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

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

Use your hand, we do!

God-

My friend, who’s married to an Indian woman told me how committing a shoplifting crime in India often results in the offender having his left hand amputated.
That sounds way harsh if you ask me.
She says it’s because people in India don’t use toilet paper, they use their left hand to wipe their ass, and in its absence, a result of the criminal justice system, they’re forced to use the same hand to eat as wipe their butt as a lifelong punishment.
Unbelievable! Cut off the entire hand?
Why not just surgically implant some sequins on the palms or something similar that would scratch their asshole during the wipe? Crazy.

Here’s something to wrap your head around.
Do you know she (my friends wife) has lived in America since graduating from Stanford and she still won’t use toilet paper?
What the hell is that?
You’d think someone with that kind of education would at least be smart enough to clean themselves properly, with Charmin or the like, but no, she won’t have it.
She tells me its customary to use only water and only her left hand.
Which I suppose works well for her, but could never work for me since I happen to be left-handed.
Besides, I hate the smell of poop.

Anyway, I went over to their house Sunday to watch football when the thought occurred to check out their bathroom for soap. Antibacterial soap to be more specific.
Not a drop.
All she had was a bunch of little colored soaps in various shapes, like hearts and flowers. And they smelled like some kind of cologne (I presume to mask the shit smell from her hand). Interestingly enough however, none of them looked as though they’d ever been used. Probably a decorative thing. Chicks do that.
She did have toilet paper in the holder, and, it was a full roll, which said implicitly that he was using his hand too!
Both of them were hand-ass-wipers!
And that ruined the rest of my Sunday afternoon.

When I returned from the bathroom, I found myself slipping into an almost catatonic state, as during the next two hours, instead of watching the game, I was consumed with watching Ed.
In particular, his hand movements to see which one he was using to eat snacks with, as he fished out giant gobs of chips and mixed nuts from their little party bowls. But this proved more difficult than one might think.
It was like watching one of those street guys in New York play 3-card monte, both his hands flailing about in response to the game, then, without warning, swooping in for a handful of nuts.
Fuck. Was that his left or right? I’m confused.

TOUCHDOWN!
What? (big record scratch)
We just scored a touchdown and I could not have cared less for the first time in my life.
All I could think about was whether or not he was infecting our snacks with his minute shit particles.

I’d like to think I’m a bigger person than merely one who picks out people’s flaws, but the truth is, I’m not.
Honestly, the thought of Ed dipping his shit-smeared hands into the snack bowl repulsed me and as a result, I won’t be going over Ed and Sikka’s house anymore, not without a CSI team to forensically examine everything first.
There’s probably shit smeared all over everything in their place, truth be known.

Ok, so I am small minded and shallow. Who cares.
At least I don’t have to worry about getting taco-butt after a bad hand wipe.

Love, (left-handed)

Diego

Diego’s Breeding Service

God-

You know that whole ‘immaculate conception’ thing? Why do they call it immaculate?
We’re you and Jesus’s mom all dressed up in white underwear before getting your freak on?
Or by immaculate, did you mean you got her preggers without any baby-batter involved?
How does that work?
Are you so holy that you don’t use sperm like the rest of us?
Do you just look at chicks, and BAM, they’re pregnant?
I wish I could do that.
If I could, I’d market myself to lesbian couples that want a kid, but don’t want any of the fuss a dude like me would bring to the table.
I’d call myself,  ”Diego—The Immaculate Impregnator.“

I’m thinking I’d lock myself into a room with some homo babe, sit and chat for a while, putting her at ease. Then, as we discuss which acts we liked best at Lilith Fair and how Sarah McLachlan needs a new hit single, BAM, I hit her with a healthy dose of air-spooge while she’s still caught up fantasizing about Sarah’s playground. That should work, right?

Unlike you however, I will need to charge a stud fee to cover some of my costs.
Speaking of which, do you know how owners of top race horses charge exorbitant stud fees—like when their horse just won the Kentucky Derby or something?
Well I like this concept,  but I’m afraid I’ll need a few more achievements on my resume aside from ‘valet parking specialist’, or ‘food server’.
No, I’ll need something big if I want the big bucks. After all, what vagitarian couple in their right mind would want their offspring parking cars for a living.
Maybe I could say how I invented Birkenstock sandals. Lesbians worship Birkenstocks.
Having this little factoid on my resume would spell alternative-lifestyle folk hero and in no uncertain terms, inspiring hot lesbo couples everywhere to sign up for my highly coveted inventor-type splooge.

