Archive for photography
My take on the Olympics thus far. I should mention how I’m only 33 credit hours away from my sports journalism degree.
Bicycle racing: Be still my fucking heart. It’s just that fascinating!
Archery: Wait, what?
Men’s Water Polo: Men in baby hats and weenie-huggers playing catch in the pool. Too many dicks flopping around in loose Speedos for my comfort—why isn’t there any shrinkage? Is the water treated with something? I don’t like the swimsuit fabric either…seems like it should be thicker, or padded at the very least.
Men’s Swimming: See Water Polo above. (sans baby hat)
Women’s Ping Pong: Get the fuck out. An Olympic event? Hang on a sec. [turning to buddy] Are you going to pass those fries or were you planning on eating them all…Jesus, you fucking hog! Alright, where was I? Oh, who cares.
Fencing: Worth watching if only to see if mom’s prediction about getting one’s eye poked out will ever come true. Appears unlikely with those goofy masks.
Women’s Weightlifting: Chicks with huge thighs and bulging veins on their tits...gross.
Women’s Skeet Shooting: Should be using real pigeons. It’s not like Trafalgar Square has a shortage of birds. They could inject the logy ones with caffeine.
Women’s Beach Volleyball: Twenty one doesn’t seem like enough points for this sport. The matches are going by super fast. Maybe they could go up into to the eighties or nineties. I don’t care much for the swimsuit fabric either. Not sheer enough for this cub reporter.
Men’s Basketball: Third world countries should make up some excuse about getting sick from shellfish or something, save the embarrassment of getting trounced by the US Men’s team.
Men’s Rowing: Got my fill of that shit in an eighties film featuring Rob Lowe where he attended Oxford and stole someone’s spot on the rowing team. Boring.
Women’s Gymnastics: Weird hair do’s. They all look like pixies. What’s with all that glitter and blue eye shadow? Apparently no-one approached MAC for an Olympic sponsorship.
Some athletes have won gold medals thus far. Interesting fact; there’s only six grams of gold in an Olympic medal. At todays prices, that’s about 350 bucks. The trend for precious metals is down. A year from now on the same trend line, a gold medal will only fetch about $150 or so. Sad. Silver is falling too. Bronze isn’t even precious for Christ’s sakes, just ask Penn State officials. So what’s bronze doing in the Olympics anyway? Platinum probably cost too much back in the day. You know what’d make a good medal? Kryptonite. Plutonium would be way cool too but I hear it causes birth defects. Not cool. My portfolio sucks. I should have bought gold a year ago. This is because my broker is a complete tool. Besides that, I think he’s sleeping with his new admin, I see the way she gazes at him. What’s he doing? He’s got a lovely wife and two kids. I hope she leaves him.
These athletes are so ripped it’s sickening. I need to start working out this week and get off this damned Wellbutrin once and forever.
Where’s Beckham? Isn’t he an East-ender? I haven’t seen him since the speedboat thing Friday night. Does the Queen ever smile?
I haven’t seen a Cockney representation either. Shouldn’t they be doing that whole ‘Rine in Spine’ thing?
It’s early, maybe that’s still ahead.
Being a successful businessman not only sucks balls at times, it sucks them with such wind tunnel force, it accidentally sweeps one in whole. Only you don’t swallow it. It gets lodged somewhere in your epiglottis, preventing you from using your glottal stop to utter the term; uh-oh, the all-telling notification you may have just taken one too many risks. Or in the non-business vernacular; seriously fucked-up.
It doesn’t stop there.
Lodged in your throat, your fervor for ‘The Deal’ now finds you metaphorically running around, naked and exposed with one nut in absentia, looking for someone (Investment Bankers) to Heimlich your sorry ass, but no such luck. You took too big a risk and have to pay the price.
So you swallow it. Whole. Get sick from it for a few weeks until such time as the problem has corrected, notwithstanding how the problem, now corrected, was tantamount to passing the nut in the same manner in which it was ingested—whole.
Successful Businessman. The ultimate dichotomy.
This is why you often hear others describe business risk takers as having big balls.
They’re not really big. They just seem that way when they’re lodged in your throat, and, test the upper-end limits of your sphincter.
But the money’s not bad.
If you’re a pilot, then you know how some airfields have at least two landing strips…one crosswind and one downwind.
Quite appropriately, and in one pilot’s opinion, so too should women—lady landscaping their bush to more closely resemble a landing strip, for authenticity’s sake anyway.
