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

Mother nature is a bitch!

God-

Do you have much influence with Mother Nature because she seems to be out of control at the moment.
Between tornados, floods, earthquakes, fires, and Tsunamis, she’s acting like an out-of-control hormonal bitch deep in the throes of one bad-ass PMS.

OMG—I totally get it.
The earth is male, right?

Non-menstrually yours,

Diego

The Chinchilla farm

God-

You know how PETA likes to stage naked protests?
Well I was thinking, what if I invited PETA over to the casa this weekend for a protest / pool party? I’d let them throw blood on me as I cooked the burgers and dogs, then, after they got all the yelling and screaming out of their systems, they could cool off, naked, in the pool. How genius is that, right?
And as a bonus to them, I’d even let them destroy that stupid angora coat I got my wife years ago…. but not her chinchilla wrap.

Chinchilla’s, whether PETA knows this or not, have got to be the most perverse creation on the planet, truly deserving of their fate as a winter jacket.
I know this first-hand.
I bought my daughter a pet chinchilla when she was 10, and oh sure, it was all fun and games at first—that is until she came running into our bedroom in the middle of the night, screaming; “THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH RUFUS…COME QUICK”!!!
It turned out Rufus had a nightly penchant for self-fellating, which, not only provided my 10 year old a disturbing glimpse into rhodent sexuality, (and any harmful image-extrapolating side-affects it may have had) but also caused me some fairly haunting imagery as well.

Not because he was blowing himself, I could not have cared less, moreover, it was the size of his willie.
To give you an idea of what we’re talking about here, in proportion, say Rufus was a homo-sapien, his pecker would’ve been at least 3-1/2 feet tall!
Trust me, I’m a man, I did the math, finding it impressive by most standards…unless of course your’re Rufus’s female partner. Yeeeoww!

Rufus’s cage-rattling, sex antics eventually (the next day) forced us to give him the ‘ol heave-ho, prompting our sentencing the little Satanic bastard to a chinchilla farm upstate, where we would keep hope alive that eventually, he’d wind up on a rack at Bergdorf Goodman, and not in some other little kid’s bedroom haunting them nightly, creepy little fucker that he was.

At any rate God, I was hoping you’d help me get a bunch of PETA protesters (hot babes) over to the house either this weekend for a good ‘ol fashioned protest / barbecue / swim party.
But between you and me, I could give two shits about the naked-protest, I’m secretly hoping they use real blood to throw on me instead of paint, since it’ll attract tons of desert varmints, ultimately providing me with some light target practice before deer season gets underway.

Rufus's cage was about the same size!

And if they use paint and not real blood?
That’s it.
Everyone out of the pool.
No Boca burgers for anyone, naked or not.

And oh by the way, no one’s going anywhere until the paint is all cleaned up.

Carnivorously,

Diego

Touched (inappropriately) by an angel

God-

I think—no, I’m pretty sure I was visited by an angel in my dreams last night, which is why I’m reporting the incident directly to you…I think she may have crossed the line.
From everything I’ve learned about angels, (which isn’t much), I thought they’re supposed to offer guidance—like providing winning Powerball numbers, or where to dig up some seer stones—something really important.

Well not this one.
First off, my angel looked and sounded like Jennifer Aniston, which is impossible, because unless she died last night, Jennifer couldn’t have possibly been in my dream.
But, let’s  pretend she was for real, and was on duty,  I think Jennifer Angel gave me some really piss-poor advice.

She instructed me to venture out into the woods and start-up a summer camp for adult men, naming it Camp Carnivore.
I know, ridiculous—right?  It gets better.

Jennifer Angel then snuggled up to me, held my hand and whispered softly in my good ear; 

“Diego, my love, you’re the dude when it comes to  eating meat products, concealing your emotions, disagreeing with women, killing most of Gods useless creations, and in the simplest of terms—being a prodigiously perfect jackwad. (Jennifer Angel really wasn’t very nice)!

She continued.
You see, Diego, it’s God’s will that you help others (Hetero male WASP’s) by educating them—teaching them how they were actually born with a pair of balls—how to rediscover them—eventually becoming “At one with the nut.”
Now, go forth Diego…go forth, and teach men the ways of the testacle—help men everywhere to discover the holy power tucked away in those awesome little bad boys.”  (Wow…really, Jennifer Angel?)