I invented these...no, really...wait, don't leave!

Changing gears.
I may need a little plastic surgery to augment my inventor status.
If there’s one thing I know about lesbians (mostly from porn), it’s how good looking they all are. It’s amazing.
They all seem to be blonde, fit, and sport double dd’s. Just like movie stars!

I think they want a baby

And this could only mean one thing.
I’ll need to look like this guy.

And not this guy.

Can you arrange this somehow?

Immaculately yours,

Diego

An Indian dilemma: Beef or Veal?

God-

Level with me.
Did you make cows sacred just to fuck with the Hindu people of India? That’d be pretty messed up if you did, especially with all those people starving and what not.
Couldn’t you have just as easily made brussel sprouts sacred?
I’m guessing they’d be pretty easy to worship too, and given their relatively small size, you could always have a few laying around in a bowl somewhere if you felt the need to say a quick prayer or something.
The cow, not so much.
I know if I lived in India, and you had made brussel sprouts holy, you’d never have to sweat me eating them, or anyone else eating them for that matter, due to the rancid-as-ass taste you gave them.

Cows, on the other hand, have got to be the most unholy animal on the planet with the exception of chickens, (who routinely eat their own shit).
In fact, by last count, cows break at least 3 of the 7 deadly sins daily, assuming the 7 deadly sins apply to the bovine realm, and from all my catholic training, I’m pretty sure they do.

Here’s a thought.
Why not make only veal holy?
They look and taste like little baby lambs which we all know is a staple of Indian cuisine.
They’re even small enough to have around as a house pet, then, when they start to get big and turn into a fully grown beef cow or bull, and, they’re not little baby veals any longer, it’d be ok to eat them—serving them up with a nice goblet of bordeaux, some herbed fingerling potatoes and a nice bernaise sauce. Kind of a celebratory supper. From veal to cow to dinner table. Yum.

God bless the brussel sprouts!

And to make the event even more holy, we could all hold hands and say something nice about the brussel sprouts before chowing down on the beef.
Even though we won’t mean it.

Just a thought.

Love, medium rare.

Diego

On birth and death

God-

Who decides when a baby is born or when someone dies—or even how they die—you?
Or do you have an agency in charge of this?
Here’s why I’m asking.

I’ve thought about some of the various jobs I might be well-suited for in Heaven, and this is one I think I could be really good at.
First of all, I can think in the abstract—like you!
Well, not exactly like you.
I mean, I’m not sure I could have coughed up an entire universe in only seven days, but I’m reasonably certain I could have at least gotten a small ocean started or something.
And this is important, why?
Well for starters, I believe whoever is in charge of the birth / death thing is doing a really shitty job. Seriously.
I mean who gives a little kid cancer, or for that matter, old people Alzheimers?
Old people are fucked in so many ways as it is, why the need to top it off with dementia? That’s just cruel.

And while we’re on the topic, what was the Holocaust?
Part of me actually believes your agency was on vacation somewhere, and instead of leaving one guy in the office managing their traditional raffle system, (which seems like the most plausible explanation for who goes and when), they simply concocted some crazy motherfucker named Hitler, put their jobs on autopilot, and bounced for the Caribbean.
Then, as if an alarm sounded, they all come rushing back to work when they learned how their freaky-deaky-moustached asshole just killed off 6 million people, as they were laying on a beach somewhere slogging down Corona’s.
They should have all been fired for that one. The entire lazy-ass bunch of them.

Really? This is how my cousin Jack contracted AIDS?

Which is precisely why you need someone like me.
I think I can do a whole lot better than mindlessly doling out cancer, heart attacks, or terrorist events.
All too easy in my book.

I’m thinking outside the box here, but if I was in charge, I think I could be just a tad more creative than these brainless twits.
Here’s what I’m thinking.

First. No more raffles!
Kids and cancer don’t mix. That’s just fucked-up and I believe your current death-raffle system has a lot to do with this.
Next, I’d make death both fun and interesting.
Nobody wants to read about car crashes, gunshot victims, or babies falling into the backyard swimming pool. Those are unpleasant media stories and as far as I’m concerned, really morbid. Some even passé.

No, if I was in charge, I’d inject a certain flair into what would be an otherwise ordinary death.
Here are some examples.