Only I’d lose the downwind strip altogether and simply go with the crosswind, looking something like this….
When properly administered, the crosswind strip, combined with your cooch would form to make a T, reminding your significant other just how TERRIFIC you really are!
You know that whole ‘immaculate conception’ thing? Why do they call it immaculate?
We’re you and Jesus’s mom all dressed up in white underwear before getting your freak on?
Or by immaculate, did you mean you got her preggers without any baby-batter involved?
How does that work?
Are you so holy that you don’t use sperm like the rest of us?
Do you just look at chicks, and BAM, they’re pregnant?
I wish I could do that.
If I could, I’d market myself to lesbian couples that want a kid, but don’t want any of the fuss a dude like me would bring to the table.
I’d call myself, ”Diego—The Immaculate Impregnator.“
I’m thinking I’d lock myself into a room with some homo babe, sit and chat for a while, putting her at ease. Then, as we discuss which acts we liked best at Lilith Fair and how Sarah McLachlan needs a new hit single, BAM, I hit her with a healthy dose of air-spooge while she’s still caught up fantasizing about Sarah’s playground. That should work, right?
Unlike you however, I will need to charge a stud fee to cover some of my costs.
Speaking of which, do you know how owners of top race horses charge exorbitant stud fees—like when their horse just won the Kentucky Derby or something?
Well I like this concept, but I’m afraid I’ll need a few more achievements on my resume aside from ‘valet parking specialist’, or ‘food server’.
No, I’ll need something big if I want the big bucks. After all, what vagitarian couple in their right mind would want their offspring parking cars for a living.
Maybe I could say how I invented Birkenstock sandals. Lesbians worship Birkenstocks.
Having this little factoid on my resume would spell alternative-lifestyle folk hero and in no uncertain terms, inspiring hot lesbo couples everywhere to sign up for my highly coveted inventor-type splooge.
I may need a little plastic surgery to augment my inventor status.
If there’s one thing I know about lesbians (mostly from porn), it’s how good looking they all are. It’s amazing.
They all seem to be blonde, fit, and sport double dd’s. Just like movie stars!
And this could only mean one thing.
I’ll need to look like this guy.
And not this guy.
Can you arrange this somehow?
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.
Tell me more about this whole pearly gate thing—is it like the one at the State Fair, only with a whole lot of pearls glued on?
Or is it like the guard gates at the state prison, with a guard tower and some guy who likes to shoot people perched atop of it?
If it’s like the one at the Fair, that would be pretty cool, since I routinely sneak in each year simply by jumping over the gate when no one is looking.
But if its like the one at the state prison, well that would suck. Not that I would know, but it just seems so, having seen my fair share of prison movies.
In those prison flicks, there’s typically a bunch of guards posted up in big towers along the fence line, and from what I gather, they just as soon shoot you than even mess around with a warning or anything.
Which brings up a good point.
Since I’d be a soul at that point, would the bullets pass right through me? Or do they have some sort of high-tech gadget like a stun-gun or laser beam that only works on souls?
Are there long lines to get in and will I need an ID?
I’m not sure about the ID. I can certainly bring one with me when I die, but the picture doesn’t look anything like me thanks to that dumbfuck clerk at the DMV.
Normally, they at least give you a warning when they’re about to shoot your picture.
I think she was having a bad day because as soon as I stepped up to the yellow line—my gaze focused on my foot placement, making certain I had both my size 13′s in the little yellow shoe silhouettes painted on the floor—she snapped the photo.
To her credit, she did at least say ‘smile,’ but in such a grumbly, irritated manner, that while you knew she had just uttered something, your brain didn’t quite comprehend what she had just said until it was too late.
What the fuck was that?
I was looking down you dumbass, I thought to myself. Could you have at least given me a moment to get ready?
Anyway, I looked up just in time to manage an expression so completely dumbfounded, I now appear as a fucking halfwit on my drivers license. Which I presume will only help me in the event I get pulled over for drinking and driving.
Perhaps I should be more appreciative of LaTonya’s photography prowess.
Ok, so lets pretend for a moment jumping the fence isn’t an option, and, my accumulation of sin credits isn’t enough to get me in, what then?
Do I go to Hell and if so how will I get there?
Is it like that one scene in the movie “Ghost,” where a flock of evil looking birds attack me, picking me up and carting me off to Hell?
Or do you always have a bus waiting nearby, knowing there’s usually a few fuck-ups like me who’ll need a ride?
