He sees me when I’m sleeping?

Seriously?
I’m sleeping for fuck’s sake.
What kind of shenanigans does he think I’m up while in the land of nod anyway?
Not a damned thing, that’s what, well, not unless you count the occasional night-woody. And I’m pretty sure that doesn’t count for much. (My wife can attest to that).

And while we’re on the topic, how does he even know when I’m awake, not unless he hangs out the entire time I’m sleeping…right up the point where I awaken.
Now that’s just creepy.

Someone ought to look into this.
If anyone should be watched while they’re sleeping and awake, I think it should be him for goodness sakes.

An Olympic rant

With its six whole grams of gold, an Olympic gold medal has a tangible worth of approximately six hundred seventy five dollars in today’s prices.

Thanks for all your hard work and effort! Now beat it.

A silver, around three hundred thirty.
And a bronze, $4.70.
You read right. Four dollars and seventy cents, this according to CBS news. Go figure.

With the Olympic challenge ever at the forefront of a young athlete’s dreams, these young kid’s parents pay thousands for them to train, (presumably, unless you’re a Masai warrior, where your training consists largely of running away from hungry lions), even more to fund the trip to London, and, if they’re lucky enough to place third, see their dreams extinguished rewarded with a prize having roughly the same value as a Double Whopper with cheese. How fucked is that?
Why, even NASCAR offers prize money to its last place finishers, and their idea of training is drinking moonshine and outrunning West Virginia Sheriff’s deputies.
The only recognition you give your participants is conferring them with a diploma. Sweet.

Hey Olympic Committee. Get a clue!
When an organization such as NASCAR can reward even its last place finishers with prize money, why can’t you?
It’s not like it’d cost a lot or anything, since paying athletes in their country’s currency would probably be less than a flame broiled Whopper in most cases. Certainly in a country like Nigeria anyway.

Maybe you could handout colored ribbons or trophies.
Perhaps even a small plaque commemorating the event.
But a sheet of paper?

You may as well pass out value meal coupons redeemable at their nearest Burger King. At least they’d be worth $4.70.
Although if you do, I’d suggest throwing in a chocolate shake or ice cream cone too.
Ice cream is a common cure for depression.

The ultimate dichotomy

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.

Learning to hover

Peeing is such a chore. I hate how it interrupts my day with its unexpected timing, forcing me to drop everything, trot to the restroom, and stare at the tiled wall above the urinal— a hand-scribbled message reading; “Don’t look here..the joke’s in your hand.” Oh joy.
I suppose I could use a stall, but there’s always a gigantic turd laying in wait, probably left behind by the same left-handed Hemingway whose inspiration only occurs while urinating. And besides, even if the stall was clean, I still wouldn’t use it, mainly due to my unwillingness to learn the hovering technique. Although, I did notice an article on last month’s Glamour, talking about 5 workout tips for a flatter tummy. I’m pretty sure you need a flat tummy if you’re going to hover.
A vagina helps too.

 

 

 

A different kind of yogini

I met an older gentleman once, whom, as a young man, advised me how being older was merely a presence of mind, stating emphatically “that a person is only as old as they feel.”
His advice still echoes, similar to the overly prodigious use of a reverb pedal by a teen rock band.

I’m only as young as I feel.
I chant this daily, usually in the mornings, as part of a chakra ritual. But not just any chakra ritual. My chakra ritual.
Yogic tradition dictates the belief in seven well defined Chakras, which when used conjunctively, produce well-being within the yogi.
I use one, not seven.
Sort of a hybrid approach if you will, using a combination of chakras that suit my very specific needs—again, to not feel my age.
I call it my mega-Chakra, it goes like this….

Diego’s daily Chakra:

At some point today I will feel my age, but if I don’t, if I happen to make it through the day feeling youthful, it will have been for two reasons.
First, I had the good sense to not stare into a mirror after smoking too much weed.
And second, because the day gifted me with never crossing paths with a young know-it-all co-worker, whom after an ascending progression of barbs, finishes me off with the always fatal, “Well fuck-you old man.”
I am not old.
And there’s a convenience store, in fact, several convenience stores situated between my workplace and home, where I shall stop, purchase a twelve-pack of something alcoholic, drink three on the ride home, smoke a blunt in the driveway, and proceed to my mancave to ponder the day’s events. It is there where I shall find tranquility as I lie on the floor, squinting my eyes at the ceiling lights until just enough refractive light has passed through my eye lids and lashes that I now have a kaleidescope with which to properly color the day’s events.
I will do this until the door to my mancave swings open abruptly, my wife questions what the hell I’m doing on the floor, announces ‘dinner’, then shakes her head and walks away in mild disgust.
At dinner, a much more calm and peaceful me will actually listen to her, hanging on her every word as if it meant something.
I will understand what she’s saying, thanks to the weed, much like the first time I got high and realized the lyrics in Purple Haze were not “Excuse me, while I kiss this guy.”
When she is finished speaking and the conversations lags, I will use the time wisely, to regale her with stories from the competitive mart we call business, conspicuously leaving out any part where some newly—minted college grad called me an old ignorant fuck.
Yes, I am not old.
And I have a job, unhealthy addictions, and a curiously kaleidoscopic life that prove otherwise.

