Should have used barbecue sauce

Sometimes I watch Animal Planet on Sundays and wonder just how it happened that a hyena got to be a hyena and more importantly, why I got to be human and not a hyena. Then I think about whether or not Mr Hyena knows how great it is being human and all the cool shit he’s missing out on, like not being able to drive a truck or screw an Asian prostitute in a basket hanging from the ceiling.
And that makes me wonder about the whole cosmic narrative and who or what decided he was going to be a hyena and me human. Was it was luck of the draw, or was something else at play?
Something else meaning he probably fucked-up serious in a previous life and got sent back to Earth as a hyena, this in some hellacious form of penance. Seems plausible.

Lets say you ax murdered your seventh grade auto shop teacher and ate him for lunch. I totally get this.

God: “So uh, says here you killed Mr Hanson with a power drill and ate him…is that correct?”

Soon to be hyena: “Uh, yeah…all true God.”

God: “Well then, since you seem to have a taste for killing, and eating things uncooked, I’m sending you back as a hyena.”

STBH: “Can I say something in my defense?”

God: “Proceed.”

STBH: “After killing Mr Hanson, I really did plan on cooking him first, but I forgot to pay my power bill that month and the only way I could prepare him was on an old barbecue, and that’s when I got really confused. I didn’t have any bbq sauce on hand and ketchup seemed redundant…[God interupting]

God: “You missed the whole point—you shouldn’t have killed him in the first place.”

STBH: “Any chance I could stay and apologize to him, would that make things right?”

God: “Seriously? He’s sitting over there…in about thirty pieces on the floor.”

STBH: “Oh yeah, then there’s that.”

God: [poof]

Hyena: “Shit!”

My top 10 reasons for not wanting to be President

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

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

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

A reasonable alternative

The prospect of death frightens me, but there are days when it has its appeal.
Then I remember how I never erased the playlist ‘Creed..fuck yeah‘ from my Ipod.
Listening to it seems a reasonable alternative to death, only without the actual dying part.

Maybe heaven has a back door

Me, bartering with St. Peter….

“I.m.p.o.s.s.i.b.l.e!”

“Our records are quite accurate Mr. Serrano, I assure you.”

“19,000 just seems like a lot.”

“19,312-1/2 to be precise sir.”

“A half?  Seriously? I’m getting tagged with half? How does that even count?”

“Mr. Serrano, you know how God has a zero-tolerance policy on Catholic’s masturbating.”

“I did not. Does this mean the half-whack counts?”

“Sir,  I wouldn’t worry about it with a record such as yours.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right, so ugh, tell me, is there any wiggle room on this one?”

“Wiggle room, sir? There was, but you surpassed that number on your first day of puberty. He allows for twenty occurrences, citing youthful curiosity.”

“Any ideas about his take on older curiosity?”

“Let’s move on, shall we?”

“What’s next?”

“Let’s discuss your blog, sir.”

“Ohhhh fuck.”

Camp Morningwood

God-

Why is it that only men wake up with a boner in the morning? What’s that about?
Was it some kind of sick joke?
Why is women don’t wake up shitballs horny?
Were you all like;

“Hey Jesus, check this out…I’m gonna design men so they wake up each day with a hard-on. And, I’m going to design women with a receptor located in the small of their backs, that when poked at repeatedly, switches off the horny. What’dya think?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. What’s he going to do if she starts swatting at it?”

“That’ll be the best part. Rejected, he simply goes to the bathroom and tries to piss with it. How funny will that be? Not only does he get rejected, she wakes up to a bathroom with piss everywhere. Now they’re both pissed off.  

“That seems cruel God. Why don’t you just make the woman horny too? Wouldn’t that be a lot easier?”

“No, Jesus. Life doesn’t work that way son….life doesn’t work that way.”

The funeral

Sometimes I fantasize about my funeral, thinking up ways to make it even sadder than it would be otherwise. I do this with good reason.
I want the focus on me and not anyone else. But this may prove an impossible task since most people who attend funerals are there to see everybody but the guy who died. I get this. Looking at some dead guy is a glimpse into ones own mortality and no-one in their right mind wants to deal with that, not at a funeral. That’s what fantasies are for.
For this reason, I want to be buried in a clown suit with clown makeup since everyone loves a clown. This will give my attendees a reason to look at me. Then cry. Because nothing is sadder than a dead clown. This, as I gaze back at their crying being, all, “Hey, what are you crying about? I’m fucking dead. You think you’re sad? Get a good look inside this coffin, I’ve got your sad right here asshole! [clown hands and gloves on crotch]

Why you should never brake for animals

Living in the desert, I routinely witness other drivers hard-braking for animals crossing the roadway.
I think this is a mistake.
When any type of critter runs in front me, or even contemplates running in front of me, I feverishly hit the gas.
I do this with good reason.
First, I make them better animals if they survive, having found a new gear they didn’t know they had, outrunning my jeep and all.
From a Darwinian perspective this only makes them stronger, faster and more desirable when it comes to finding a mate. After all, who doesn’t want “outran Jeep” on their animal resume?