Jennifer Angel then kissed me (no tongue—damn) on the forehead, patted my thinning hair, and whispered; “Diego, your teeth are slightly yellow and you’ve got a big nose,” and with that, she vanished. (Poof)

WTF???
What kind of shit was that?  I could have said something really mean too, like how she still might have Brad if she were more of a woman, or how her last four films grossed about the same amount collectively as “Surf Nazi’s Must Die,” but I didn’t.

Bite Me Jennifer Angel...these guys whupped your ass!

God, was this for real? I know Jennifer Angel was goofing on me with the nose and teeth bit, but am I really supposed to open Camp Carnivore?
If I do take her advice, if this truly is your will, should I limit camp activities to only the things I’m really, really good at, such as:

• Talking back to women—arguing over any little thing that doesn’t matter
• Routinely rejecting salads and other “bunny” foods for meat or meat by-products (Spam, hot dogs, etc.)
• How to kill spiders, swat flies, capture insects (and torture them)
• How to never cry in front of anyone, and especially on camera—holding it all in for a major meltdown in a public venue (hopefully,  assault rifles are not involved)
• Shoot stuff (pellet guns, 9mm, and 44 magnum)
• Barbecue (charcoal, not gas)
• Creating a convincing argument on why men don’t need new underwear, irrespective of their “vintage” appearance…
• Pee in public places (non-bathroom) 
• Dominate the remote
• Properly tell a really disgusting joke
• Dog-Whispering—reminding the little shite of how he’s less than 3 miles from the nearest shelter, and how one more carpet accident will land him in his own mini Auschwitz. 
• How to never ask others for help, especially when lost

God, I suppose I can do this, if in fact this is really what you want me to do, I will,  but again, I’m not truly convinced Jennifer Angel was for real?

Shouldn’t angels have clothes on when they come to visit…or are they all naked, like Jennifer Angel?

I may need another sign.

Love,

Diego J Serrano

 

Life can be tedious…try not to lose your way!

God-

Life is so confusing.
And it became so much more yesterday, when I learned Jimi Hendrix wrote Manic Depression in 3/4 time. (Metered time, typically reserved for waltzes.)
I also learned how our government (Nixon) made a deal with Malaysia to import palm kernel oil, how to prepare cabbage rolls, that Doogie Howser is gay, salmon should only be smoked with alder chips, gasoline is cheaper in south Phoenix than in Scottsdale, Pizza al Forno deleted hoagies from their menu, the conclusion that I’m as helpless as a kitten whenever I smell barbecue, and I can’t stand Will Ferrell movies.
Which is not at all why I’m writing.

During my quiet time last night, (When I toggled from Ipod to South Park re-runs) I realized something about myself which was fairly upsetting and quite disconcerting. The thought occurred to me that while I admire a great many things in this life, I’m really not an aficionado of any one thing, and this disturbs me.
I used to be an aficionado as a kid, especially when it came to such things as killing insects with a hairspray torch, shooting pigeons out of our fig tree, and starting fires.
But today?
Today I’m afraid I’ve lost my passion for killing insects, my neighbors report me to the HOA whenever they catch me shooting pigeons, and arson is illegal in most places except Hollywood.    

Which is why I’m writing.
I need your advice.
My doctor says part of the healing process revolves around finding one’s passion, whatever it may be, and since counting my money (or lack thereof) is off the table, I thought I’d go back to my roots.

Here’s my shortlist of things I really like to do.
Please review it at your earliest convenience and send me a sign, (preferably while watching Shawshank for the gozillionth time) so I’ll know which avenue to go down.