Homage to summer

It’s summertime.

And I can’t help but think about kids everywhere, whom, at the urging of their older siblings (and mean spirited friends) are floundering around in backyard pools feigning blindness, shouting; MARCO!
Pausing.
Listening intently.
Waiting.

Not for the loudly reverberating POLOS coming from the other end of the pool, but listening for the shallow-breathing, non-splashing buffoon whose aversion to chlorine and swimming underwater with eyes wide open, have now brought him within inches of Marco himself.
And then comes the worst part of the game.
Where Marco without warning, his sonar functioning on high-alert, has detected your being and spastically lunges toward you with his eyes shut….viciously clobbering you in the head with a down-stroking elbow. [fucking-ouch]

This was the point in the game where I’d hastily leave the pool, beseech my friend’s mother for an iced tea or juice box booby prize and sit out the remainder of the game, watching from my perch on a deck chair. This of course as my eye begins to swell shut from Marco’s precipitous elbow attack.

I miss summer.
Or perhaps more accurately, I miss its days of youthful frolicking, even if they did carry with them trials best suited for strong, healthy bones.
I miss my childhood friends.

It’s 3 a.m. and the house is as quiet as a church mouse, and yet the sounds of summer continue to reverberate in my head.
I hope I always hear them.
The sounds of pure, unadulterated joy.

Digital clocks: An OCD’s nightmare

The blue LED readout on the kitchen stove always finds a way to scare the fuck out of me. This morning it read 7:37.
To most people this means nothing.
To me, it means 737. The exact same 737 I’ll board later this week to go to Vegas, which now I’m certain will go down like Sasha Grey.
It’s not always a plane crash. but it’s never a happy association either.
Like 3:57. That’s four o’clock to most.
To me it’s a bellwether, reminding me there’s a 357 in the closet with my name on one of its bullets.
Why can’t I be like everyone else? Why can’t I glance at it when it’s 4:20, or 11:11?
No, I have to look at the clock when it’s 4:34. The address where my grandparents used to reside —where grandpa caught me playing doctor with the neighbor kid and made me go apologize to her parents. I wished I had the 357 then.
But the worst is 5:42, reminding me of how getting shitballs drunk the night before my SAT’s wasn’t such a brilliant idea after all.

I hate digital clocks.

Camp Morningwood

God-

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

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

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

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

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

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

The perfect espresso

Saleslady for Nespresso espresso maker;

“Now this flavor is a number five out of the ten strength levels. It features hints of chocolate, berry, and it’s a bit earthy..not oaky but more earthy. But again, it is a number five so you might find a little peppery as well.”

Me, being super witty;

“Jesus!”

Number five? Seriously?

A good place for a break-up

A Yelp review I recently wrote:

 

True Food Kitchen
Category: American (New)
Update – 3/11/2012
When guilt meets pleasure, and you find yourself squarely in the intersection of “Time to break-up with this crazy bitch’ and “But she really is the best blowjob in 48 contiguous states,’  something has got to give.

What do you do?
Take her to True Foods, the perfect place for a break-up.

It’s ultra-modern decor means your table setting is minimalist, with it’s little tiny salt and pepper shakers, and one tiny little flower in a tiny little vase.
And, the eating utensils aren’t brought out until your lunch arrives.
Major bonus.

Why?
Because just after the hostess seats you both, and upon breaking the news you’re finished, whatever she decides to pickup off the table to throw at you won’t even raise a small welt.

She’s sure to storm out after that, making your trip here a double bonus.
You’ve finally gotten rid of this nut job (no pun) and can now afford to eat here more often.
Try the Blood Orange refresher, the turkey burger and the kale salad for lunch.

Eat slowly my friend, and savor the flavors.
Of True Foods.
Of your newly found freedom.
And of that pride of cougars at the next table who are now staring at you, as your one-man pity-party lures them into a web of deceit.

I love True Foods.