BUS PLUNGES

Why do most bus plunges only occur in South America? Is it their single lane roads, steep cliffs, and narrow bridges?
Sure, they all play a role, but if I was in charge, I’d have buses plunging over cliffs and bridges all over the world, and not just South America.
Bus trips are typically happy affairs, with group sing-alongs and an unmistakable sense of excitement often accompanying a good road trip.
So nobody onboard will be more surprised when the driver falls asleep at the wheel, veering off the nearest bridge, or plunging over a steep mountainside.
In fact, with all that singing, I doubt anyone would notice as they merrily, (and unwittingly) plunge their way right onto your doorstep.
I know, pretty cool idea, huh?

Next Stop....forget it, you'll never believe me

HIGH SPEED TRAIN WRECKS

Now here’s a creative way to kill hundreds, perhaps even thousands, and without the aid of cancer or Alzheimers!
Old people like to travel, right? So I’d arrange for free travel on rickety old Amtrak or Eurail trains about ready to crash anyway.
Make it one of those high-speed Eurail trains and now you’ve got something really interesting.
Everybody wins!

Might wanna try hanging on

HOT AIR BALLOON MISHAPS

Ever since those crazy Montgolfier brothers built that first hot air balloon, these things have been going down like Sasha Grey. So why not a hot air balloon? It’s  adventurous, scenic, and a great venue for dying.
One minute you’re snapping pictures over the Grand Canyon, the next, you’re laying under a pile of colored silk.
Forget about cancer. All you’ll need on this trip is a leaky gas valve and

KAPLOWEE !!!

Game over.
No pain and suffering, hospital bills to saddle relatives with, or even funeral costs, since rescue crews will never find the bodies! Just some burned-up colored silk and a partially legible Cinzano logo.
I realize this won’t give me the numbers I’m looking for as Earth’s new population manager, but it is a much more pleasant way to go than some of the current alternatives.

AMUSEMENT PARK INCIDENTS

No one can disagree with the statement “Disneyland is the happiest place on earth”.
Well it doesn’t need to be. Not anymore.
With only a few hundred accidents per year, I’m betting I can get some fairly big numbers between Pirates and that new Harry Potter ride.
Here’s the best part.
Everyone loves to have fun, so a few thousand deaths a year isn’t going to deter anyone from planning that next spring break trip, least of all mom and dad.

Then, when I need some really big death numbers, when the population is getting too out-of-control—despite China’s best efforts at birth control, I can always throw in a major virus that’s only activated by blowjobs.
I know, I know…your crew already tried this with butt-sex and AIDS, but that was a lame effort in my opinion since it targeted mostly the homo’s, whereas bj’s could take down everyone, and damned fast too!
Well, not exactly everyone.

I’m stretching here, but I don’t think the Amish much care for oral sex which could be a slight problem.
I’ll need to come up with something special for those creepy motherfuckers, like some kind of barn-raising gone bad, or perhaps a goat cheese virus.
Something organic anyway.

Love,

Diego

Till death do us part

God-

Just a stab in the dark, but I’m guessing we’re all single again once we kick, at least that’s how I interpret the whole ’till death do us part’ thing. Which can only mean one thing. I’ll need to join a singles club.

So are there singles clubs in Heaven?
I suppose it would be one thing if I’d died in my twenties. Back then I was fit, fairly handsome, and had all the tackle necessary to attract a mate.
But now?
Now I’m older, and if I was to die at this age, aside from flies, the only thing I’ll attract with this body is a Tammy Faye Bakker look-alike.

Not good.
Which is precisely why I need the safety and comfort of a singles club. They console you and actually help you to believe you’re still worthy of a decent mate, even when you’re not.
Singles clubs, on the outside looking in, remind me of life on the savannah. Where packs of goofy looking animals run around trying to protect each other from hungry predators by using the safety in numbers concept.
That is, until one of them fucks-up and strays from the pack, where there’s almost certainly some hungry, big-toothed motherfucker waiting to munch their shit up.
Ok, so maybe the pack animal analogy isn’t the best, since I doubt anyone is going to hunt me down and eat me if I fail the membership initiation. But there’s a more important aspect of singles clubs at play, and that’s how they provide a captive source of other singles all too eager to console you when you’re too butt ugly to find a mate. And that would be me.
So as long as I stay within the pack, I’ll find a safety net of faux friendship, where there’s almost certainly an occasional mercy romance on the horizon.
Not bad.

WITHOUT a singles club membership

There is a downside however. Have you seen the chicks in singles clubs?
I have.
Most of them are not what anyone would term the hottest of babes. In fact, a lot of them look like Russian peasants.
Which I suppose is alright as long as you don’t have any expectations of me striking up a romance with these chicks.
But I bet they can cook so it won’t be all bad.

