My loss

It was a cautious respect. I wouldn’t hurt him so long as he did the same.

THE day we met he scared me, leaping from behind the fence, his countenance in full attack mode.
A brindle colored dog, half pit bull, half mutt coming at me as if to attack but now stopped. His instincts sharp, an animal of the streets no doubt.
I introduced myself in my own street-wise fashion by raising both arms and lunging at him, teeth bared and screaming a mighty roar.
Stopped now, mid-charge, he stood there, bewildered. I suspect he knew he wouldn’t fair well in a fight with me. Or maybe he thought I was crazy. For whatever the reason, he didn’t attack.
From that day on, neither would bare their teeth again.
Both wary of one another and the harm we could inflict, we kept our distance, this despite his nightly return.

Some nights, he would sit curled up against the fence, watching me, until I’d gotten too close for his liking as he bolted for safety.
On one such night, he was simply too tired to run, simply laying there exhausted. He needed food.
It wasn’t a fair fight between us any longer, not with him in this condition. I chose to do something about it. After all, his being healthy served our tenuous relationship. I wanted him strong. I fed him.

This changed our relationship. I was now a food source instead of a combatant.
Not a friend.
Or a pet-lover.
Simply a means to his own instinctive survival.
I liked the relationship.
I didn’t want to be his friend—I didn’t want the responsibility.
I didn’t want to care for another being.
But I didn’t want to see him die either, a result of his being too weak to fight the coyotes that came haunting nightly.
If they did come for him, it should be a fair fight I thought, for I knew he’d fair well. But not in this condition. He needed help.

Weeks went by as I watched him get strong, the result of my looking after him, feeding him, making sure he had water on those hot desert nights.
Until one day when upon his seeing me, he began barking again.
I was glad for him, he was back.
The brindle colored dog who once threatened my being was now at full strength in all his glory.
And yet only for a brief moment.

As mysteriously as the day he showed up, he had now vanished.
I always knew of this eventuality. I knew it was his nature to roam, but somehow I’d hoped for more time with him, thinking how maybe someday we would be friends. But it wasn’t meant to be.

And so it is.
Another being, mysteriously entering and exiting my life.

I hope to someday know why.
I miss brindle dog.
I miss my old friends.
I loved you all in my own way.
But like brindle dog, I just needed more time.

If Jesus was a girl

God-

I have a question.
Why didn’t you make Jesus a girl instead of a guy?
Were you afraid no-one (mainlyguys) would ever listen to her?
I can see where that might stall her Christian efforts.

Or were you afraid she’d get pregnant and have a bunch of little saviors?
I smell a problem with that one too.
Lets say little Goddette  (placeholder) eventually married and had three boys, and they were all saviors too, kind of like Jesus.
How would we ever know which one of them to follow?

The oldest is usually the trouble maker of the bunch.
The middle child is the one who knows no fear and takes all the risks.
And the youngest, well he’s the poor shite always getting beat-up by the others—who’s going to follow him?
Systemically, this raises some big theological issues.

See, I’d never follow the oldest or middle child, they’d probably get me in a world-of-hurt, certainly more than I’m in now.
And the youngest?
Well that poor fuck has got to have issues. Are you kidding me?
With a nagging preaching mom like Goddette, and two a-hole brothers, the kid doesn’t stand a chance.
Following him would probably get us all strung out on depression meds.

Maybe that’s why you decided on Jesus instead of a girl.
And maybe that’s why you only got Mary pregnant once.

I’m onto you dude.

Diego

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

God-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So how do we do this?” I asked.

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

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

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

Everyone began laughing hysterically.

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

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

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

I nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drowning, but not in orange juice this time.

Diego

Smells like adult spirit

God-

What is it about neighbors?
Was your commandment to love them some sort of joke?
I only ask because I find it difficult to reconcile my loving them with the fact that some of these assholes are likely going to Hell.

It’s pretty obvious you don’t love them, if you did, why wouldn’t they be headed your way instead of Hell?
And if you don’t love them, well why the fuck should I?

Don’t get me wrong, I like most of my neighbors. But over the years, I’ve come to the inescapable conclusion that there’s always at least one asshole in every neighborhood, like my neighbor, Hugh.
What a douchebag.

