My top 10 reasons for not wanting to be President

Let’s say there was a war to end all wars someday. A real doozy. A war so so devastating, its final campaign was the dispatch of a thousand nuclear warheads targeting the most populated cities of the world, ensuring the survival on no-one.
But just for shit’s sakes, remarkably, I somehow managed to survive the event. That only me and a bunch of half-wit cannibals from Papua New Guinea were all who remained.
I still wouldn’t want to be President of the United Whatever and here are my top ten reasons why:

1. There’d be no button left to push.  Half the fun of being President (I suspect) is having my admin ring up the President of Guam (or some other shithole nation) on days when I’m bored, informing him if he doesn’t sock at least half his country’s wealth into a numbered offshore account in the Caymans, there’s a big red button in my office with his name on it. But now, my Oval Office has been replaced by something resembling a homeless shelter with no big red button anywhere in sight. Shit.
2. No Cuban Cigars survived the blast. I love Cuban cigars but there would be none left. Not after a blast like that. Equally as disturbing would be the conspicuous absence of an idiot intern with whom I could bang with those same cigars. But there are no interns either. This makes me sad in a weird way but I’m not sure why. You’d think the absence of one would negate the need for the other but in my mind, it’s really unclear. In either case, I wouldn’t want to be President without both.
3. No slum neighborhoods. Every U.S. President throughout history has had a street named after him, and, its nearly always in a slum neighborhood. With all the slums gone, having been reduced to ash, I’d have to forgo having my own boulevard namesake. And while I could go around spray painting my name all over rubble with no consequences, somehow, it wouldn’t be the same.
4. Air Force One is now Air Force None. Yes the plane was joyriding, keeping the former President safe while the world was being destroyed. But now it’s just sitting there on the tarmac with no pilot, no fuel and, no President. (He eventually landed, stepped outside to take a peek at the devastation and was instantly fried by the radiation) This is really fucked-up, and, one hell of a reason for my not wanting to be President. Being unable to go cruising in AF-1 on a Friday night, doing low-speed passes over the local high-school football game would be a real downer. Besides, all my high-school honeys are now dust.
5. Porn. I don’t really see me getting my Presidential freak-on with some jabbering, low-hanging, pointed-tittied survivor from New Guinea. At least not without some jealous tribesman trying to kill and boil me in a big black cauldron. Fuck that. That’s why I’d need some internet porn. But the internet is now lint, and for me to conjure up distant memories of  my one and only adolescent sex experience—a high-school handy under the bleachers isn’t going to be enough to satisfy this Presidential libido. No sir. Another good reason to not want to be Pres.
6. There’d be no wars left to start. Part of the draw of being a U.S. President I would think, is how you’d be the most powerful man on the planet—able to start shit with any country—anytime, anyplace. Well not anymore. Everyone’s dead, taking all the joy out of fucking with other nations. Well, not everyone. There’d always be those fucks in Papua I could kill if need be. But I don’t see the point. They really don’t have anything I want. They’re broke and have no natural resources I could plunder like oil or uranium, and their women. Their women wouldn’t even make it at the Candy Store and that’s got to be the worst strip club in all of the United States. Besides, they draw flies.
7. No peeing in public. Unequivocally, the best part of having a non-presidential baloney pony is the ability to pee all over the place. However, as President, I can’t see myself going around pissing in public after a dozen or so pints. Presidents are not invisible. Not like me anyway after a night of drinking, making the likelihood of getting busted a real possibility. That just wouldn’t be right. In fact, it’s downright unbecoming of a standing (or sitting) U.S. President. I shudder at the thought.
8. Nothing would be illegal. One might think, and wrongfully so, that all my years of Catholicism made for an unhealthy fear of rotting in Hell someday, the result of a life fraught with debauchery. Again, wrong. Doing shit that’s illegal is half the fun of living. Whether it be psychotropic drugs or shoplifting a present for my kid’s 2nd birthday, all good fun. But imagine a world where no one’s left and everything’s legal. And, you’re the President. Where’s the fun in that?  Sorry, count me out.
9. Unspent Campaign Donations. If elected and on the off-chance there were unspent campaign funds remaining in my war chest, it wouldn’t be good. Knowing me, I’d probably go on a strip club bender until all the money was gone. One small problem.  No strip clubs (and no women) meaning I’d have to sit in the burned-out remains of some former strip club, tossing singles at cockroaches or rats or something. I don’t see myself doing this. Even as President. Do rats have tits?
10. Lying is hard. Ever since the time grandpa caught me checking out the neighbor girl’s bush and then lying about it to his face, I’ve never really cared much for lying. It’s hard and you need to be really good at it if you don’t want to get busted. I think Presidents are good liars and if the truth was ever known, probably did their fair share of ogling the neighbor kid’s hoo-haws too.  But with no cigars, women, porn, anything illegal, and no-one left to impeach me, I just don’t see the appeal of being President.

