The irony of genius

Throughout the years, my friends have often referred to me as a genius. Their doing so supports the notion that anyone abating from the present to momentarily wander off into space, appearing to confront life’s great cosmic narrative in what appears as a pensive gaze, is a genius.
What a laugh.
I’m just a guy who as a young man, scoffed at the notion that lysergic acid diethyl-amide (LSD, for the non-genius) would have any mood altering side affects thirty years after the fact like the experts warned.
Boy was I ever wrong.

And those pensive (euphoric) gazes? The ones where I’m enveloped in an out-of-focus bubble, catatonically adrift somewhere in the cosmos?
Well my friends, that’s what some folks call genius.
What a serendipitous gift this irony.

Poverty’s silver lining

Whenever I see news reports showing people living in squalor—their domiciles looking more like hand-made cardboard huts, I don’t feel sorry for them.
Instead, I reflect back on my youth when me and my cousins routinely fashioned whatever junk we could find in our alley’s trash containers into a clubhouse. Once built, we would sit inside talking and giggling for hours, right up to the time when mom would order me into the house to eat and my cousins to go home.
This is why I don’t feel sorry for hut people.
I think the irony of their being poverty stricken and living in a hut (or clubhouse, depending on your point of view) somehow gets lost on the idea that there may be a happy group of folks inside, sitting around giggling and talking for hours, just like me and my cousins.
Well, maybe except for the part where mom busts up the party by sending everyone home because it’s time to eat.

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.

Maybe heaven has a back door

Me, bartering with St. Peter….

“I.m.p.o.s.s.i.b.l.e!”

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

“19,000 just seems like a lot.”

“19,312-1/2 to be precise sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Any ideas about his take on older curiosity?”

“Let’s move on, shall we?”

“What’s next?”

“Let’s discuss your blog, sir.”

“Ohhhh fuck.”

Traffic jams and other creepy stuff

Traversing three freeways on my daily commute, I spend a considerable amount of time sitting in my car not moving. This means the guy in the next lane isn’t moving either.
One minute, I’m speeding down a highway, focused and alert, careful not to let my eyes detract from the goings on of the roadway.
The next?
I’m sitting stationary with all the time in the world.
Still focused and alert, but now however able to look around, to see the other cars and their drivers, and to notice how some are feverishly preoccupied with various tasks.
I totally get this.
A moment ago, we were shrouded in a cloak of invisibility—not seeing one another as humans, but rather foes in need of vanquishing, as we routinely cut one another off in an effort to arrive at our destination a few seconds earlier than do they.

But traffic has slowed to a crawl and now we’re stopped, lifting that cloak of invisibility to reveal an actual human being behind the wheel.
Still alert, and still very much focused, I use this time to spy on other drivers…to see what they’re up to.
Some are texting.
Women are coiffing and putting on make-up.
And then there’s the nose picker.

The guy who without a care in the world, and apparently hasn’t figured out how we are now visible to one another is hastily exploring one of his nostrils.
I’m not talking about the guy or gal who takes an honest swipe at their whistling beak in an effort to rid it from some foreign presence.
I’m talking about the guy (and it’s always a guy) whose incessant mining efforts have now produced some kind of god-awful extraction, one requiring a momentary pensive gaze as he studies it for who knows what.
Size? Shape? Configuration?
Color? Is he examining it for color? Maybe its color and configuration.
Or maybe there’s a wayward nose hair in the mix. I can see where, at least visually, this could create a stir. That usually freaks me out when I see one on a kleenex. I can’t imagine my fingertip and in traffic no less. Eeewwww!
I’ve now drifted into a euphoric gaze staring at this dolt—one where I catatonically sit and stare at something bizarre—as if seeing it for the very first time.
One where time seems to slow, as the cacophony of traffic noise, car stereo, and any random thoughts now have mystically faded away, tranquilizing me into a deep visual fog.

