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 Gusalina4@hotmail.com, 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 billyhillyardsbigtitwebcam.com. 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 Gusalina4@hotmail.com, 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.
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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.
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There have been enough idiot douchers to email Gusalina at Gusalina4@hotmail.com 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

Gusalina Answers Your Questions Because You Won’t F’ing Shut Up

Enough time has passed that you douchers have started to nag me about posting a new blog. I mean, seriously, so many of you want to be Gusalina or be with Gusalina so bad that you send him email after email at Gusalina4@hotmail.com begging me to F’ing write a new blog. Sorry douchers, I know you want to know what’s happening in my life, but shit has gone down in a way that I’m not ready to F’ing discuss in the short term. I will get to it my next blog, though.

Since you Gusalina groupies seriously might hang yourselves if I don’t give you something, I decided to answer some of the questions you douchers have been asking me since I’ve started this blog. If you don’t like it, I really don’t F’ing care, because I’m going first round and you’re not.

-Gusalina can I be your agent???

No you stupid doucher. I probably get this question the most out of all the ones people send in. I really can’t blame them – they see 92 with movement and realize I might be their ticket to some F’ing cash. First round cash for Gusalina means some first round cash for his agent too, so yeah, I think a lot of people are going to want to be my agent.

Unfortunately for you douchers, you aren’t my sweet older brother Wayne, who, after the 2011 MLB Draft will be my sweet agent Wayne.

Wayne, if you don’t know by now, is not only the biggest badass that doesn’t currently throw 92 with movement, he’s also the smartest. Wayne got an A in Econ when he was in high school (he made We Want Wayne shirts for one of his projects, only the W’s in it were the same W’s from the Mountain Dew logo. This was before Baja came out you F’ing douchers. And as if you even needed to ask, Wayne sold a shitload of the shirts, because he was the biggest badass in the school. If you’re lucky, I’ll talk Wayne into bringing the shirts out of retirement).

Anyways, not only did Wayne get an A in his Econ class, but when he went to Daytona Beach his senior year Spring Break he fingerblasted a Hooters waitress who was an extra on Arli$$, so yeah, I think he knows a little bit about being an agent.

They talk about agents having clients that are unsignable coming out, and I guess that Wayne might earn that rep, but he’s really just going to try and get Gusalina fair market value. If the teams want to draft a Hall of Famer, they’re going to have to draft a Hall of Famer, you know? I think it’s completely F’ing fair that some old ass Jew is going to have to pony up 9 figures over 5 years. It may seem like a lot, but if you try and put a price tag on Gusalina wearing their team’s logo on his Cooperstown plaque, it’s more like me and Wayne gave the doucher an F’ing discount.

Wayne is going to get me a bunch of sweet ass deals with different companies after I get drafted too. Some doucher tried to tell me that Majestic doesn’t sponsor individual players, but how many times have they seen 92 with movement with the first round talent that Gusalina has? Exactly F’ing zero, so yeah, I think Wayne is going to get me signed. Look out for the Majestic Fleecalina line of pullovers coming out in a couple years. They’ll be Fleece pullovers with custom pockets for my dip and my Camaro keys. Also, it should go without saying that Gusalina will become the new face of Baja Blast. I’m going to have to have a talk with the Head Mexicans at Taco Bell though, because Gusalina really wants an XL cup that he can hold with a SuFi grip, so everyone knows how much of an F’ing badass he is. Speaking of Baja…

Gus, hooking up with some MySpace skanks this weekend, and was wondering what the exact recipe for WayneBlasters is? Gonna need some WayneBlasters, cuz it's a lot harder to fingerblast chicks while giving the west side symbol when you don't throw 92 with movement. Thanks. -David Yanchik 

It’s not just David Yanchik who sent in this F’ing question, either. Seriously, I get flooded with so many douchers who want to know how to make their Wayne Blaster as perfectly as Gusalina makes his. For anyone who forgets, Wayne Blasters = F’ing Baja + F’ing Smirnoff + F’ing Gatorade. Listen up douchers, I’m only going to explain this one time – if you’re going to be drinking Wayne Blasters, this is how you should make them.

