Brewster's Millions

Oftentimes professional athletes, coaches, celebrities, and radio personalities end up saying things they regret and are forced to make a public apology. Among these groups, athletes are usually the most frequent offenders, and almost always end up on TV a few days later with their tail between their legs asking for forgiveness and saying that they didn’t mean any ill will.

Usually these statements are issued because a) they realize they are going to lose tons of money when fans stop buying their merchandise, b) they realize they are going to lose tons of money when the league fines them, and c) they realize how much money they’ll lose when they’re suspended for a few games. I can pretty much guarantee that 99% of all public apologies from professional athletes are insincere, entirely forced, and devoid of compunction. I can also guarantee that one particular player will not be making any such apologies nor will he be facing any form of punishment, monetary or otherwise.

For years players have apologized for getting into fights, corking bats, saying they hate gays, for making obscene gestures to fans, and for taking steroids. Enter the biggest racist jackass of professional sports, Gary Sheffield. In an interview with GQ magazine, the Detroit Tigers slugger claimed that Latin players have replaced Blacks as baseball’s most prevalent minority because they are easier to control.

“I called it years ago. What I called is that you’re going to see more black faces, but there ain’t no English going to be coming out . . .[It’s about] being able to tell Latin players what to do – being able to control them, “he told the magazine.

Where I’m from, you can’t control us. You might get a guy to do it that way for a while because he wants to benefit, but in the end, he is going to go back to being who he is. And that’s a person that you’re going to talk to with respect, you’re going to talk to like a man.

These are the things my race demands. So, if you’re equally good as this Latin player, guess who’s going to get sent home?

Wow! I am absolutely repulsed and disgusted. Basically what he’s trying to say is that Latin players are grateful, professional, hardworking people who can follow directions while blacks are insubordinate, selfish, thugs who demand things they can’t define, or give in return. Thank you for setting me straight buddy. I totally respect you now.

The reason there are more Hispanics in baseball is the same reason that most rappers are black, or that soccer is dominated by Latinos, because it’s a part of our culture, you half twitted cock wart. What difference is there between the black kid and the Hispanic kid using what they’ve been exposed to as a means of exiting the city projects, or the slums of their underdeveloped country? What are his theories for why there aren’t more Hispanics in the NBA, NFL, or even in hockey? I’ll tell you, most Latinos aren’t tall, most Spanish speaking countries cannot afford all of the equipment necessary for football, and news flash you diseased rhinoceros pizzle. . . . .we don’t like the fucking cold.

Another thing that pisses me off, is that this isn’t the first time Sheffield has said this bigoted bullshit and walked away unscathed. If a white player said some ignorant shit like this, there’d be a lynching party for sure. And Gary would be the first in line with the rope. Well, right behind Al Sharpton anyway.

The Sound of Music

Last night I met up with some friends at a local bar that was having karaoke night. No, I did not go there to sing, but I did go because the entertainment was free and one of the bartenders is also a client of mine. So, I get a few drinks here and there for free. I’m sure that violates some sort of secret ethical massage code, but judging by some of the singing that went on in that place, my transgressions were minuscule in comparison.
Apparently, alcohol makes people think they are Whitney Houston, or that they've met you before. (I spent a good 40 minutes of my night trying to convince this chick from El Salvador, that she didn't know me.)

The highlight of the evening (besides when this one guy who looked like Jesus sang "Pour some sugar on me") was when some skinny kid stepped on stage, acting goofy and sang, “Suck on my chocolate salty balls”. I literally laughed my ass off. He gyrated, danced, and even did quite a bit of testicular manipulation while on stage. It was very unexpected and to be completely honest, it made the time I spent in that shit hole collecting cancerous tar on my lungs actually worth while.
I knew right then, that not only was this to be my new theme song, but I might even be stepping on stage myself sometime soon.

I mean……


that kid obviously needs a partner.

Dead Poet's Society

I was on the toilet yesterday, as I often am (damn protein shakes), and since I was devoid of reading material, I was forced to scan the shiny interior of my aluminum confinement to pass the time. I found nothing out of the ordinary really. A chrome coat hanger on the back of the squeaky door, a barf bar (as I like to call them), to my left, a toilet paper dispenser, but when my eyes reached the right panel, I immediately knew that I was in for a treat.