 

 

 

 

Sorry, I’m back.
Holy shit, what’s he going to do with that thing I begin to wonder. Jesus I hope he doesn’t eat it.
I knew a girl in fourth grade who often picked her nose during math, and just when she thought no-one was looking, she inserted her mining finger into her mouth, pretending to bite her nails.
She lived with the moniker ‘Boogereater’ all through elementary school.

But this guy. I wonder about a guy like this.
Whether he’ll wipe it on his person or the seat of his car.
Or whether he’ll roll it up and flick it someplace. A lot of people I’ve watched pick their nose in traffic do this. Although I did see a woman use a kleenex once, making me wonder why she couldn’t have used it to blow her nose with, this in lieu of her full-scale pick. Weird.

But this guy is dressed to the nines, driving a late model BMW 750I, I seriously doubt he’ll be eating it, or flicking it onto his fine leather interior for that matter. I surmise he’s probably preoccupied, thinking about that big meeting he’s headed off to this morning, complete unaware of the fact that he’s knuckle-deep into his schnoz, and how any one of a number of other drivers are now monitoring his productivity efforts.

I wonder if he’ll stop off in the mens’ room to wash up first.
Or whether he’ll simply forget about his mindless activity during the commute, shaking hands with everyone pre-meeting, getting his remnant boog spoils all over them…this as they unsuspectingly gather for coffee and pastries.

A fellow blogger recently posted a bit about shaking hands with others and how detestable an act it is, for reasons such as this, I presume.
I wish I had never read it.
That’s all I can think about now every time someone sticks out their paw to shake my hand—thinking how they might have been stuck in traffic earlier, spelunking for that all elusive, once-in-a-lifetime boog—most likely the holy grail for the seasoned professional.
You know which one.
The one resembling a long wayward string of hot melted cheese right after you slowly pull the pizza slice away from your mouth.

Have a nice day.
I hope you’re not having pizza for lunch.

Jail…on a scale of one to five

The following is a review I submitted to Yelp, a popular review website.
I use a cumulative rating system, the unit of measure being a star. The rating scale ranging from 1-5 stars.
Enjoy.

 

Phoenix Police Department

First, let me say the ambiance and decor were first class. The service was a little on the poor side, but the food?
In a word..horrendous!
Let’s break it down.

Five stars for my arresting officer and how interested he seemed in my life…asking a ton of questions. He saw me as a real person and not just another perpetrator, appearing genuinely concerned for my well being. Under any other circumstances, I could totally see me and him as besties.
You just don’t see that kind of caring in an arresting officer these days.

Another five for his using nylon ties in lieu of those pesky handcuffs.
Three more for the super clean backseat in his squad car. I thought it would smell like puke or crack dealer or something, but surprisingly it smelled sweet, like cake frosting. Weird.

Where are we…thirteen thus far?

Minus five for the precinct officer who fingerprinted me and failed to acquiesce my request for a hairbrush and some gel prior to the mugshot. I looked like Nick Nolte and Gary Busey’s illegitimate child.

Another minus five for the Madison Street Jail facility and its ‘open’ toilets inside the holding tank.¹

I’m deducting another two for what I think may have been an egg Mcmuffin they served for breakfast, although I’m not really sure what it was.

Another negative two for their letting my wife post bail instead of my cousin David.

A whopping negative five for evicting me from my cell earlier than I would have liked. I was having a pretty good time with all the boys until the guard informed me my wife was in the lobby.

Deduct five more for the rude behavior of practically every officer in the precinct…their laughing at me while my wife lectured me the entire duration of the hallway as we left the building.

Overall, I’d say this wasn’t as bad an experience as some of my friends let on.
Given my druthers, I would have stayed and visited a few more days, or at least until my wife cooled down.

What does that leave us with, negative eleven?
I wouldn’t have guessed such a low rating taking everything into consideration.
Probably won’t repeat.

¹ If you have shy bladder syndrome, this may not  be the place for you after a night of prodigious drinking.