Bad pooty vibes

 
Singles clubs dudes?
The dudes are a different story altogether. They look like idiots.
But this is mostly due to their total lack of fashion sense. As if a uniform, they all seem to dress uncannily similar—stupid-looking plaid shorts, flip flops with black socks, and these oversized Hawaiian print shirts that make you secretly wonder just how fat they really are underneath all that polyester.
Wearing a getup like this is going to be a problem, at least for me anyway.
Such a dichotomy.
The safety aspect of belonging to the pack while simultaneously morphing oneself into an anti-poon fashionista.
I’ll take neither.

Then there’s the other piece of the singles clubs I nearly always forget while fantasizing how glorious they are.
Their activities.
I typically don’t bike, hike, swim, white-water raft, sky-dive, go on cruises, or play volleyball in the nude.
Nope. None of it.
I do however like to bowl, shoot assault rifles at trees and other inanimate objects, go fishing, shoot pigeons off my neighbors roof, watch sports—hell, all tv for that matter, drink beer, eat beef, fart, go to the horse track, strip club, and NASCAR events. (In no particular order, of course).

Not exactly the fabric singles clubs are looking for one might conclude.

So are there other types of singles clubs, maybe just not as docile?
I mean, I’m not exactly looking for biker chicks, but then I’m not looking for a former accountant babe whose idea of a good time is going for a hike and gobbling down a pint of yoghurt afterward.
And don’t even think about the Russian peasant thingy. That’s not going to happen. (Unless copious amounts of vodka are involved).

WITH a singles club membership

So how about it?
What’dya say you e-mail me a registration form for one of your more “adventurous” clubs.
But not like those swinger’s clubs either. The last thing I need is to wander around for all of eternity with a fiery STD I pick up from one of your more careless members.
That’d be a real downer.

Love, as always,

Diego

Church music: out with the organ, in with the drums

God-

I have a question.
Whose bright idea was it to designate the organ as official musical instrument of the church—was it you?
If it was, I hate to say it but you kinda screwed up on that one.

The organ, save for the boring as shit sermons, the kneeling, the holding hands, and the uncomfortable seating, has got to be one of the primary reasons I can’t stand going to church. I hate organ music.
Organ music (the kind they play in church) is just plain sad, and to some extent, scary, like you’re in a horror movie or something.
Besides, who plays the organ these days anyway? Just try to name one pop star who made it big on the organ?
Nobody, right?
Don’t believe me? Google “popular organ players” and see what pops up. Nothing.
Do you know why?
Because there is no such thing as a popular organ player. Hell, Lawrence Welk didn’t even have an organ player in his band and if anyone should have, it would’ve been him.
And that makes me question if you were you on a mission to have church music bring everyone down, because if you were, I think you pretty much succeeded.

Sometimes I just don’t get you.
See, if I was in your shoes, and I got to choose the kind of music to play in church, I’d have gone with a live band as my first option. Live bands always draw crowds, and isn’t that what you want? Big numbers of church-goers?
The live band would also help take a person’s mind off how excruciatingly boring church can be at times, (which is pretty much all the time, for me anyway).
I think it would be kind of cool to have a lead guitarist softly strumming Stairway to Heaven as background music while the priest is giving his sermon. That would actually improve my holiness stats since I’d tend to focus on the lyrics instead of checking out any hot church-babe strays that showed up for services that day.

But let’s say, for the sake of argument, the only live bands back in the day were Mozart or Beethoven. Under those circumstances, I could see where the live band wouldn’t have been such a hot choice.
Some of that classical shit can get pretty boring. Combine that with a bad sermon and now you’ve got a real mess on your hands.

Maybe the live band isn’t such a good idea after all. Maybe a better choice would have been the drums!
Bongos, snare, bass, timpani, even steel drums. Now that would be cool.
Drums, after all have been around forever. Even cavemen played the drums.

Remember how Santana had all those drums in his band at Woodstock. Well it could be just like that only better, without Santana singing any of his stupid lyrics.
Just think, if you had gone with drums, communion would be an entirely different event, as a drum roll would precede each person’s communion.
And when the priest is about to pull off a big move, like polishing the chalice, or doing the blessing at the end of mass, you could have dual timpani’s kick in for a proper grand finale!
Then, on holidays like Easter and Christmas, you could feature a really big drum solo, like the ones in all those Queen songs.
I like that idea.
In fact, I think you should make a big solo standard right after communion, as you’re finishing up the mass.

