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.
Archive for happiness
The prospect of death frightens me, but there are days when it has its appeal.
A friend posted this on FB today.
After reading a recent post by a fellow blogger where she expounded on her un-love of children, I ‘m dedicating today’s post to her.
In what I can only conjecture as all the perverted minds on the planet uniting in a common effort, I’m officially declaring July 23, 2012 Three Boob’d Women day.
For on this day, unlike any other day in my WordPress writing history, I received 811 views. 792 of them on my post; Lady boobs, a really poor design.
The post features an image of a woman with three tits.
On most days it gets a dozen or so hits.
Not July 23rd.
Who Googles ‘Three tittied woman’ images anyway?
E-mails to God (Dashboard)
E-mails to God (WP.com)
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We all do it.
We playfully taunt the women in our lives until one of two things happens.
She either gets pissed off, touching off some kind of major argument.
Or we go too far, saying or doing something to hurt her feelings.
Then we feel bad.
So why did we poke the bear in the first place?
I have a theory.
As kids, we were taught the importance of boundaries. Whether not leaving the safety of our front yard to walk out in the street, or coloring within the lines. The lesson was always the same.
Inside the lines, good.
Outside, not good.
In affect, boundaries become a metaphor for daily living.
Staying within the lines on the roadway.
Never crossing the pc line at work.
And not to ‘cut’ in front of another when standing in a line.
Lines are everything to us.
Borders of countries.
And they all have one thing in common. They’re clearly defined—static, they seldom if ever move.
But there’s one line that does move.
Dynamic by its very nature. changing day by day, sometimes hourly.
A woman’s mood.
You never know where it’s going to be, never staying in the same place for very long.
When you woke up this morning, you were hoping it would be in the same place you left it last night. It’s not.
It swerves around, a lot.
One minute pleasant, the next, well, let’s just say not so pleasant.
This is where I make the connection with boundaries.
At least on a roadway, bowling alley, or neighboring property, I know where the lines are and am careful not to cross them.
But a woman’s ‘lines’, depicting what mood she may be in at any given moment is always changing, and that means one thing.
We need to test the waters to find out where the hell they happen to be on any given day.
And this requires that a man to use a variety of tactical skills to determine just that.
Some women refer to this as poking the bear, but really it isn’t that at all.
I think of it as a highly orchestrated series of verbal jabs, anecdotes, interrogatories, jokes (practical or otherwise), physical moves, or quasi-insults, all designed with the specific intention of letting us know where the mood happens to be that day.
This, in order we don’t cross it.
Knowing where your mood is keeps us safe.
Careful to not cross the line by saying or doing something we KNOW will piss you off.
Only there’s one thing wrong with this methodology.
Unfortunately, by the time we figure out where your mood is, it’s too late.
Sometimes my friends ask me what I miss the most about my former life as a CEO after losing everything.
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.
What does your voice sound like?
I’d like to think its similar to ours, except for maybe how it bellows and booms, like the subwoofers in my jeep.
I hope it sounds like that.
I’ll be pretty disappointed if it doesn’t.
I knew this guy once who physically, was extremely big. What was weird however was his voice.
I expected him to have this deep, baritone voice, so you can imagine how shocked I was when I heard him speak for the first
time. He sounded just like Minnie Mouse, very high pitched and squeaky.
It just didn’t fit.
Here was this big strapping lad, with this little girl voice. Really strange.
Anyhow, that got me wondering what you sound like.
You’re probably a big dude too, like him.
I hope you don’t sound like him.
I busted out laughing the first time I heard him speak.
If you do sound like him, when we meet, if I start laughing, would you please not send me to Hell.
And don’t sock me either.
Somebody your size could really fuck me up.
You really should be more mindful of your strength!
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.
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.
Level with me.
Did you make cows sacred just to fuck with the Hindu people of India? That’d be pretty messed up if you did, especially with all those people starving and what not.
Couldn’t you have just as easily made brussel sprouts sacred?
I’m guessing they’d be pretty easy to worship too, and given their relatively small size, you could always have a few laying around in a bowl somewhere if you felt the need to say a quick prayer or something.
The cow, not so much.