Why I don’t eat frozen yogurt

 

The big rage in frozen yogurt shops these days is their having a number of self-serve machines, allowing one to choose from any number of flavors and in any amount you so desire.
Then, after filling your container to its gunwales, and having loaded every conceivable topping on it from the self-serve condiment bar, you proceed to the check-out area where they weigh your masterpiece and charge you by the ounce¹.

And this is why I don’t go to frozen yogurt shops anymore.
Not the cost. I’m prepared to face the consequences of my wanton desires.
And not the lack of service. I rather like the idea of building a masterpiece that’ll draw the attention of my fellow diners.
It’s the machine itself.
I hate the machine.
The way it slowly craps out the yogurt, giving you just enough time to conjure up a related metaphorical image as the ‘flavor of the day’, chocolate-chip-chunk, oodges its way into your waiting container.

I’m repulsed by it every time, making me wonder how the conversation might go on the weird chance I’d ever get meet the inventor of the soft serve machine….

“So..tell me, how did the idea of a soft serve machine come to you?”

“Well, I was taking my dog Pinky for a walk one day when all of a sudden, he decides to shit all over Ed and Dolores Feinstein’s front lawn.
I was horrified.
Ed’s an attorney and he warned me about Pinky shitting on his front lawn one more time…how he’d come after us both.
So what does Pinky do?
Sans any precursory sniffing or circling the target, he immediately goes to guns on Ed’s daisy’s. But something’s wrong on this day, because Pinky, normally a two-three second shitter, was struggling…his super quick, two-plop turd now replaced with a large troubling mass slowly oodging its way out, giving Ed just enough time to spot us.
Fucking Pinky…what’s he thinking, I say to myself as Ed comes flying out of the house with a broom, a crazed look in one eye.
The next thing I know, Pinky freaks and hightails it down the street without even pinching it off or anything, leaving a large piece of turd hanging halfway out of his ass.
And that was it. My ah-ha moment.
It was in that moment I thought to myself, should I ever decide to invent a soft serve ice-cream machine, I’d want it to cleanly pinch-off, unlike Pinky, who ran all the way home, through the dog door, and right into his bedding area…the turd still intact.
So I guess you can say Pinky was my inspiration in a way.”

Many thanks Pinky.
I used to love frozen yogurt…when someone else was serving it up, that is.
Now that I have to serve it up, all I can think about is how the machine dispensing my often times, post-coital treat, was actually designed by some lunatic who managed to create a replica of his dog—shitting on Ed and Dolores Feinstein’s daisies.

Thanks Pinky!

¹Pound, in my case, mainly depending on what type of day I’ve just had.

Penis envy: The true reason behind it

God-

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,

Diego

Why God didn’t give me a uterus

It’s kind of funny how the human psyche works, at least in my case.
I’m talking about how I can do something once, become an expert (in my mind anyway) and without so much as giving it a second thought, move on to something bigger and better despite my obvious lack of qualifications to do so.

Last week, I suppose out of boredom, I decided to climb trudge up a local mountain to test my fitness level. In my mind, I reasoned that if I made it to the summit, I was fit. It didn’t matter how slow I went, or that another climber helped stay my balance as I wobbled on a precipice, the fact is, I made it to the top and proudly declared myself fit in the process. Which then qualified me to climb one of the highest peaks in Phoenix this weekend—Tom’s Thumb.

This is the part of the human psyche I don’t understand. How my ego, conniving shit that it is, could actually make me believe I could do such a thing. Well it did, and then I did, and now I’m laying here with seven bruised toes, muscle spasms in my legs, and cactus needles precariously littered throughout my nether region. Oh well, at least I have some pictures to ease the pain.

 

 

No more climbing, not yet anyway. Not until I’m healed, at which time my ego will will talk me into doing something else equally as dumb.
I’m pretty sure the male ego has something to do with our grand design and why we don’t have a uterus.