• Firing spanish rice through a straw (Mexican food restaurants and only at ladies with big hair and back turned)
• Riding my bike through the desert with my 9mm and knife attached to it. (In case of my being summoned to an impromptu desert creature  euthanizing)
  

  My assault vehicle

• Stealing my neighbors paper (Sunday edition…with all the coupons)
• Judging people at the mall
• Farting in empty grocery store aisles, or cars while traveling in extreme temperature conditions, under sheets, on sleeping dogs faces, in my sleeping bag, in church confessionals, and in public—with a friend I can point to when someone detects a foul odor.
• Crashing out-of-town (Las Vegas) business events using mislabeled name tag (Rich “Sofa King” Green)
• Groom’s best man (I’ve been best man for 7 friends thus far, but not because they liked me, because of my bachelor parties—I even had a guy ask me to be his best man who’d only heard of my party lore from a friend
• Teaching the “odds” to my kids, advising them how to win at craps, horse racing, roulette and all sports parlays
• Sneaking around (mainly anywhere requiring my sneaking prowess)
• Pickpocketing really drunk dudes coming out of clubs

I’m leaning toward opening a professional best man service, but really, I think I may just find my passion again with all of the above.

God, I need your help….you have no idea how bad.

Diego J Serrano

A humble request

God-

I want this guy’s life….

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

 

Diego J Serrano

The new me

God-

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

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

The new me

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

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

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

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

Thanks in advance.

Love,

Diego J Serrano

My 4th grade she-devil

God-

Does the devil have a wife?
Does she have horns and an arrow on the end of her tail—is she red and scaly?

My 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Lockett, was red and scaly…and she wore a bouffant hair-do, and she was galacticly mean.

My mom said the red scaly skin was something called psoriasis, but I never bought it.
I think  the psoriasis was a cover-up—a clever ploy—and the bouffant, well, it was hiding her horns.
I’m not sure about the tail however, she did have a really big behind so it would’ve been fairly easy to conceal.

I always knew she was sinister God, especially with all those wise-cracks about men being two-legged wolves.
Mom routinely dismissed my warnings about her, she explained how she was recently jilted by Mr Shultz, the P.E. teacher—but I still believed she was really Mrs. Lucifer in disguise.

God, I think the Catholic school system should conduct more thorough background searches…particularly as it relates to people with rashes or skin conditions like Mrs. Lockett—these could be all important clues as to ones real identity.
I’d even suggest they get a priest to conduct a strip search (they’re good at it) to check for a tail.
No child should have to endure a she devil like Mrs. Lockett.

4th Grade Abomination

On a side note, do people still name their kids Lucifer, or was that name banished from the popular baby name pool?

Still fuming over my 4th grade, drag-me-to-hell nightmare.

Diego J Serrano

Exactly, what is a brewers job?

God-

Does Heaven have a downtown section—is it near the airport?
I don’t like going downtown these days, not without a gun anyway. It seems as though there’s always some low-life trying to car-jack you or hold you up for money to buy some mad-dog.

Unfortunately, downtown is where all the sporting venues are located, so if I want to go to a Diamondbacks game (meh), I have to go right into the heart of downtown Phoenix.
God, if you’ve ever toyed with idea of coming to Phoenix, I’d tell you to hold off for now—no, not because of the hot weather (it really is a dry heat), because of this illegal storm that’s brewing….which by the way, if something is brewing, doesn’t that imply a witch is in charge—don’t witches make brew—is this why our governors last name is Brewer?

Do you think she planned this all along—or did you make it her mission in life to brew up this monumental shit-storm?

A brewer at work

Or, conversely, does it mean we’re simply brewing something so intoxicating, we’ll be f*#kd up for all our remaining days as a state?

I suspect it’s both.

Your faithful illegal employing, Ak-47 defending, can’t wait to drink the brew—servant,

Diego J Serrano

Working in Heaven Pt 4

God-

I know what I want to do in Heaven—I’d like to be an attaché.
First of all, I like the word—attaché, it just seems cool, and from everything I’ve read, it sounds as though an attaché doesn’t do much…which is right up my alley!

Wikipedia says there are several types of attachés, including military, cultural, press, and agricultural.

I think I would be good at agricultural, since I have some experience with growing pot in my closet, but as far as the other attachés go, I probably wouldn’t do well since I’m not a big military guy, I don’t like reporters, and I have very little culture.

Display only—please don't call the police

So when can I get started?

Oh, and I’d like to request a closet bigger than the one I have now…I’m continually bumping my head on the overhead lights.