That way, I could snag my communion, get seated, say my thank you prayer, bolt for the car, and get the hell out of there before all the other church-fucks beat me to the parking lot.

Time for a change God,

Diego

15 reasons to move church to Monday

God-

I need a favor.
You know how Mondays are always a bitch?
Well I was thinking how it’d make perfect sense to move church services from Sunday to Monday.
Genius, right?
Here’s my logic.

1. As it stands, I only get two days a week off work and church really fucks with one of them, especially if my wife gets to jawing with all her church buddies after mass. This spells trouble, causing me to miss out on a.m. sports programming.
2. I’m always hungover on Sunday morning.
3. If I’m not hungover, I have to fake sick to get out of church—then come up with a miracle cure by noon if I don’t want to get stuck inside all day.
4. If I go camping for the weekend, I never race back in time for church on Sunday. (see #2 above)
5. I typically like to play golf on Sundays.
6. If I’m really hungover, I hike Camelback mountain on Sunday morning since hiking always burns off a major hangover, and, I can always find a parking spot.
7. The Sunday newspaper is huge. If I combine reading it with going to church afterward, it wastes half a day.
8. I always fall asleep in church since it’s so damned early, the priest is boring, and the women dress like, well, like they’re going to Church.
9. I like to take my wife to Waffle House on Sunday mornings as her special post-coital reward.
   

   Her prize!

10. DirecTV has the best porn programming on Sunday mornings.  Case in point; Black Beaver Bang is playing this morning at the exact same time as mass. (I don’t think this is a coincidence).
11. I always call in sick Monday anyway. Church would legitimize my doing so.
12. I’m rarely hungover on Mondays.
13. There’s no good tv programming on Monday except Monday Night Football. No conflict there.
14. Porn channel programming is worthless on Monday mornings, case in point; Asian Anal Invasion 3 is playing tomorrow at the exact same time as mass, and I think we both know how you feel about butt-sex.
15. My wife works Mondays, and rarely calls in sick, so she’d never know if I went to church or not. I could stay home and not have to fake sick anymore.

So?
What say we try it.. for a couple weeks?

Mondays are a total bummer anyway, why not throw church in the deal and positively make it the absolute worst day of the week?

Hungover and tired.

Diego

What is YOUR lucky number?

God-

You know how the Devil’s lucky number is 666? Well I’m curious why you don’t have a lucky number too? Maybe you do and I just don’t know about it.
Let’s take the Devil for example. Why at the mere mention of 666, people everywhere are quick to shit  themselves.
And this got me thinking.
Wouldn’t it behoove you to designate a lucky number for yourself that makes people shit themselves too?
You don’t want people more afraid of the Devil than they are you, do you?
My point exactly.
And this is why I’m writing today, I have some numbers you may wish to consider, that is if you haven’t already done so.

11:11

Some people say 11:11 has a holy reference. I don’t think it does. If it did, it would fit on a sports jersey. God, if you’re going to be popular, your lucky number should be limited to two digits, and the smaller the number the better.
For instance, the number 98 is typically reserved for some big fat American football player who probably eats little kids when no one is looking. And as we all know, eating little kids is most unholy. This could be a good number for you. It would most certainly scare me directly into a very uncomfortable church pew if I was a kid.

This guy eats kids!

7

I like seven because it references a bunch of holy stuff, like the 7 deadly sins, and winning at craps. Bigger yet is the fact that John Elway wore number 7 all those years he played for the Broncos. Who knows, with a little practice, maybe you can be a celebrated sports figure too!

God, this could be you (with a little practice)

21

Twenty-one has an exceptionally holy inference as it’s the legal drinking age in America. This is huge. Most kids worship this number, looking forward to the day they can drink til they puke in their dorm room, and legally no less. If you want to sucker kids into the world of religion, 21 is your ticket.

Wanna bet Morgan will be sick tonight?

777

Its bigger than 666, and, on most slot machines signals a huge jackpot, which I guess could make people shit themselves.

Troubles are over

999

This sounds like something Adolph Hitler would have screamed real loud in one of his public addresses. Kinda scary.

NEIN! NEIN! NEIN!!!

420

Very popular with druggies, but since most of them are going to Hell anyway, don’t waste your time.

This won't scare anyone

867-5309

Jenny’s phone number, she’s probably old and fat by now, and, I don’t know her area code.

I think Jenny was a major slut

 

 

God, are you starting to get the idea?