First, you are going to go to Taco Bell, and you’re going to eat inside. Eating inside isn’t really important to the creation of the Wayne Blaster, but you’d have to be an idiot to pass up the opportunity to make the lives of everybody working there a little bit worse. Gusalina likes to make them earn their paycheck when he goes. I’ll order like 2 Cheesy Gordita Crunches and an XL drink (YOU NEED XL FOR THE WAYNE BLASTER DOUCHER) and while I’m waiting I’ll grab a big pile of napkins and wet them all with iced tea so they are all wasted. At the Taco Bell I go to, they have learned to get me my food as quickly as possible, because I try to stomp on as many mild sauce packets as I can to make them explode before they bring me my food. My record is 19, but Wayne said he has gone over 35 one time when he ordered a Grande meal and ate it all by himself.

So you have your food and you have your Baja. Eat your F’ing food and drink your F’ing Baja. It’s like I’m talking to a retard here. When you’re done with your food, flip your tray upside down, spilling any food or sauce remaining onto the table, chairs, and floor. If those Mexicans didn’t want to clean up after a first rounder, they shouldn’t have tried so bad to come to my country.

Whatever Baja you have left is what you are going to be using for the Wayne Blaster. If you’re feeling really x-treme, you can put in a few more splashes of Baja before you go, because you never know how thirsty you might get before you go to the party. I drive a Camaro, so yeah, I don’t have much time to drink any Baja before I get there, but you might have some shitty Toyota so it might be different.

When you get to the party, find whoever has the Smirnoff and immediately F’ing steal it. That Smirnoff is now exclusively for Wayne Blasters and girls who want to show their boobs. Pour 3 shots into the Baja cup and the look for the Gatorade. NOT! If you only put in 3 shots you are the biggest F’ing pussy on the planet. Take it from a first rounder – 6 shots or just don’t even drink it – go big or go home. One time Wayne put in 8 shots into one Wayne Blaster. He wasn’t even F’ing buzzed though, because he can drink more than anyone on the planet probably.

Now you only have one step left – the Gatorade. Since Gatorade is the fuel of the first round, you have to measure your drink accordingly. The simplest way Gusalina has found to add Gatorade is to add one ounce for every hour you plan on partying. So, if you’re going to be at this party for 6 hours, you’d better add 6 ounces of F’ing Gatorade. You need to stay hydrated if you’re going to be grinding on poon all night, and as x-treme as Baja is, it’s not cutting it. Also, not that you douchers probably have to worry about it, but I also add an ounce of Gatorade for every time I plan on letting some skank fuel from the Gusaline Pump, just because I’m a first rounder both on and off the field you know?

Anyways, I made some nerdy girl with some alright boobs I know from MySpace put this into a math formula so that some of you douchers might understand it. I didn’t bother to check it to see if it was right, because I cheat in math and I really don’t F’ing care if you douchers know how to make a good Wayne Blaster or not. But here it is:

(XL Baja Blast – Baja drank with meal + extra splashes) + (6 shots Smirnoff you pussy) + (1 oz Gatorade x total hours partying) = The perfect Wayne Blaster

Also, I’m sure some of you cheap douchers are going to try and use something other than Smirnoff or lemon-lime Gatorade. That just shows how F’ing poor you are if you ask Gusalina, and let me be perfectly clear to you douchers – if you aren’t using Baja, Smirnoff, and lemon-lime Gatorade, you aren’t drinking an F’ing Wayne Blaster. Any substitution of an ingredient and you are now drinking what we like to call Pritchard Punch, named after that white trash doucher Kyle Pritchard, because the only vodka his family can afford comes in a plastic bottle, so yeah, he can’t make Wayne Blasters.

Gusalina, have you seen these doucher impostors Gairy and Hooch? I saw them post in Club Trillion’s comments and it’s pretty clear they want to be you.

