Wednesday, October 6, 2010

F’ing Juvie

So I’m F’ing back. I don’t think that we need to go through any kind of pretend apology from me or anything – I seriously don’t give an F’ing shit about you losers complaining about me not posting. Here’s what I do between my posts – I K up douchers with my first round talent, fingerblast skanks with no future and convince them to do some seriously F’ing freaky Redtube shit that will scar them emotionally for the rest of their lives, and dip four pouches of Skoal at once because I’m an F’ing badass. Here’s what you whiny douchers do between posts – cry because I won’t be your F’ing friend, not kiss girls, get stuck reading Club Trillion, and use over $100 worth of Proactiv in the hopes that you won’t have to kill yourself from ugliness and acne. Pretty much, Gusalina has an F’ing life and doesn’t care that all you douchers’ lives suck when I don’t post about how awesome I am.

When I last gave you queers a glimpse of my first round life, I was getting sentenced to juvie for 1) being popular and drinking before I was 21, 2) kicking the shit out of multiple pussy cops, 3) refusing to compromise my swagger by taking out my dip in court, and 4) leaving my three-fingered autograph inside the judge’s daughter a few months earlier, but never calling her again because the day Gusalina gets tied down to one skank will be the day it’s F’ing Opposite Day.

After my sentence got handed down, I pretty much had to go straight to juvie. Since this would be my last chance to see Judge Wilson, I figured I’d get in a few more parting shots on my way out. As he was calling the next case to the stand, I kind-of-quietly-but-still-loud-enough-for-him-to-hear said under my breath “with an F’ing great father figure like you, no wonder your daughter fueled from the Gusaline Pump the first time we hung out.” When he said “Excuse me?” I said “You’re excused, doucher” and then gave him the SuFi. Then a moment of brilliance hit me, and I added my index finger to the SuFi and said “Actually, your daughter preferred three” while the bailiff led me out of the court before he could in a comeback. Gusalina - 92, Doucher Judge Wilson – Negative Gay.

So from court I had to get on the bus to take me to F’ing Scioto for all my juvie processing. It was seriously the worst F’ing ride of my life. I’m used to riding in buses a lot, because I’m always traveling for baseball given my first round talent, but none of my baseball trips ever required me to be so helpless around such F’ing losers. First, the entire bus was full of F’ing white trash kids who got arrested for stealing Sudafed for their mom’s meth lab or trying to get a BJ from their younger sister or something. And if the kids weren’t white trash, they were F’ing Mexicans who apparently never understood the F’ing translation from Spanish to English that Grand Theft Auto is only legal in video games, and not when they try and hotwire an ‘86 Chevy Corsica so their family of 14 can cruise around town. Seriously, an ‘86 Corsica? Dream F’ing big.

Besides being the only person on the bus that was keeping God from doing some serious natural selection by wrecking it and killing everybody on board, I was also not allowed to have an iPod, so I couldn’t team up with Chad Kroeger and zone out for the 2 hour ride. With no music allowed, I tried to close my eyes and fall asleep, which was a serious F’ing mistake, because when I closed my eyes my lack of sense of sight enhanced my other 5 senses (yeah I have 6 F’ing senses – sight, smell, taste, touch, hearing, and strikeout. I was born with it, sorry douchers.) and my nose was immediately filled with the collective smell of every unshowered failure on board with me. I seriously F’ing gagged. I guess I’m kind of lucky though, because there were no black people on the bus. If I had smelled cocoa butter I would have hurled all over the bus like I was one of those pussies from the Sandlot taking their first dip.

So I had to sit there the entire bus ride, stewing that any of this was happening, just getting ready to deliver a 92mph fistball to the temple of the first person who tries to share a cell with me when we got there. Finally, the bus pulled up to the juvie facility and we all got off to get checked in.

We got led down a hallway and there were these guards ready to search us for drugs and weapons. This guard asked me if I had any weapons on me, and I said “yeah, this one,” shook my pitching arm at him and said “but I don’t think you’ll be able to confiscate it, doucher.” I noticed a second guard wearing latex gloves and I’d narced on enough sketchy-looking Arabs at the airport to know what that meant. I needed to nip this situation in the F’ing bud right away, so I looked at the guard and said “I don’t even wear condoms, so if you and those F’ing gloves get anywhere near me trying to do the cavity search you plan on doing, I’ll end your F’ing life. I bet you don’t even need to do a cavity search, you just want to do it you homo doucher.” Luckily for him, he wisened up and walked away before he did something he’d regret for the rest of his life.

After that was over, we went down to a new room, where we were given the clothes we were required to wear everyday. Since there was no F’ing way I was going to look like a doucher in the beige t-shirt and pants that they gave us, I decided to modify it AKA make it F’ing x-treme and worthy of Gusalina to put on his body. The first thing I did was rip off the sleeves. I don’t do shoulder presses for nothing, so by ripping off my sleeves, all the other kids would see my F’ing jacked shoulders and know I’m a serious F’ing badass. The next thing I did was steal a Sharpie from a guard when they weren’t looking and write FIRST ROUND on the front of the shirt, and GUSALINA on the back with a giant 4 so it looked like it was a jersey. It still wasn’t looking badass enough, so I freehanded an Ed Hardy-style tiger on the front to let everyone know I’m popular and get a ton of F’ing ass on the outside. I didn’t do anything too F’ing x-treme with my pants, I just took the Sharpie and made a big mark about 2 inches above my knee so everybody would know just how far the F’ing Gusaline Pump hangs down.

Once I was changed into my uniform, I got led to where my cell was. It turns out that those pussy doucher cops who couldn’t take me in a fight called the juvie officers and told them that I was a threat to everyone’s safety and that I required a cell in the tighter security section of the prison. On the one hand, yeah, they’re right, because I dropped their asses while I was drunk and not even trying really hard, but on the other hand, seriously, what are those douchers thinking? You got your asses beaten by a first rounder, do you really want to keep messing with him now and feel his wrath when he gets out? No wonder you F’ing losers ended up being Ottoville cops with nothing good in your lives.

The more I thought about it, the better the maximum-security sounded, though. I would get to be in solitary confinement, which meant that I wouldn’t have to be stuck in a cell having to deal with the daily annoyances of some Mexican praying to the Virgin Mary or some white trash loser trying and failing to learn basic Algebra because he wanted to pass his GED when he was in. Instead, I would get to sit in my cell by myself every day, do an F’ing shit ton of pushups and get jacked, listen to the iPod that Wayne would sneak me in, and try to make as many F’ing weapons as I could so when I got caught the guards would get fired for being so F’ing shitty at their jobs. So imagine how F’ing pissed I was to discover that maximum security didn’t also mean solitary confinement and that I was going to have a cellmate.

As the cell opened, I immediately ball-tapped the kid in the cell with me, and said “don’t even F’ing look at me, doucher.” This setting of the tone was really not necessary, as I would later find out, because Chris, my cellmate, was easily the biggest F’ing pansy I’d ever met in my entire life. That I doubled that timid doucher over in testicular pain was only an added bonus. Despite my best efforts to let him know that I thought he was even gayer than Elton John and whoever that really gay-looking soccer player is smashing dongs together, he proceeded to tell me his entire F’ing life story like I was his best friend.

He was a sophomore in high school, and he was from some town about 45 minutes away that I didn’t bother to listen to the actual name of, and he was in juvie for stealing a cantaloupe. Yeah, that’s right, an F’ing cantaloupe. It turns out that this lonely doucher worked at a K-Mart that was in the same strip center as a grocery store. During his break, Chris went into the grocery store, and instead of dealing with the awkward questions as to why he would be buying only a cantaloupe, he decided to just steal it. Then he took the F’ing thing back to K-Mart, cut a hole in it, F’ing MICROWAVED IT, and then proceeded to do the most F’ing pathetic thing I’ve ever heard anyone do (and I’ve heard the things Pritchard’s dad does to afford Christmas presents). This F’ing doucher decided to start humping his warm cantaloupe while watching the F’ing Disney Channel in the break room! And to make it even better, he got caught doing it!

After laughing uncontrollably for no less than 75 straight minutes, I finally heard the rest of the story – he got fired on the spot, he was an F’ing moron and said he stole the cantaloupe when his manager asked him where he got it, and get got sentenced to 6 months in juvie because the people in his county don’t take kindly to fruit sodomy. Honestly, after hearing this, I was F’ing glad I was in juvie, because my life was better now that I’d heard about the dumb shit this doucher had done.

Still, it wasn’t very clear on one thing – why was this doucher in maximum security? Was there an F’ing kitchen with a fruit basket that is easily accessed in the normal cells or something? His answer would please me to no end. “They put me in here because all the other kids make fun of me too much and they want to protect me.” Clearly, he would be getting no mercy from me, as the rest of the time we were together I would call him “Cantaloser” “Melon Banger” and “The Virgin Who Put His Dong in Fruit”, among other degrading nicknames, as well as never passing up an opportunity to say something like “Hey, does that count as oral?” when he would eat the fruit that came with our meals. If we were allowed to have shoes with shoelaces, Rind Grinder would have definitely tried to hang himself from the emotional abuse I dished out.