A few years back, my barber, (who apparently still thinks I’m in my twenties) gifted me with a small bag of weed for Christmas, saying how it was extremely potent, and that I should be super cautious—“a little goes a long way dude“— is how he put it.
His warning was disturbing. So much so, I was instantly paranoid and I hadn’t even smoked any of it yet, and not sure I wanted to, so instead of trying it out I found a suitable hiding place and stashed it, thinking I’d break it out on some special occasion.
Unfortunately, I hid it so well, I didn’t find it until several years later when I was searching for something else.

Hmmm.
I immediately began thinking how fortuitous it was to finally locate it on a weekend when my wife and kids were out of town, in the summer, and all the neighbors had bounced to cooler climates, leaving the hood a virtual ghost town.
I decided to toke up.
My plan was simple. I’d take a couple hits as instructed, then lounge in the pool on one of the kid’s float toys, sip some delicious, ice-cold Mexican beer, and crank the shit out of my outdoor sound system.
A good plan. I couldn’t wait to get started.

Drawing from my youth, I fashioned a pot pipe out of aluminum foil, grabbed a few beers along with an ice bucket, switched on the outdoor sound system and headed for the pool. I was ready.
Next, I loaded the pipe, took a couple hits, squeezed my fat ass into my daughters duck raft, popped open a brew, and within a few short minutes, found myself in one of the nicest euphoric funks I’d ever experienced. “Really potent” my ass, this weed was outrageous!
What a lovely afternoon, that is, until…
Hugh, my hobbit-like neighbor, completely uninvited, barged into my backyard like some Nazi stormtrooper and began staring me down as if he was going to kill me or something. I freaked.

I quickly, (but really more like slo-mo) wrestled myself free from the ducks grip, hopping out of the pool.

“So, uhm, Hugh, [stutter] what brings you by this afternoon?” I ask innocently.

“What’dya think brings me by Diego?” he angrily retorted.

“Uh—is the music too loud?” I asked.

“Guess again dipshit!“

Dipshit? I’ll bet he smelled the weed.

“I don’t know, Hugh, did you want a beer or something?”

“Something?”  ”SOMETHING IS THE FUCKING PROBLEM, ASSHOLE!”

Shit, it was the weed! But calling me an asshole? That’s a little harsh I thought.
He must’ve been hanging out in his backyard, but why? He doesn’t have a pool and its over a 100 degrees out.
What the hell is he doing outdoors at this time of day?

“I’M CALLING THE FUCKING POLICE DIEGO, YOU’RE GOING TO JAIL!”

What an asshole! I couldn’t believe what had just happened.
I also couldn’t believe that weed either.
My barber was right. I should’ve only taken one or two hits and just stopped there. But I didn’t, and now thanks to Hugh and a few too many tokes, I was in the grips of a fully-blown paranoid episode.
I immediately raced inside, turned off the tunes, drew every window shade in the place, locked the doors, and sat there frozen in terror as if these were my final moments in an electric chair before some guard threw the switch.
To think that one minute I’m laying in the pool, enjoying some rays, got a nice buzz, and thanks to the chronic, I’m finally decoding all the lyrics to “Smells like teen spirit,”  as the next, I’m wet and shivering in a cold, dark room, waiting impatiently for the police to show up, handcuff me and haul me off to jail.
What the fuck, Hugh, really? Was any of that necessary?

Alright, so maybe what Hugh did isn’t enough for you to send him to Hell, but it should be enough for you to let me hate the little leprechaun without sending me to Hell.

At least that’s how I see it.

A denial, A denial, A denial, A denial.
A denial.

Diego

One good reason to hate Vikings

God-

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

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

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

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

Hirsuitly yours,

Diego

Planet Bonerville

God-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Earleen best be keeping her shit on the DL

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

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

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

My ride on planet Bonerville

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

Sophmorically yours,

Diego

Security guards

God-

Do you have security guards? Are they like white secret service guys or are they those big fat G’s from the hood?
Personally, I’d go with the G’s and here’s why.
Secret service dudes are often jumpy, like they’re always on high-alert or something. One minute, I’d be walking toward you trying to get your autograph, and the next, one of them would be whispering into his little collar microphone;

“We’ve got a stalker, I repeat, we HAVE a stalker, BLUE TEAM MOVE, NOW, NOW, NOW! THE CHICKEN IS IN THE POT, COOK IT!”