Thank-You for considering me for this all important post.
I will do my best to make you look good to all the other Gods and their attachés.

Attaché….God, I love that word.

Love, (and a salute)

Diego J. Serrano

Attention Wal-Mart shoppers!

God-

Have you ever thought about branching out  from those Christian supply stores—say perhaps into a Wal-Mart?
I’m thinking Wal-Mart could provide religious sections featuring many of the popular faiths—similar to automotive, or sporting goods.

Co-pilot

Personally, I’d like to see them bring back those little plastic Jesus statues for car dashboards, and where else but Wal-Mart to get one?
Wal-Mart farms everything out to sweat shops in Asia, so we could get all kinds of religious stuff on the cheap.

One thing however, Ix-nay on the Uslim-May section if you know what I mean.
A religious section of this nature could cause quite a fuss here in America—what, with the selling of turbines and little plastic grenades for the kiddies.
That’ll  get more than a few folks upset, especially Wal-Mart customers.

-J

Jamie Lee, Activia—OUT…Fergie and Hot Pockets—IN

God-

Why don’t the makers of Activia put their magic ingredient, the one that makes you go shit, in something besides yogurt—like say, Hot Pockets or Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese?
I hate yogurt.
It’s way too slimy and doesn’t fill you up at all, not like Hot Pockets.

Hey Activia—Listen up!
Find a new spokesperson.
Jamie Lee is a great actress—and I’m sure she appeals to many older women who have trouble taking a dump, but unless she drops her top and wears that little hooker outfit like she did in Trading Places, I’m afraid she holds no appeal to me or my demographic.

Onlineconfessions.com

God-

I’d like to propose something for your consideration.
Instead of Catholics having to go to confession, why not just set up a website site called catholicconfession.com? It would save an awful lot of embarrassment for most people, while encouraging them to get back to the church at the same time.

Here’s how it works.

The World Cup: A non-statistical approach

God-

Someone asked me this morning who I wanted to see win todays World Cup game.

As an older American male, I think it’s safe to say I represent a lot of my age bracket when I say I really don’t give two shits who wins, after all, its f*#king soccer.
Of course that’s not how I responded.
Being the, every-sport-but-soccer afficionado that I am, I simply took a moment to think about which country I like more— given its other non soccer attributes.

Prior to responding, this is what raced through my mind in a matter of micro-milliseconds.

Netherlands: Hmm…legal weed, shrooms, and a host of other psychadelic drugs, legal prostitutes, forward “Green-thinking” country, speak English, great fable about little dutch boy who saved country with finger in dyke. (earthen dam) Windmills, wooden shoes.

Spain: Bulls that run people over in the street, Olga Carrasco (broke my heart sophmore year). and paella (which I hate)

I responded; ” I hope Spain gets its ass beat unmercifully.”

-J

My Miracle Pt 2

God-

As you know, my weight has yo-yo’d this last year as I’ve uselessly toggled between metric and pounds. Initially, the metric scale seemed like a good idea but all it really did was give me the same eating freedom as a woman who just learned she’s a new mom-to-be.

My New Miracle

I looked for a scale with an Arabic or Chinese display in hopes the unrecognizable symbols would help, but I can’t even find one of those.
Then I found a scale that displays your weight on the various  planets, and in kilograms no less.

I’m back in business God. I’ll shed those unwanted pounds just getting it out of the box!

Thank you for yet another miracle God.
You came through once again.

-J

Urinals in Heaven?

God-

Are there men’s rooms in Heaven. Will there be dividers between the urinals? I hope so.

I went to a wedding reception once where they had those in-floor urinals with no partitions.
I don’t do well with those, especially if I’ve had a few.
You need a pretty wide stance to straddle the base if you don’t want your shoes splashed, and I’m pretty sure this is how the trouble began.

Xenu: Really?

God-

You didn’t hear this from me but it may be time to pay the Travolta family a visit.
Knowing my take on Mormons, it kills me to say this but could you saddle up a couple of missionaries and send them his way. I think the timing is good. He’s undergone some tragic events the last couple of years and could probably use a real God instead of that alien jerk-off he’s currently worshipping…Xenu.