Secondly, if I do run one over, I’ve eliminated slow from their species gene pool, which I’m guessing is a huge favor to the others since this guy was probably a lazy motherfucker to begin with, otherwise he’d have lit it up when he saw me coming.

And finally, I think it teaches the others a valuable lesson in decision making.
Sit and watch me coming, deciding at the last minute to run, and wind up like ’ol Bob over there, flatter ’n a pancake,  or simply run for your life. Literally.

So in a weird way, I’m actually good for desert species, even going as far as saying that if everyone else thought this way, we’d have a stronger, much more vibrant animal population a couple generations down the line.
And this in turn would make me a better hunter, forcing me to find a new level of quick when it comes to shooting these new speedy little fuckers.

Evolution is so cool.

So Mr. Rabbit...you think you're fast? Well outrun this motherfucker!

What I WON’T do if I win Mega Millions

God-

Our national lottery, Mega Millions has now reached an all-time high of over half a billion dollars. But I’m sure you already knew that due to your seeing a massive uptick in prayers…or should I say bartering.
Bartering does seem more appropriate.
I’m guessing you’re hearing all kinds strange prayers right about now, many promising anything and everything if you were to somehow rig the winning numbers in their favor.
But you’ll never hear me praying for a lottery win. No sir. I’m saving that big prayer just in case you load me up with cancer or some new strain of syphilis.

Which is why I suggest you ignore all these lottery player’s bullshit prayers.
I think people will say anything for that kind of money. I know I would.
For example:
I’ve never sucked a dick in my life, not even a hint of gayness in my being, but for over a half a billion…I can see me promising you how I’d make some queer one happy motherfucker!

My point is simply this.
Anyone who sits there and tells you how they’ll be a better spouse or parent is full of shit.
Or how they’ll continue to live a life fraught with humility in your honor—or my personal favorite, how they’d give back—donating countless millions to charity. All lies.

I live amongst these animals God and can tell you first hand, it’s all bullshit. Don’t you buy into any of these prayers…not for one New York fucking second.
Here’s why.
If someone is prone to beating their spouse or kids, money isn’t going to change that.
And living a life of humility? What kind of a moron would run around in sweats and drive an old junker if they had access to that kind of coinage? Be still my fucking heart.
And charities?
Charities waste money on stupid shit like food and medical supplies…all stuff you can get for free now.¹ Then, when they’ve spent all your donations, they’ll start sending you letters asking for more…even though you’re broke.
Fuckers.

Which I why I propose you consider making me the big winner in Saturday night’s drawing.
Because unlike all the others praying for a win, I promise to only make promises I’ll keep. For instance:

I promise to be the bad father / spouse I’ve always been. You know I can keep that one, having had plenty of money at one time, while remaining grounded…ever true to my shitty roots.

Second, I won’t be humble. I know you’re all into that shit, but not me.
I plan on riding dirty dude and I don’t care who knows it. Fuck, I’ll even take out ads on billboards with me and my bitches in a Bentley convertible, a bottle of absinthe in one hand, a blunt in the other as I give crazy mad props to all the millions who purchased lottery tickets, making this good life possible.

And finally, I absolutely promise to not give any money to any charities. And you know I won’t either.
Mom always said, “charity begins at home,” and I have no reason to start doubting mom’s wisdom at this juncture in my life.
Besides, charities don’t know how to spend money. I KNOW HOW TO SPEND MONEY!
Think about it.
When was the last time you saw an ad on some billboard with a cowboy in a Bentley, with a load of bitches, giving props to all the people who’ve donated to the American Cancer Society?
I didn’t think so.

 

¹in America anyway

I Yelp everything…including church!

A Yelp review I did of the church near my house

The Franciscan Renewal Center 

Category: Churches

3/23/2012

I’m going to let you in on a well guarded secret only us natives know.
The hottest of Scottsdale’s hot chicks go to church. But you don’t know this, either because:

A.) You’ve never been to church

or..