I don’t know what any of that secret service chirp means, but I think it’s code for; “Lets blow this fucker into lint, NOW!”
Like I said, way too jumpy. All I wanted was your autograph and now I’m laying in a pool of blood, all shot up. Shit.

These guys look jumpy

This is where having G’s would be different.
First, they’d be buzzed most of the time, so nobody’s gonna do any shooting. Not right away.
And there wouldn’t be any of those little collar microphones or anyone telling some blue team to cook my shit up like a chicken.
G’s don’t need a team.
They’re big and fat and wear overcoats that conceal enough ordinates to level Milwaukee.
And being fat, they usually have nicknames like Tooty or Bubba. And that means they’re at least approachable because every Tooty I’ve ever known has always been friendly.
Until you piss him off. Then you’re a goner for sure.

Tooty will mess your shit up!

There’s always another option. Ninjas.
Those wiry little kung-foo bastards seem to just pop out of nowhere and start wailing on your shit for no reason. And not with their hands either.
No, they use all kinds of cool weapons, like swords, and numchucks. They even have those little metal blades to throw at you, which if they hit you will slice off your head, or maybe an arm.

Ninjas might be your best option (for me anyway) since they don’t use guns.
I can run from a sword. Bullets are a different story. And those spinning slicey things? I don’t even want to think about them.
Yeah, the more I think about it, if I was you I’d probably go with Ninjas.
Unless of course you have something against Chinese dudes, which seems likely since most of them worship a little fat dude named Buddha, and not you.

I'd worship a cow before I'd worship this guy!

Or maybe you don’t use bodyguards at all. Maybe you just have a bunch of little cherubs swarming around you.
That would be pretty annoying I would think. I’d want to swat at them every now and again.

 

Love securely,

Diego

My Non-bucket List

God-

Everywhere I turn on the internet, it seems there’s always someone posting their bucket list. As if it means anything to anyone but them.
Go figure.
Why just yesterday, I overheard some guy at Starbucks tell his friend; “Well I guess I can cross that one off my bucket list.”
I never heard the rest of the conversation, or the context in which he had just determined to flippantly cross one more epic (in his mind), bullshit (in mine) priority off his list, only the part about how his list was now one item shorter.
Which leads me to the conclusion that while the bucket list may have started out as a coping mechanism for someone facing end-of-life issues, today, it’s anything but.

The bucket list, for all intents and purposes is now little more than a cliché, and in effect, a modern day to-do list.
Which is why I will never publish a bucket list.
I will however publish a non-bucket list. Primarily because a bucket list only serves one’s persons individual goals, whereas the non-bucket list can serve all of mankind—mainly through inspiring them not to undertake various actions almost certain to land them in an “OH SHIT!!” cathartic moment.
So, in an effort to serve my fellow man (aka the dumbass risktaker) I present the following:

1. Don’t sit in a 20 below freezer for 10 minutes with no clothes on to win a bet. Even if the wager is a mere ziploc full of supposed Panama Red.
2. Do not eat locusts at a summer high school party to impress Cynthia Magnuson. Just because John the baptist lived on them, doesn’t mean you can. (I think they were a tastier breed back in the day).
3. Never give a thorobred race horse a bath in your friends swimming pool after ingesting LSD. Things will go wrong fast.
4. Don’t play strip poker at a high school party  about to get broken up by the police. Especially if you’ve never played poker before.
5. Don’t play Texas rules when golfing at an NBA charity golf outing.
6. Never wear white shorts to a strip club. Especially if the stripper has just poured Hershey’s syrup all over her bum and your ‘friends’ buy you a lap dance.
7. Don’t pretend to be a Catholic priest (despite your alter-boy training) and conduct an entire mass (in latin) on a Mexican Beach just because you’re broke, haven’t eaten in two days, have no gas money to get home, and several Mexican women carrying pots of tamales come wandering by.
8. Don’t ever tell the host at the London Eye that your group of 5 male friends will require a gondola (designed for 40) all to themselves, just because one person in your group has Tourette’s syndrome. If you do, make certain your newly saddled Tourette’s guy can muster up some real expletives and not simply,  ”nice tits!“
9. Don’t try to outdrink a House of Lords member on the train from London to Edinburgh. You won’t win.
10. Never demonstrate “The Helicopter” in a crowded room full of your wife’s drunken friends. This can be disastrous.
11. Don’t ever record a telephone sex conversation and use the tape recording to replace the work schedule phone recording at your office. If you do, be silent and let her do all the talking.
12. Don’t run under sprinklers on a Mexican golf course if their water system is connected directly to their sewer system.
13. Don’t run your jeep into:

• a tree
• a kid
• another jeep
• the Pacific ocean
• off a small cliff
• a fireworks display

Oh yeah, and don’t put a Dodge Viper Engine in your Jeep. This may help with number 13.