After hearing the criminal exploits of a kid who’s so dumb that he tried getting off (while inside microwaved fruit) to a girl on the Disney channel that wasn’t Hannah Montana or that fine-ass Mexican one, it was time to go down to the common area for some of my only allowed time of the day.

At first they told me I was only going to get a half hour every day before I had to go back to the maximum security area, but I told those douchers hell F’ing no, because that didn’t give me nearly enough time to both throw a bullpen session and max out in the bench, so I’d be taking as long as I F’ing needed.

Anyways, as I made my way to where all the other juvie prisoners were located, I knew this was going to be my only chance to make a first impression. Eyes were already starting to turn and focus on me, because a) I was dressed like an F’ing badass x-treme 2damaxxx, and b) my heavily front-weighted Gusaline Pump and natural charisma cause my walk to be much different than most of the losers you encounter in life, so yeah, people turn and look when I walk into a room.

I scanned my surroundings to gauge who I’d be dealing with. I’d seen enough prison movies to know that if I was to exert my dominance over these douchers on day one, I’d need to take out the toughest guy there. Then nobody would try to mess with me, instead they’d all steal dip and porno magazines for me in order to try and win my favor (yeah right douchers, Gusalina’s a lone wolf).

A quick glance showed that most of the large common room was split up into different ethnic groups for the most part. All the Gaysian douchers there posed no threat, as their size and general faggy demeanor showed they were probably in here for hacking computers to get more Starcraft points or something of similar non-badass nature. Besides, if they knew how to fight, it would be karate, and if you’ve ever seen any UFC (and I’ve seen a shit ton of UFC because Wayne steals pay-per-view and we get drunk and watch them), you know that karate douchers either get knocked out or tap out, so yeah, I don’t think I needed to worry about the Gaysians.

All the Mexicans in there were just like the Latinos I face in summer AAU ball – they can’t hit a curveball, and they sure as shit wouldn’t be able to hit Gusalina. So there wasn’t a lot of worrying that they would be able to go Oscar de la Hoya on me if I tried to throw down. The white trash kids weren’t any better. I’d given Pritchard more than enough dead arms in my day to know that white trash douchers suck at fighting and are total pussies. I kind of didn’t want to start anything with one of them though. I mean, sure, I would have beat that ass, and there was no chance of me losing the fight, but white trash kids can take a beating. Most of them have years of practice from their alcoholic dads taking their shortcomings out on them via belt and closed fist, so the fight would have gone unnecessarily long due to their tolerance for pain. Gusalina wasn’t trying to have that.

That left only one group of people left – the F’ing black kids. I’m from Ottoville, and we don’t have any black kids (which probably explains why the cops are never busy enough to not get up in Wayne’s shit). Still, I’ve seen enough of them during summer ball to know that the majority of them are just total pussies who are trying to act hard. Seriously, from the first point of seeing them in juvie it was like 95% of them were trying to be Lil’ Wayne or some other lame ass rapper who goes to jail for a pussy charge like marijuana. Gusalina had a news flash for these douchers – he was about to turn into Weezy F’ing Baby and give them real teardrop tattoos when he delivered 92mph fistballs and made them all cry.

In the crowd there was one really big guy, and you could tell everybody thought he was the shit. He probably benched over 225, but seriously, big F’ing deal. I would have been able to do the same thing had I been in juvie for the last 3 years, being able to bench press twice a day and not having to deal with my nagging mom Donna all the F’ing time. Anyways, I decided right then and there I was going to drop this dude’s ass so everybody would see how F’ing x-treme Gusalina is.

I walked through the room, ignoring the jealous glances I was getting from everybody who could see how big the Gusaline Pump was (especially the Gaysians), and walked right up to the guy. He was talking with friends, but I wasn’t about to sit there and listen to their stupid argument about LeBron vs. Kobe, so I sent a 92mph fistball right into his temple without him looking. I don’t know if you read that, but I throw 92mph (with movement), so yeah, he hit the ground pretty much immediately. From there, I summoned my inner Brock Lesnar and dropped some serious F’ing hammer fists on the doucher’s skull until the guards ran from across the room to take me away.

As they were dragging me away, I looked at all the terrified faces, shouted out “There’s a new ace in town!” and then broke one of my arms free from the guard’s grip and gave everybody the SuFi as they brought me back to the maximum security area. So yeah, after that, nobody gave Gusalina any kind of shit.

From then on, I spent pretty much all the time I was allowed out of maximum security working out and getting F’ing swole. Every single day I was out there, doing things that were going to make me K up any doucher who dared challenge me. Bench press, biceps, triceps…you should have seen all the other kids there in F’ing awe of Gusalina’s natural strength and power. The glances got me a little F’ing worried, though. If they were looking at me like this now, imagine how they were going to react once they saw that combined with the Gusaline Pump in the showers. So I started to do some MMA training on top of the baseball training, just to make sure I would be able to protect myself. The losers in juvie are desperate, and I look good as F’ing shit, so yeah, they were probably going to try and rape me (and get their F’ing ass beat).

Between the serious tonnage I was putting up on my upper body and the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu I was doing, you would think I didn’t have time for actual baseball work. Well, that’s why I’m going first round and you’re an F’ing moron, because I did. Every day I made it a point to throw a bullpen session, because you never knew when a scout was going to stop by, and because everybody else seeing me throw 92 with movement was just another reminder that I could and would wreck their shit at a moment’s notice.

I wasn’t about to use one of the gloves that juvie provided, so I made Pritchard pay for Wayne to drive up so he could deliver me my personalized glove, some good F’ing baseballs, a couple Phitens, and other cool shit (more on this later). Now that I was geared out, I was ready to unleash death by velocity all over that prison yard.

Wayne was kind of F’ing busy and couldn’t come be my bullpen catcher everyday, so I made Cuntalope come catch for me. Since he got arrested for having sex with fruit, it should go without saying that he’s not good at sports and had never played baseball before in his life. He was a total puss, flinching every time I threw the ball at him. He even got hit by like half of the balls. It didn’t matter though, Gusalina was getting in some serious pitchwork.

One day, I was lighting into Fruitcock especially mean, because he was a terrible F’ing catcher. I said that if I wasn’t so F’ing naturally talented that his shittiness would be stunting my development, and that maybe he should just pretend like the baseball coming at him is a warm awful-tasting piece of fruit and he might be able to catch it better. I ended by telling him that he was truly the worst athlete I’d ever known (including F’ing Pritchard) and that I would give anything for a new bullpen catcher. It was at that time I saw the warden walking towards me.

Before he could even get a word out, I defended myself, saying “He put his dick in a cantaloupe, how do you expect me to not make fun of him for that?” The warden laughed, and said “it is pretty gay, isn’t it? That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about though. Why don’t you come on into my office, I have a proposal for you.” After repeatedly telling him that I’d been doing MMA all day, and that if he tried to touch my Gusaline Pump that I’d F’ing end him, I went inside with him, and the rest of my time at juvie changed completely.

Since the warden wasn’t trying to talk to me about making fun of the Fruit Banger, I thought I was about to get in deep F’ing shit for having my collection of shivs discovered in our cell or something. I immediately started prepping a story about how it they belonged to Melon Cock, but the meeting wasn’t about that. As it turned out, the warden was seriously F’ing impressed with my baseball skills, which should come as no surprise because I’m going first round and he spends every day surrounded by a bunch of no-talent douchers whose only skills in life are being poor members of society. He was so impressed that he wanted me to give his 16 year old son pitching lessons. He said that his son was a really good baseball player, and that all he needed was a little extra coaching to take his skills over the top.

I should have told him right then and there that you can’t teach the natural Hall of Fame skills that I have, but again, I’ve seen enough prison movies to know that you can use situations like this to your advantage. Instead, I told him that if I was going to coach the son, I wanted to be excused from cleaning and all that other bullshit the rest of the kids in juvie had to do, because it’s an F’ing disgrace that Gusalina should have to risk his first-round status by inhaling too much Wal-Mart brand ammonia mopping floors and shit. I also said that the doucher son has to be my new bullpen catcher, mainly because he had supposedly played baseball before, and to my knowledge he had never raped a piece of fruit. The warden agreed to all these conditions, and we set up the first practice session.

Now, I assumed that the warden was exaggerating about his son’s baseball skills. I’m F’ing used to it by now. “These are C-cups” (Sophomore girl who definitely was an A cup at best), “We’re not that poor” (Kyle Pritchard), “I’m sure I could take the whole Gusaline Pump” (every skank on Myspace ever). So I wasn’t expecting someone who would even be within 10% of my level in terms of baseball talent. Still, you would never believe how F’ing bad this kid was. I’m telling you, he was so bad that he made Kyle Pritchard look like an F’ing All-Star, and the only talent Kyle Pritchard has is staying slightly overweight while living on food stamps. I could not F’ing believe how much this kid sucks, but since I was getting out of doing a bunch of bitch work, I pretended like I was coaching him even though you can’t improve someone who sucks as bad as this kid did.