 

Numerically yours,

 

Diego

Cremation is a really bad idea

God-

How exactly does cremation work?
No, not the burn-my-shit-up in a massive bonfire part, the part where I show up in Heaven as a sack full of ashes?
I was kind-of looking forward to catching up with the fam-fam in Heaven but I don’t see how that’s even possible if I’m nothing more than a pile of soot.
Besides, how will they know it’s me anyway—will the sack be labeled; Diego ala Fuego?

I hate to break it to ya, but I come from a pretty big family, all of whom will be waiting for me, cute little Diego, not some pile of ashes.
Yeah, I can see them all now, gathered around me, befuddled, as my smart-ass cousin Petey says something stupid like; “What the hell happened to you, you’re looking a little ashen?
To which I’ll respond, “______”.
That’s right. I won’t utter a word, and do you know why?
‘Cause I’m a fucking pile of ashes that’s why, and ashes don’t speak.
When was the last time you spoke to your ashtray—and it actually answered you, huh?

And what about my wings? I didn’t expect I’d be the “perfect” angel up there anyway, but how is this supposed to work? Do you just plug a pair of wings into my pile and expect me to take-off?
Fuck, I’ll blow all over the place like a duststorm, and then poof, vanish right into thin air.

Anyway, I saw this ad in the Sunday paper for Cremations for as little as $695 and thought this might be the way to go, but not if you make Petey watch my ashes. That’d be like a remake of “Home Alone”.
The fam heads off on a European vacation and I wind up getting flushed down the toilet ’cause Petey’s an asshole.

Yeah…no, I don’t think cremation is for me.
I look forward to seeing my mom again, but I’d kind of like to give her a big hug without making her look like that chimney sweep dude from Mary Poppins.

Posthumously yours,

Diego

Male models

God-

Do you need any male models in Heaven? If so, I’d like to sign up.
I think I have what it takes to be a male model, that is if looks aren’t important, and from what I’ve seen in biblical paintings, they’re not.
Why do I think I have the right stuff to be a male model?

Well for starters, I like to lay around in my robe all day.
Most of the models in bible paintings look like they’re in robes.
I rarely shave, opting for the George Clooney stubble look. It seems no one shaves in Heaven either.
I have good looking feet, and since everyone in Heaven wears sandals, my dogs would be prominently displayed.

Nice dogs!

I’m good with knives—swords, not so much, but that doesn’t mean I can’t learn. A lot of the guys in those bible paintings have helmets and swords. I have a motorcycle helmet, and an old Star Wars sword I kept from when I was a kid, so I’ve had some practice.
I love beef jerky and diet soda. Models live on beef jerky and diet soda.
I chain smoke.
I’m pretty stupid, if I do say so myself.
I routinely make bad decisions.
I breathe with my mouth open.
And I have this cool tattoo of a really cute little squirrel, arms outstretched, located just under my sack. Pretty unique actually and very photogenic.
I should think this qualifies me.

How about it.

35mm yours,

Diego

Skip the wings and give me beaver teeth

God-

I don’t understand how the whole  angel wing thing works.
Do we still have arms in Heaven or just wings? I’ve always wanted to fly like a bird, so the wings would be totally cool, but only if I get to keep my arms in the deal.

If I think about my daily routine now, I’ll  need my hands to flip people off and make pancakes for breakfast. I’m uncertain wings will allow me to do either.
Besides, wings have feathers and feathers molt.
We had a parakeet once, he molted constantly until one day when he lost all his feathers and keeled over.

Why wings anyway? Why on earth would you pattern us after a bird with only the wings and no beak? This makes no sense.
Why couldn’t you have patterned us after a really cool animal, like a beaver or a sea otter. They’re really cute and playful, very family oriented and they have huge choppers. (I like big teeth, I know, its weird).

Check out his Chuck Taylor's

By contrast, birds are a nasty sort, reptilian by ancestry, and, the last time I checked, related to snakes.
Again, this seems to go against all the stuff in the bible about serpents and what troublemakers they are.

I think its high time you updated the whole angel image. A newer, fresher approach that gets folks excited about coming your way.
What about one of those jet-fueled backpacks instead of wings? It seems like a much better technology and it doesn’t molt.
I can’t speak for others, but the flying around with a backpack would sure get me watered-up about dying.
Do the Chuck Taylor’s come with the  deal? It’s alright if they don’t, they’re not a dealbreaker.
Not getting the huge teeth is, however.

Gnawingly yours,

Diego

Einstein in Heaven?