Yeah, no…I don’t want to be President. Ever.

Why I love Phoenix

4:00 A.M. Heading to work

An Olympic rant

With its six whole grams of gold, an Olympic gold medal has a tangible worth of approximately six hundred seventy five dollars in today’s prices.

Thanks for all your hard work and effort! Now beat it.

A silver, around three hundred thirty.
And a bronze, $4.70.
You read right. Four dollars and seventy cents, this according to CBS news. Go figure.

With the Olympic challenge ever at the forefront of a young athlete’s dreams, these young kid’s parents pay thousands for them to train, (presumably, unless you’re a Masai warrior, where your training consists largely of running away from hungry lions), even more to fund the trip to London, and, if they’re lucky enough to place third, see their dreams extinguished rewarded with a prize having roughly the same value as a Double Whopper with cheese. How fucked is that?
Why, even NASCAR offers prize money to its last place finishers, and their idea of training is drinking moonshine and outrunning West Virginia Sheriff’s deputies.
The only recognition you give your participants is conferring them with a diploma. Sweet.

Hey Olympic Committee. Get a clue!
When an organization such as NASCAR can reward even its last place finishers with prize money, why can’t you?
It’s not like it’d cost a lot or anything, since paying athletes in their country’s currency would probably be less than a flame broiled Whopper in most cases. Certainly in a country like Nigeria anyway.

Maybe you could handout colored ribbons or trophies.
Perhaps even a small plaque commemorating the event.
But a sheet of paper?

You may as well pass out value meal coupons redeemable at their nearest Burger King. At least they’d be worth $4.70.
Although if you do, I’d suggest throwing in a chocolate shake or ice cream cone too.
Ice cream is a common cure for depression.

Poverty’s silver lining

Whenever I see news reports showing people living in squalor—their domiciles looking more like hand-made cardboard huts, I don’t feel sorry for them.
Instead, I reflect back on my youth when me and my cousins routinely fashioned whatever junk we could find in our alley’s trash containers into a clubhouse. Once built, we would sit inside talking and giggling for hours, right up to the time when mom would order me into the house to eat and my cousins to go home.
This is why I don’t feel sorry for hut people.
I think the irony of their being poverty stricken and living in a hut (or clubhouse, depending on your point of view) somehow gets lost on the idea that there may be a happy group of folks inside, sitting around giggling and talking for hours, just like me and my cousins.
Well, maybe except for the part where mom busts up the party by sending everyone home because it’s time to eat.

Pondering one of life’s age-old questions

Saturday morning, early.
And its the first weekend I’ve had off in a very long while, prompting the question of whether or not to, as the saying goes—shit or go blind.
Raising yet another question.

Should I simply go blind first, or, shit first?
I know that by following the syntax of events, at least as the saying would have you believe, I should be shitting first.
But I’m not prepared for that. Not just yet anyway.
And going blind first means I’d have to Helen Keller my way to the lav when it is finally time to tweak-off a burning growler. And that could prove a tad messy.
Ewww, and double fucking ewwww.
But then again, shitting first, means that when I do finally go blind, I’d have nothing (metaphorically of course) to look forward to the remainder of the day.

I’m so fucking confused.

I thought today would be more far more fun than sitting around pondering one of life’s age-old questions.

Or is this witty saying really just a metaphor for getting shit-faced and or blind drunk.
Because, that, I can do without question, save without the pondering.

Naming your child…a new method

In the world of child-naming, I think the current methodolgy is seriously fucked-up. After all, when a person or couple is in their child-bearing years, what do they know anyway?

An example of this is when a couple names their kid after someone they thought was cool at the time, but later turned out to be a major heroin addict with a kiddie-porn collection. The name isn’t so cool anymore is it? But why would your parents care..they’re not around to see their idol, your namesake, now in his sixties and being led away in handcuffs and prison garb. But you are.