Resting uncomfortably, (for now)

Diego

The ways of my people

God-

When I was a kid, I knew this guy in 4th grade named Peter Walkingstick who once told me how his people (Navajo Indians) didn’t believe in the concept of stealing. As Peter would often put it;

“In our culture, food belongs to those who are the hungriest, water—the thirstiest, and clothing—the neediest.” 

It seemed to me what Peter and his family had there was a bona fide license to steal, and all by virtue of being born Native American.
How great was that?

Well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what Peter told me all those years ago, eventually coming to the realization that since I too was born here in America, for all intents and purposes, that makes me a Native American as well, right?
That being the case, ‘stealing’, as my White Brother’s so ignorantly choose to call it, really doesn’t exist anymore, at least not in my Indian Native American world.
And if stealing doesn’t exist, well that probably cuts down on my lying bill by about 90% as well.

Peter, and more importantly, his culture, unknowingly caused me to take stock in my life, helping me to understand how I’m really not a bad person and that most of the stuff I always thought was a sin, really isn’t.
Shortly after this cathartic episode, I concluded the following as it relates to my sinful former ways:

Section 1. Lying

Since my ‘lying’ was mostly relegated to chicks, and mainly for the purposes of reproduction, and, how I was truly in ‘need’ of getting my freak on, this section should be eliminated altogether.
The white woman may see me as a liar, but my people know different.

Section 2.  Stealing

I was a growing boy and like most growing boys, badly in need of food at all times—I needed to eat. And seeing how my parents made me take leftover Italian food to school for lunch, (shit that nobody would trade for) I was forced to steal food from the Quickie-Mart both before and after school.
Again, since I was in need, I think the “Food is for the hungry rule” applies here, thus overriding any petty larceny charges the white-eyes might have indicted me for.

Section 3.  Coveting Shit

In Peter’s world, there wasn’t  such a thing as coveting. Mainly because whenever  he and his sticky-fingered-family saw something they coveted, well, let’s just say they weren’t coveting it for very long after that.
In retrospect, this was pure genius, as they eliminated coveting by stealing and stealing was always rationalized by needing. And since needing is sanctioned by my native brothers, it’s hard to see where I’ve done anything wrong in these categories.
If anything was a sin, it was how I never achieved my full potential as a Native American by not stealing everything I ever wanted.

Section 4. Fucking with my neighbors

I’m not sure whether Peter and his family had a rule that covered this one. Although, now that I think about it, most of my interaction with the neighbors was lying to them about; who stole their newspaper, ran into their hedges, the dead pigeons always popping up in their side yard, missing grapefruit, stolen coupon flyers from the mailbox, or the ridiculously low gas milage they were getting from their new Camry.
Once again, all covered under lying and stealing. Check.√

Section 5. Faking sick to get out of church, work, and most family events.

See lying (above)

So as you can see, today is like a new beginning for me. One for which I will always be grateful. For had it not been for my catching Peter steal abscond take borrow rightfully claim my bicycle, I would never know the true ways of my people.

Yah-ta-hey,

Diego

The Doctor is in

God-

I made a huge career mistake. I should have become a doctor.
Not because I want to practice medicine. And not for the bucks either, although they do seem to make a lot of money.
Mainly because it sounds so cool when the valet or concierge at my club addresses someone as doctor.
No one ever calls me Doctor.
When I come driving up, it’s more like “Oh, hey, Diego-how’s it goin?” Totally uncool!

So I was thinking.
Is there some kind of Doctor’s degree that I don’t actually have to go to school for, like a body cleaning specialist?
I used to wash cars for a living, I think I could be fairly proficient at cleaning a human body, don’t you?
Boogers, earwax, zits—I’ve done it all.

But I wouldn’t stop there, heck, I’d offer all kinds of specialty cleaning services such as:

• Belly button lint removal
• Splinter removal
• Nose and Ear hair trimming
• Earwax digging removal
• Whitehead popping removal
• Blackhead squeezing removal
• Ace bandage wrapping
• Hangnail removal

I won’t offer any bum or genitally related cleaning services. I have my standards. 