Non Bucket list winner

God, I’ll be adding to my Non Bucket list from time to time seeing how I seem to have a knack for misadventure, but then you should know that.

You made me.

Love,

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

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

My address in Heaven

God-

Is it always daytime in Heaven? I’m guessing it is, otherwise there would be no light at the end of the tunnel, right?
Well if it is sunny up there all the time, that’s going to get old real fast.
I went to Alaska one summer on a fishing trip and couldn’t believe how easy it was to stay up all night. Not surprisingly, after only a few day I was totally burned-out.
So how does the light thing work?
Is it similar to Alaska where we stay up day and night, sort of like Vegas?
And when we do finally crash, where are we supposed to go?
Are there cots set up somewhere, like those in a Red Cross shelter—or do we have to sleep like birds do, standing up?

I’ve never actually slept standing up, but I’ve slept sitting up plenty of times, although I don’t recommend it since the last time I did so I ran my truck into a 1964 Chevy Impala fully loaded with illegal aliens. Assholes!

I could probably sleep in a Red Cross shelter, but I think they’re like homeless shelters—where they make you say prayers and listen to some half-ass preacher tell you how much God (you) loves you before they let you chow down. I can’t do that either.
Besides, there are way too many single moms along with out-of-control kids running around half-naked in those homeless shelters.
Who needs that shit.

My idea would be for you to have a guest casita where I could crash. That would make the whole daylight thing somewhat palatable.
A nice little cottage, say, in your backyard someplace. But it needs to have all the amenities, like a fridge, microwave, those blackout curtains—like the ones in Vegas, and, a hot tub so I’m not always ringing your doorbell bugging you to let me use yours when I bring chicks home from the club.
Fair warning though, the fridge and the microwave are important.
The hot tub is a deal breaker.

While we’re on the topic, I’m also going to need some tunage. Like a nice stereo system with those outdoor speakers that look like rocks.
Chicks dig those little rock speakers.
Especially when I play some techno, bump the volume, and load-up some E into their appletini as they’re checking out the little rock speakers.
But since it’s always daylight, I’d hate for you and the Mrs. to be checking us out when I get my freak on, so I’ll also need a little gazebo with curtains around my tub.

That should do it.

Oh, one more thing.
Will you have one of those lawn jockeys in front of our house so everyone will know where we live?

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

Are those real pearls?

God-

Tell me more about this whole pearly gate thing—is it like the one at the State Fair, only with a whole lot of pearls glued on?
Or is it like the guard gates at the state prison, with a guard tower and some guy who likes to shoot people perched atop of it?

If it’s like the one at the Fair, that would be pretty cool, since I routinely sneak in each year simply by jumping over the gate when no one is looking.
But if its like the one at the state prison, well that would suck. Not that I would know, but it just seems so, having seen my fair share of prison movies.
In those prison flicks, there’s typically a bunch of guards posted up in big towers along the fence line, and from what I gather, they just as soon shoot you than even mess around with a warning or anything.
Which brings up a good point.
Since I’d be a soul at that point, would the bullets pass right through me? Or do they have some sort of high-tech gadget like a stun-gun or laser beam that only works on souls?

Another question.
Are there long lines to get in and will I need an ID?
I’m not sure about the ID. I can certainly bring one with me when I die, but the picture doesn’t look anything like me thanks to that dumbfuck clerk at the DMV.
Normally, they at least give you a warning when they’re about to shoot your picture.
Not her.
I think she was having a bad day because as soon as I stepped up to the yellow line—my gaze focused on my foot placement, making certain I had both my size 13′s in the little yellow shoe silhouettes painted on the floor—she snapped the photo.
To her credit, she did at least say ‘smile,’ but in such a grumbly, irritated manner, that while you knew she had just uttered something, your brain didn’t quite comprehend what she had just said until it was too late.
Camera flash.
What the fuck was that?
I was looking down you dumbass, I thought to myself. Could you have at least given me a moment to get ready?
Anyway, I looked up just in time to manage an expression so completely dumbfounded, I now appear as a fucking halfwit on my drivers license. Which I presume will only help me in the event I get pulled over for drinking and driving.
Perhaps I should be more appreciative of LaTonya’s photography prowess.