Eventually I got tired of him looking like a Down’s syndrome kid giving a high five every time he threw a pitch, and made him start catching for me instead. I explained to him that he should just watch and see how pure, perfect-formed 92 with movement looks when it explodes from your hand. This became my go-to coaching drill, because it meant I didn’t have to spend a bunch of extra F’ing time trying and failing to get this doucher to be a coordinated athlete and throw two strikes in a row, let alone three. When his dad came to supervise, I pretty much just half-assed a couple of critiques to the kid and made it look like he was making all these great improvements when in reality he still F’ing blew hardcore.

The more and more lessons I gave, the more I wanted to kill myself for being around someone who was so F’ing terrible yet thought they could be good someday. To make things tolerable, I started adding extra demands to the warden to keep me coaching his son. Since I had him convinced that his son was getting so much better, he was happy to oblige.

My first demand was that he bring me Taco Bell after each pitching lesson. While an XL Baja Blast would be good enough on its own to unwind in juvie, I was able to combine it with the Smirnoff and Gatorade that Wayne snuck in for me (again, more on this later) to make some sick nasty Wayne Blasters and get a solid buzz going, which was F’ing sweet.

Next, I convinced him that his dumbass son wasn’t going to be able to understand what he was doing wrong until he saw it on video, so I made him get us a video camera so we could film every session. I wasn’t about to F’ing sit there and break down video with this doucher, but pretending like I was gave us private access to a computer in his dad’s office. I made the doucher sit outside and stand guard (I told him it was helping develop the ability to follow coach’s instructions, which just sealed the deal for him sucking because if he had any talent he would understand that coaches don’t know shit) while I got on his dad’s laptop to browse YouJizz and watch videos of girls with massive racks get slammed. The Gusaline Pump had definitely accumulated some extra fuel since getting into juvie, and since I wasn’t about to beat off with the Melon Rapist in the room because he’d like it too much, I needed to use the YouJizz instead. When I left the room, I’d look at the kid and say “Baseball Quiz: Do you know who Jayden James is?” and since the kid is a loser who doesn’t even go to the homecoming dances, let alone get dates to them, he obviously answered no. So I replied “That’s why you’ll never be good at baseball, doucher. Learn to get some.” and then I gave him a dead arm in his pitching shoulder.

This charade of me trying to coach this kid continued for awhile, but I grew more and more annoyed that I had to do it as it became closer to my release. For the last two weeks before I got out, I told him that he needed to improve his fielding, which was really just me giving a good enough excuse to hit line drives at him on the pitcher’s mound as hard as I could in the hopes that I would drill him and leave permanent damage. It was, good, however, to have that little doucher as a catcher, because I was throwing serious heat every day in my bullpen sessions. He must have been seriously F’ing depressed after seeing me pump 92 with movement day after day and realizing that he’d never be able to do that himself.

Still, the private coaching allowed me to do pretty much whatever I F’ing wanted to the rest of my time. I had free reign to do anything, because the most they could threaten me with was sending me to the warden, and what was he going to do, make me coach his son more? That just meant I would get more Taco Bell and YouJizz, so it was pretty much rewarding me for being a badass who broke the rules. Case in point was my stance on education in juvie.

Now, anyone who has half an F’ing clue knows that I hate reading anything other than my own newspaper stories. So when they came around with the book cart and I took as many as I was allowed, I’m sure a lot of people thought I was trying to get reformed. F’ING WRONG. I would take each and every book that I got off the cart, and rip all the pages out of them so nobody could read them again. Again, reading is for lame ass Gaysians. I was doing everybody a favor.

There was another time where we all had to listen to some middle-aged lesbian looking lady give us a speech about how we all needed to work toward getting our high school diploma and keep up on our school work and shit. I decided to loudly fake yawn about twice a minute to let the skank know just how boring her speech was, and I even said “Wheeeeennnnn is this going to eeeeeeennnnnndddddd????”  really drawn out so she would hate her F’ing life. She stupidly decided to confront me, telling me to sit down and start doing my school work. I responded by giving her a SuFi. By now, she was half-crying because she was so embarrassed/angry/scared/lonely-in-her-outside-life so she kind of stammered out a “Mr. Trotter, you need to get your diploma!” I wasn’t going to tolerate her bullshit anymore, so I grabbed the Gusaline Pump over my pants, yanked it around a little bit to show I meant business, and said “I’ve got your diploma right here lady!” I followed that with “I’m going first round, I don’t need an F’ing diploma you dumb skank.” It’s pretty hard to get more badass x-treme than that, so yeah, she didn’t nag me about my school work after that.

By now you’re probably saying “Gusalina there’s no way you’d be able to go 3 months without splashing Gusaline Fuel all over some skank,” to which you are absolutely right. First, I need to clarify something. After you spend a month or two seeing a bunch of fat Mexican dongs in the shower, the sight of any girl is good. This is why it should be F’ing understandable as to why I banged out someone of obvious lesser attractiveness than me while I was in juvie. Let me explain.

Every day there was this female guard who escorted me to and from my pitching lesson. She was a drunk 5 at best, and her rack was only okay, but again, after 6 weeks you begin to talk yourself into it. Well, one day I was putting some pine tar on my bat while watching Phoenix Marie get crushed, when the warden’s loser son came in and decided to interrupt like a total doucher. This meant that I didn’t get to finish, and it also meant that the Gusaline Pump had some fuel in it when the female guard was escorting me back to my cell. She was obviously in awe of the Gusaline Pump, so she offered me some assistance. Normally I would laugh, say “yeah F’ing right” and then point out her many physical flaws before calling up a girl from Myspace to take care of the job, but I was trapped with no other options so I decided to go below my standards and settle for a single when I would have normally hit a home run. I’m not going to give you lonely Star Wars fags any details for you to beat off to, but rest assured that Gusalina got his.

Still, above all else, the best times when I was in juvie were when my badass older brother Wayne came to visit. Wayne knew that I was in juvie because I had covered for him and not let him get arrested, so he would not only come see me a lot but he also wouldn’t let our annoying ass mom Donna come visit either so I didn’t have to be bothered by her coming to nag my head off all the time.

Since Pritchard was also partially responsible for me getting arrested, Wayne made him fork over gas money so the Cumaro could make the two hour drive. But Pritchard wasn’t allowed to ocme with Wayne, because Wayne wouldn’t be able to tolerate Pritchard for that long, let alone be able to put up with the permanent smell of white trash and generic laundry detergent that Pritchard would leave behind. Instead, Wayne made the drive by himself, and always made sure to bring essentials.

The first time, he started off basic, just to see what he’d be able to sneak in in the future. He brought me the newest copies of Eastbay and Baseball Express so I’d be able to see the sickest new gear that was coming out.

The next time, he brought me 15 cans of Skoal so I would be able to dip and not lose my F’ing mind after waking up and realizing I was in a cell with a doucher who went balls deep in a piece of fruit. From there Wayne just started sneaking in more and more badass things for me. Sometimes a couple handles of Smirnoff and a gallon or two of Gatorade. Once a Fleshlight that he made Pritchard shoplift from a porn shop. By the time I was giving pitching lessons, I could pretty much have whatever I wanted snuck in and not get in trouble for it. Wayne snuck in some pepper spray and one time when my cellmate was sleeping, I yelled out “CANTALOUPE JUICE!” and sprayed him in the face with it. When the guards came and asked what was going on, I told them that his face was red and he was crying because he was remorseful that he didn’t bone a honeydew instead. They believed me because he was seriously that F’ing pathetic.

Probably the coolest thing Wayne ever did when he came to visit was sneak in a recorder so we could make freestyles about my time on the inside. Wayne would make beats with his mouth, and I would channel all my inner emotions and pain and go all Mike Shinoda on the tracks. Wayne would take the recorder home and load the songs onto my Myspace so all the skanks could stay wet while Gusalina was away.

Eventually, my three months were up and it was time to leave. You should have seen the looks on everybody’s faces there. You could tell that they were sad to see me go since I was so F’ing badass, but at the same time they were relieved because I was no longer going to be around as a threat to cave in their F’ing skull with a fistball for looking at me the wrong way.

My doucher cellmate tried to give me his e-mail address and a bunch of other contact information on this piece of paper, but I threw it away right in front of his face and told him that he was a creepy loser that I would never talk to for the rest of my life, let alone hang out with. He got all teary-eyed so I told him that there was probably a watermelon around here somewhere that wouldn’t be able to say no, and then I walked away.