Love,

Doctor Diego

For John V

God-

When I was a hospice volunteer, I was assigned to an old man, who in his last days, was all alone.
No visitors, no friends, no family.
He shared a great many thoughts with me in his final days, mostly how he had come to be alone at this point in his life, despite having a large family and many friends throughout his lifetime.

Myself and a hospice nurse were his only visitors, and upon final request, we left him to pass—alone.
This poem is for you John.

 

 

If ever a time when I needed a friend,
That time would be now as my life nears its end.

But no one is left
My friends they’ve all gone.
For reasons unknown
Our story was done.

But my story played
And on it did so.
Without them I lived
not knowing or caring,
how empty this life
for the sin of not sharing
with others who could,
but it wasn’t to be
I was too busy caring for
one person—me.

And so as we lay here, just me and my thoughts,
I think of the people I wish who were here
to comfort and guide me as death draws so near.

But come they will not,
I’m here all alone as we say our goodbyes,
just me and my own to no ones surprise.

The Black Knight

God-

Do you have a time machine up there? Will we have access to it?
Or, do we just think about where we want to go and {poof} we’re there.
Or do we actually have to ‘fly’ to wherever it is we’re going, using our own wings?
I actually like the “think and go” concept, since that involves the least amount of work.

The time machine means it’s highly likely I’ll need to sign up for it, (along with million of others) and then wait my turn in the queue, listening to all the other time-traveling fucks brag about where they’re going, or where they’ve been. That seems like a bit much.
I could be waiting for eons, and by that time, whomever it was I wanted to spy on having sex would probably be long since dead and gone.

The winged flight program doesn’t thrill me much either. I don’t like turbulence and besides, I’m afraid I’d travel to some exotic destination, unexpectedly begin to molt, and be stuck there for a while.
This could be dangerous. Especially if I landed on some really weird planet where animals or insects were in charge.
I could just see myself frantically running all over the place for an extended period of time, trying to flee from some hungry motherfucker, as I waited for my feathers to grow back.
Shit, that makes my palms sweat just thinking about it!

I'd hate for my wings to look like this guy's

The ‘think and go’ concept might work best for me, although, it could be a problem with my ADD.
I’d hate to be laying on a beach somewhere, enjoying the day, then, without notice, have a random thought relating to 15th century England.
One minute I’d be on a beach, sipping one of those tropical drinks, you know, the ones with the little parasols, and the next, I’d be on a horse, suited in armor and about to be jousted into little tiny pieces by some “Black Knight” douche-nozzle.
That would not be cool. At all.
Yeah, no, my ADD could really fuck with your ‘think and go’ program.

Not cool, God

Maybe the time machine is the best option for me after all.

Typically, how long is the queue?
Perhaps I should sign up now.

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

Please don’t hit me

God-

What does your voice sound like?
I’d like to think its similar to ours, except for maybe how it bellows and booms, like the subwoofers in my jeep.
I hope it sounds like that.
I’ll be pretty disappointed if it doesn’t.

I knew this guy once who physically, was extremely big. What was weird however was his voice.
I expected him to have this deep, baritone voice, so you can imagine how shocked I was when I heard him speak for the first
time. He sounded just like Minnie Mouse, very high pitched and squeaky.
It just didn’t fit.
Here was this big strapping lad, with this little girl voice. Really strange.

Anyhow, that got me wondering what you sound like.
You’re probably a big dude too, like him.
I hope you don’t sound like him.
I busted out laughing the first time I heard him speak.

If you do sound like him, when we meet, if I start laughing, would you please not send me to Hell.
And don’t sock me either.
Somebody your size could really fuck me up.
You really should be more mindful of your strength!