Yes, I F’ing saw them. I’m not going to give you a link to their blog because the millions of people who read Gusalina’s blog would give them readers they don’t deserve. But yes, I saw those complete copycat douchers and read what they wrote. It’s not F’ing funny at all, and they try and take everything from Gusalina’s blogs and pass it off for their own! If I didn’t plagiarize every English paper I’ve turned in since the 7th grade I would be super F’ing pissed about it. I’ll leave it at this though – Gairy and Hooch, you are about as x-treme as a doucher can possibly get. Your writing F’ing sucks, and you should really stop trying to steal Gusalina’s style of writing because it is F’ing pathetic. You would be well served to give Gusalina a written apology, or you will be looking at two fistballs, courtesy of Gusalina and the Waynemaker.

Gusalina, what team do you want to draft you first round? Who is your favorite team?

Rest assured, me and Wayne have a list of teams I’m not going to play for, and the scouts are aware of this. While I can’t tell you every team, there are a few off the top of my head that I’ll clue you in on.

-Any team that has more than one Asian. While it would be great to have another DDR partner, I would seriously lose my F’ing mind if I had to spend time surrounded by all these sushi eating douchers. Have you been watching the World Baseball Classic? These douchers seriously have the stupidest looking sideburns in the entire F’ing world. And if there’s one thing Gusalina knows, it’s awesome sideburns.
-The F’ing Cubs. Gusalina may throw 92 with movement, but that team finds a way to F’ing suck every single year, so yeah, Gusalina won’t be playing for them. He actually wants to play for a winner.
-The Cleveland Indians and the Cincinnati Reds. Living in Ohio, they’d expect Gusalina to be their F’ing hometown savior. If there’s one thing I’m not looking for, it’s a new nickname. They would be calling me Gus “Jesus With a Curveball” Trotter, and I want to be Gusalina 4 Lyfe, so yeah, not going to play for them. Besides, I don’t want any of these douchers from Ohio to feel happy about a team winning the World Series. I want to rip their F’ing hearts out on the mound.
-The Kansas City Royals. I would rather kill myself than spend my life in Kansas City. It’s probably the gayest city in the entire United States. Kansas City is where second round douchers play, not first round sure things.
-Minnesota Twins. F That.
-The Toronto Blue Jays. I’m never going to go play for a team in F’ing Canada, that’s for sure. The only time I’ll ever go to Canada is to go to Montreal, because Wayne says that they have F’ing sweet strip clubs. But play in Canada half the year for the Blue Gays? Gusalina is going to pass.
-Most of the AL. Gusalina isn’t limited to just throwing 92 with movement, he can also bomb at the plate. If I’m in the AL, I won’t be able to bat when I pitch, which is an F’ing travesty because I’d be good for 20 dingers if I could.

If there was one team I would like to play for, it would be the San Diego Padres. I say this for a few reasons. One, I would get to wear an F’ing camo jersey a couple times a year. Talk about awesome. Two, I could drive down to Tijuana and bang out skanks all the time. Third and most importantly, P.O.D. is from San Diego. How much more x-treme could you get? You can’t. Can you imagine P.O.D. playing “Boom” live in the ballpark every time Gusalina strikes out some doucher and gives him the SuFi? I can, and it would be F’ing awesome.

Gusalina don’t you hate the new F’ing Facebook?!?!??!!?!??!?! PS What’s your MySpace address?

I HATE THE NEW F’ING FACEBOOK!!!!!! It seriously sucks so bad. I only ended up getting a Facebook because I couldn’t find that doucher Mark Titus on my MySpace and I needed to tell him that I was going to beat his ass if he didn’t send me my F’ing cards, and immediately they changed their site to make it super shitty. I bet it was probably an attempt by Facebook to keep Gusalina from dongslapping a whole new group of skanks who would no doubt want to be splashed with Gusaline fuel when they saw how many F’ing sweet pages I became a fan of when I got my Facebook. