Just say, wait…what?

Sometimes I wonder if today’s generation of young adults is aware of how the generation preceding them used themselves, or more accurately, their bodies, in an unselfish manner to disprove their predecessor’s claim that wanton lust accompanied by reckless experimentation with psychotropic drugs would not change the world. The elders in this case were correct.
We changed nothing.
We did however manage, at least those of us lucky enough to survive the ordeal and, salvage a few brain cells, to come up with a clever little ditty that would make our children think twice before pluking green monkeys, (origin of first known AID’s case), smoking PCP through a three-inch wide bong, or jumping out of a two-story window under the belief that mescaline could actually induce wingless flight. And all in just three little words no less. Go figure.

YOU’RE WELCOME!

 

Unbaby me

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.

http://www.unbaby.me/

Naming your child…a new method

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

A pet bull for my birthday!

God-

Seeing how today is my birthday, I thought instead of making it about me, (which it is) I thought I’d make it about you this year. And toward that end, I’d like to do something special in your honor.
I thought about knocking off a liquor store and giving all the proceeds to Father Donnolly, but he know’s I’m broke so he may suspect something, and besides, he’ll bust me for sure at confession this Friday if he hasn’t already figured it out.

Then I thought about plinking off a couple of accidental rounds with my pellet gun into the neighbors new car, since nobody in the hood likes her. (and now her car). That would make everyone around here happy, but you might be a little miffed.

I even gave some thought (not much though) to running a bunch of red lights in your honor, just like Mick Jagger once suggested in a country western tune he did. But I’m not at all sure what Mick was doing singing country western songs. Maybe he was at a low point in his life.
Anyway, that might get me killed, or busted up pretty bad, not to mention how it would likely mess up my ride. Red light running—definitely out.

And that’s when I decided the best thing I could do to honor you today would be to buy a farm animal, like a cow or a bull.
I think I’m going with the bull.
Cows require milking and that grosses me out, with all those titties and everything. Not for me.
Bulls on the other hand seem pretty cool. And if I raised one from scratch, I could probably teach him tricks and other stuff when I get home from work.
For now, I’ll keep him in the garage until we find a place with a backyard, so I think he’ll be quite comfortable. I have an Ipod deck I can leave out there with him and have it repeat or shuffle songs all day, but I’ll erase the death metal playlist first. I don’t want to come home and see where he’s gone all Marilyn Manson on me.

Then, when he gets a little older, I’ll take him places with me. Like on road trips. Just me and him, two guys bonding.
And when he’s not looking, when his headphones are turned up real loud, I’ll say a few words in your honor, hit him with a cattle prod, and send him running out into traffic where a big truck will hit him. The trucker will be ok but Fernando (my pet bull) probably won’t make it.

I’d get the trucker to help me cut Fernando up into a bunch of steaks and roasts, give the trucker some of Fernando for his trouble, and take the rest home, where I’d stick my Fernando steaks, chops, and roasts in the garage freezer.
My wife would be shocked at first, but she’d like the idea of reclaiming the garage. But then she’d like drop this big bombshell on me that she won’t be eating Fernando because he was our pet. (Actually, he was my pet, she never fed him once or cleaned up any of his bullshit).
So Fernando would lay in the freezer, and after a while get freezer burned, when I’d have to throw him out.

Fucking Fernando, why’d you have to get hooked on my oldies playlist?
I think “Safety Dance” just may have pushed him over the edge, God.

God, raising a bull was not an easy task, not in the least.
I thought I was up for it, but it turns out I wasn’t.

Looking on the bright side however, I’m fresh out of bullshit.

In your honor.

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

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

Resource Depletion Executive

God-
Will there be any natural resources for me to deplete in Heaven? I sure hope so.
I have a real knack for wiping out the Earths precious resources and feel like I’d be pretty good at it up there too, so much so I believe I just may qualify for a Senior Management position in this department.
For instance, I never turn off the water while I shave, and often leave the water running outside after getting distracted by just about anything, leaving the garden to routinely flood.
My penchant for  wasting plastic water bottles is exceeded only by the fact that I throw them out half full.
I love wasting gasoline and often go on long drives for no particular reason.
My home’s air conditioner is set to 65F in the summer, not a big whoop unless you consider I live in Phoenix.
I have a wood burning fireplace because I like to stare incessantly into the flames as I contemplate absolutely nothing.
I don’t use my recycle bin.
I only use paper plates, bowls and plastic dinnerware so I don’t have to do the dishes, and, I don’t keep leftovers.
Pretty impressive, huh?
Did I also mention how I refuse to “Go Paperless”, loathe the term “Green” in any form, and will not purchase anything made out of recycled anything.
How wasteful is that?