Diego

One good reason to hate Vikings

God-

Theologically speaking, is it against any rule you know of to shave off ones bush?
I’m not asking for me.
I’m only asking because I accidentally stumbled onto a website where this Hollywood actress, who shall remain nameless, (Lindsay Lohan)
was getting out of a car and you could see all up in her business.
Normally, I don’t care much for that kind of stuff, but what got my attention was how demonic it looked, as though it possessed evil powers or something.
It was horrible God, just horrible.
It was all blotchy, and crooked, and had a viking-esque quality about it, but even more frightening were the teeth.
Yes, it had teeth, no fooling!
Or maybe they just looked like teeth. I’m not sure.
It sort of reminded me of this movie I saw once; “Bride of Chucky.“
Did you go see that one?
Well do you remember how the evil little doll had an amulet that turned people into weird shit—like those really expensive Lladro figurines?
Well that’s exactly what her cooch looked like.
Like it could really mess you up. Badly!

And that’s when I got to thinking how I might have never seen any of it in the first place had she not taken a razor to her business and shaved it all off clean, right down to the nub.

I’m guessing that in your divine wisdom you had a reason for designing pubes, although I’m not sure what it was.
Maybe it was to hide our junk from plain sight so some animal wouldn’t sneak up and take a bite out of our shit.
Or maybe it was to gross out my maids when they clean my toilet each week, and find deserter pubes lounging all around the rim.
Then again, it could be you just wanted to freak the shit out of seven year-old me, like the time I saw my grandmothers bush piling out of her onesy at the beach. Fuck.
As if I really needed that image seared into my brain at seven.

One thing is for certain, all that hair does make our shit look mysterious, making sex some sort of adult version of hide and seek or something.
Not a bad thing.
Anyway, girly parts aren’t all that attractive in my opinion, so having a big hair jungle down there that hides their business is just fine by me.

Hirsuitly yours,

Diego

Planet Bonerville

God-

I know I asked you this before but you never wrote me back.
How exactly did you get to be God?
Did you fuck-up in another universe and some high and mighty council sentenced you to rule Earth, where fuck-ups abound?
Or, did you have to beat out a bunch of other would-be Gods in some kind of competition, like on that tv show Wipeout?

Maybe there was a gigantic war in the universe, and your Army prevailed, so you got promoted and along with it, your choice of jobs. (Just like Tom Cruise did in Top Gun). So you chose Earth.

Or perhaps you and a bunch of your friends staged some kind of coup d’ état, overthrowing some big douchebag of a God and his entire staff.

Or maybe were you just born God.
If you were born God, wouldn’t that make you God Jr.
If you are God Jr., why did you drop the Jr.? Because it does sound kind of dopey.
That’s the main reason I don’t go to Carl’s Jr. restaurants. Grammatically speaking, the name is an abortion.

It’s like going to a WaWa or Piggly Wiggly market, both of which I won’t go to either.

Anyhow, that’s not why I’m writing.
I was wondering how I could get my own little universe someday. In effect, I’d like to be a God too. Like you!
But I don’t want to stage a coup, or be a contestant on Wipeout. And I’m not much of an Army guy.

So I was thinking.
What if I just paid you some kind of royalty fee, and you awarded me my very own God post somewhere.
Only I don’t want to be posted-up on some bullshit planet like Mars.
And Uranus is definitely out.
All my friends would give me major shit if they knew I was the God of Uranus. Are you kidding?

No, I want a planet that’s like Hawaii since I like to lay out, snorkel, and go deep sea fishing.
I also want a boat I can charter to pasty-fat people from somewhere that resembles Minnesota.
And I’ll need to change my name to God Bobby Ray McFadden.
I also want a wife named Waynette, Georgette, or Opal Ann, it doesn’t matter.
I want a pet monkey named Theodore who torments the neighborhood kids by throwing shit at them on their daily walk home from school.
And I’d like a couple of children too.

A daughter named Thelma, who goes by Sunset at our local strip club.
And a son whose real name is Earl, but his e-mail address is Whakinit24-7.
Together with a 1959 Ford Skyliner with the retractable top.
A soviet built rocket launcher.
And a waterbed that leaks just under Opal Ann’s hoo-dilly.