I’m down with the bus concept, except for how I never manage to have exact change, which I’m guessing I won’t.
Who does the bus driver work for?
You, or Satan?
Remember the time when I pinned Butch Andrews in a porta-potty with my truck and then drove the truck and porta-potty (with him inside) all over the job site until it toppled over?
Well, I’d like to apologize.
Not to him.
I realize that if you’d had things your way, you probably wouldn’t have us playing practical jokes on people—especially the kind that end up with them being covered in shit from head to toe.
But then again, I recall how Sister Mary Anne used to always tell us that as God’s children, we’re supposed to be happy— that you actually want us happy and filled with joy.
Well, I’ve got to tell you.
This was one practical joke that not only made me happy (as I was driving him and the potty all over the place), it made me fucking ecstatic when he popped out all covered in shit!
And not only did it make me happy, it made the entire jobsite happy, with everyone laughing their asses off!
I guess you could say the level of happiness that day was pretty high for a lot of people.
Except for Butch.
He wasn’t very happy.
In fact, he was pretty fucking hot, to be truthful.
So hot, he went to his truck, grabbed his gun, (we do live in Arizona) and started shooting my pickup truck bed full of holes. (By the way, thanks, if you had any hand in him not shooting me that day.)
Which brings me to my question.
If you play a little joke on someone, and it makes a ton of people happy and only one person pissed-off, like say, Butch, well isn’t that a good thing?
Or does the shit add an unholy aspect to the whole thing?
I can see where it might.
After all, Butch was really pretty stupid and everyone knows stupid people can be some totally unholy motherfuckers.
‘Ya know, God, now that I think about it, maybe you should be thanking me instead of me apologizing to you.
After all, I did help get that unholy fuck convicted for attempted murder even though he was trying to kill my pickup truck.
OK, so never mind about the apology. Let’s just call the whole event good since I was out there doing your work.
That’s my business!
Your humble servant,
Confession time again.
Do you remember the time I ran over that kid on his way to school? I’m glad you stepped in and saved his sorry ass, but there’s something I need to get off my chest.
Remember how I told the police he ran out in front of me, and how he was in my blind spot so I couldn’t see him?
Well not all of it. He did after all run in front of me, and yes, I didn’t see him, but that’s not all.
The truth is I’d just had a supercharger installed on my ’93 Wrangler and God was that thing fast. If you recall, that’s when AMC was still manufacturing the 401 cu. in. engine, which was fast in its own rite, but when I put that supercharger on it, fuckkkk…game on! I couldn’t keep my foot off the floorboard no matter how hard I tried.
This may have been part of the problem.
So I’m sitting there at the light, having just dropped my kid off at school when Highway to Hell comes on the radio. Well seeing how I had two 12′s and 3000 watts of Boston Amp love onboard, I did what any can’t-let-go-of-his-adolescense dad would do.
I bumped that shit all the way to eleven!
God, those amps were awesome. Everything in the Jeep was vibrating, including the windshield. No really.
The windshield was vibrating so badly everything was blurred and that may have been another part of the problem. I’m not sure.
Anyways, just as AC/DC broke into the refrain, the light turned green.
There I was. Decision time.
I don’t know what it is about 12″ subwoofers and 500 horsepower but the two just seem to marry.
Things got blurry, and then, showtime.
You guessed it.
I lit that bad boy up, engine revving, tires smoking, supercharger whining, all going into a left turn from a dead stop at the light. What a huge mistake.
I barely made the corner, drifting into the lane next to the curb when this school kid comes out of nowhere and runs right into my Jeep.
I jammed on the brakes, but it was too late, the kid went down like a DC-10 as I flew into the windshield.
The next thing I know, I wake up in the intersection, AC/DC still bumping, windshield still vibrating, motorists giving me the evil eye, as if I’d planned the whole fucking event.
I quickly turned down the tunes and jumped out to see if he was ok.
So first off, let me say thanks for letting him live. What a relief.
But I’d really be remiss if I didn’t tell you how deeply appreciative I was for his massive headwound. I’m certain if you hadn’t messed-up his noggin, he’d probably remember a version of the story that’d send me straight to the friggin hoosegow!
I’m also very grateful you blessed me with an incredible hangover that morning, making me late in getting my daughter to school.
Fifteen minutes sooner and I’d of had a gaggle of teen schoolgirl witnesses who probably couldn’t wait to rat me out to the po-po.