I kick our dog sometimes, too.

Wastefully yours,

Diego

Just how bright is that light?

God-

Do blind people regain their eyesight in Heaven or do they just stay blind?
That would be pretty messed up if they had to stay blind, in Heaven of all places.
And how do they even know if they’re going to Heaven if they can’t see that bright light and tunnel stuff when they die—or do they?
I would imagine after being blind all that time, and then seeing a bright light all of a sudden, well, couldn’t that make them go blind again?
Anyways, there’s some real nice stuff to look at right here on Earth, I can’t imagine what they’d be missing out on up there.
I suppose if they do have to stay blind up there, maybe the silver lining is that there’s probably not a whole lot of stuff to bump into or get run over by—is there?
Do the blind get wings?
I hope not.

Optically yours,

Diego

My sister has a limp

God-

Since you’ve obviously blessed me with the gift of cooking, one way I thought I might redeem some sins is to share my gift with others who may be lacking in this skill-set, with one caveat however.
Specifically, I’d like to trade you straight across, one recipe for each of my more notable sins, you granting full absolution. (Particularly on the mortal sins).

To kick things off, I thought I’d start with my fried shrimp recipe in exchange for the time I blamed Eddie Mathews for giving LSD to my sister.
In my defense, she was a monumental bitch, and, had just turned me in to the old man for smoking. What a little asshole!
As you know, poor little Eddie’s dad beat him like a rented mule and forbade him to ever dirty our doorstep again, which now that I think about it, may have been a blessing in disguise.
Eddie was after all a prodigious perv.
Anyway, since this recipe has won accolades from everyone I’ve ever made it for, I thought it oughta be worth full absolution, despite my acid-laden sister jumping out of her bedroom window in the middle of the night, absolutely certain she was capable of wingless flight.

So here ya go…do we have a deal?

Diego’s award winning shrimp

1 lb shrimp
1 cup Whole milk
1 cup all purpose flour
1 box Ritz crackers
1/2 gallon canola oil for deep frying

Peel and devein shrimp
Butterfly shrimp
dust with flour
dip in milk
dip in flour again
dip in milk again
roll in finely ground Ritz crackers
let sit in fridge for 30 minutes
heat oil to 375
only cook 5 at a time
cook until golden

God-
You know I don’t give this recipe out to just anyone, so my posting it on the internet should say something about my intentions to come clean.

I presume this squares us, right?

Golden brown and deliciously yours,

Diego

Can I call you Bud?

God-

Did your parents name you God, or did you change your name—like Sting and Meatloaf did?
I mean, I’m down with the whole one-name thing, but mainly just curious how you landed on God?
Meatloaf, I get. He probably didn’t want to go by Marvin his entire adult life, making a carnivorous handle like Meatloaf almost pale by comparison.
But Meatloaf did fit him, especially after he got really fat.

Sting, on the other hand is kinda cool… I like it anyway, and it certainly beats the name Gordon.
Sting, to me, says; I’m a little dangerous…like a small bee or something—don’t f#*k with me!
I like that!

But you? You I don’t get.
You could have named yourself anything, like Superman, or for that matter, Superman’s father; Jo-Rel. (Really cool)
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like the name God and all, its short, one-of-a-kind, and, the last time I checked, still hadn’t made the popular baby name list for 2010. (Most people would never dream of naming their kid God…at least not like they do Jesus).

I may be going out on a limb here, but I’m guessing your parents gave you a really goofy name you didn’t particularly like so you changed it, like Barnaby, or worse, some really stupid name like that NBA player, Anfernee Hardaway.
I wouldn’t blame you if you did change your name from Anfernee to God, since Anfernee is pretty off-the-charts stupid. It always makes me think of some dumb-as-a-rock, post-delivery-mother arguing with the head pediatric’s nurse over how to spell her newborn son’s name—Anthony.

Anyway, as I said, I have no problem with the name God, but sometimes think it’s a bit too stuffy…too formal, and was wondering—what’s your take on nicknames?
My friends have various nicknames for me, all of which represent some term of endearment…even when they address me as dickhead! (It’s a guy thing).