Unfortunately for me, my escort to the warden’s office was the female guard again, and you could tell that she was really F’ing upset that I was leaving. She tried pulling me into an empty room so she could fuel from the Gusaline Pump one last time, but I pushed her off of me, looked her in the face, and said “Do you understand how much high quality ass a first rounder like me is about to get on the outside? No F’ing way.” Then I told her that she was a busted 30-something year old lady that I only banged so I had something to say during “Never Have I Ever.” She started crying, so I just walked away towards the warden’s office by myself.

I went through all the formalities of the warden asking me if I was ready to change my life and all this bullshit, to which I was honest and said my life was really F’ing awesome and I planned on changing nothing about it. He still signed all the necessary papers and cleared me for release, probably because he still hoped one day his son could have the first round talent that I have. As I was walking out of his office, the warden told me he was going to try and have his son added to my AAU team for the summer. I matter-of-factly told him that his son sucks F’ing dick at baseball, and would never be able to play on JV, let alone the same summer team as a first rounder. This pissed him off but he’d already released me so there was nothing he could do about it.

I walked outside just as Wayne was pulling up. He was blasting Akon’s “Konvict Music” as an audio F.U. to the juvie system. They thought they could keep Gusalina locked up, but now I was out and even more x-treme than ever. Wayne burned out for a second in the parking lot before peeling away. We switched the radio to Limp Bizkit as we went over 100 all the way home. I was F’ing free.

There’s going to be more to come soon, and I’m F’ing serious this time. In the meantime, comment on this F’ing blog and tell all your friends about it so everybody knows just how much of a badass I am and so you don’t seem like a doucher.

Never been on JV, but been in Juvie,
Gusalina #4

Thursday, April 1, 2010

The Reason I Haven't Been Posting (Besides Because I Don't Care About Making You Douchers Happy)

After pretty much thinking about putting a bullet in my brain because all of you douchers decided to pester me for the last year about writing a blog, I’ve finally came back. Well guess what you fags, I was busy. And I’m about to explain it to you.

When you have first round talent, it tends to make you feel invincible. If nobody can touch your 92 mph fastball because of its F’ing sick nasty movement, then it goes without saying that nobody should give you shit outside of the diamond either because you’re an F’ing badass and people should just be lucky to be in your presence. Well, maybe this should be explained to the F’ing losers at the Ottoville Police Department, who decided to be serious cockblocks and had me sent to juvie for three months.

I’ll explain in a little bit about what exactly I did to land in juvie, but for all you math fags who are stammering and crying to prove Gusalina wrong because it’s been longer than three months since I posted last, suck on this – after I got out of juvie, the judge decided to put me on probation. Part of that probation was what the probation officer called a “gag order” on writing on my blog. Since I was also outlawed from having tobacco products in my system, and there was no way in F’ing hell that I was going to stop dipping for another 6 months, I decided to agree to this in the hopes that they wouldn’t try and drug test me a lot (it F’ing worked. That white trash doucher Kyle Pritchard’s piss passed my tests five times. You’d be amazed at the things that loser will do for $10. I guess it’s a good thing that the court wasn’t testing for undiagnosed ADHD and head lice, because if they did they would have totally known that I was using someone else’s urine).

But as of today the gag order no longer applies to me. So to Judge Wilson, who decided to have a power trip and put the gag order on me in the first place – gag on my ballsack. GUS IS BACK.


All of this mess started on my birthday last year. I woke up to Wayne giving me a dead arm and telling me to put on some sweet F’ing clothes cause we were going out. Originally I thought he was giving me a dead arm cause he’s a badass, which is still partially true, but he was also definitely trying to level the playing field, cause we were going to the batting cages. Now, as anybody who’s read this blog before knows, Wayne is easily the greatest hitter that Ottoville has ever seen. The only person who has ever even come close to his stats was my dad, Lyle Trotter, who graduated from Ottoville with every single one the school’s hitting records. Except for triples, because he wasn’t gonna waste his time hustling to third when every single one of his teammates sucked so bad that they couldn’t drive him in. The only time he ever got a triple was to steal home against this doucher catcher who kept telling the pitcher to throw F’ing sinkers so my dad couldn’t take him deep. When my dad blasted one into the corner, he went hard and got to third. The first pitch on the next batter, my dad took off for home. The catcher was an idiot and tried to block the plate, but if you’ve learned anything by now, it’s that Trotters are badasses. My dad railroaded the F’ing shit out of that catcher, who dropped the ball and started crying like a total pussy cause he got hit so hard. After that, every school in the county decided to ban my dad from stealing home cause they feared for their players’ safety, so yeah, he didn’t hit any triples after that.

These records, however, would have been completely F’ing shattered by now if I hadn’t decided to focus on K’ing up douchers who can’t keep up with my fastball. Before I came up with my name, Gusalina, all these loser upperclass douchers tried nicknaming me Trot Diesel, because I looked like such an F’ing beast as I pimped all the homeruns I blasted. Unfortunately for them, I informed them all that Trot Diesel was right up there with Mark “The Shark” Titus in the “gayest nicknames of all F’ing time” category. But nickname notwithstanding, I could F’ing rake from both sides of the plate. So yeah, Wayne was definitely strategizing when he was giving me the dead arms. Besides, he doesn’t really work out for baseball that much anymore. When he goes to the gym now, he does three lifts – bench press, so everyone can see how much of an F’ing beast he still is; bicep curls, so he can get his arms super jacked and look badass in his Affliction shirts (seriously, like every time Wayne goes to the bar, like 2 or 3 skanks mistake him for an MMA fighter. Which he totally could be, but that’s a subject for another time); and leg adducters, which he says help strengthen his hips so he can slam the shit out of the girls he brings back to his house cause they think he’s in Strikeforce. With all that in mind, a dead arm was really Wayne’s only chance.

So we go to the batting cages, and my arm’s feeling a little bit sore, but not too bad. And I start to F’ing dominate. That’s when Wayne threw down the birthday rules – We go ten rounds each in the batting cages, back and forth between the two of us, whoever hits the fewest pitches each round loses and has to take a shot. And at the end of the 10 rounds, we were gonna go go-karting. I won the first two rounds 9-7 and 9-8, so Wayne had to take a shot of Smirnoff for each time he lost. Well, he does this every day anyways to make the F’ing losers he works with tolerable, so yeah, it wasn’t that big of a deal for him. After that, though, he got smoking hot and started crushing the ball, and i got totally F’ing screwed by the pitching machine, which kept giving me pitches that were so far outside of the zone that I wasn’t even going to make an attempt at hitting because the pitches were that F’ing bad. Seriously, even an F’ing machine was scared of Gusalina taking it deep, and tried to intentionally walk me, so yeah, I think I’m a pretty good hitter.

The next 8 rounds went like this – 9-6 (Wayne), 10-7 (Wayne), 10-6 (Wayne), 10-6 (Wayne; I told you he was on F’ing fire), 6-6 (Wayne; he decided to hit from the other side of the plate this time, that’s why he only hit 6. And he made me take a shot cause he said I was a pussy who got beat by a switch hitter); 8-7 (Gus; I finally got some decent F’ing pitches and it showed), 10-7 (Wayne) and 10-4 (Wayne; I was seriously F’ing buzzed at this point). So I had 7 shots and Wayne only had taken 3, but it didn’t matter, because it was time for us to race go-karts.

As we were about to get into the karts for our first race, Wayne noticed that some 10-year old dipshit was in the Tony Stewart kart, so he made the little doucher get into the Jeff Burton cart because a) Jeff Burton’s a pussy, and b) Wayne was at a movie theater once and Tony Stewart was there. Wayne challenged him to Cruisin’ USA and Tony Stewart beat him, so yeah, Tony Stewart’s been his favorite driver ever since. Wayne also thinks Kevin Harvick is a total fag because they armwrestled in a bar once and Wayne kicked his ass. Wayne probably would be in NASCAR by now, but he refuses to race cars with restrictor plates on them, because restrictor plates are for pussies who can’t handle speed.

Wayne gets into his Tony Stewart kart and I’m too buzzed to notice that I ended up in the Jeff Gordon car. I probably would have noticed it if they had made the car true to life and put a pink steering wheel on it. Seriously, Jeff Gordon is the biggest fairy doucher in the entire world. I can’t wait til he asks me for tickets or autographs from me one day so I can tell that doucher he’d better go back to his Mazda Miata before Gusalina beats the gay out of him.

Now, even if I was so drunk that I thought Kyle Pritchard was cool, I would still know the Trotter strategy when it comes to go-karts: wreck everybody else on the track so it becomes Trotter against Trotter for the checkered flag. Seriously, nothing is gayer than when they put the F’ing loser junior high kids up front and they win the race just because the douchers working at the track got cut from the baseball team so they take it out on my racing. The only reason those douchers win is because I get delayed enough at the start that I can’t catch them. Enjoy your tainted victory, douchers, emphasis on the taint.