God-

Is Albert Einstein in Heaven?
If so, aren’t you the slightest bit worried he’s working on something new that might blow-up the place?
After all, he did come up with that whole E=mc2 thing scientists used to create the A-bomb.
Do you know how fucked that turned out for Japan?
Don’t get me wrong, a guy like Einstein would be a huge asset to any Heavenly organization, but only if he stops messing around with all these math theories ending in explosive devices. Not cool.
If I was you, I would have just given him a lobotomy before he got unpacked and settled in up there. He’d never know the difference, and, you wouldn’t have to sweat some giant explosion that’d turn you all into cosmic dust.

I hope you're watching him God

Anyways, I’d like to know there’ll still be a Heaven when I get there, and that this wacky old man didn’t fuck the joint up with some new incendiary device.

Please tell me you’ve:

A.) Dumbed him down a tad (lobotomy or the like)
B.) Got some disciples or apostles (whichever) keeping a close eye on him
C.) Hit him in the head with a rock or something and that he’s wandering around up there with amnesia

You’ve got me nervous.

Premeditatively yours,

Diego

Why do you get all the credit?

God-

You know how porn stars like to scream out your name when they’re having sex? What’s up with that?
How is it that you get any of the credit?
You’re not the one doing any of the work. If anything, they should be screaming out each others name but that never happens—why?
Do you think its because they don’t know the persons name they’re screwing, so they just say yours instead?
I have a theory, tell me if I’m wrong.
Let’s say, just for shits and giggles you consider sex a holy act.
I don’t know that you actually come out and say this anywhere, like in the ten commandments or anything, but let’s pretend for a second you do. I can see why people scream out your name. Maybe it’s their way of thanking you for getting them laid in the first place. That makes sense. Maybe that’s why porn stars are so popular. They’re really much holier than anyone would know.

So what about all the people who don’t believe in you, do they still shout your name?
Like Muslims for instance, do they cry out “Oh Allah?” That’d be pretty funny to hear.

And what about those really weird religions like Scientology, do their followers say “Oh Xenu, God of the Confederate Galaxy”? Now that’s a mouthful and not easily repeatable if you need to say it real fast like porn stars do.

I wonder if the Amish even speak during sex? I wouldn’t have anything to say to an Amish woman except “Now tell me again, why are you still Amish in 2011″? Or do they talk about whose turn it is to milk the cow in the morning.

NO!

 

Whose name do Mormons scream out—yours or Joseph Smiths? I’d probably go with Smiths’ since he paved the road to polygamy.

Hell YES!

 

Sometimes I wish I would’ve married a native American woman. Aside from the fry bread, she’d probably cry out “Oh, Great Spirit” which I could easily interpret as me, and not you, for once.

Coitfully yours,

Diego

One small request

God-

Do we still have to pray in Heaven? I hope not.
I don’t know what we’d pray for anyway, unless we get there and find out there’s another Heaven somewhere, and that we’d have to pray like hell to get into that one too. That would be a royal jip.
I’m under the impression we only need to pray until we get into Heaven, like how you only have to study just enough to get through college.
Which brings up a good point.
Going to Heaven, in a way, sound likes graduating from college. Is it? That would suck if it was.
When I got out of college my parents made me go get a real job.
Is that what you’re planning on? I hope you’d at least have the decency to let me get moved in and settled first before kicking me to the curb, it just seems fair.
Besides, I don’t like  job hunting.
The unemployment office here is full of lazy-as-mud half wits that smell bad. Some of them even look like they want to kick your ass. It’s not fun.
And if that’s not bad enough, my unemployment officer always talks to me as if I don’t speak english, often repeating herself and talking real loud. What a bitch she is!

I have another question.
What about all these people down here who pray incessantly, your basic prayer overachievers—do they get extra credit? Some people say they go to a special part of Heaven, kind of like living in snooty Scottsdale versus west Phoenix. Is this true?
I’ve never been an overachiever at anything, let alone praying, but if that’s what its gonna take for me to be driving a Range Rover and living on the “good” side of Heaven, well count me in.
Another question.
Do I actually have to say the prayers? I can, it’s not a problem, but I was thinking I could speed things up a bit up if I could just print out a bunch of prayers online and email them directly to you nightly. That would be much smoother on my end, and I could send in thousands to boot, insuring I get a spot in the good part of Heaven, far from the railroad tracks or airport. That’s where all the wino’s hang.
I wouldn’t have to kneel down anymore either. A win-win.

Ok, so I’ll start tonight. Ok?

Ok?