So I was wondering.
How ’bout it if I just started calling you Bud, like my late Uncle Bud? I really liked him.

Uncle Bud taught me to fish, hunt, and even taught me about the perils of drinking, when at age 13, I got really drunk at my cousin’s wedding, insisted on dancing with Aunt Mary, nestled my head in her 42 DD’s, and proceeded to dry-hump her left leg until unceremoniously passing out on the dance floor in a pile of my own yak.
I thought Uncle Bud showed enormous restraint by not killing me that next weekend when he took me deer hunting (He could have made it look like an accident, since I am left-handed and rather clumsy) but he didn’t.
Instead, our hunting trip provided him a captive audience for his one-man, three-day rant on the perils of drinking. It didn’t seem to work. (Although my dry-humping career did stall after that, good thing).

Anyways, I think I’d like to start calling you Bud, since it’s painfully obvious you’ve had the chance to kill me about a thousand times thus far and have yet to do so.
I really admire your restaint—your name…meh.

Ever given any thought to the name Larry?

Love,

Diego

The Chinchilla farm

God-

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

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

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

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

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

Rufus's cage was about the same size!

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

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

Carnivorously,

Diego

Good thing Jesus didn’t get hit by a truck

God-

You know how Christians make the sign of the cross when they pray? Well if Jesus hadn’t been crucified—say he got run over by an out-of-control oxen cart, would we still have to make the sign of the cross, or would we begin our prayers by running down the street like those crazy f#*kers in the Pamplona bull run—arms outstretched and flailing—screaming—finally collapsing at some point to begin praying?

Or, what if Jesus drank too much wine at one of his outings, tripped, hit his head on the barbecue and died of a brain hemorrhage? I’d hate to mimic that event each time I wanted to say a prayer, especially when stuck in traffic. What would I do? Jump out of the car, run to the hood, pretend to smack my head on the hood ornament and collapse in the street—all for a 10 second prayer, hoping traffic will mysteriously unsnarl anytime soon?
Seems like a lot of work for a tiny prayer.
I wonder what roadside memorials would look like in the absence of a cross—in the drunken barbecue scenario? A statue of a guy in a robe, laying on the ground next to a mini barbecue…bleeding?  (Would the name and date of birth/death be engraved on the barbecue or the statue)?

Sometimes I wonder why Pontius Pilate didn’t just shoot Jesus with an arrow or something, it would have been much more humane. Jesus wouldn’t have suffered so much like he did on the cross, and, that scene would be easy to mimic before praying….I used to do it all the time as a kid, whenever we played Cowboys and Indians.

I’m really glad Jesus didn’t have a heart attack or else we’d be teaching our kids to do this each night before bedtime.

I kind of like how Muslims start their prayers….with some singy songy shit and everyone down on their knees…making me wonder if Mohammed was singing some kind of weird yodeling shit, then got down on his knees—and died! Maybe he was trying to seduce some Austrian babe or something.

My favorite though is Buddha…happy little fat-f#*k that he was—sitting around, probably eating veggies (meh) when his big one hit. That’d be easy to mimic—just eat a few veggies and start praying, right? 
I can totally see that. I’d simply scarf down a couple handfuls of cheesy puffs, say a few prayers, and hit the rack for a good nights sleep, although, I’d have to do something about  the powdery orange shit I typically get everywhere. That’d really mess up the sheets.

I suppose I should just be thankful Jesus practiced celebacy.
Can you imagine how bad it would suck had he died of an STD?
How awful would that be—digging and scratching at ones crotch before prayertime, or worse yet, while saying grace.

I guess maybe that whole crucifixion thing worked out for the best.

Love,

Diego

Alzheimer’s for Dummies

God-

Would it be a sin for me to fake Alzheimer’s?
I was thinking how Alzheimer’s could be the answer to all my prayers….giving me a legitimate excuse to ignore people, get out of my daily chores, and more importantly, have others wait on me hand and foot—almost like I was in an invalid. Pretty cool, huh?

It wouldn’t take much acting on my part either, since I’ve always spaced conversations, and, if you consider how I routinely sustain acid flashbacks, most everyone already expects I’ll be afflicted sooner or later, so why not sooner?
Just think, this could be the crazy-ass level of happiness I’ve always been seeking, and the best part is how I’m already proficient at lying around, ignoring people, and not doing my chores….Alzheimers just legitimizes everything!