So Wayne pulls his car up to the front of the line to “ask a question” to the employee. In reality, he didn’t have a question, he just wanted to get to the front of the line. Wayne’s been a certified go-kart tech for years, so yeah, I don’t think he’d need to ask some 17 year old poopdick about how many CCs the ride is putting out. As Wayne was doing this, I started using my kart to repeatedly bump into the doucher in front of me. Every time I hit him, I would say “better get out of my F’ing way or I’ll wipe you out.” Let the record show that I gave him a fair warning in advance.

When the race started, he didn’t comply to my instructions, so I got up on his side, yelled “Dale Earnhardt!” and wrecked the shit out of him into the wall. Not only did he look like an F’ing idiot for not listening to Gusalina’s warnings, but all the money he spent on his race went to waste cause I stalled him out after a quarter of a lap.

Since Wayne started the race at the very front, he took it upon himself to dispatch the other 2 karts in the race. The first kart was the 10-year old doucher who tried to steal Wayne’s Tony Stewart kart. Wayne got up right next to him and just started screaming “STOP! STOP! THERE’S AN EMERGENCY ON THE TRACK!” Since this kid doesn’t even know how to jack off, he was dumb and fell for it and he pulled over as Wayne, and then I, zoomed by him. The last guy on the track came with his girlfriend and was trying to show off for her, so he wasn’t going to go quietly because his butterface girlfriend was cheering him on from the stands. Any other day and this guy might have raced his way into a BJ, but with the Trotters on the track he was F’ing doomed. He probably looked like a total pussy to his girlfriend next to me and Wayne. We were wearing Mechanix gloves and backwards fitted hats, he was wearing some gay ass Aeropostale outfit that I would have cussed out my mom, Donna, if she ever tried to give me. Wayne kept trying to sideswipe this fag but the doucher kept dodging it. All that effort was making him slow down though, and I came up hard charging from the back. With me screaming up from behind him, I yelled “2 FAST!” to get the doucher’s attention, and then Wayne took out his pocketknife and said “2 FURIOUS!” as he stabbed the doucher’s tire and sent him spinning out of control.

This pissed off the kid working the race and he tried to get us to pull over so he could kick us out, but we weren’t having any of it. We still had 3 laps left. I’ll spare you the details of how the race turned out because it’s complete horseshit, but Wayne ended up winning because in my buzzed state I accidentally pressed down on the brake instead of the gas.

After the race was over, the doucher employee tried to go on a power trip and kick us out, but we made him look like a total queer when we told him we were already leaving cause the place was gay. Then I went up and grabbed the ass of the girl employee that the doucher she worked with totally had a crush on, just to piss the guy off. She smiled and i could tell she was seriously considering whether she could fuel up from the Gusaline Pump. Since she was a drunk 5 at best, I definitely wasn’t going to do it, so I told Wayne “let’s go.” But before we had completely walked away, I turned back to the doucher guy and said “she gets wet for first rounders” and gave him a SuFi. Gusalina 92, Doucher working the go-karts 0.

At this point, all the badass things we’d done had made us hungry. There was only one logical place to go to fuel up – Taco Bell. So we go inside and Wayne starts calling all the workers in there “senor,” even the female workers. When they tried to correct him and tell him that they were “senoritas,” Wayne verbally bitch-slapped them with “listen lady, you have an F’ing mustache, you’re a senor.” Wayne is such a badass.

Wayne and I got 10 Cheesy Gordita Crunches between the two of us, and we each got an order of cheesy potatoes, not because we wanted to eat them, but because we wanted to smear them all over the floor to make the Mexican douchers clean up. After we finished our drinks, we decided it would not be a good idea to let this Baja go to waste. We decided to head to the grocery store to get some more Smirnoff because we had killed most of the bottle Wayne brought to the batting cage/go-kart place.

When we got inside the grocery store, the worst F’ing news hit us right in the face – we didn’t have enough money for the Smirnoff. You see, Wayne knew one of the guys working at the batting cages/go-kart place, and he was supposed to hook Wayne up with free everything cause Wayne had helped him put on his snow tires and take them back off after the winter. But the guy was being a total pussy and wouldn’t give Wayne a discount cause his manager was in that day, so Wayne had to pay for all of our batting cage rounds and our go-kart race. And since Wayne had surprised me and woken me up, I didn’t think to steal money out of my mom’s purse before we left.

So this left us in the grocery store with just enough money to buy the lemon-lime Gatorade that we needed for the Wayne Blasters. Since we’re not total F’ing pussies, we weren’t just going to settle for the little amount of Smirnoff we still had left in the other bottle. We decided that we had to do what we had to do – we needed to steal the Smirnoff.

It had gotten cold that night, so before we went into the grocery store, I had put on a hooded sweatshirt I had stolen from Hollister a couple weeks earlier. This made it easier for me than Wayne to hide the Smirnoff. So he went to pay for the Gatorade while I snuck the bottle of Smirnoff into my sweatshirt pocket. Wayne was making chit chat with this F’ing loser he went to high school with while I walked back to the front of the store. I got up to the register right as the loser was telling Wayne he didn’t know whether to join the National Guard or try and become a junior high football coach. I tried to be helpful and say “or option C, you kill yourself because both of those ideas are terrible and you’re a total loser.” This pissed him off and he mumbled something like “who do you think you are?” to which I replied “the guy you’ll pretend to have known on your World of Warcraft message board after I go first round and win the F’ing World Series you doucher” and then I gave him the SuFi.

Wayne realized that I was very F’ing close to beating the shit out of this guy with my 92mph fistball, so he held me back and pulled me by the sweatshirt to the door. He must have pulled the shirt a little too hard, because the doucher saw the neck of the Smirnoff bottle as we were leaving and called the cops on us for shoplifting, which we didn’t know at the time.

After we left the grocery store, we got in the Cumaro and drove back to Wayne’s place. We made a couple of Wayne Blasters and started playing “Through the Fire and the Flames” on Guitar Hero. I don’t mean to brag, but I am seriously the greatest non-Asian Guitar Hero player ever, and definitely the greatest Guitar Hero player who has ever fingerblasted a human female, so yeah, I was F’ing rocking out while Wayne was texting all the skanks he knew to see which ones wanted to come over and give Gusalina a birthday lap dance. Once like 8 of them had said yes, he started playing them against each other to see which one would do the most sexually with me to determine who would be approved to come over.

Between me shredding to DragonForce as loud as the TV would go, and Wayne showing me pics on his phone that girls were sexting to me, we didn’t notice the two F’ing cop cars pull up to Wayne’s house.I wouldn’t have even heard them knock on the door if I hadn’t paused the game to see a video clip Wayne had taken of one of the girls when he banged her.

When we heard the knock, we thought at first that Kyle Pritchard had pulled a total doucher move and called my mom to see where I was, because there’s no way in hell I F’ing tell him where I am unless he’s going to do something for me, and I knew he was too poor to get me a good birthday present, so yeah, I didn’t tell him I was going to Wayne’s.

Since I take nothing but absolute pride when it comes to making Pritchard feel like there is nobody in this world who is a bigger loser than him (with the obvious exception of Billy Hilliard and his sausage tits), I said “who is it?” to the knocker, expecting Pritchard on the other side of the door to say “it’s Kyle, Gus….open up” to which I would have responded “There’s no Gus here” even though my voice is so famous that everybody would have known it was me. So imagine my surprise when instead of “Kyle Pritchard” I heard “Ottoville Police Department.”

At this point we realized that we were F’ing screwed, and that the doucher at the grocery store had narced on us. Wayne was especially screwed because he was already on probation for beating the shit out of some mouthy doucher who wouldn’t pay up after Wayne smoked him with the Cumaro in a street race. If the cops got him, he’d go to jail. At that moment, I knew I had to make a sacrifice. I looked at Wayne, and he knew what was about to happen. When I opened the door for the officers, Wayne bolted, and all hell broke loose.

When the officers saw Wayne take off, they tried to chase after him, but I threw myself into all four of them, and showed them just why my intensity will land me in the Hall of Fame. I stuck one with a fistball in his nutsack, and he immediately doubled down in pain because I put some serious velocity behind it. Two other cops then tried to get my arms and legs but I’ve watched the X-Games enough to know how to make my arms and legs go in crazy directions. They couldn’t get a good enough grip because I slipped free and stuck the last officer right in his mouth. Finally, the three of them managed to take me down to the ground while the fourth officer was still rolling on the ground like a crybaby bitch cause Gusalina stuck him in his nads.

As it’s taking three officers every little bit of strength they have to hold me down, one of the guys decided to act like a badass for some reason unknown to me, since they just got manhandled by a 17-year old. But he said “we can do this the easy way or the hard way, tough guy.” As soon as I heard “tough guy” I hocked a loogie right into his face and said “sorry it’s not the jizz you’re used to.” That rattled him pretty bad, because he didn’t even do anything back to me. The other two cops finally got me flipped over and cuffed and acted like they had just caught Osama Bin Laden, doing everything short of high-fiving themselves for getting me arrested. I think math is for fags, but it took four of those douchers to take just me down, and Wayne got away in his Cumaro. So yeah, who really got the best of who, Ottoville police department? That’s what I thought.