Ok, so lets pretend for a moment jumping the fence isn’t an option, and, my accumulation of sin credits isn’t enough to get me in, what then?
Do I go to Hell and if so how will I get there?
Is it like that one scene in the movie “Ghost,” where a flock of evil looking birds attack me, picking me up and carting me off to Hell?
Or do you always have a bus waiting nearby, knowing there’s usually a few fuck-ups like me who’ll need a ride?
I’m down with the bus concept, except for how I never manage to have exact change, which I’m guessing I won’t.

Who does the bus driver work for?
You, or Satan?

Totally confused,

Diego

The real story of creation

God-

There’s something about the whole Adam and Eve story that’s never made any sense.
Did Adam start out as a baby, or did you make him a fully grown man right off the bat? The baby route doesn’t add up, unless of course there’s a Mrs. God somewhere who would have raised him for you.
That might make sense.
But if that’s the case, how old was he before you both threw your hands up in the air and wanted him out of the house—was it right after puberty?
Did you throw him out of the house?
I would have, especially if he wrecked your car or something?
I know when I wrecked my dad’s car, he threw me right-the-fuck-out! No questions asked.

C’mon God, level with me. What was it, really?
Was it the car, or did you and the Mrs. bust him choking his chicken one too many times?
The car I get, especially if it was all tricked out, but bouncing him for jackin—that’s not cool. It’s like you set him up to fail, what did you expect?
The kid was an only child.
He had no friends.
And toys wouldn’t be around for a few hundred years, so what else did he have to do with all that free time—play with you and the Mrs. in the park?
No offense, but you and the Mrs. don’t exactly strike me as the frisbee types, and the last time I checked, you hadn’t even created the first dog yet, so really, what was he supposed to do?
I suspect he did the only thing he could do, make friends with whomever was available at the time—his dick!
And this could explain why you created Eve.
But then that doesn’t add up either.
If Eve started out as a little girl, (like Adam), that would mean Adam would have to wait another 13 years or so before he could finally stop whacking and get down to business.
But by then, it’s likely Adam would have rubbed himself to death, or at the very least, gone blind.
Besides, I can’t imagine you and the wife allowing him to diddle your newly minted teenager, unless of course you were both from Arkansas.
That’s why I don’t think any of this makes sense.

What makes more sense, what is entirely more plausible, is this scenario.

You created Adam very similar to how Arnold first appeared in Terminator 1—all balled-up in a fetal position, naked and with a mission.
Only Adam’s mission wasn’t to kill some kid’s mom like in the Terminator.
His mission was to make babies and populate the world, kind of like a Mormon.
So, after standing upright and a short body stretch, he instantly began running around Eden with a boner as you and Mrs. God looked-on in horror!
That must’ve been a proud moment for you both.
At least in the baby Adam scenario, if he did get a stiffy, it’d only be about an inch long, and that would be cute.
There’s nothing cute about a full grown man running around naked, sporting wood no less!

Anyways, it was probably about that time Mrs. God put her foot down and said; “create a woman for this guy before he hurts himself or somebody else with that thing.”
And that was that.
So I’m going out on a limb here, but I suspect that’s when you bitch-slapped Adam silly, knocked him out, took one of his ribs, and created a full grown playmate, Eve.
Then, as Adam slowy gained consciousness, he notices this really hot babe standing there, naked, and everyone was happy.
That is until that thieving little bitch ganked your special apple.

This makes a whole lot more sense than does the baby Adam and Eve scenario, and, helps to explain why you got so pissed off, finally throwing them both out of the garden.
He was this turgid fuck who couldn’t keep his schlong in his fig leaf and she was a thieving little slut.

And since we all descended from that special duo, that explains why we have politicians and celebrities in the world today.

I think I’m close on this one.
Am I?

Love,

Diego

Putting ones writing skills to good use!