How to tell if you’re OCD

Nobody wants to admit to themselves how they really do suffer from OCD.
But eventually, it becomes inevitable when you find yourself frozen, standing there staring at that newly opened jar of peanut butter, torn between satiating your hunger pangs and not wanting to ruin its silky smooth surface texture.
It’s been two days.
I really would like a pbj right now.
I wish my wife liked peanut butter.
And why did my barber give me bangs yesterday? God I look stupid. Fucking Sal.

If I die…

If I happen to die in an automobile accident, I hope at least it’s while transporting a large pot of my wife’s spaghetti sauce somewhere.
I don’t want to die in a car crash, but there’s a certain consolation that comes from knowing the paramedics wouldn’t be so grossed out from all the blood typically associated with such an event, as they call the boys back at the station, asking they get a pot of water on to boil and heat up some garlic bread.
Yeah, I could totally see myself going out like this.
Or maybe the pot would spill all over me.
And they wouldn’t know where the blood left off and the sauce started. That might be even better.

How to navigate London

My Yelp review of the Eye

London Eye 

Categories: Local Flavor, Arts & Entertainment
Neighborhoods: Vauxhall, Southwark

3/23/2012

If ever you go to London, one of the most touristy things you can do is ride the London eye.
Only you won’t care for getting anchovied into a gondola with thirty other strangers. So do what I did.

There will be a long line, one you’ll stand in for what could be hours. And since you have no clout on this side of the planet, no amount of cool or bribery will get you to the front of the line.

Only one thing to do.

SImply start blurting out expletives and jerking your head wildly while doing so. Next, have your bro walk to the front of the line, explaining to the attendant how you have Tourette’s syndrome and a long stay in the line could drive off some of the patrons.
Note:
Shouting out a couple of well-timed FUCKS  at this point would be a good thing, as it supports your friends claim of your serious health issue.

Two things will happen immediately.
The attendant will whisk you and your party to the front of the line, as you continue to bark obscenities.
The other thing, and this surprised me, they gave us a gondola entirely to ourselves.

Faking Tourette’s is something I typically wouldn’t advocate, but if you’re prone to cursing in public anyway, why not throw a couple of TITS and SHITHEADFUCKERASSHOLES into your lexicon and get the VIP treatment you so richly deserve?

Now, take your pictures, enjoy the ride, and take delight in knowing you just learned how best to navigate London’s tourist attractions. sans the lines.

How an addiction can actually be healthy

 

If you love something set it free…if it comes back, it’s yours, if it doesn’t it was never meant to be.
How poignant.
It’s also bullshit.

I’ve loved plenty of things and set them free. Only to have them return and fuck-up my life even more than it was before they left.
Concluding that perhaps the saying needs a 2012 makeover…

If you love something, set it free…then change the locks, alarm code, your email address, phone number, delete your blog, cancel your Facebook account, Yelp under an assumed name, find a new Starbucks, laundromat, city park in which to walk your dog, and start parking your car in the garage…if it comes back, call your friend who raises cattle, ask him for some of those veterinary grade tranquilizers and prepare to live life in a blurry fog…repeat until she finally goes away for good.

I’m pretty sure it’s not an addiction if you really love something—is it?
Or is it.

Yeah, no, it isn’t.
Is it?

Yesterday's news

Something is wrong with this picture

I hope I live to see the day when some young doctoral candidate publishes his/her dissertation on the relationship between the number of drivers who routinely cut you off in traffic, and the number of those same drivers bearing handicapped license plates.

Isn’t that a dichotomy, of sorts?

 

To a fellow ‘Yelper’….

About a year ago, I began writing restaurant reviews on the popular website, Yelp.
Yelp is a site that allows everyday folks to become food critics by merely writing a critique of their experience at a particular establishment, this despite their ability to write, make a salient point, or invoke terms other than those routinely used by eight grade girls.

Realizing how everyone’s tastes are different and how that subjectivity has become the hallmark of a site such as Yelp, I enjoy reading some of my fellow Yelper’s reviews, notwithstanding the large number of reviews that appear to have been written by individuals possessing the writing skills of a fifth grader.
I accept that however, reasoning how it simply goes with the territory.
Which explains why I’ve never openly criticized anyone’s review.
I’ll accept you for what you are, if you show me the same respect.
No need for trouble, right?

Well that all changed Sunday last when another Yelper sent me a message, criticizing me for my reviews…

Diego-your reviews have a lot of personality, but they say nothing about how yummy the food was, or if the service was awesome, and whether or not you loved  or hated the place. Perhaps Yelp is not the site for you. Perhaps you should try blogging instead. Your reviews are best suited for a blogging website.