B.) The church you go to plays host to only those sporting walkers, canes and wheelchairs.

Well you won’t find any of those folks in this place. Nope, not here.
This church is the mother lode of hotties, and they’re all on their knees, praying someone like you will come along.
And here’s the best part.
They’re Catholic, and that means one thing…issues.

Yep.
You can bet that if these girls have spent any amount of time in Catholic school, their flower is ready for cross pollination. And who better than with someone a breed apart…in this case you…Right?

But you’ll need a clever ploy for these chicks.

They’re smarter than most hot babes.  These girls come from money, and probably parents who’ve warned of scum like you. (and to a lesser extent, me)
Which is why you’ll want to bring along your little niece. At least the first time anyway.
Oh, and make sure she’s cute and dressed smartly.  With a little ruffled dress, maybe even a bonnet— something that’ll draw attention anyway.

Kids make great conversation starters….you watch.
Now go call your sister to see what little Jessica’s doing this Sunday evening at seven.

Note:
Memorize this if you get one on the hook…..Domini vobiscum et cum spiri tu tu o.

It’s Latin, and Father Murphy used to recite it before he tried to get me to disrobe before paddling me.

I think it means something dirty. Not sure.

Amen

Edit Remove

 

The fisherman?

God-

You know how some people refer to Jesus as “The Fisherman”?
Well how come there aren’t any pictures of him with a fishing rod, tackle box, boat, friends, or more importantly, holding up a prized whopper?

The only pictures I ever see of Jesus are either head shots (hanging in my Aunt’s house) or worse yet, being crucified.
But never once have I ever seen a picture of Jesus next to a 400 pound blue marlin, or with a buddy holding a stringer of fish.
You know, now that I think about it, I’ve never seen a picture of Jesus out in a boat either. Why not?
It’s not like they didn’t have boats back in the day.

Or did Jesus not need a boat since he could walk on water?
And that makes we wonder why he’d go fishing by himself?
Every fisherman knows not to go it alone, especially if you catch something and it flips off the line before you land it in the boat.
Hell, “the one that got away” is part of the whole post-fishing experience, which is precisely why you need your buddy there in the first place… to corroborate your lies story about how big it was!

But I suppose if you are Jesus, and you can walk on water, walking on water is a pretty cool way to go fishing….and a whole lot less expensive!
No boat, trailer, licenses, flat tires on the drive to the lake, engine problems, or forgetting to install the drain plug prior to launching.

Although, on the other hand, without a boat, Jesus wouldn’t have a place to hide his ice-chest and beers either. That’s not cool.

You know, I’m beginning to wonder if the real reason we don’t see any images of Jesus in a boat is because he got pulled over by Game and Fish one too many times—busted for boozing it up with his friends, had his boat confiscated, fishing license revoked, and was left on the shore to fish all by himself, sans rod and reel.
What a bummer.
I can see why he resorted to walking on water in order to go fishing.

That still doesn’t explain why Michelangelo didn’t leave us with any frescoes of Jesus holding up a 400 lb blue marlin on the Sistine chapel.

Don’t get me wrong God.
I, like Jesus, love to go fishing.
But I’ve learned over the years never to go without a close friend , a digital camera, a laptop, and some photo-shop software.

Diego

Why men seem to smell…a complaint

God-

As you know, I’ve always been fairly critical of the way you designed the male body, insofar as the non-working male tits, and how we have to go through life with exposed dangling balls, which, in my estimation could have just as easily been placed inside our bodies someplace.
I’ve also filed numerous complaints with you about our hairy backsides, earwax, and toxic foot odors, all of which you’ve seemed to ignore.

Today I have a new complaint I think you might want to look into.

I really don’t like the way you designed our digestive systems, more specifically, the manner in which we crap.
In fact, I don’t care for the entire messy proposition of taking a dump!

Why couldn’t you have designed us so that we poop like a little baby deer or some other kind of animal, with those precious little green pellets that don’t stink?
That would be pretty cool.
Only I don’t know about green. You might want to consider a more popular color—like maybe sky blue or gold for guys, and say, pink for women.
I like this idea on many levels.

First, deer shit doesn’t smell and that’s pretty cool.
And with the new bright colors, it would actually be fun to gawk at, instead of always being repulsed, the way we are now.
And just think, there would be no more embarrassing moments after that big family get-together where the host makes us all use the downstairs bathroom.
No more need for toilet paper either. The last time I checked, I don’t recall seeing deer wipe their butts.