I know if I lived in India, and you had made brussel sprouts holy, you’d never have to sweat me eating them, or anyone else eating them for that matter, due to the rancid-as-ass taste you gave them.
Cows, on the other hand, have got to be the most unholy animal on the planet with the exception of chickens, (who routinely eat their own shit).
In fact, by last count, cows break at least 3 of the 7 deadly sins daily, assuming the 7 deadly sins apply to the bovine realm, and from all my catholic training, I’m pretty sure they do.
Here’s a thought.
Why not make only veal holy?
They look and taste like little baby lambs which we all know is a staple of Indian cuisine.
They’re even small enough to have around as a house pet, then, when they start to get big and turn into a fully grown beef cow or bull, and, they’re not little baby veals any longer, it’d be ok to eat them—serving them up with a nice goblet of bordeaux, some herbed fingerling potatoes and a nice bernaise sauce. Kind of a celebratory supper. From veal to cow to dinner table. Yum.
And to make the event even more holy, we could all hold hands and say something nice about the brussel sprouts before chowing down on the beef.
Even though we won’t mean it.
Just a thought.
Love, medium rare.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
There is a downside however. Have you seen the chicks in singles clubs?
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.
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.
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).
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,
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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)
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.
Do you need any male models in Heaven? If so, I’d like to sign up.
I think I have what it takes to be a male model, that is if looks aren’t important, and from what I’ve seen in biblical paintings, they’re not.
Why do I think I have the right stuff to be a male model?
Well for starters, I like to lay around in my robe all day.
Most of the models in bible paintings look like they’re in robes.
I rarely shave, opting for the George Clooney stubble look. It seems no one shaves in Heaven either.
I have good looking feet, and since everyone in Heaven wears sandals, my dogs would be prominently displayed.
I’m good with knives—swords, not so much, but that doesn’t mean I can’t learn. A lot of the guys in those bible paintings have helmets and swords. I have a motorcycle helmet, and an old Star Wars sword I kept from when I was a kid, so I’ve had some practice.
I love beef jerky and diet soda. Models live on beef jerky and diet soda.
I chain smoke.
I’m pretty stupid, if I do say so myself.
I routinely make bad decisions.
I breathe with my mouth open.
And I have this cool tattoo of a really cute little squirrel, arms outstretched, located just under my sack. Pretty unique actually and very photogenic.
I should think this qualifies me.
How about it.
How many annual holidays do we get in Heaven? As it stands, we get seven here in America, all of which with paid time off.
But since most of these are in remembrance of dead people who may or may not have landed a spot in Heaven, I can see where this number could easily be cut short, fucking us out of some serious pto.
I get you screwing us out Thanksgiving, President’s day, Labor day, Memorial day, and New Year’s day…that’s just a given.
And I doubt seriously you’ll cancel Christmas, so by my math, that leaves one paid holiday—Martin Luther King day.
That really sucks.
Not MLK day, only having one paid day off work—Shit!
See, typically I wait for a holiday to land on a Monday or Friday, then call-in sick two or three days beforehand, getting some insane vacation time out of the deal.
But if we only get one paid holiday in Heaven, that means I’ll have to come up with some new strain of Ebola if I want my other 6 weeks of paid time off.
This could be dangerous.
Not the Ebola part, the fact that I’ll probably be seen in public by a co-worker while on “vacation”, whooping it up.
And if my co-workers in Heaven are anything like they are here, those rotten sons-’o-bitches will rat me out to you or Jesus in a New York second.
Which is why I’m writing today.
What’s the punishment for getting caught stealing sick days up there?
Normally, I’d just get yelled at by my boss, but I always get out of it by giving him my dad’s box seats to a Diamondback’s game.
However, I have an odd feeling that one baseball game isn’t going to cut it with you. I’m just guessing you’re a big ticket guy, like say the Super Bowl or something, and not just nose-bleed seating either.
So if it’s not too much trouble, let me know as soon as possible, ’cause those seats cost an ass-load of money and I’ll probably need to start saving now.
Feeling sick already,
I don’t understand how the whole angel wing thing works.
Do we still have arms in Heaven or just wings? I’ve always wanted to fly like a bird, so the wings would be totally cool, but only if I get to keep my arms in the deal.