Praying like hell,

Diego

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

I want to be Somebody in Heaven

God-

I need to bring cash with me to Heaven, more specifically, my life insurance proceeds.
I know this kind of goes against your rules a little, but just listen.
If we don’t get to bring our cash to Heaven, how are we going know who’s the shit up there?
Down here, if you have a lot of money, you’re the shit!
I’ve never been the shit.
I’ve wanted to be the shit, but unfortunately, I’ve just never had enough money.
Down here, if you have money and good looks, you wind up on the cover of People magazine every week.
You’re celebrated by everyone, and everyone loves you.
Sometimes, if you have a shit-load of money, you start making your own brand of vodka or cologne.
This is an important part of being rich as it allows others (clubbers) to share in your success by smelling just like you when they’re really wasted.
Not me, I still smell like Right-Guard and chicken soup when I’m wasted.

This leads me to the inescapable conclusion that I’ll never be the shit, at least not here or anywhere else unless I have some coinage, and that doesn’t seem likely until I die and collect on my insurance policy.
So this is why I was hoping you’d let me load my robe with dinero—so I could finally make something of myself. Be somebody if you will.
Why, I’d be on the cover of People and everyone would love me.
I’d be seen yukking it up at all major sporting events, and in the front row no less (with my bitches).
Oh, yeah, I’d have me some bitches.
I could even pontificate my bullshit political agenda on all the talk shows!
I’d have a jet, a helicopter and a yacht. I’d finally smell good, too.
I’m thinking we (you) could even give me a reality talk show since I basically have no talent and I’m not very interesting.
I’d have a crew. Money buys crews.
My crew would be lazier than mud, high all the time, kiss my ass, do any chores you might require, laugh at all my shit, and let me debase them like evil step-children.
I’d have a mansion. No, I’d have several mansions.
I’d have a white tiger, an English butler, and a midget named Leopold.
I’d have a movie popcorn machine and one of those pimply-faced theater kids tending to it.
I’d have an arcade, and an arcade fire.
A soda fountain with colored sports drinks, a cotton candy machine, and a pizza guy named Luigi who only speaks Italian and has a big mustache.
I’d even have an old French homeless-dude organ-grinder with his own monkey that begs for change from the crowd.
A dog named Owen.
A whore for a sister.
A neighbor I don’t covet, and a garden hose nozzle that lasts for more than one summer season.
Flops that don’t ever break. A pair of blue crocs, and a purple pair of Jellies.
I’d have a signed picture of George Burns, Gary Coleman, and the fat kid from InSync.
I’d have sworn testimony from OJ that he really did do it.
A male donkey without a dick.
A blind deaf-mute female porn star who can’t grunt.
And a video of Al Gore peeing in the Ganges.

Is this unholy of me or should I raise my policy benefits to 100k?

Longingly,

Diego

Resource Depletion Executive

God-
Will there be any natural resources for me to deplete in Heaven? I sure hope so.
I have a real knack for wiping out the Earths precious resources and feel like I’d be pretty good at it up there too, so much so I believe I just may qualify for a Senior Management position in this department.
For instance, I never turn off the water while I shave, and often leave the water running outside after getting distracted by just about anything, leaving the garden to routinely flood.
My penchant for  wasting plastic water bottles is exceeded only by the fact that I throw them out half full.
I love wasting gasoline and often go on long drives for no particular reason.
My home’s air conditioner is set to 65F in the summer, not a big whoop unless you consider I live in Phoenix.
I have a wood burning fireplace because I like to stare incessantly into the flames as I contemplate absolutely nothing.
I don’t use my recycle bin.
I only use paper plates, bowls and plastic dinnerware so I don’t have to do the dishes, and, I don’t keep leftovers.
Pretty impressive, huh?
Did I also mention how I refuse to “Go Paperless”, loathe the term “Green” in any form, and will not purchase anything made out of recycled anything.
How wasteful is that?

I kick our dog sometimes, too.

Wastefully yours,

Diego

Just how bright is that light?

God-

Do blind people regain their eyesight in Heaven or do they just stay blind?
That would be pretty messed up if they had to stay blind, in Heaven of all places.
And how do they even know if they’re going to Heaven if they can’t see that bright light and tunnel stuff when they die—or do they?
I would imagine after being blind all that time, and then seeing a bright light all of a sudden, well, couldn’t that make them go blind again?
Anyways, there’s some real nice stuff to look at right here on Earth, I can’t imagine what they’d be missing out on up there.
I suppose if they do have to stay blind up there, maybe the silver lining is that there’s probably not a whole lot of stuff to bump into or get run over by—is there?
Do the blind get wings?
I hope not.

Optically yours,

Diego