For this reason, I’d like to propose we get a placeholder name until somewhere around puberty, when we get to choose a new name.
This name could last for the next twenty or so years. A sufficient period of time to see whether or not the person who inspired the name has irretrievably fucked their life up. For this reason, you’d get one more name-change. Your last however.

Realizing there are no do-overs at this point, and armed with the wisdom of someone now in their forties, you’d probably opt for a more conservative name this time, one that’s stood the test of time and is not associated with negative world headlines.

Had this methodology been around at my birth and during my lifetime, I would have been:

Diego till my nuts dropped.
Tommy, till that video with Pamela gave women the idea that anyone named Tommy was bagging at least nine feet of dick.
And finally, Winston for my remaining years.
Hoping like fuck no-one besmirches Sir Winston during my remaining days.  Not like they did J. Edgar Hoover anyway.

R.I.P Mayans, you bunch of idiots

All I hear about on the news nowadays is the Mayan prediction of how the world will end this year.
Give me one good reason I should believe the Mayans?

If the Mayans were such a great civilization, why aren’t there any Mayan food restaurants? Isn’t that the mark of a great culture, its food?
But there is no such thing and do you know why?
Because there are no restaurants that only serve corn on the cob.

And what kind of fashion mark did they leave the world? Most great civilizations have given us a fashion legacy.
Romans and Greeks with their toga’s. (college parties)
Scots and their kilts.
Arabians with their thawbs.
Hell, even Native American Indians have cool outfits they hop around in.
But if you look at Mayan descendants, they all dress the same—with big sombreros and colorful serapes. The kind of shit you can buy on a Mexican beach for a few pesos.

It’s true, they were good at language and math, but my daughter has both of those skills and if she told me the end of the world would arrive in 2012, I’d scold her for being so creepy and send her off to bed without dinner.

Sorry Mayans but as a civilization, I think you’re all full of shit.
You may have built a cool temple and developed a language that causes me to have to press 1 for english, but if all your high priests ever did was hang out and predict the end of our world and not your own, well the best I can say is you got what was coming to you.
I’m glad your civilization died off, and hopefully it was from some kind of corn blight.

Nice legacy!

Thoughts on being a caveman…

Sometimes I picture what it would be like to be a caveman, whom upon waking, noticed it was cold and rainy outside, instantly beginning to wonder where he’d to go to take his ritual dump after morning coffee.
I suspect he’d ultimately elect to unceremoniously squat in the middle of the cave, grunting at his wife and kids in caveman speak to look away.

But the youngest of the bunch wouldn’t understand, not being fluent in caveman, so he’d sit and watch as the old man shat out some kind of brontosaurus nightmare from the prior evenings meal.
This would probably fuck the kid up for life.

I know it would me, the fact that we lived in a cave where dad shits all over everything at will, even my moms nicest stuff.

Paradise lost

Sometimes I think about the people who inhabit small islands in the South Pacific and wonder how idyllic their lives must be
living in a tropical paradise and all.
Drinking beverages adorned with those little colored parasols.
Eating lobster and cracked crab at will, while some native beauty fans them with a palm frond.
Debating the neighbor over some kind of banal shit like which tide was the highest, today’s or yesterday’s. (like it matters)

That’s when I hear my dad’s voice uttering his most famous catch phrase;  ”Son, the pasture always looks greener someplace else.”

And in a second, my little island fantasy is gone, replaced with dad’s higher vision of a somewhat less than green pasture, where:

I’m now working at the tropical island resort as a waiter.
Serving drinks, (the ones with the stupid mini-umbrellas) to wealthy guests.
Fanning hot chicks by the pool while I’m in my little white uniform sweating my stones off.
And getting in fights with my drunken neighbor, over something important, like how his dog is constantly shitting on my front lawn.

Thanks dad.
For providing me the comfort of knowing that whatever the fantasy, there’s some poor shite living it who’s just as miserable as I am—fantasizing about how idyllic my life must be.

Take it from dad, it's not all it's cracked up to be

How to get banned from your local McDonalds

I stopped frequenting fast-food joints years ago.
Not because of the food.
And certainly not due to some half-assed attempt at cleaning up my diet.