If I think about my daily routine now, I’ll need my hands to flip people off and make pancakes for breakfast. I’m uncertain wings will allow me to do either.
Besides, wings have feathers and feathers molt.
We had a parakeet once, he molted constantly until one day when he lost all his feathers and keeled over.
Why wings anyway? Why on earth would you pattern us after a bird with only the wings and no beak? This makes no sense.
Why couldn’t you have patterned us after a really cool animal, like a beaver or a sea otter. They’re really cute and playful, very family oriented and they have huge choppers. (I like big teeth, I know, its weird).
By contrast, birds are a nasty sort, reptilian by ancestry, and, the last time I checked, related to snakes.
Again, this seems to go against all the stuff in the bible about serpents and what troublemakers they are.
I think its high time you updated the whole angel image. A newer, fresher approach that gets folks excited about coming your way.
What about one of those jet-fueled backpacks instead of wings? It seems like a much better technology and it doesn’t molt.
I can’t speak for others, but the flying around with a backpack would sure get me watered-up about dying.
Do the Chuck Taylor’s come with the deal? It’s alright if they don’t, they’re not a dealbreaker.
Not getting the huge teeth is, however.
A few years ago I went to France where I took a day trip to the Louvre museum. It was fantastic, especially the renaissance section where they house all the marble statues and biblical paintings. But there’s something that’s bothered me about the experience.
Namely how all the statues and paintings of old dudes, (like in their seventies) depict them as being absolutely ripped, with six-pack abs and bulging muscles.
Conspicuously absent however was anything resembling a wheelchair, cane, walking device, or portable oxygen rig. I would’ve expected to see at least one painting of some old dude dragging along behind a walker, all hunched over, but no. These dudes were total studs.
So what gives—how was that possible back then?
They didn’t have Wi, or PX90, training supplements, steroids, Suzanne Somers crotch-busting thighmaster or a shakeweight.
Why don’t any of those paintings or statues look like this guy?
That’s what old people really look like, at least nowdays anyway.
Not like some 20 something posing for Shape magazine.
Do you think it was diet related? I know my abs have never look like those guys, even when I was young and went on that dumb-ass food pyramid!
My parents made me go on it as a kid until I swelled up like a blue tick. Then they threatened me with fat camp that same summer to lose it all before school started. How ironic.
Was it goat meat? As far as I know, they ate lots of goat back in the day. Personally, I won’t eat goat. Goat binds me up and I can’t take a dump, and when I finally do, I nearly bust a ‘roid in the process.
I can’t imagine getting that buff on goat alone, not without hemorrhoids the size of Texas anyway.
Or was it the fruits and veggies?
Sister Mary Cannissia told us they did have fruits and veggies, at least initially, in someplace called the Garden of Eden.
That is until you fire-balled it over some dude stealing one of your special apples. Way to go.
So after a lot of thought, I’m calling bullshit on all those paintings and statues.
If you wanna know what I think, well, I think it was an ill conceived plot by your artists to promote goat-eating and Preparation H.
I’m on to you God.
How many robes are we issued up there and how exactly does that work?
By my math, I’ll need at least a dozen or so since I typically don’t do laundry but once a week or so. You know, truthfully, I don’t even do my own laundry. I take it to this little Chinese dude who owns a laundromat down the street, his name is Lum.
Lum is a nice guy but his wife is a major asshole.
Lum and his wife own the all-you-can-eat buffet next door to the laundromat where his ass-wad of a wife tries to run me off every Saturday for loading up on her fried chicken.
Here’s the routine.
I drop my stuff off at Lum’s, then go next door to the buffet where typically, after about three or four helpings of chicken, Lum’s 3-foot Anti-Christ of a wife comes running out of the back with a crazed look in her eyes yelling, “Eat moh vegtabuh, you eat too motch chikin, you go now, you too fat”!
What a little bitch! Who says shit like that to a customer?
Anyways, Lum does a good job on the laundry but takes forever to clean my shit. He always says; “you come back two days,” which I do and he never has my stuff ready.
Sometimes he even loses a shirt or two but always reimburses me at full price. Not your typical Chinaman. Like I say, I like Lum.