God, I realize this may be some kind of sin, perhaps even a little wrong of me, but I would think you want your children to be happy, don’t you?
Well, the thought of me not working, listening to screaming kids, and not cleaning bird shit off the back deck makes me really happy….for that matter, so does having my meals served wherever I happen to be slouched at the moment.
That would be way cool.

And just so I don’t offend you, (or actual Alzheimer’s patients) I’d snap out of it whenever I have to take a shit or something, Helen Kellering my ass to the nearest bathroom. (I think shitting ones pants is really unholy, and maybe even a little overboard in this case).

God, I like this plan and would like to get started on it right away.
The fam-fam will be down for breakfast in a few minutes, and I thought I might kick it off by  letting them “discover” me curled in a fetal position, maybe in the closet or something—with a little puddle of piss nearby—as I rock back and forth chanting old Twisted Sister lyrics;

 “We’re not gonna take it”  
“We’re not gonna take it”
“We’re not gonna take it”

Then, I’ll conveniently slip into my condition just prior to today’s Michigan State game.

What’dya say…a little special dispensation on this one????

One more question.
Can Alzheimer’s patients still drink beer and eat hot chicken wings, or will this arouse suspicion in my loved ones?
I’d hate to ruin this whole scheme by my getting a little too drunk, getting all carried away in a first and goal situation.

Maybe if I schmear a bunch of that orange colored chicken wing sauce on my mug nobody will notice.

Love,

Diego

Living in a vegetative state: Arizona

God-

I saw this movie once with Mel Gibson where he played a guy whom after sustaining a head injury was able to read people’s minds, actually listening to their every thought—women’s thoughts that is.
I really liked the concept and was wondering, does that shit really happen to some people?
I once knew of a little girl in our old neighborhood who fell off her bike and one eye went crossed, then after what I suspect was a prodigious smack down from her alcoholic mother a few weeks later, her condition ”self” corrected. (Couldn’t have happened to a nicer brat!)

So I was thinking.

I’d like the same gift as Mel and thought maybe, if I had a friend whack me with a skillet or something, I could start reading minds too!
But I don’t want to wind up in a coma, so I’m curious how much of a wind-up he’ll need to make certain I land in mind reading territory and not in some vegetative state, one like say, Arizona.

Should he do an overhead swing, or just kiss me on the side of the head with it?
I like the overhead swing as it ensures I don’t see it coming and flinch, prompting a do-over.
After all, if I’m going to this much trouble to listen in to chicks conversations about me, with all their plotting and scheming, I need for this to ‘take’ on the first whack.

The other thing this could do is help me finally get a job. A good job.
One with executive pay like I’m accustomed to.
I think we can both agree how “Read’s minds“ looks pretty good on ones resume…or do you think it could scare potential employers off?

Or should I just not mention my talent at all during the interview process?
Presuming of course the noggin-kiss works.
I guess if it doesn’t, I can always take up residency in Arizona, where I’ll fit right in.

Love,

Diego

Working in Heaven Pt 5

God-

Is there a need for a school crossing guard up there? I think this is something I’m well suited for, only I can’t seem to get hired for the job here on earth.
It appears most school districts like to drug test potential employees before hiring, which, has proven to be a small problem for me.
I dont get it.
I explained how weed makes me focus—how I can actually pick out all the words in Teen Spirit after a low dose of some good doobage, and how this important fact lends itself to my guarding kids against speeding cars and trucks, but apparently I haven’t been very convincing.
I was thinking.

What if I went in to my next interview with a vaporizer, some chronic, and a pirated copy of Frogger?
I still hold high score from 1993 and even today when I play, I almost never get Froggie hit when he tries to cross the highway. I will admit however, I have a harder time when Froggie tries to cross the river…he almost always gets hit by a log. But since there are no major water features near the local elementary school, I don’t think this should be a problem.

I’m guessing, but once my interviewer sees  how I can get Froggie safely across the road a few dozen times without getting him squished, there’ll be little doubt as to who’s best suited to protect kids on our busy 4-lane crossing.

Anyways, I’d like to apply for this job when I get there.

Love,

Diego

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

God-

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

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

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

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

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

  My assault vehicle

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

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

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

Diego J Serrano

A humble request

God-

I want this guy’s life….

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

 

Diego J Serrano

My 4th grade she-devil

God-

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

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

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

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

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

4th Grade Abomination

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

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

Diego J Serrano