I stopped going to fast food joints for two reasons.
First, if I was inside the restaurant, say at a McDonalds, I’d instantly become angry upon noticing how fifty cars had come and gone through the drive-up window as I stood there waiting for one fucking hamburger. I was convinced, I needed to use the drive-through next time.

And the next time, when I was in the drive-through, I’d get pissed off whenever the server at the window asked me to pull ahead, saying how she would bring my order out to me, after paying for my meal. That wasn’t right.

I’d just paid for something at the window, I thought it only fair I should receive something at the same window. A fundamental principle and one that’s at the heart of the capitalist system. Reluctantly, I complied, grumbling to myself all the while, despite its making me feel extraordinarily dumb.
It was as though I’d just handed  over my cash to someone, only to have them respond (implicitly) by saying; “ok buddy, now move it along, we’ll bring your food out when we’re damned good and ready.”

After pulling my vehicle forward (as requested) I found myself  staring in the rear view mirror, all the while my gazed locked on the car in back of me. Was he going to get his food before me? He’d better not. They’d better not.

He’s handing her the cash. Oh, c’mon, really?
She’s leaning halfway out the window, handing him a couple bags of food and smiling no less. He’s probably smiling too—no it’s probably more of a gloat.
I couldn’t see his expression so I wasn’t sure., but given how this was the same car I’d just cut-off only moments before in an effort beat to the ordering window, and he now had his food safely on board while I was sitting in mine, all alone, with no food, I’m reasonably certain it was a gloat.

Alright McDonalds, this means war.
Shortly after my blue-uniformed harbinger of all foodstuffs unholy delivered my lunch, I threw the car in gear, racing back to the ordering window where I promptly ordered 25 burgers, 25 fries and 25 chocolate shakes.
When I pulled up to the window, she said;

“Hi, weren’t you just here? [smile]  That’ll be one hundred and thirty seven fifty.”

To which I smugly replied; “Oh yeah? Well hand over the food and I’ll just pull ahead and wait for a little while, I’ll need the time to dig up a hundred thirty seven fifty from the spare change under my seat.”

The server left the window, the manager returned in her place, asking that I not return.

And this is why I don’t go to McDonalds.
They asked me to pull ahead, I complied.
They asked me to not come back, I complied with that request as well.

I never liked this asshole anyway

Diego

The imagery of words

I like how certain words, for me anyway, trigger my grey-matter to post up visual imagery.
For example, if someone mentions the word trudge, the image that most often comes to mind is the silhouette of a person against a snowy backdrop, standing upright but decidedly hunched over, leaning forward with one knee high in the air mid-step—a snowshoe attached to it. (Don’t ask me why a snowshoe, I’m weird like that).
Everything about the image makes it feel like a trudge.

Another is galavant.
My mother used it incessantly, but only when speaking to me, never any of the other family members, often using it to describe how I’d spent much of the day galavanting all over hell’s half acre when I should have been home doing my chores.
I hated that word. Not only did it sound stupid, (which in turn smudged me as being somewhat of an idiot) it played a loop reel in my brain of that dude from the Grateful Dead song—Truckin.

My notion of a galavant

I still think mom could have chosen a word far less harsh than galavant, one that didn’t make me feel stupid and didn’t have me running around like some higher-than-fuck cartoon figure.
Like for instance the word traipse.

I liked traipse, it sounded so much more eloquent, and, it was actually more descriptive of my actions whenever I’d slipped into chore-avoidance mode.

Me...traipsing

 

Small wonder why I never invoke the term galavant or traipse these days.

I do however like the imagery I associate with cavort.
Especially on weekends.

Diego

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

The power of suggestion

If in the event you ever find yourself on, what you determine at the time is a deserted road deep in the middle of Mexico, with six of your closest man friends, and you pull the car over so everyone can pee, (in the middle of the roadway because after all, it is desolate), and someone in the group says; (while you’re all peeing)

“Hey, you guys, how funny would it be if an eighteen wheeler came over that hill right about now.”

And in an instant, (still peeing) an eighteen wheel tractor trailer comes over the hill at a high rate of speed, almost picking off every last one of you, well, its those special moments that tend to bond friendships for life.

For who wants to be the person to tell anyone outside of the circle how all of you freaked out, prancing like a well choreographed ballet troupe in a tip-toed, side-step motion, one arm frantically waving at the truck driver while the other was still holding on to a very frightened and quickly retreating shrinking penis. (Who has most inconveniently chosen this moment to continue his bladder-draining quest).