I can take criticism.
Constructive criticism that is, however, this was anything but. This was an assault.

This felt like the person on the other end of the email, the self-appointed minister of what shall or shall not be Yelped, had just admonished me for no apparent reason other than my conspicuous absence of using text he was most comfortable with.
I immediately dismissed his comment as bullshit, hit the delete button, and went on about my Sunday. For a while anyway.
Then I got pissed.
Who the fuck is this guy, telling me to I should self-exile from Yelp?
Not to get all redneck on this asshole, but the last time I checked this was America, where freedom of speech is one of our guaranteed rights.
Well fuck this guy..dry, I thought while crafting a response.

Dear Joshua H,

Thank you for your most insightful comment about my reviews. How perceptive of you to notice they’re not quick and to the point—providing you the immediate thumb positioning you’re seeking. I realize they could be much more interesting if I was to be more succinct, getting to my point more quickly, allowing you to race onward to the next review, but that’s not how I do things.

Maybe it’s because I’m older and unlike you, have learned through the years how it’s better to take ones time when writing, slowly creating theatre in a person’s mind with wordplay, rather than slap a few modifiers together and call it a review. The former serving as an eroticism of sorts—a slow undressing before getting to the final act. 
I do this for several reasons.

First,  I like to let my reader do some of the ‘lifting’, enabling them to make their own evaluation without spoon-feeding them with my subjectivity.

Second, I believe if one is going to take the time to critique a place where some mom and pop are trying to eek out a living, they deserve a fair shot. Some respect either way, good or bad. This in lieu of trying to capture ones experience in only a few short lines, or worse, a less than clever list of clichés.

Perhaps this is why I choose to not ‘blow my load’ in a couple of short sentences, invoking terms you’re so fond of, such as  yummmmmy, soooo love this place, amazing, awesome, unbelievable, Oh my god!, and the ever popular, WOW.
I hope you can grasp this concept, but somehow, I don’t think you will.

Perhaps you should simply block my reviews in the future, opting only for those which provide the depth and range you’re seeking on Yelp.
That would be so awesome and really, really amazing if you would do that.
I would soooo love it if you did.

Diego S.

The fisherman?

God-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diego

Why men seem to smell…a complaint

God-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a thought

Yours,

Diego

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

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

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

Authors note:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More tips on how to meet women

I’ve learned over the years how most women have a sixth sense when it comes to the desperate guy, being able to detect when a dude is in heat from practically across the room.
Some researchers say this is due to our emitting certain pheromones, signaling women’s olfactory senses of our need to get our freak on.
Wrong.
I say women can detect desperation a mile away.
Like from the moment you walked into the room and began unashamedly scouring the place for strays—that one girl who’s left the safety of the herd, whose defenses are down and could easily fall prey to your schtick. (not a pun)

What you need is a gimmick. Here’s what I suggest.

You know that Vietnamese family that lives down the block? Well they can be good for so much more than making annoying dogs suddenly disappear.
Talk the parents into letting their eldest son join you for a night of clubbing, promising to show him a classic american tradition of partying until you’re kissing your socks drunk.

When you get to the club, don’t look desperate. Pretend you’re joking around with Wong or whatever his name is. Give him a few verbal jabs about some of the neighbor’s pets whose pictures are on the neighborhood lamp posts. The trick is to get him laughing, and you as well. Chicks like this. It shows you’re there to have fun and not to mac on their mysterious prize.

It also shows you’re disinterested, and they can’t figure out why. Since they’ve put on copious amounts of make-up, straightened their hair, have the perfect dress, everything. So what’s so funny over there that you can’t notice them?
Well just like Pandora, curiosity will get the better of them and before too long, they’ll wander in your direction. This is when you can solidly cajole them into your web of deceit by using the Asian kid as a decoy.

When they’re within earshot, say something like;

“I just loved that scene from ‘The Goonies’ where you opened your trench coat and the punching thingy sprang out.” 

Guaranteed, they’ll drop all poise and grace and come running over to meet you and the now grown-up Data!
Introduce him as Data, signaling him to get lost after the encounter.

You’ll tell her he’s shy. Going through a traumatic time, transitioning from former child star to busboy.
The evening is yours.

And here’s another tip.
You’re not limited to using the kid in only the Data role.
There’s ‘The Donger’ from Sixteen Candles.
And that Asian kid from Indiana Jones movies, the one who is incessantly barking “Docta Jones, Docta Jones!

Try it.
It really works.