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.

Olympics: from the non-sports journalist perspective

Life is about making choices. We make hundreds of them each day. But the really big choices, the ones having a meaningful impact on our lives, well, those don’t happen every day. Those only happen on days when you conveniently forget how your SAT’s are scheduled the day after a hellish tequila and NO-DOZ bender; eventually becoming the fodder that is your life’s folly.  542 verbal? Seriously? I was a solid 700 and they knew it. Yet another shining example of the man trying to keep the little guy (with a slight collegiate alcohol problem) down.

Anyway, Phoenix College, a fine institution in its own rite, but certainly no Stanford, doomed my writing career I suspect. Or maybe it was the 542 verbal, who the fuck knows. Writing that antithesis on women’s orgasms from the perspective of a disenfranchised twenty year-old virgin-geek probably didn’t help much either. I only know that with a few more credit hours (33) from anywhere other than Phoenix College, my Olympic reports would dazzle.

Women’s Swimming: Sheer elegance capped by an effusive outpouring of excitement. (Winners) Who knows what the losers are up to, they probably can’t wait to high-tail it out of the pool and out of camera range. Oh, and just for the record, it wasn’t my idea to go out that night, not until I learned how Kelly Smith was going out with everyone. She never went out drinking. Anyway, I got pretty buzzed and the rest is history. Now I’m sitting here banging out Olympic posts because of some teenage prom queen who never gave me the air out of her ass to cool my soup. I should have been published three or four times over by now if it wasn’t for her. Probably have a wildly popular column in the L.A. Times too. Anywho, women’s swimming, to this self-proclaimed journalist is a thing of beauty. ‘Poetry in motion’ as is often heard, doesn’t come close to describing this sport and its participants. Additionally, I have it on good faith that someone (Lonnie) roofy’d me that night with some low grade acid, I’m not sure. I don’t have any proof, other than how the he and Kelly were inseparable after that night. And me? A hangover for the record books and a fucking 542. Props to you both. I hope you burn in hell.
Missy Franklin is a remarkable swimmer —she killed it in the 200m backstroke. Her mom looks kinda old. Weird.

Men’s Synchronized Swimming:  I didn’t care much for this event. Watching these guys I now know I missed my prime somehow. I thought all young people got a prime of life. Not me. I was born without abs apparently.

Women’s Beach Volleyball:   The weather must not be cooperating. The women are in sweats. I watched a Big Bang Theory rerun instead. Sheldon’s interaction with Penny is precious!

MEDAL COUNT

Yeah, I dunno. I’ll have to get back with you on this one. Right now I’m busy trying to figure out a reasonable defense (lie) for my court appearance tomorrow. What the fuck is it with those red light cameras anyway? I need to break out my old Ronald Reagan mask whenever I turn onto Thompson Peak Parkway I suppose.

Olympics update

In an effort to rekindle my old love affair with sports reporting, I’m submitting the following Olympic update. I should probably mention how I was a mere 33 credit hours shy of my degree before switching majors for the 3rd time.
What a mistake!
I should’ve stuck with journalism since business turned out to be a real bundle of joy. Fucking Wall Street and its credit default swaps. What were they thinking? I guess no-one was watching when Nick Leeson took down Barings Bank, a centuries-old institution in England. He thought derivatives were safe too. Fuckers!!

What? [voice in background]
Oh, yeah…the Olympics. Sorry.

Women’s Water Polo: Lots of wedgies here, but you’ll never know it. The camera work is detestable, all of it from an aerial viewpoint in lieu of underwater. Waiting for time out’s are excruciating but worthwhile, when upon exiting the pool to huddle with one another, the cameraman finally earns his salt. Time out’s are your only hope of catching a glimpse of these finely-tuned (and wedgy’d) athletes, that is unless someone gets hurt or ejected. I did see one woman limping back to the bench but somehow it wasn’t the same. The wedgy affect is severely diminished by a bad limp.

John McEnroe:  Apparently, NBC sports hired JohnnyMac as a reporter. I think we all know why. I’m waiting for one of his ‘off-camera’ remarks when he becomes unhinged at his cameraman after taking too long to get the lighting right. I ♥ John. #notgayjusttolerant

Women’s Kayaking:  Weird. I think I pulled something in my low back yesterday weeding the front garden. Why do I have to pull weeds anyway? And on a Sunday no less.  What are those lazy-as-mud landscapers charging me for? My only day off and I have to garden so my bitch neighbor doesn’t report me to the HOA. I hate her. The jury is still out on women’s kayaking. I’m not all about this sport just yet. This could have been a great wet t-shirt opportunity if it wasn’t for those pesky life preservers. Lots of left turns. Reminds me of NASCAR without the dub-t audience and confederate flags. Oh, and the water…duh.