Run! Its a truck!

Certainly not me.

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

Hank-the non-killer whale

Last night I dreamt I was a killer whale named Hank, and that I’d broken free from my pod in search of a better lifestyle—namely, one that didn’t involve so much killing.
I know I was supposed to be this big killer and all, but somehow, I never much cared for that whole sneaking up on another sea creature and munching his shit up.
I was really more of a lover whale, not a fighter.

So my idea, at least as presented to my mom and dad, was to find my prey and chase them around the ocean till they keeled over from a heart attack or something. That way, when they did finally die, it wouldn’t be my fault.
But mom, being ever the mom, explained how I was a killer, and how I needed to dismiss these kinds of thoughts in favor of getting out there and eating something.
That’s when I left the pod and headed for Hawaii.

When I got to Hawaii, I rented a boat slip and made the marina my home. Where every now and again, I’d go into the marina store, for a popsicle or some kind of ice-cream treat. Until one day, when the harbormaster asked me to stop coming into the store, explaining how I was frightening all the other marina patrons.
I woke up shortly after that.

I’ll never forget Hank.
He was someone who tried to make a difference, but as usual, the man stepped in to beat him down.

Diego

On being an Italian-American redneck

Being of Italian ancestry, for whatever the reason, whenever I find myself in the company of other Italian-Americans, I manage to switch off my redneck dialect in favor of an accent that Tony Soprano himself would be proud of.
I don’t know what it is that possesses me to ‘act’ so very Italian, but I do and it drives my friends and family crazy.

Last night, for my birthday dinner we went to a swanky Italian restaurant where I put my linguistic skills to work once again when I ordered the chicken parmesan, which, to the non Italian-American would be pronounced chicken parmesan.
But that’s not how us 3rd generation Italian-Americans pronounce it.
We say; chicken pada-moon-johnna.
And then we ask for extra mozzarella, but again, not like that.
We ask for ‘mooootz-a-rrrrrell, always being careful to roll the r, especially when ordering rigatoni or ricotta.

Then, when I’m finished ordering my meal, and my Italian waiter is standing there with his head cocked sideways, much the same as a dog does who doesn’t understand the command, I glance around the table to see how impressed the others are with my linguistic prowess.

But they’re all busy trying to figure out what to order, all except my wife who’s giving me the skunk-eye, asking;
“Was that really necessary?”

I think she’s afraid the waiter will think I’m goofing on him, and will respond accordingly by spitting in my food.

But I know better.
Deep down, he knows I’m Italian and respects me for it—my having all the tongue rolling skills to prove it.

Diego

My new aging system

I don’t like our current aging system.
In our current system, we measure our age in years.
Well forget that.
In my system, women and men would age differently.
For example, a woman would age only one year for every three (1:3 ratio). In this way, by the time she’d be sixty under our current system, she’d only be twenty in mine. And that means she’d likely die before ever reaching thirty. Just what every woman wants!

Another benefit would be how women would have fewer birthdays, which is great for us men since we always forget them anyway.
This system would also help lower the divorce rate, since most guys would never leave their wife for a 7 year-old (my system). That would be frowned upon by most cultures. (Except Arkansas).

Men on the other hand would age just the opposite of women, similar to dogs, which seems only appropriate.
Under my new aging system for men, their ratio would be 5:1, giving them a new life expectancy somewhere just south of 400 years old.
I like this idea since we’d be having a birthday every ten weeks!
Sure, my wife would have to shop for my birthday a little more often, but she’s a woman, and most women love to shop anyway, so no big deal.
There’d be more office birthday parties too.
And no more lying to take off of work, with at least 10 days extra per year, 1 for the actual birthday and 1 for the hangover.
Under my system, men would drive at 3 years old. Drink at 4, and not have to get married ’til they’re 150 or thereabout.

Forget the Roman, Mayan, or Greek calendars.
Mine makes a whole lot more sense.

Diego

Tips on where not to hook-up

God-

Do you date?
When you do, where do you typically take the babes?
Do you have some secret hook-up spot where you like to take them, or do you just go out for a quiet dinner and take them back to your place?
I used to have a secret hook-up place until me and this girl were almost run over by a bulldozer.