God-

Why is it most obituaries read as though they were written by a 5th grader?
I have a theory, want to hear it?
I think most people who’ve just lost a loved one aren’t in any kind of shape to be writing an obituary—who can think at a time like that, right? I know when my dad died, I couldn’t think for shit, and it was right about that time the guy from the mortuary handed me an example of an obituary, saying he needed me to have my dad’s ready by the next morning.
Holy shit!
There I am grieving and this heartless fuck is giving me homework. Not cool.

And then it all came to me.
I can write at least as good as a 5th grader, so why not get into the obituary writing business?
Just think, no more boring as shit obituaries, at least not if I have anything to do with it.
The way I see it, I could take an average slob whose only achievement was being born and turn him into someone so important, even the Queen of England would show up at his funeral.
And here’s the best part.
I can lie like a motherfucker about the guy and no one is ever going to know the difference.
It’s not like its a resume or anything, so there’s virtually no chance anyone will follow up to see if it checks out.
Who cares, right—he’s dead, remember?
How genius is that?
To think that through the power of the pen, I could transform some broken-down meth-addict puke into a war hero, or possibly an astronaut—maybe even a doctor—say, the one who did the first breast implants!
And if his family asks, why, I’d just tell them it was a misprint. No biggie. Just correct it in the next addition with the 5th grade version.

In a way, it’s kind of sad to think the last thing anyone will ever read about you is how many kids or grandkids you have, or where to send flowers.
Well I can change all that.
My obituary service will take the average dolt from zero to hero, all in 500 words or less!

What’dya think?
I told you—genius, right?

Serving my fellow man,

Diego

10 cent beer night

God-

How often is 10 cent beer night held up there—do you ever bust out?
I always used to bust out on beer night, that is until I drove my ride into a big fucking oak tree this one time. Now I just kind of semi-bust out on beer night, and that’s only if I have a designated driver since my car tends to run into stuff when I’m cronked.
Is that why you don’t bust out?
You don’t have a designated God who can sit in for you while you get cronked?
I get that, but what’s Jesus doing? Isn’t he like your son or something? Shouldn’t you be passing down the whole God business to him anyway?
Can’t you just slip him the God keys one night a month? You should be able to do that every now and again without having to worry about the place going all to Hell.
What’s the matter, don’t you trust him?
According to Dr. Phil, you should probably think about giving Jesus a little more responsibility at some point. It would be good for both of you.

So if you’re not busting out, what are you and Jesus doing on beer night?
Do you and Jesus tend bar or do you work the door?
Both jobs are a great way of keeping an eye on everyone, but I’d probably opt for the doorman if I was you.
Doormen always decide who gets in and who doesn’t, which means you could screen all the assholes right from the start. But the best part is how you can demand some serious bucks from all the ugly people who have no chance of ever getting in anyway.
Some of those losers are so desperate to get in, they’ll flip you a hundo in nothing flat.
As I say, screen the jerk-offs from ever getting in and finish off the night with a couple of stacks from the losers.  Sweet.

The bartender job?
This is one job I’d stay away from if I was you.
True, it’s a good way of keeping an eye on everyone. One small problem.
All the bartenders I know are some really sneaky motherfuckers.
They hang back for most of the night, furtively eyeballing all the hot chicks too drunk to stand, then when they find a stray, alone, no crew in sight, they swoop in for the kill, like a hyena or something.
I’m not saying that’s you. No way.
I know you’re not the type to get chicks wrecked so you can take them home and bang them. Besides, you have no business eyeballing any pootie-tang, young, old, or otherwise.
You’re God for Christ’s sakes!

Don't even think about it God

There is another job you can do on beer night.
You can be the deejay, but you’d have to bump some decent tunes and not that Gospel shit you’re so fond of, otherwise, you’d have everyone running for the doors in a heartbeat.

Anyways, I’m looking forward to 10 cent beer night up there, but only if I don’t have to drive.
Uh, I’m curious—are there any big oak trees in Heaven?

Imbibingly yours,

Diego

My perfect breakfast

God-

You know how I need to dump a shit-load of sins between now and reckoning day? Well, in keeping with our deal, (you expunging one mortal sin for one of my award winning recipes), here’s another recipe, and this one’s a winner.  No, seriously. I never give this recipe out, but considering the severity of the sin, I feel compelled to dish up this time.