On this day, I did not find the more common, and unthoughtful “Mike was here” cliché carved into the metal, or a phone number written with a sharpie in case I want a good time. There was no innocuous juvenile scribbling, or even some good old fashion graffiti. No, no, no. I knew that I wouldn’t be let down by public bathroom’s finest literary authors. The artwork upon which my gaze did fall, was nothing less than a quaint restroom poem. Oh how exciting, I thought, a fellow poet. (If enough of you show interest, I will gladly post some.) This particular poem read as follows:


Here I sit with a completely broken heart,
For 2 days I tried to shit, but alas, could only fart.
Now, I hang my head in defeat and shame,
While my poor ass lights the bathroom aflame.
So, upon this porcelain pot I stoop,
In the hopes that one day I’ll finally poop.

Wun Hung Low


An enthusiastic passerby retorted:

One hung low in your Momma’s mouth bitch!

Ah yes........... that’s more like it.

StripTease

Howdy Y’all. I hadn’t put anything up the past couple of days, because I was in the Lone Star State, attending my cousin Big M's wedding over the weekend. It was held at an absolutely gorgeous garden-like venue overlooking a glistening lake, embedded in the rolling green hills. We were surrounded by a plethora of flowers and various plant life that swayed in the afternoon’s breeze with Sade’s voice in the background.

It was certainly a little different than most weddings I’ve attended, as everyone was casually dressed, and we were sitting outside melting under the sun’s unrelenting glare. I didn’t know it was being held outside (or that is was casual). So, I was wearing a tan suit with a black shirt and was so hot that I felt like a human tiki torch. Thankfully the actual length of the ceremony was shorter than in the bud light commercial with the auctioneer for a preacher. I never thought I’d be so happy that two people weren’t religious, or that I had forgotten to wear underwear.

For the weekend’s festivities we rented two huge houses on a huge resort, next to a huge lake(apparently everything in Texas is huge), to accommodate my astronomically large family. We had a complimentary golf cart to shuttle people between the two locations since they were a little over a mile apart. I like golf carts, but as I discovered, you should never drive them naked after 15 margaritas.

I love when the family gets together. For Hispanics this means tons of sinfully delicious food, good music, dancing, games, and stories. And of course, with so many cousins, nieces, and nephews around, this inevitably creates the perfect blueprint for my many pranks, or for someone losing an eye. This time nobody lost body parts, but one sister cut so many jalapenos that she did have to ice her fingers for 6 hours. [sniff, sniff]

We attended a BBQ on Thursday night and the party rehearsal dinner was on Friday night. It was a typical family reunion, with the elders telling stories and me trying to find out how many fajitas I could eat before exploding. I also drank so much sangria that I was running around slapping everyone on the ass saying, “good game!”

One of my cousins, who’s notorious for hooking up with beautiful women, even though he still lives with his mom, decided to go for broke and bring a stripper to the wedding who has a five year old son (and a peculiar belly rash). Now, I definitely don’t have anything against stripper moms, (God knows that my uncle Jerry is a wonderful mom), but this particular girl was definitely not the pick of the litter. I’m not even concerned with the fact that she got beat with an ugly stick. What’s entirely worse is that she is as crass and as unrefined as people get. At one point, she dipped some chips into the ENTIRE bowl of salsa, leaning her head over it as she ate, while little chunks of food fell from her mouth (she was gracious enough to put her other hand under her chin). I watched in horror as she desecrated my Aunt's holy salsa. Afterwards, she scratched her belly and I half expected her to lift her leg and let out a resounding fart (as I had a few moments earlier).

I suppose every one’s lucky streak runs out eventually, although I think my cousin might be under some weird stripper spell (or he could just be hypnotized by her gigantic breasts). Either way, he’s in for the long haul, because he decided to make a DNA deposit and now they’re going to have little stripper babies. I’m not a big fan of polluting the gene pool, but I suppose it’s better than getting syphilis.

Mystic Pizza

So, I stumbled upon this awesome pizza joint a few weeks ago, and now I visit the place like it were giving away free speakers full of crack. It’s called Big Bite, (I originally thought it was a strip joint) and let me tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten better pizza. The ingredients are fresh and hearty. The crust isn’t too soft or too crispy, it’s not too oily, or gush out tomato paste when you bite into it. You can eat it regular style, or fold it in half for more efficient consumption and quite frankly, the slices are . . . .well . . . .BIG!

I don’t think words can do justice to just how heavenly this pizza really is. When biting into a hot slice your eyes slowly roll into the back of your head while a thick string of cheese stretches and fights to stay together. As you chew, a smorgasbord of tastes explode in your mouth in perfect, juicy symphony. Your taste buds receive the bursting cornucopia of flavor and transmit electrical impulses to your brain, describing in explicit detail, every magnificent sensation. A frosty beverage meets your lips and cools your mouth as it washes the remnants of tasty pizza down to your waiting stomach. The wind blows through your hair, goosebumps decorate your skin, and fireworks illuminate the sky. I think I need to change my underwear.