And lastly, have you ever seen the way a deer shits?
Standing up, right?
This means we could shit just about anywhere, just like how men pee all over everything now.¹

I like this idea God and think you should really give it some consideration the next time you design a species such as us humans.

Just a thought

Yours,

Diego

¹ This includes the backyard, subway, park, club parking lot, neighbors hedges, and the bathroom toilet—seat, rim, and floor.

All that ass-kissing won’t get you anywhere, take it from me.

Sometimes my friends ask me what I miss the most about my former life as a CEO after losing everything.

Authors note:

In light of recent protests, It may please some to know I was a one-percenter who three years ago, in the midst of the Wall St. debacle was catapulted back into the ranks of the ninety-nine percenter’s. You would be wrong in your assessment of  me however. Things have a way of working out, I think it’s called evolution. Survival of the fittest. The point is I’m not fit to run a company anymore. I never was. I was simply following the prescription for success the American capitalist system taught me, notwithstanding my contempt for it. At heart, I’ve always been a ninety niner, which is where I remain today and quite satisfied with it.

I suppose I could say I miss the company ride, a twelve passenger plane I had at my disposal.
Or the salary. That was nice.
I do miss the ass-kissing—the shameless attempts by my subordinates, continually ratting each other out in a selfish quest to to climb the company ladder.

Then there was my admin, who did everything for me, including picking up the kids, laundry and gifts. Covering for me when I didn’t want to speak with someone or attend an event.
And the charities. I miss the charities too. Being the big cheese, getting all the notoriety as we donated countless monies.

And my disposal to the best legal minds and CPA firms is sorely missed. The group I counted on for important decisions. Objective decisions.

I can’t forget the free lunches, dinners, drinks and front row seating at major sporting events, often meeting sport’s biggest stars.

I liked how the world was at my disposal, how everything was for sale at the right price, and how my company had few limitations on my spending as my admin made all things possible.

But the thing I miss the most?
Sitting in a boring-as-hell meeting, and just as the speaker takes the floor, aiming my laser pointer at his or her head for a split second…enough time for everyone to see the little red dot on their forehead, then quickly sneak it back into my coat pocket so no-one could detect its origin.
I loved watching everyone’s reaction.

You can have all the other stuff.
The people at that level, in all their fucked-up glory are definitely what I miss the most.
Probably by contrast as I sit here writing posts on WordPress, with nothing else to do but lament.
Not over my losses. Are you kidding?
Over how I should have ignored everyone and pursued my dream as a writer, which is now long past its prime.

My holy sacrifice

God-

In the bible, it says how people used to go around sacrificing shit in your honor, like all those little petting zoo animals—lambs and goats and such.
But in all the bible study I had to go through as a kid, I don’t recall ever seeing where anyone sacrificed a longhorn steer in your honor, or for that matter a chicken or pig.
Why is that?

The chicken I get, since they eat their own shit. That’s totally unholy, eating ones shit and all.
And pigs are filthy motherfuckers. Smart, but filthy nonetheless.
But cows? I see no reason why Abraham or Isaac couldn’t have just as easily sacrificed a little baby cow for you and braised up some nice veal chops.
Maybe a nice garden salad with blue cheese on the side, a baker, and a hearty glass of red vino.
Now that wreaks of holiness.

Or did they not cook whatever it was they were sacrificing? That seems like more of a sin, at least to me anyway.
I know if I lived back in the day, and wanted to get some sins off my chest, I’d probably sacrifice something in your honor I didn’t have to eat.
Like maybe that rooster down the block that wakes me up every morning three fucking hours before work.
Or the pigeons, which I routinely sacrifice anyway, but will probably never get any holy credits for doing so.
But just so you know, don’t expect me to sacrifice a dog or cat in your honor. I like dogs and cats.
Unless it’s that worthless fucker that shits on my lawn every day whose owner won’t clean it up.
I’d probably sacrifice him in a heartbeat.

Here’s an idea.
What if I were to trade my neighbor, Jason, some of my wife’s spaghetti and meatballs for one of his kid’s pet rattlesnakes?
They’re pretty much worthless, right?
I could mumble a bunch of holy stuff, then whack him with a long handled shovel. He’d make a nice sacrifice don’t you think?
And in the snake’s remembrance, how he sacrificed his life for my bartering a loge seat in Heaven, I’d tan his skin and use it for a band on my cowboy hat.
That sounds reasonable don’t you think?

