Money Pit

So, I’m having my bathroom renovated right now, and frankly my house looks like Martha Stewart and Snoop Dog had a crack party over the weekend.

I hired this guy, (a referral from a friend) who is well known in the area for timely and trustworthy work. I’ve purchased all the materials and he is only charging me for the labor. Anyway, I went out of town this past weekend and he assured me that upon my return, I’d have a fully functioning bathroom and that he’d put the finishing touches (tile and paint) throughout the rest of week. Well, when I arrived home on Sunday afternoon, not only was the bathroom not functioning, but homeboy made the house look like Hurricane Katrina paid a visit. Apparently there were a couple of snags. One which involved breaking my beautiful, very detailed, very expensive, hand carved dragon in the next room and the other which turned my carpet into a murder scene. To his credit, the bathroom does looks beautiful I just can’t shower in it yet. It’s kind of like dating a supermodel that you can’t have sex with.

Yesterday, I had to go to the gym at the booty crack of dawn just to take a shower. Today, I was able to use the bath tub, but still not the shower, which is as helpful to me as having two left thumbs. I hadn’t taken a bath since I had floaties and crayons. Bath tubs are nice and all when you have those spacious Jacuzzi tubs. Mine however, is of the standard variety and I, by the way, am a tall ass man. As a matter of fact, my shower head protrudes from the wall just a few inches from the ceiling for cranial clearance. Most people’s shower head hits me in the fucking neck and I have to do the mambo to wash my hair. A tall guy in a little tub, sort of looks like a Great Dane in the kitchen sink. Not to mention, the whole concept of swimming in the nastiness you’ve already washed off doesn’t seem very appeasing to me unless there are bubbles and champagne involved (two things I’ve sworn off before work).

Captain Jack is supposed to be over today to remedy the shower situation. Let’s hope everything runs smoothly or he’ll be swimming with the fishes.

The Replacements

Last night I was hoopn’ it up a local church (J.C. loves basketball) that I play at a couple of nights a week. There wasn’t as large a turn out as usual, and I also found out that my buddy who runs the program, a six foot four Canadian Preacher (yes God does work in mysterious ways) had torn his ACL and will have surgery in a few weeks. Now, I can only imagine what unbearable pain that must be . . . . . . . but surely he’s come to terms with being Canadian by now. Hehehehehe . . . . I’m just kiddin’. He did say that he hurt himself playing ball and when it happened, it felt like someone had stabbed him in the knee with a hot poker. Carajo. I assured him that it wouldn’t affect him getting lap dances when we go out for beers next weekend.

Usually we ball for at least two and a half hours, but as the night went on, our numbers dwindled down until we didn’t have enough for five on five anymore. So, my boy lil Tim suggested we hit a local pick up game at another church down the street. He said he had some peeps that played there and lucky for us, they were still balln’. My excitement to continue playing that night quickly dwindled as we approached the court and I noticed that just about everyone there was a good ‘ol boy.

Now, it’s already been established that I am not a racist. . . . . I despise everyone equally. Well . . . okay. . . .stupid people definitely get the brunt of my wrath, but besides that, my desire to relentlessly choke people to death and feed them to sharks is just about evenly distributed among every body else. However, those of you who’ve ever played basketball with a bunch of rednecks knows that their form of basketball, is more like football without pads. I’m not totally unfamiliar with violently bashing someone’s head against the ground in a mindless rampage for sport, but when I want to play football . . . I play football. It was too late to leave though, we were recruited on the spot.

As what usually happens at events like these, guys feel as though they need to establish dominance. They must have thought because I wasn’t one of them, (or as big) that they were going to walk all over me. Little did they know, I can play rough with the best of them. And as usual, in these types of situations, when you start whoopin’ ass and making a whole bunch of people look stupid, tensions start to rise. The shoving became more intense, the fouls became a little more flagrant, and the trash talking was at an all time high.

To sum up a long story, my shirt got ripped in half and I almost had to hand out a beat down in a church. Let me repeat that one more time. The guy that had the unfortunate job of having to guard me all night, wanted to fight me, in church, because when I made the third game winning shot in his face, I told him to go home. That’s right, I made the bucket in his eye, and I said, “GO HOME”. Just as I had done a hundred times before, on a hundred different courts, against a hundred more difficult opponents. Apparently he didn’t appreciate looking foolish. So, he tried to step to me. It took every ounce of my being not to deliver a sharp blow to his temple with my elbow then proceed to beat his ass with my Jordans, but I thought better of it and walked away. I paid a lot of money for those shoes, and besides, who in their right mind gets into fisticuffs in church?

I seriously don’t think I had ever been more tempted in my life. Except for that one Halloween party when I made out with both Catwoman and slutty Snow White at the same time. We all know how that ended. And my friends laughed when I said I wanted to go as the Trojan on the box of condoms.

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.