I used to take chicks to the City of Tempe landfill at night. What a great place. No police. No guards.
Basically, no one to bust you, unlike other popular hook-up places.
I think it was because of the smell. The dump did smell pretty bad, but if you get your babe wrecked enough, it’s likely she’ll think the smell is coming from you and not the dump.
That’s the secret.
They have to be really wasted so they don’t know where they are.

Anyway, I used to go to the Tempe dump after a night of clubbing, mainly because it was so convenient.
First, it was close to Arizona State University, which was (still is) a great place to harvest drunk chicks meet girls, and B, there were no guards or police to bust you. It was the perfect place to sleep off a big night out.

Until one night when my truck began shaking violently just as I was about to make my big move, and with no prior warning, a dozer came over the mountain of garbage I’d parked beneath.
After that, I never took chicks there again.

Anyhow, I was just curious if you have a cool spot to take chicks?
If you don’t, let me suggest never going to a landfill.
Landfills can be very dangerous God.

Just thought I’d let you know in case you’ve been looking for a place where you won’t get busted.
But consider yourself forewarned.
It stinks and there are gigantic earthmovers that can squish you.
You may not get busted, but you could get squished.
That’d be a bummer if you got squished with some hot babe.
Fuck, I hate to even think like that.

Sorry,

Diego

The ways of my people

God-

When I was a kid, I knew this guy in 4th grade named Peter Walkingstick who once told me how his people (Navajo Indians) didn’t believe in the concept of stealing. As Peter would often put it;

“In our culture, food belongs to those who are the hungriest, water—the thirstiest, and clothing—the neediest.” 

It seemed to me what Peter and his family had there was a bona fide license to steal, and all by virtue of being born Native American.
How great was that?

Well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what Peter told me all those years ago, eventually coming to the realization that since I too was born here in America, for all intents and purposes, that makes me a Native American as well, right?
That being the case, ‘stealing’, as my White Brother’s so ignorantly choose to call it, really doesn’t exist anymore, at least not in my Indian Native American world.
And if stealing doesn’t exist, well that probably cuts down on my lying bill by about 90% as well.

Peter, and more importantly, his culture, unknowingly caused me to take stock in my life, helping me to understand how I’m really not a bad person and that most of the stuff I always thought was a sin, really isn’t.
Shortly after this cathartic episode, I concluded the following as it relates to my sinful former ways:

Section 1. Lying

Since my ‘lying’ was mostly relegated to chicks, and mainly for the purposes of reproduction, and, how I was truly in ‘need’ of getting my freak on, this section should be eliminated altogether.
The white woman may see me as a liar, but my people know different.

Section 2.  Stealing

I was a growing boy and like most growing boys, badly in need of food at all times—I needed to eat. And seeing how my parents made me take leftover Italian food to school for lunch, (shit that nobody would trade for) I was forced to steal food from the Quickie-Mart both before and after school.
Again, since I was in need, I think the “Food is for the hungry rule” applies here, thus overriding any petty larceny charges the white-eyes might have indicted me for.

Section 3.  Coveting Shit

In Peter’s world, there wasn’t  such a thing as coveting. Mainly because whenever  he and his sticky-fingered-family saw something they coveted, well, let’s just say they weren’t coveting it for very long after that.
In retrospect, this was pure genius, as they eliminated coveting by stealing and stealing was always rationalized by needing. And since needing is sanctioned by my native brothers, it’s hard to see where I’ve done anything wrong in these categories.
If anything was a sin, it was how I never achieved my full potential as a Native American by not stealing everything I ever wanted.

Section 4. Fucking with my neighbors

I’m not sure whether Peter and his family had a rule that covered this one. Although, now that I think about it, most of my interaction with the neighbors was lying to them about; who stole their newspaper, ran into their hedges, the dead pigeons always popping up in their side yard, missing grapefruit, stolen coupon flyers from the mailbox, or the ridiculously low gas milage they were getting from their new Camry.
Once again, all covered under lying and stealing. Check.√

Section 5. Faking sick to get out of church, work, and most family events.

See lying (above)

So as you can see, today is like a new beginning for me. One for which I will always be grateful. For had it not been for my catching Peter steal abscond take borrow rightfully claim my bicycle, I would never know the true ways of my people.

Yah-ta-hey,

Diego