Sooo.. what’s say we bring back the whole sacrifice thing?
I’d like to get started right away on this javelina who visits once a week, tipping over my garbage can and making a huge mess I have to clean-up before heading off to work.
I could even throw him out in the same can he’s been tipping over all these months after shooting him, bringing a kind-of holy symmetry to the event in a weird way.
Or maybe it’s not that weird after all.
You decide.

Thanks for listening.

Ever your holy euthanizer,

Diego

And on the seventh day, he went to Costco

God-

You know how you created the world in only six days and rested on the seventh?
That was a pretty big project, was it not?
I presume you started in on a Monday morning, finishing up late Saturday night, right?
So on Sunday, what did you do when you did rest?
Did you lay around the house all day, eating, taking naps, and drinking beer?
Or did you just sleep all day?

Here’s why I’m asking.
Like you, I work all week too. And on Sunday, I’m tired as a motherfucker, both mentally and physically. Which means all I pretty much want to do is lay around and veg all day.
But my wife has other plans.
She wants me to go shopping with her, usually to Costco, where they sell everything by the dozen and load it all on big push carts, and in boxes no less.
And that spells one thing—work, which wasn’t in my grand plan, but now is.

So how did you get out of going to Costco with your wife on day seven?
Did you just smack her around, like dudes did back in the day? I don’t want to do that.
I don’t hit women, for two reasons.

One, I don’t like hitting people.
And two, if I was to hit a woman, in this case my wife, I’d be a goner in the pussy department if you know what I mean.
Like that’s going to happen.

So I go to Costco, and Home Depot, and all the other shitty little places I need to go in order to keep the peace piece.

I’m such a sellout.

Yours,

Diego

Life as a human

I wonder if someday we’ll all be sitting around in an afterlife discussing our human experience and what it was like having a body.
When it’s my turn to speak, this is what I would tell the others.

Other than eating and having sex, there’s not a whole lot to enjoy about the experience.
I did however like the fact that mine worked well, all my parts functioning and all, and how I was able to produce some decent offspring, but as a whole, having a male body was a real pain in the ass.

First off, there were way too many orifices, six major ones at last count, not to mention the millions of pores on my skin. And they were always emitting some kind of noxious substance, some more than once a day.
And that meant there was a prolific amount of cleansing needed if I didn’t want to go around smelling like a hobo.

And if the orifice part wasn’t enough to loathe, how about having bones that broke easily, cartilage that wore out early, teeth that decayed, eyes and ears that lost their efficiency, a brain that petrified with old age and a dick that didn’t.
Oh, and lest we not forget the dangling duo, two of my favorite characters that continually fucked with even the most basic of motor skills, and always requiring adjustment—typically in crowded public places.

I also got two tits that didn’t work.
Hair all over everything, requiring any one of a half-dozen depilatory methods.
Nails on my digits that needed continual maintenance.
Fat cells that were all too eager to swell up for no apparent reason.
Muscles that needed constant exercise.
A voice box that checked-out every Monday morning.
And, I was a germ factory.

What wasn’t to like?

R.I.P Mayans, you bunch of idiots

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

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

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

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

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

Nice legacy!

Unpopular baby names, Part 2

If your’e a world famous assassin who goes by both your first and middle name, say like Lee Harvey Oswald or John Wilkes Booth, its a pretty safe bet your unique name combination is going straight to the grave right along with you.
I mean really, how fucked-up does a mother have to be to name her kid Lee Harvey? Even the worst mother on the planet wouldn’t do that to her newborn for fear the kid would be relegated to a lifetime of shit.

Famous killers with double handles aren’t the only people to make it to the unpopular baby name list, there are plenty of other assholes who’ve managed this rare accomplishment.
Take Charles Manson for instance.
Charles is a popular name and certainly one that has stood the test of time. But name your kid Manson and see what happens. Manson might work for your Rotweiller or an overly drugged-out rock star, but it’s not the name you want to see showing up on your kids kindergarten class roster.

Which leads me to the point of this post.
When exactly does the statute of limitations run out on one of these killer (not a pun) names before returning to the popular baby-name stockpile?

Personally, I think it depends entirely on who you killed.
Take the guy who killed Jesus for instance.
I can’t see the name Pontious making a comeback anytime soon, and that’s been 2011 years.
I think it also has something to do with the spectacle of the event.
The guy who killed Jesus used a cross, thorns and nails. Shit, he even made him carry this huge cross up a mountain before killing him. That would have been punishment enough for me, but then to nail him to it? Fuck. That’s totally brutal.
I get why no-one would ever name their kid Pontious, may as well name your kid Satan for that matter.

