bonerville

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

Sophmorically yours,

Diego

Save the date!

God-

I’ve always heard that when we die, our friends and relatives would be gathered to greet us in Heaven.
Really?
How do they know to gather and when?
Do you send out a ‘save the date’ notice to everyone?
That kind-of makes sense.
Does it go out in the postal service or email? I’m thinking postal service since a nice card makes more sense than does an Email. Emails can be so impersonal.

If you do send out a save the date, can you request my Aunt Dorothy brings something other than her ‘famous’ 3-bean salad?

Oh, and just kidding about the syphilis.
Please don’t get any ideas. I wasn’t projecting.

Love,

Diego