Damn good pizza I say. Damn good.

Weekend at Bernie's

Wow, what an exciting weekend! Lots of really wonderful things happened. It was Cinco de Mayo, the Yankees signed The Rocket, expensive horses ran in circles, De La Hoya and Mayweather fought, Spider Man 3 debuted, 18,000 Mexicans got naked for a picture, and it was my birthday (unfortunately their weren’t that many naked people, but I did manage to grab a few asses).

All in all, I must honestly say it was one of the best birthday celebrations I’ve ever had. I think it even trounces the pool party when I turned seven and infamously ended up having to get seven stitches over my right eyelid. I learned that day what it feels like to get strapped to a giant surf board with a neck brace while a doctor tries to suture a wound that you passionately feel doesn’t need any medical attention, regardless of the 2 pints of blood you’ve already decorated the shiny hospital floors with being carried to the O.R. while screaming bloody murder.

I even got some wonderful gifts too. My favorite cologne, some great movies, tickets to a comedy club, money, and enough gift cards to forget what cash looks like for a while. I’m extremely indecisive though, so I usually don’t like to receive gift cards. I’ll end up going to a store and spending insanely amounts of time trying to decide between two different ipod alarm clocks or two pairs of shoes. I hate feeling like I didn’t get a good deal, because what usually happens is I’ll end up talking to someone who stumbled upon a magnificent sale, which included surround sound speakers and blow job. I’ll curse the heavens, write morbid poetry, and fall into a deep depression for failing to find out where this deal was being offered, because everyone knows how much men love a good . . . . .


set of surround sound speakers.

Flash Dance

People often ask me if I ever get hit on, the answer is yes (well c’mon I’m brown). It’s just that women possess more couth than men and are usually much more subtle with their flirtations. I suppose it would be a little difficult to ignore an erection tenting towards the sky though. (They actually train you for those situations in school.) I haven’t had anyone wave a penis at me like a Louisville Slugger yet, but I hear it happens.

Believe it or not, sprouting wood is an absolutely normal reaction to a massage (I have one every ten minutes), so you can’t automatically assume that you’re being propositioned for sex. The ones you have to worry about are the ones who start writhing around and moaning excessively, or purposefully trying to rub against you. Then there are the more straight forward types who just come right out and ask you (you have to applaud their balls, I...uh... mean, bravery). Now, I work in an upscale spa, so people don’t try shit like that, but we did have this one guy that none of the girls ever wanted to “deal” with. He didn’t speak English (how convenient), and during the massage he would somehow manage to expose himself. After his first offense, the girls just thought it was a harmless accident (clients do expose themselves from time to time, but I’ll get more into that in a sec). After his third game of “peek-a-boo”, nobody thought it was funny, and he was asked not to come back. Dumbass.

I do have this one client who’s an absolute riot. She’s one of the few who’ll talk most of the massage, but she’s so entertaining that I don’t mind. The really funny thing is that she’s a criminal defense lawyer, so she has all these hilarious stories about how she will straight up tell her clients that they’re going to jail, then go out and have a few drinks. The only thing is…… she’s a flasher. The first time it happened, it was no big deal. Like I said before it happens on occasion, but let me be absolutely clear, it's NEVER a therapist error. With her, I'm just not so sure it's happenstance anymore.

Well, miss flasher is extremely well endowed, which is already difficult to deal with. She loves to help herself when it comes to changing positions, never waiting for my assistance, and often flashing a nipple (kind of like how mobsters nonchalantly open the side of their suit jackets to show their gun, as if to say try me). She also gets up on her elbows when prone (facing down), to ask me a question revealing her large, chocolate . . . ahem . . . (I guess I shouldn’t tell her I’m an ass man huh?) Anyway, knowing her, she’s probably just toying with me, or it is totally possible that she’s just really ditzy and can’t follow directions. For as well as she tips, I’ll just pretend the latter.

I’ve had other incidences of brief displays of nudity, usually from foreigners. I’ve come into the room after explaining precisely what to do, only to find the client buck nekkid lying on top of the sheets. Personally, I think the opposite is funnier. I’ve had a few people lying on top of the blanket in full bra and panties, and I’ve even had a couple of knuckleheads get under the sheets wearing the fucking robe. People never cease to amaze me.