And to further illustrate, lets take John Lennon.
Lennon was an important figure. Maybe not as important as Jesus, but he did sell a shitload of albums, and, he carried a message of peace and love, so why isn’t his killer on the ‘do not name under any circumstances’ list? The name Mark David is as popular as ever.
Here’s my theory.
It was due to Lennon being killed by a gunshot wound. Big damn deal. Everyone in America will get shot or die from a gunshot wound sooner or later, it’s inevitable, especially with our penchant for guns. I think this is why the name Mark David is still popular. Chapman’s crime, although horrible, wasn’t heinous enough to get his name banned. Not like Pontious Pilate anyway.
I submit that had Chapman made a spectacle out of the event, say he strangled Lennon with a rainbow colored hair scrunchie, carved a pentagram into his forehead with a dull knife and given him a Columbian necktie, while Boy George’s Karma Chameleon blared from his boombox, the name Mark-David would have joined the ranks of the dinosaurs that very same day. As it well should be.

Maybe there will be a day when the world collectively takes note of the worlds biggest assholes, banishing their name forever like we did Pontious Pilate. I hope so.

Well that’s it for today’s post, gotta run, I’m late for my Pilates class.

Someday

I wrote this some time ago, in loving memory of my mother, Filomena.

Like most, I loved my mother.
I loved that she taught me to be independant, to always think for myself.
How she instilled her work ethic into my childhood habits—requiring I cook, clean, do my own laundry, even sew my clothes when torn or a button lost.

I loved her life-lessons as she explained how no one on the planet was better than me, and I, no better than anyone.
It was her unwavering love and support that inspired me to believe in myself, giving me an unusual abundance of confidence as a young man.

She encouraged me to never depend on others;
“Make your own way” she would often say, her biting intonation still reverberates in my head.
The lessons in love;

“Put the needs of  others first”
“Give more than you take”
“Always give others the benefit of doubt, everyone has a good side, look for it”, she used to say.

And most important, her lesson in humility whenever she caught me acting up.

“Diego, always remember, he who humbles himself shall be exalted.”

“What’s ‘egg-salted’ mommy?”

“You’ll know someday.”

“When is sum day mommy—when we go to church?”

Mom always used to smile in an odd sort of way that said in very certain terms, no more questions for now.

She liked the word someday and invoked it often when she spoke.
Someday.
I liked it too.

It offered reassurance in a single word.
Believing in someday gave me hope, inspiring me to chase dreams, knowing all the while I would catch them—someday.
Someday taught me patience.
The patience needed to survive life’s struggles and to learn of its many mysteries as time slowly unfolded them.

An inquisitive child.
A loving mother, skilled at knowing which of life’s puzzle pieces to hand her son at precisely the right moment.
I can only be grateful.

How to put ones brain in reverse

I love it whenever I’m talking with someone and mid-sentence, they parenthetically invoke God’s name in this manner;

“My mother made the best holiday cookies, God rest her soul…her secret was butter you know.”

No, actually, I don’t know what her secret was, nor will I ever. Because the moment you said God rest her soul, my brain, which had previously been in drive up until that moment, has now shifted into reverse all by itself, and with it, all the gear clanging and grinding noises one might expect.

All I can think of at that point is why you felt the need to invoke this phrase mid-sentence.
Well just so you know, if you do pull a God rest his or her soul on me, my brain will be sealed up tighter than a nun’s box, and nothing you say afterward will ever penetrate.

So try to make all of your salient points beforehand. Please?

Diego

Penis envy: The true reason behind it

God-

Why is it everything on me has gotten bigger over time except for my dick? I think this may have been a major design flaw of yours.

If I eat too much I get fat.
Each week, I have to trim my finger and toenails.
And once a month, I need a haircut.

It seems everything on me is getting bigger and longer, continually growing except for my johnson—why?
By conservative estimates, if it grew like everything else on me, it should have been at least three to four feet long after all these years, and that’s with no trimming.
Turgid, I would expect at least a car’s length or better.

So what gives?
You didn’t think men would be responsible with an ever-growing willie, one requiring constant maintenance like fingernails or hair?
Granted, I’ll admit how most of us subscribe to the ‘bigger is better‘ theory, but that’s no reason to believe we’d let things spiral out of control, growing it to the size of a small anaconda.

Sure, there would always be those few who couldn’t resist the temptation of trimming it down regularly, but for the most part, I have to believe the majority of guys would ‘try’ to keep it well wthin the 12-16 inch range, eliminating penis envy altogether.

You may want to take this into consideration the next time you design another human-type species, particularly its males.

Love,

Diego