After I got cuffed, they took me down to get processed and all that bullshit. I’ll be honest, I don’t remember much of it, because I was pretty F’ing drunk and worked up, but I do remember I got the two grown men transporting me really F’ing riled up because I said “Ottoville PD, what does that stand for? Ottoville Poop Dicks? Which one of you two is the pitcher and which of you is the catcher?” I also remembered that they refused to change the radio from country music and I thought about killing myself there because of it.

Because the cops didn’t want to look like a bunch of pussies who got the shit kicked out of them 1 on 4 against a high schooler, they decided not to charge me for fighting with them. The only thing I got charged for was shoplifting the Smirnoff. I got released to my parents long enough to go home and get ready for my court appearance in front of the juvie judge the next day.

When I got to court, I should have immediately known that things weren’t going to go well. When the bailiff said “all rise for the honorable Judge Wilson,” something went off in my brain that made the name sound familiar. I wasn’t the first case that day, but I apologize that I can’t tell you more about the cases in front of me. When the first kid was some fat chick who always got in fights with her mom or some shit, I got bored of the whole thing and fell asleep until they called my name.

In the haste of me waking up right when it was my turn to see the judge, I forgot to take out the SNUS packet I had in my mouth. This was probably my first mistake. The second was probably when the bailiff held out the Bible to me, and told me to put my hand on it to swear on it. Well, while my hand was on the bible I decided it would be pretty F’ing funny to pretend the Bible was a record and I was a DJ, so I scratched it and made a “wicka wicka” sound. Seriously, like half the courtroom burst out laughing, and it was F’ing hilarious, but the judge didn’t think it was.

Another mistake I made was thinking that the judge has any kind of fashion sense. As he looked up from his notes to see me, he immediately tried taking me to task for my wardrobe choice. I’m not an F’ing stenographer since I’m straight, but here’s a little recap of how the conversation went:

JUDGE: Mr. Trotter, what are you-

GUSALINA: Just call me Gusalina, bro.

JUDGE: I’m sorry?

GUSALINA: Gusalina. It’s what everbody calls me.

JUDGE: Mr. Trotter, I’m an old doucher who won’t call you by your badass nickname. Are you really wearing a hat in my court?

GUSALINA: It’s a 5950, doucher.

JUDGE: What is a 5950?

GUSALINA: Are you F’ing serious? 5950s are the sickest F’ing hats you can buy.

JUDGE: They have no place in my court.

GUSALINA: I have no place in your court, you F’ing moron.

JUDGE: Mr. Trotter, one more remark like that and you won’t like the consequences. I’m sorry, is that chewing tobacco in your mouth?

GUSALINA: No, it’s SNUS. Huge F’ing difference. That way I don’t have to bring a spitter with me.

JUDGE: Regardless of what it is Mr. Trotter, it has no place in my court. I don’t think we need to give you your F’ing rights as an American to a fair trial, I’m sentencing you to three months in juvie. It normally pains me to do things like this, but keeping a person like you from sharing the hallways with my daughter puts a smile on my face.

And that’s where I knew it. Remember when I said his name and face seemed familiar? Well, he was F’ing Emily Wilson’s dad. That’s where I knew him from. I met him one time when she invited me over to her place. She told him we were cramming for a test. The only cramming I did with Emily Wilson involved the index, middle, and ring fingers of my right hand, if you know what I mean. But she was super F’ing clingy and wanted to be my girlfriend, which was F’ing laughable, so I never called her after that.

It made perfect F’ing sense at this point. Emily’s dad must have heard me strumming her cervix guitar and was using this as a way of getting back to me for splashing Gusaline fuel on her Hello Kitty sheets and ruining his daughter’s reputation. So now, because of some girl with weird pointy boobs and her loser dad going on a power trip, I’m on my way to juvie.

My next blog will talk about how I became the biggest F’ing badass in all of juvie. Stay patient, because there are a lot of topics I need to cover that I haven’t been able to because of my gay ass probation. More blogs are coming on things like Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and of course, Waynetona. We have a lot of F’ing shit we need to talk about. The more you douchers comment on the blogs, the faster I’ll get the next ones up. This blog is about to return to being the third biggest thing in the world behind Billy Hilliard’s fat tits (#2) and the Gusaline Pump (#1).

If there’s grass on the field, play ball,
Gusalina #4

Friday, April 17, 2009

Just So You Douchers Will F'ing Shut Up

I swear to F'ing God that Gusalina can't go a single day without twelve of you douchers pestering me at, my Facebook, or my Myspace (yeah right douchers, like I give that out to just anyone) about writing a new post. Unlike all you stupid momma's boys, I actually have an F'ing life, that involves getting some from girls who aren't emotionally or physically capable of handling my Gusaline Pump (if you know what I F'ing mean), as well as being a first round prospect. Seriously, the next time you're on the F'ing internet and you want to whine about not being able to live your life through my first round experience, follow these three letters - JJO. That's Just Jack Off for you Gusalina readers whose mother couldn't help but party it up a little bit while she was pregnant with you.

But seriously, watch some porn. Here are three of Gusalina's favorites - Brazzers, BangBros, and Just kidding on the third one you douchers (though that doucher x-treme Billy Hillyard probably has some of the biggest natural boobs on the internet) but you get the F'ing idea. Stop complaining about not getting a new blog when I deliver reading material everytime the same way I deliver my 92mph fastball - like an F'ing first rounder.

Besides, a lot of stuff has happened in the past month that has kept me F'ing busy. This includes baseball tryouts (I'll talk about in this post), St Patrick's Day (I'll talk about in this post), mother F'ing WAYNETONA spring break (that's next post you douchers), and my F'ing birthday (I don't know when I'll get to that one. You just might never F'ing hear about it). So yeah, I've been kind of busy. That's just the life you're given when you throw 92 with movement and have first round on lockdown. It's a gift and a curse. The gift is I'm going to get paid big time. The curse is I have to deal with skanks Superpoking me on Facebook. They throw sheep at me, but I don't throw anything back because "92mph thunder with movement" is not an option. Seriously, send me some pics or face a defriending.

But enough about all the skanks who flood, my Facebook, and my Myspace (yeah F'ing right doucher, like I give my Myspace out to just anyone. Read the Mystery Method sometime you lonely doucher and learn how to pull some ladies) with pictures of themselves begging for the Gusaline Pump. Let's get down to business. I'm going to talk about something that's a little bit of a touchy subject for me - the Ottoville baseball team.

As anyone who knows a professional scout will tell you, Gus Trotter is the only redeeming quality of the Ottoville Big Green baseball team, and the entire town of Ottoville in general (Wayne lives outside city limits because of his restraining orders you F'ing idiots). Because of that, you may be assuming that Gusalina doesn't even have to try out for the baseball team. That was the impression I was under until that white trash doucher Kyle Pritchard (sidenote - Pritchard is so F'ing poor that he continually has a snotty, runny nose because he can't afford cold medicine or doctor visits. Seriously, I think the only time he's been to the doctor was the day he was born, and I'm not able to confirm he wasn't born in a barn or in the back of his uncle's LeBaron or some shit either) came up to me and was all like "Hey Gusalina, can I get a ride home with you from tryouts?" My initial reaction was obviously "No F'ing way doucher!", but I eventually softened my stance to "Only if you don't wear your seatbelt." I figured I would do natural selection a favor by tossing him through the windshield if I hit a curve going 100+.

The fact that Pritchard was talking about tryouts went over my head the first time he said it, admittedly. I had planned on going for 175 for a double/assisted triple in the bench press while all the no talent douchers like Pritchard had to do fielding drills or whatever they do when you can't throw 92 with movement or get drafted in the first round. Gusalina doesn't do PFP (that's pitching field practice for you douchers who aren't going first round) and there is no fielding required after you strike someone out, only celebrating (aka SuFI!!!!), so yeah, I don't do many fielding drills. Anyways, I'm in the weight room, repping 135 like 6 or 7 times (as a warmup) when the new doucher head coach comes storming in.

As a rewind, I forgot to tell you douchers reading this that the new coach and I have history. He hasn't liked Gusalina since he got here in the fall, because at the team meeting introducing him I suggested that a) we cut Kyle Pritchard immediately and ban him from trying out, and b) we change the traditional Ottoville Big Green colors to a more modern, x-treme shade of green. He didn't like either suggestion (though I'm not completely sold that he didn't strongly consider option A) and has held a grudge against Gusalina ever since then, because I get more attention and respect than he does. I met with him multiple times to explain that I am going to get millions to pitch in the big leagues and he's an F'ing high school baseball coach, so yeah, I'm going to be more important.