Men’s Beach Volleyball:  Finally, a sport where the men’s junk isn’t all up in your face. Totally worth watching if you’re a straight male. I’m a straight male, but I’d like to point out how I’m not a homophobe. This is important. I accept people for who they are. If you happen to like dudes, well, that’s your business. I like dudes, I just don’t like their dicks or hairy butts. In fact, I can barely stand my own, but that’s another story. Anyway, I was saying, this is a pretty cool sport and fun to watch. I don’t know who’s winning, mainly because I keep backing up the women’s water polo recording in hopes I may have missed an important time out. The American men look really cool with those Oakley shades and reversed visors,  much cooler than my Chrome Heart sunglasses anyway.

Cool

An Olympic report

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.

MEDAL COUNT

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.

SUMMARY

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.

Kinda hard to take these guys serious

Gym time (Haiku style)

Look up at the tv on the wall.
Look down at my gut.
I hate the Olympics.

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.

Tips on getting your content removed from Yelp

Tom’s Thumb Fresh Market
Category: American (New)
7/6/2012
Whenever the need arises to wash my vehicle….
And, I’m in the mood for delicious slow roasted brisket, ribs, or pulled pork…
And, I need to pick through a convenience store-like grocery case for some Nestle’s Strawberry Milk…
And, I want to watch international soccer games in the car wash waiting area after eating the pulled pork and brisket—with a flavorful Starbuck’s-like coffee creation from the in-store coffee bar, while my vehicle—remember my vehicle—the one that needed cleaning is getting cleaned, I come here.

Tom’s Thumb Fresh Market.

Where I can satiate all my worldly needs in one fell swoop—save for getting laid.
But I’m guessing if one got really creative, he/she could manage to find a place to throw-down somewhere on this huge property.
If you are going to have a go at it, I suggest you steer clear of the men’s room, it smells kind-of weird and is likely to sour the mood.

From this reviewer’s perspective, the only thing missing at Tom’s Thumb is a place to take a nap after your getting laid.
Yes, a short nap after a furious jaunt is always refreshing and one would damned well think the proprietors could have thought through this a little more carefully when building their business plan, because had they done so, this place would receive a perfect five stars!

Why just think of it.
A place to get ones truck washed, eat barbecue, drink beer, watch soccer, conjugate, nap, and revive with a soy latte, as the attendant tosses you the keys signaling your vehicle is cleaned and ready. Now that’s the shit!

I’d like to summarize by suggesting how Tom’s Thumb may indeed be, despite its lack of non-conspicuous enclaves where one might seek a romantic interlude, a mere fuck and a short nap away from heaven.
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Tip # 1

Reviewers should limit their objectivity to only those features materially affecting the experience. Perniciously suggesting a business establishment could improve its star rating by offering patrons a place to sleep and fuck, not necessarily in that order, is just wrong and offers both the reader and the business no useful advice. I recommend not invoking this type of rhetoric in ones review.

Tip #2

Fantasizing about the perfect car wash does no-one any good, especially you. Stop thinking about how cool it would be to eat, sleep and fuck in a car wash. The very notion is ill-conceived and could land you in jail with a lewd and lascivious public act conviction.

Tip # 3

Stop submitting fantasy reviews to Yelp that invoke car washes, Anna Sharipova, and your wrinkle-rod.

Proper Super Bowl terminology

My friend’s mother used to tell us as kids how cursing was little more than a feeble mind attempting to express itself.
And like having a bad song stuck in my head, so too has her little pearl of wisdom over the years.
One problem.
Cursing has become popular in recent years and when used properly, really does show ones speaking skills…or not.

For example, under her axiom, this might be considered feeble;

“HEY…you can’t park there!”

“Fuck-you… you fucking fuck!“

Personally, I don’t consider any part of this response feeble.
Quite the contrary.
I think it shows plenty of grammatical prowess—using one word in so many applications, eg.;  verb, attributive, and noun—and all in one short phrase.
That’s anything but feeble!

This would be feeble.

“Hey…you can’t park there!”

“Bite-me, fuckwad!

Bite me, fuckwad? How precious.
Fuckwad, at least in my mind shows little or no creativity and is exemplary of a feeble mind at work.  Not even a little inflection can save a term like bite me fuckwad.

My point?
Simply this.

When invoking a curse word, one should always be mindful of its grammatical application and whether it serves the sentence, or more importantly, the thought one’s trying to convey.
For example.

Feeble…

“That fucking Brady…worthless piece ‘o shit, did you see what that fucker just did?”

This sentence would be considered feeble, particularly if all you’re trying to do is express your disapproval of Tom Brady and his QB skills.

Not Feeble…

“Holy fucking Hell….can you believe what Brady just did…the fucking fuck.