As God Bobby Ray, I just might have me a mistress named Earleen.
My very own restaurant named God Bobby’s Place, where me and Earleen would screw in the kitchen on slow nights, in the back, right next to the walk-in freezer. And if one of my Meh-hee-can workers caught me and Earleen, I’d have him deported for having phony papers.
I’d have a big meat smoker out back, where I’d smoke ribs every day and drink Budweiser while the ribs are cooking.
Sometimes, a few of my friends would come by and we’d smoke a bunch of weed too. Then we’d eat ribs and I’d make Earleen bring us all wet-naps to clean up.

There’d be days when I’d cheat on Earleen with her little sister, Beulah, but Earleen wouldn’t mind since she’d be a chronic alcoholic and wasted most of the time.
And if Earleen ever gets pissy and threatens to tell Opal Ann on me, how we’re screwing on flour sacks in the kitchen, I’d have Theodore throw shit at her till she looked like the dude from that movie, Weird Science.

Earleen best be keeping her shit on the DL

My churches would be refurbished KFC restaurants.
And my services would cost an arm and a leg. And I wouldn’t take any discount coupons either. Everyone pays, full boat.

And all my preachers would don hockey masks and have regular face-offs with male parishioners during Sunday service, the winner gets to sleep with Earleen.
But Earleen would complain during their lovemaking, telling the face-off winner; “Once you’ve been with God Bobby Ray, there ain’t no goin backwards,” which in turn would prompt the face-off winner to commit suicide.
Again, I’d blame Earleen.

And I’d like to name my new planet, Planet Bonerville.

My ride on planet Bonerville

And there would only be one doctor on the whole planet. Me.

Sophmorically yours,

Diego

On the topic of reincarnation

God-

Tell me, how does reincarnation work exactly?
My wife says it’s a system based on Karma. For example, she says if I continue to shoot pigeons off my neighbors roof, it’s highly likely you’ll send me back here someday as a pigeon, whose fate will rest in the hands of some 12 year-old wad who just got a BB gun for his birthday.
I say that’s all bullshit.
Because if what she’s saying is true, then why wouldn’t you send people back as say, a two-iron?
I’ve wrapped plenty of two-irons around trees, thrown them into lakes, and even beat an Igloo water cooler to death with one. And I can say with some degree of certainty, I’m not the first or last person to ever abuse a two-iron in this manner.
Yet, by her definition, I should expect to return for a short stint as a rarely used, (and highly overrated) golf club? Seriously?
No fucking way.

I say reincarnation is a system much like college.
You get a pamphlet from the registrars office showing the various courses, which in this case would be a listing of all the animated life forms, review the syllabus denoting what you can reasonably expect as say bigfoot or perhaps the Loch Ness monster, (if you so choose) check the appropriate box, pay a nominal tuition fee, and voila, you’re dodging tourists with cameras for the remainder of your days.
It’s that simple.

Here’s what I’m wondering.
How specific can we get when filling out the registration form.
I presume it asks for basics, like gender, race, and all that. But more specifically, does it allow you to choose a particular family, by name? Because I would choose the Windsors.
Yes, I would like to come back as the Queen of England. But not the old Queen, a young Queen like the one Emily Blunt portrayed in Young Elizabeth.
I thought about coming back as one of those Sheik’s with billions of dollars, but I hate the idea of walking around in a sheet and a tablecloth hat all day. Plus the fact that they always look dirty and unshaven, have huge noses, and don’t drink alcohol. Not for me.

Not for me!

The Queen on the other hand would be a cool adventure. Except for one thing.
I might be just a smidge on the slutty side.
I know, that’s probably not cool with the palace staffers and all, but my subjects would never have to know about it. Unless you plant some treasonous fuck in my midst.
But I’d have him beheaded for betraying his sovereign. Right? Isn’t that what the Queen does?