Which is why I’m writing.
Do the Chinese run all the laundromats in Heaven?
This could be a real problem unless you give me a bunch of extra robes to wear while the rest of them are being laundered, otherwise I’ll look like a real schlump with my stained robes.
For some unknown reason, all my white clothing seems to attract salsa similar to the manner in which shit draws flies. I don’t know what it is, I guess white is just a salsa magnet, for me anyway.
Or is this something I even need to worry about?
Maybe you and Jesus are the only ones wearing white while the rest of us are adorned in blue or green scrubs.
That would be better anyway. The salsa won’t be as prominent on blue, and I can lie to the chicks up there by telling them I’m a doctor and how I just got out of surgery. Chicks like doctors.
Anyways, I like Lum and hope maybe someday I’ll bump into him in Heaven. That’d be really nice if you could arrange that for me.
His wife, not so much.
You know how porn stars like to scream out your name when they’re having sex? What’s up with that?
How is it that you get any of the credit?
You’re not the one doing any of the work. If anything, they should be screaming out each others name but that never happens—why?
Do you think its because they don’t know the persons name they’re screwing, so they just say yours instead?
I have a theory, tell me if I’m wrong.
Let’s say, just for shits and giggles you consider sex a holy act.
I don’t know that you actually come out and say this anywhere, like in the ten commandments or anything, but let’s pretend for a second you do. I can see why people scream out your name. Maybe it’s their way of thanking you for getting them laid in the first place. That makes sense. Maybe that’s why porn stars are so popular. They’re really much holier than anyone would know.
So what about all the people who don’t believe in you, do they still shout your name?
Like Muslims for instance, do they cry out “Oh Allah?” That’d be pretty funny to hear.
And what about those really weird religions like Scientology, do their followers say “Oh Xenu, God of the Confederate Galaxy”? Now that’s a mouthful and not easily repeatable if you need to say it real fast like porn stars do.
I wonder if the Amish even speak during sex? I wouldn’t have anything to say to an Amish woman except “Now tell me again, why are you still Amish in 2011″? Or do they talk about whose turn it is to milk the cow in the morning.
Whose name do Mormons scream out—yours or Joseph Smiths? I’d probably go with Smiths’ since he paved the road to polygamy.
Sometimes I wish I would’ve married a native American woman. Aside from the fry bread, she’d probably cry out “Oh, Great Spirit” which I could easily interpret as me, and not you, for once.
Do we still have to pray in Heaven? I hope not.
I don’t know what we’d pray for anyway, unless we get there and find out there’s another Heaven somewhere, and that we’d have to pray like hell to get into that one too. That would be a royal jip.
I’m under the impression we only need to pray until we get into Heaven, like how you only have to study just enough to get through college.
Which brings up a good point.
Going to Heaven, in a way, sound likes graduating from college. Is it? That would suck if it was.
When I got out of college my parents made me go get a real job.
Is that what you’re planning on? I hope you’d at least have the decency to let me get moved in and settled first before kicking me to the curb, it just seems fair.
Besides, I don’t like job hunting.
The unemployment office here is full of lazy-as-mud half wits that smell bad. Some of them even look like they want to kick your ass. It’s not fun.
And if that’s not bad enough, my unemployment officer always talks to me as if I don’t speak english, often repeating herself and talking real loud. What a bitch she is!
I have another question.
What about all these people down here who pray incessantly, your basic prayer overachievers—do they get extra credit? Some people say they go to a special part of Heaven, kind of like living in snooty Scottsdale versus west Phoenix. Is this true?
I’ve never been an overachiever at anything, let alone praying, but if that’s what its gonna take for me to be driving a Range Rover and living on the “good” side of Heaven, well count me in.
Do I actually have to say the prayers? I can, it’s not a problem, but I was thinking I could speed things up a bit up if I could just print out a bunch of prayers online and email them directly to you nightly. That would be much smoother on my end, and I could send in thousands to boot, insuring I get a spot in the good part of Heaven, far from the railroad tracks or airport. That’s where all the wino’s hang.
I wouldn’t have to kneel down anymore either. A win-win.
Ok, so I’ll start tonight. Ok?
Praying like hell,