Anyways, this doucher barges in running his mouth right as I'm getting myself psyched up to blast out my 175, so I don't even have a chance to try for a new best on my bench press, and that seriously pissed me off. This idiot continued with "Trotter! Why aren't you on the field with the rest of the team?" or something. I wasn't really listening because I had Staind "So Far Away" F'ing BLASTING on my iPod, and that was much more important to me. Still, with a smile and a SuFi, I informed the coach that in case he forgot, my name was Gusalina and first rounders don't need to try out. This doucher was on a serious power trip so he dragged me out to the field and ordered me to do ten poles as a punishment for being late. I laughed off that suggestion and told the doucher that if I'm going to be out on the field I'm going to F'ing pitch or I'm going to go home. Realizing that I throw 92 with movement, he put me into the scrimmage they had going. After barely warming up on the field (I considered by bench pressing my warmup), I quickly mowed through the first two batters with six pitches. There was no way these kids were going to make the team because they were flinching like serious pussies every time I pitched inside. I know it was like 40 degrees outside, but just F'ing deal with it. You know you're not going to make contact anyways, take your strikeout like a man.

So obviously, I'm starting to get into my groove on the mound. I'm making the coach feel like a real doucher x-treme for making me miss my max out to come pitch to these second and third class ballplayers. Unfortunately for him, the next guy to step into the batter's box was Sammy Robinson, and that's where the story gets interesting.

Sammy Robinson is, for all intents and purposes, a doucher x-treme. He is Billy Hillyard without the F'ing double E's. While I'm going first round, he's just hoping to get lucky enough to find a junior college desperate enough to take his doucher ass to ride the pine. He thinks he's this stud right fielder, but in reality he has a pussy arm and never has to make plays because Gusalina K's up the side more often than girls talk to him at school. To be perfectly honest, Sammy Robinson is incredibly lucky that Kyle Pritchard exists, or he might be my least favorite person in Ottoville. That doucher thinks he's god's gift to baseball, like he's related to Jackie Robinson, when in reality he is a white trash loser who is more likely to be related to Kyle Pritchard than Jackie Robinson.

Anyways, Sammy Robinson steps into the batter's box and makes the serious mistake of telling me he's about to take me yard. So naturally, I'm all ready to strike this doucher out and SuFi him the entire next inning from the dugout. The first pitch I let loose and sit 90 with a little movement right past him for strike one. I wanted to let him think he had a chance to touch my stuff. I forgot he's one of the biggest pussies I've ever known, but I was reminded of this fact when I saw a little trickle of piss form on his baseball pants because of the fear of Gus I had just put in him.

Now that I knew that the doucher was mine to strikeout, I set up for 92 with hellacious movement for the next two pitches, just to make him feel really shitty about his life. So I get into my stance, find my grip, and start to wind back.............when the doucher calls time to adjust his batting gloves.

There are things in life you just don't do. One, never message me on Myspace if you're a guy. Two, don't claim that your car could beat my Camaro in a race. Three, never call time when I'm in my windup about to deliver 92 with movement to you when you won't even play JC ball. Naturally, I was livid about this situation. I called Sammy Robinson every derivation of doucher that I've ever learned and held a SuFi at him for a solid minute while he tried to say "Gus man, just pitch." I had to let this F'ing idiot know that what he did was unacceptable. The only problem was that I felt he didn't understand it from my cold stare, verbal insults, and SuFi.

So when he got back in the batters box, I was going to let him know for real why you don't mess with a first round prospect. He starts to get all ready to get the next pitch, and I cook up something special for him. He was expecting fastball, and I gave him at least 92 (maybe even 93) with movement, right into his neck and spine.

Since I strike a lot of douchers out, there isn't a lot of time for message pitches like that, so I wasn't sure what was going to happen. Well, the first thing that happened was that doucher cried on the ground for seriously like 5 minutes while my coach yelled at me for being a hothead or poor sportsmanship or something. Again, I really wasn't listening. I gave my coach a SuFi while looking at Sammy and repeatedly saying "Don't call time on a first rounder next time, doucher."

Finally, after F'ing forever, Sammy gets up and starts hobbling his tear-streaked face over to first base. Since I still technically had a no-hitter going, I was starting to focus on striking my next batter. And looking back on it, everything would have been fine if that doucher would have just kept his mouth closed. But, as I've already mentioned, he's probably going to community college, so yeah, he's not the smartest dude out there. About 30 feet towards first, he looks at me, and in a stammering, still-crying voice, he shouts out "You're just a first round asshole, Gus!" Well, guess what Sammy? You shouldn't have said that.

Since the catcher still had the ball because of the big waterworks show after he got hit, I didn't have another ball. What I did have, however, was a rosin bag. The temperature outside was pretty F'ing cold - in the 40s for sure. So this bag felt like an F'ing rock. Well, nobody calls me a first round asshole and gets away with it, so I cocked back with the rosin bag and shouted "He Sammy, enjoy a Frozen Rosin (except I said it to make them sound like they rhyme), doucher!" and drilled him in the ribcage with it.

By now he's a sobbing mess on the ground, and the whole incident sends my coach into an F'ing rage. I thought he was going to bitch out Sammy for running his mouth to the greatest player to ever come through Ottoville, or maybe cut Pritchard on the spot to show that he has institutional control, but that doucher told me I was cut, and to get off his field.

At first I thought it was some big joke, because I throw 92 with movement and I'm going first round. You don't cut guys who throw 92 with movement and throw first round. But he was 100% dead serious about it. I would later find out that the doucher was in a bowling league with Sammy's dad, and they drink beer and probably fingerblast each other, so I was screwed the entire time. Typical Ottoville politics.

So it finally hits me that I'm really getting cut. I can't say at this point if I'm truly upset about it actually happening, because I'm going to go first round regardless of whether or not I play for the F'ing Ottoville Big Green. I get most of my scout attention from travel ball and showcases anyways. But I did leave tryouts with a bang.

As I was storming out, I found the water cooler in the dugout and poured it all over Sammy Robinson's baseball bag. I hope it ruined his F'ing cell phone, to be honest. Then I knocked over all the balls and bats out of the dugout, and tossed the rest of my dip in my coach's direction as I was leaving. Since this is the coach's first year and he's an F'ing novice, he forgot to take the padlock to the gate with him onto the field, so as I was leaving, I locked the entire team into the baseball stadium. I heard they had to climb an 8 foot fence to get out. Serves those douchers right.

Also, I left without giving Pritchard a ride, so I can't really say it was a bad day.

So even though the tryouts thing wasn't too big of a deal in the grand scheme, I was still pretty F'ing steaming when the weekend was over. Luckily for me, the next Tuesday was one of the greatest days of the entire F'ing year - St. Patrick's Day. And who else would I spend it with then my sweet older brother Wayne?

I know what all you F'ing Nobel Prize winning retards are saying - "Gusalina, wouldn't Wayne be macking on skanks at the bar on St. Patrick's Day, and not be spending it with you?" Well, you're halfway right, douchers. He did spend St. Patrick's Day macking on skanks at the bar, only he did it with the help of his first round wingman, his badass little brother Gusalina.

Before you soccer mom homos try and tell me that I wouldn't be able to get into a bar because I'm too young, shut up and realize the rules don't apply to you if your older brother has banged the bartenders there. So yeah, I was able to get into the bar.

Before we went, we hit up our normal haunt - Taco Bell. We got 2 XL Baja Blasts, and told them to make them extra green. The idiots working didn't even know what we meant. F'ing figures. So we take those with us, and pick up some Gatorade and Smirnoff along the way and make two Wayne Blasters - extra green. We drive to the bar where we were about to find some skanks and park the Cumaro close enough that all the sluts at the bar would see it but not too close that some drunk doucher will puke on it or lay on it. Wayne doesn't need another assault charge.

Anyways, we're out there drinking our Wayne Blasters and scoping out all the poon as it's entering the bar. Maybe you douchers don't know this yet - but on St. Patrick's Day, Gusalina turns into Gus O'Lina. I'm talking full blown Irish. I'm ready to drink Guinness, drink car bombs, and fight people all night. There was someone in the bar begging for a 92mph fistball, I just didn't know who yet.

So we finish our Wayne Blasters and head inside. The bouncer at the door asks to see my ID, and Wayne goes "It's okay, he's with me" and the bouncer nods his head but still says "You guys gotta pay a $3 cover apiece." This time, Wayne got really close, right up in his face, and in an F'ing terrifying voice, said "maybe you didn't hear me. I said he's with me." So yeah, we didn't have to pay cover because my brother is an F'ing badass.

We get inside, and since Wayne has given The Perfect (Wayne)Storm to the bartender, she gives us two Irish Car Bombs apiece. Immediately, a couple of skanks come up, grab me and Wayne, and ask if the other two car bombs are for them. Wayne tells them to F off because we are going to get our drink on. Life lesson from Wayne that night - never buy a girl a drink within the first hour of seeing her at the bar, because she'll expect you to buy her drinks all night if she's going to put out. It's much more financially smart to wait until a guy buys a girl too many drinks and she starts to throw up and the guy leaves. Then, all you have to do is buy her some mouthwash, take her for a ride in the Cumaro, and you're fingerblasting her like it's nothing. And you spent a couple dollars TOPS. Just another reason Wayne is an F'ing badass.