Now this shows creativity on many levels.
By modifying Hell, one is actually expressing disbelief, as if Hell was somehow Holy.
And the pause between Hell and can you believe gives you time to think, to replay Brady’s last move in your mind and surmise your position…allowing you to provide feedback to the commenter.
And Fucking fuck?
Well, isn’t that just a modern day term for expressing ones highly emotional, perhaps even supercharged feelings on a day such as this?
I happen to think so.
 

So remember this when you’re watching the Super Bowl this Sunday.
Fucking fuck, while heavily laden F-bombs, really does show-off ones grammatical prowess.
So much more than does the term ‘fucking asshole’ anyway.

 

15 reasons to move church to Monday

God-

I need a favor.
You know how Mondays are always a bitch?
Well I was thinking how it’d make perfect sense to move church services from Sunday to Monday.
Genius, right?
Here’s my logic.

1. As it stands, I only get two days a week off work and church really fucks with one of them, especially if my wife gets to jawing with all her church buddies after mass. This spells trouble, causing me to miss out on a.m. sports programming.
2. I’m always hungover on Sunday morning.
3. If I’m not hungover, I have to fake sick to get out of church—then come up with a miracle cure by noon if I don’t want to get stuck inside all day.
4. If I go camping for the weekend, I never race back in time for church on Sunday. (see #2 above)
5. I typically like to play golf on Sundays.
6. If I’m really hungover, I hike Camelback mountain on Sunday morning since hiking always burns off a major hangover, and, I can always find a parking spot.
7. The Sunday newspaper is huge. If I combine reading it with going to church afterward, it wastes half a day.
8. I always fall asleep in church since it’s so damned early, the priest is boring, and the women dress like, well, like they’re going to Church.
9. I like to take my wife to Waffle House on Sunday mornings as her special post-coital reward.
   

   Her prize!

10. DirecTV has the best porn programming on Sunday mornings.  Case in point; Black Beaver Bang is playing this morning at the exact same time as mass. (I don’t think this is a coincidence).
11. I always call in sick Monday anyway. Church would legitimize my doing so.
12. I’m rarely hungover on Mondays.
13. There’s no good tv programming on Monday except Monday Night Football. No conflict there.
14. Porn channel programming is worthless on Monday mornings, case in point; Asian Anal Invasion 3 is playing tomorrow at the exact same time as mass, and I think we both know how you feel about butt-sex.
15. My wife works Mondays, and rarely calls in sick, so she’d never know if I went to church or not. I could stay home and not have to fake sick anymore.

So?
What say we try it.. for a couple weeks?

Mondays are a total bummer anyway, why not throw church in the deal and positively make it the absolute worst day of the week?

Hungover and tired.

Diego

My sister has a limp

God-

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

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

So here ya go…do we have a deal?

Diego’s award winning shrimp

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

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

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

I presume this squares us, right?

Golden brown and deliciously yours,

Diego

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

God-

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

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

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

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

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

  My assault vehicle

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

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

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

Diego J Serrano

The Sloth-o-meter

God-

You know how you liked it when people used to sacrifice lambs in your honor—well how do you feel about pigeons?
Should I be using an altar—reciting a bunch of holy stuff prior to snuffing them—or will “take that, you miserable little piece of shit”—followed with a swift round of pellet gun justice suffice?
There are no lambs in my neighborhood, otherwise, I’d probably “sacrifice” one of them every couple of weeks.
There is a dog that won’t stop barking, but I’m not much of a dog killer, even if it was a sacrifice in your honor—besides, I don’t have any dog recipes…not like I do lamb.
Anyway, thats not why I’m writing.

I need your opinion on something.

What’s a safe level of lazy before registering on your sloth-o-meter?
My TIVO’s on the fritz, and I don’t see me getting enough spare coinage to get a new one before football season starts this August.
So I was thinking.

Would it be wrong of me to get a Foley catheter and an IV stand—so I wouldn’t have to leave the room to go potty… or would you consider this too lazy?
I only plan on using Coors Banquet beer, and not those unholy light beers if it makes a difference….and, I would actually get up if I had to grease off a big heater. (tortilla chips and bean dip do that to me)
Now that would really be a sin—to just sit there and shit your pants during a major scoring drive with only a few minutes left…now that’s just plain lazy!

Please give me a sign if you approve, and quickly if you don’t mind, as it will likely take some time to find a disgruntled hospital worker—one who I can talk into stealing this stuff before pre-season gets underway.

3-34-hut-hut,

Diego J Serrano

Unholy acts Pt 4: The serpent and the 2-iron

God-

Here’s a question for you.
I almost step on a rattler as I’m searching for my errant golf ball.
The snake however isn’t the serpent kind like back in the day—you know, like the ones who “talked” to people.
This one, rather, just sat there coiled, as if ready to strike.
I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping, or just plain wasn’t going to warn me, but either way, he was in the wrong.