So, do you remember the time my wife found me sleeping naked in the driveway, the morning after my office Christmas party? And I promised her I’d go to Alcoholics Anonymous in a last ditch effort to save our marriage?
Well it turns out I never did go to any of the AA meetings, I signed up for a 36 week bowling league instead.
I know this was wrong of me, but I felt like it was the right thing to do under the circumstances. My wife was working nights at the time, the Marauders were missing a fourth, and AA meetings were on the exact same night as bowling. And as a bonus, I got to skate on the kids PTA meetings.
Anyway, as you might expect, the cover-up lies kept getting bigger and bigger until one day when she asked the one question I’d been dreading. When was I was going to graduate?
And that’s when I came clean.
I told her I’d already graduated 2 months earlier and was now working Thursdays at the homeless shelter as additional penance.

God, I know, I’m sorry, but this was a desperate situation and it demanded a desperate lie. After all, I was trying to save my marriage.
The good news is she bought the story, the Marauders finished in a very respectable 4th place, and I made some sweet dinero selling weed to the kids who hung-out in the bowling alley parking lot. A trifecta by anyones definition!

But now that I’m older, I’ve found guilt has a funny way of manifesting itself.
I now realize how wrong I was to do such a thing and for that I’m truly sorry.
I know now that getting fucked-up before league play was the wrong thing to do and as a result, my selfishness cost the Marauders a spot in the finals.
So here I am.
At your mercy, asking forgiveness.
And in a monumentally overstuffed act of contrition, am selflessly offering up my Banana French Toast recipe to you and anyone else who might give a shit.
Enjoy, God, and let’s just forget about this whole thing ever happened.
Shall we?

Banana French Toast ala Diego

1 Large Brioche
1/4 cup bakers sugar (finely ground)
3/4 cup half and half
3/4 cup whole milk
2 tsp vanilla
3 tbsp  Grand Marnier
2 tsp ground cinnamon
6 eggs (two whole and 4 yolks)
1/2 tsp salt

Cut the brioche into 1-1/2″ thick slices
Combine the eggs, milk, half & half, sugar, vanilla, orange liqueur, cinnamon, and salt in a mixing bowl. Use a whisk and beat until smooth and creamy.
Place the bread slices in a large casserole dish and add the wet ingredients. The mixture should be almost level with the top of the bread. If not, make a smaller batch of the milk mixture and add to it.
After 15 minutes, carefully turn each slice. You’ll repeat this process every 15 minutes thereafter until the bread is saturated and the cream mixture is no longer present. The bread will become increasingly difficult to flip as it becomes more saturated, I recommend using a very thin stainless steel spatula. The entire process takes a little over an hour.

On a preheated griddle (medium to medium low heat), butter the griddle and slowly cook the brioche until golden on each side. Then transfer the grilling pan and the bread to a preheated 350 degree oven, middle rack, and bake for an additional 12-16 minutes or until a toothpick pulls clean from the center of the bread.

While the bread is cooking, start the banana topping.

Banana Topping

4 large bananas sliced lengthways
2 bananas cut into small slices
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup dark rum (Meyers or Appletons)
1 stick unsalted butter
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1 cup whole pecans (pan toasted)

In a large skillet on low heat add the butter and brown sugar until dissolved, a couple of minutes. Add the 4 bananas and cook for about a minute on each side, saving the sliced bananas for the topping Add the cinnamon. Add the rum, turn off the heat, tilt the pan away from you and ignite the rum using a long stick (fireplace) match or handheld igniter. Wait for the alcohol to burn off, about a minute. Remove from heat.

Freshly whipped cream

1 pint heavy cream
1/4 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla
Use a balloon whisk and beat to stiff peaks

Assemble

Top the french toast with the cooked banana rum mixture.
Top the banana rum mixture with fresh whipped cream
Top the whipped cream with the sliced uncooked bananas
Top the whipped cream and banana slices with the toasted pecans.
Drizzle chocolate sauce over the entire bloody mess.

Die

You’ll probably keel over after the first bite, but try to hang in there. Some of my guests shudder uncontrollably, like one of Sting’s eight-hour tantric orgasms, so be very cautious when eating. I’ve never died or orgasm’d at the dining table, but have come damned close.

Contritely, and one less sin away from the pearly gates, (I hope)

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