So, I’m sorry about messing up that kid, but in my defense, I don’t think I should take all the blame. I think you’ve got a hand in this as well. After all, you’re the one who gave me the gene that inspires one to drive fast and bump tunes in high-school zones, especially whenever AC/DC gets involved.
120 Decibelly yours,
How often is 10 cent beer night held up there—do you ever bust out?
I always used to bust out on beer night, that is until I drove my ride into a big fucking oak tree this one time. Now I just kind of semi-bust out on beer night, and that’s only if I have a designated driver since my car tends to run into stuff when I’m cronked.
Is that why you don’t bust out?
You don’t have a designated God who can sit in for you while you get cronked?
I get that, but what’s Jesus doing? Isn’t he like your son or something? Shouldn’t you be passing down the whole God business to him anyway?
Can’t you just slip him the God keys one night a month? You should be able to do that every now and again without having to worry about the place going all to Hell.
What’s the matter, don’t you trust him?
According to Dr. Phil, you should probably think about giving Jesus a little more responsibility at some point. It would be good for both of you.
So if you’re not busting out, what are you and Jesus doing on beer night?
Do you and Jesus tend bar or do you work the door?
Both jobs are a great way of keeping an eye on everyone, but I’d probably opt for the doorman if I was you.
Doormen always decide who gets in and who doesn’t, which means you could screen all the assholes right from the start. But the best part is how you can demand some serious bucks from all the ugly people who have no chance of ever getting in anyway.
Some of those losers are so desperate to get in, they’ll flip you a hundo in nothing flat.
As I say, screen the jerk-offs from ever getting in and finish off the night with a couple of stacks from the losers. Sweet.
The bartender job?
This is one job I’d stay away from if I was you.
True, it’s a good way of keeping an eye on everyone. One small problem.
All the bartenders I know are some really sneaky motherfuckers.
They hang back for most of the night, furtively eyeballing all the hot chicks too drunk to stand, then when they find a stray, alone, no crew in sight, they swoop in for the kill, like a hyena or something.
I’m not saying that’s you. No way.
I know you’re not the type to get chicks wrecked so you can take them home and bang them. Besides, you have no business eyeballing any pootie-tang, young, old, or otherwise.
You’re God for Christ’s sakes!
There is another job you can do on beer night.
You can be the deejay, but you’d have to bump some decent tunes and not that Gospel shit you’re so fond of, otherwise, you’d have everyone running for the doors in a heartbeat.
Anyways, I’m looking forward to 10 cent beer night up there, but only if I don’t have to drive.
Uh, I’m curious—are there any big oak trees in Heaven?
Do you ever laugh?
I’ve never seen you laugh. At least not in any of the pictures I’ve seen.
You just look really pissed off in most of them. Why?
Is it stress?
I had stress once and it made me break-out in a real bad rash, right around my nose. It got all sore and red, even a little blotchy.
You don’t look like you have a rash in any of those pics.
Maybe the artists who painted you just wanted to make you look mean so everyone would be afraid of you.
I had a mean uncle once. What a wad he was. He used to call my aunt “chunky” after she beefed-up a little, making her cry a lot of the time. But the worst thing he did was make my cousins cut a switch (limb) from their mulberry tree, then he’d whip them with it.
Needless to say I wasn’t too sad went he went.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe you’re not mean at all but just pretend to be so the world doesn’t fuck-up.
Maybe, deep down, underneath that nasty gaze of yours, you’re really just a big pussycat.
I hope so.
I don’t know if I can handle eternity with someone who kind of looks like my uncle, lurking around scowling at me everyday. I got enough of that shit as a kid.
I was thinking.
What if I were to paint a picture of you with a big shit-eating grin? Would you get all pissed-off and give me cancer or something? I won’t do it if you’re gonna mess me up.
Think about it. The world would love you and you wouldn’t scare the shit out of kids anymore.
Your weekly church numbers would probably go up too!
I’m thinking some shades, maybe a Yankees ball cap,—sort of modernize you a bit, right?
While we’re at it, would you mind if I painted me in the picture next to you, maybe with your arm around me like we’re friends or something?
I had a picture taken of me with a Phoenix Suns basketball players one time, he had his arm around me like we were friends. Anyone who saw the picture asked me how I knew him and I always lied, saying “we grew up together and we’re close friends”.
I won’t tell anyone you and I grew up together, but I would like to say we’re at least friends.
We are friends, aren’t we?
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
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
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,