Off with his head! I can totally hear myself now

Anyway, back to my slutting activities.
I think it’s only appropriate that I have my way with all the Dukes, Barons, Princes, and to a lesser degree, a Viscount or two.
I’d also like to have a Lesbian experience with my Ladies in Waiting, but only if they’re very pretty and fit. And not a fully-blown Lesbo girl party, with all the sex stuff.
I was thinking more along the lines of getting naked and dancing around to some oldies. Maybe Madonna.
But as far as your sovereign cooch-diving, well that’s definitely out!

I’d also like a pet Jaguar, presented to me by some Amazon jungle fuck named Sibobwoo. I would name the Jaguar Lenny, and poke at him with my royal sword.
Over time, I’d send Sibobwoo pictures of his former pet, but I’d have my royal photo-shop guy cover up all the sword wounds so that Lenny looks pretty normal.
Lenny and I would eventually become friends due to my feeding him my ugly sister’s (Princess Bethelsda) favorite Yorkie. I hate Yorkie’s.

H-e-r-e L-e-n-n-y It's lunch t-i-m-e!

As for Sibobwoo, I’d wait till he grew up, (if he doesn’t get eaten by some Amazon monster first) and have my way with him too.
It would be like The Lion King in the sense that I would be completing the circle of life through Sibobwoo somehow.
Although I’m not exactly sure how.

Don’t those Amazon dudes pierce their schlongs with sharp sticks in some kind of ritual coming-of-age ceremony?
Maybe I won’t do Sibobwoo after all.
I don’t need sharp sticks breaking off in my royal cha-cha.
That would be hard to explain to my royal obstetrician.

Bewildered,

Diego

 

 

Security guards

God-

Do you have security guards? Are they like white secret service guys or are they those big fat G’s from the hood?
Personally, I’d go with the G’s and here’s why.
Secret service dudes are often jumpy, like they’re always on high-alert or something. One minute, I’d be walking toward you trying to get your autograph, and the next, one of them would be whispering into his little collar microphone;

“We’ve got a stalker, I repeat, we HAVE a stalker, BLUE TEAM MOVE, NOW, NOW, NOW! THE CHICKEN IS IN THE POT, COOK IT!”

I don’t know what any of that secret service chirp means, but I think it’s code for; “Lets blow this fucker into lint, NOW!”
Like I said, way too jumpy. All I wanted was your autograph and now I’m laying in a pool of blood, all shot up. Shit.

These guys look jumpy

This is where having G’s would be different.
First, they’d be buzzed most of the time, so nobody’s gonna do any shooting. Not right away.
And there wouldn’t be any of those little collar microphones or anyone telling some blue team to cook my shit up like a chicken.
G’s don’t need a team.
They’re big and fat and wear overcoats that conceal enough ordinates to level Milwaukee.
And being fat, they usually have nicknames like Tooty or Bubba. And that means they’re at least approachable because every Tooty I’ve ever known has always been friendly.
Until you piss him off. Then you’re a goner for sure.

Tooty will mess your shit up!

There’s always another option. Ninjas.
Those wiry little kung-foo bastards seem to just pop out of nowhere and start wailing on your shit for no reason. And not with their hands either.
No, they use all kinds of cool weapons, like swords, and numchucks. They even have those little metal blades to throw at you, which if they hit you will slice off your head, or maybe an arm.

Ninjas might be your best option (for me anyway) since they don’t use guns.
I can run from a sword. Bullets are a different story. And those spinning slicey things? I don’t even want to think about them.
Yeah, the more I think about it, if I was you I’d probably go with Ninjas.
Unless of course you have something against Chinese dudes, which seems likely since most of them worship a little fat dude named Buddha, and not you.

I'd worship a cow before I'd worship this guy!

Or maybe you don’t use bodyguards at all. Maybe you just have a bunch of little cherubs swarming around you.
That would be pretty annoying I would think. I’d want to swat at them every now and again.

 

Love securely,

Diego