After a couple more rounds of Irish Car Bombs I have a pretty decent buzz going on, which meant it's time to unleash my secret, go-to move on St. Patrick's Day. There's a reason I didn't tell you douchers of this before St Patrick's day - I don't want you copycatting my F'ing style. The trick is to go around and pinch every skank in the bars boobs and ass, and tell them they aren't wearing green.

Now, chances are that they are wearing green since it's St. Patrick's Day and we are in F'ing America, which I'm completely aware of as I pinch them. In fact, I see the green and pinch anyways. When the girl complains that she's wearing green, claim that you're F'ing colorblind and say there's no way to verify that claim. Pinch her again because you're an F'ing pimp that is definitely getting someone to fuel from the Gusaline Pump tonight.

Seriously, girls eat that shit up. They want to prove that they're wearing green so badly that they will literally put out to show you. Once you get them naked, pinch them again. This time they're for sure not wearing green, and rules are rules on St. Patrick's Day.

After making my first round through the bar with my pinch move, I've managed to scope out at least 4 girls that would be down to do something, and pinched the boobs of at least 15 that weren't but had me do it anyways. It's a good F'ing night so far. I go back up to the bar, where Wayne is holding down the fort. He's talking to a girl that only has a decent face but probably looks really good naked so I'm not going to judge Wayne. Besides, he's the reason I'm getting free drinks tonight, so yeah, he can bang whoever he wants tonight.

Wayne gets us two large pints of Guinness, which we chug while the entire bar cheers us on because we are the biggest F'ing badasses in the entire place. When we get done chugging, we took our glasses and threw them as hard as we could against the wall. I don't know how fast Wayne's was going, but mine was going 92. With movement. Nobody even got mad about it, they just cheered really loud because they know drinking and fighting is what Gus O'Lina does best on St. Patrick's Day and they're not looking for a fistball to the face.

At this point, I'm starting to get pretty F'ing drunk, which means it's time to show the ladies my dance moves. I hit the dance floor and drag some skank who was talking with her girlfriends along with me. She starts to complain until she realizes just who is grinding on her. She's totally into it, so I take the next logical step and start doing a dance floor fingerblast. Apparently her jealous lesbian friends didn't like this because they stormed the dance floor to take her away from me. I told them that there was plenty of Gus O'Lina to go around, except for her fat friend, who wouldn't even be allowed to watch. They weren't listening though, and they took her back to the table they were sitting at. I told her if she still wanted to get some Gusaline Fuel to meet me at the Cumaro in 15 minutes, but I was too drunk to remember to go outside myself. I'm sure she waited there for about an hour before she got a public intoxication. It's karma to her friends for being F'ing bitches to Gus O'Lina, really.

Since that skank fell through, it was time for me to go and find a new target. As luck would have it, Wayne was talking to a table of three girls when I saw him. Since I could leave him two girls for a threesome without cockblocking, I went over and started being his wingman. Well, Wayne is a badass older brother, because he threw the attention my way. He let the cat out of the bag that I was going to go first round and that I threw 92 with movement. The skanks remembered me rocketing the glass into the wall earlier in the night, so they were practically fighting over each other to go get fueled up in the bathroom. One of the sluts was ignorant to my scouting report because she asked me if I could hit. I told her she was pretty F'ing dumb for asking that question, but couldn't really prove that I could because I didn't have a bat to hit anything with.

So, I did the next best thing. I told the skank to rub up on the Gusaline Pump a little bit to get me fired up and I would give them a show. Enough of her touching me and me looking at her hotter friend got my bat sufficiently corked (if you know what I mean). They just had a full beer brought to their table, so I took a home run swing at it with my Ottoville Slugger and knocked it into the air, off the F'ing table, and onto the ground. The skank asking questions had seen enough. I'm not going to give you douchers material to rub it out to, but I'll just say that I got mine a few minutes later in the bathroom.

With Gus O'Lina taken care of, the focus turned to getting Wayne his for the night. Since he fell on the grenade with those girls and built me up, they were out of the question. So, we started scoping the bar to find the perfect target. There, perched in the corner, was the girl who would make this night legendary. As soon as Wayne saw her, he said "game over" and brought me in for a huddle.

It was really surprising she wasn't hounded by douchers the whole night, because she was an 8 on her worst day. The only negative quality about her was that.....she was on crutches. She had apparenly sprained her ankle or broke her leg or something, but she was confined to crutches in the bar. She was drinking, but clearly wasn't drunk. I think she was with a group of friends or something, and they were on the dance floor, or something. I don't really F'ing care. It's not relevant to the story.

Anyways, Wayne brings me in and we devise a plan to get this skank a Wayneshower. Normally, most douchers would go up to her, ask her about her injury, tell about a time they broke their arm jumping off the monkey bar when they were young, or some other x-tremely gay thing like that. Wayne and I were not doing that, because those guys are douchers who are guaranteed not to get any.

I made the first approach to her and played it cool. Since it was my role to be an asshole to her, I asked her if she wanted to dance, then looked at her and said "nevermind, there's no way you could keep up with Gus O'Lina." She got pretty offended, but I just turned around and started walking away. This was part of the plan. I came back about two minutes later, and said "That was way out of line for me, I'd just like to apolog-" and I stole her crutches from her. The plan was now in action.

As I was running out of the bar, she was dangerously close to falling to the ground because of her inability to put any weight on her right leg. Luckily for that skank, at the exact moment, the Waynemaker came swooping in and caught her. JACK F'ing POT He had been hovering around the area, waiting for me to steal her crutches so he run in and hold her up.

I had got one foot out the door of the bar when I heard him say, with his arm around her waist holding her close to him, "Man, some of the guys in this bar are real assholes. Hi, I'm Wayne, but most people call me the Waynemaker. Don't worry about your crutches, you can hold on to me tonight."

And that's how it F'ing happened too. Wayne ended up telling me how the rest of his game spitting went, but that's Trotter family secrets that I can't tell how you to seal the deal. Wayne told me to wait around the corner while he gave the girl a Wayneshower in the Cumaro, so I sat there as he did his business. I knew it was almost time for us to leave when he said he was going to go find the jerk who stole her crutches.

He ran around the corner, found me, and pretended to drag me back to her. She was perched up against the outside wall of the bar. Wayne, in a completely fake stern voice, said "now apologize to this beautiful girl and give her the crutches back."

I held my head down low in fake shame (when really the only shame I felt was for her having Waynedrops on what appeared to be a new shirt) and said "I'm really sorr-.....SIKE" and at that moment me and Wayne ran to the Cumaro, did a quick donut, and peeled out while the girl started to cry up against the wall.

We could have given her the crutches back, as that was the original plan, but as Wayne was dragging me back around from the corner, we thought of a much better use for them - mailbox F'ing baseball.

And that's what we did. We hit the backroads of Ottoville and I F'ing blasted 3 grandslams. We stopped to give the Pritchards a yard job, called the cops and said we thought Mr. Pritchard was beating Mrs. Pritchard because of the screams coming from inside, and then went home to crash after the greatest F'ing St. Patrick's Day EVER.

There have been enough idiot douchers to email Gusalina at over the past few weeks to warrant the title of the "Dumbest Doucher in the F'ing World," and I would have picked one of them, had it not been for this comment I got on my last blog:

Anonymous said...

Hey Gusalina, it's Kyle Kuric and I play for the #1 seeded Louisville Cardinals basketball team. You are way to into yourself man. I'm actually doing something with my life and you just sit around and brag about yourself. I'm also playing for Louisville's baseball team this year. Why don't you come down to a practice once I get there so I can take you yard? Scared, thought so, I would be if I was you.
Draining 3's and hitting long ball's all game long, -Kyle

So obviously this Kyle Kuric doucher is the "Dumbest Doucher in the F'ing World," right? That's what I thought. I looked up this doucher on Facebook to talk some serious first round shit to this guy and what do I find. This Facebook group called "Fuck Kyle Kuric." It looks like they deleted it now or they blocked Gusalina from looking at it, but guess who the creator of the group was? None other than the greatest set of tits in AAA, Billy F'ing Hillyard. So yeah, the "Kyle Kuric" who was posting on my blog was almost certainly Billy Hillyard, the doucher who you may remember has lied trying to make himself look cool in front of Gusalina. Well, Billy, congratulations. You have not only made yourself look like a doucher x-treme2damax, but you have also won the title of "Dumbest Doucher in the F'ing World." Way to go, D-Cup.

Because I don't want to deal with you douchers flooding my inbox when I could be getting sweet emails from sexxy girls, I'm going to write a nice, long recap for all you douchers about my time in Waynetona. It will be my longest post ever, and it will come in the next two weeks. Gusalina F'ing promises.

Popping flies all over skanks faces,

Gusalina #4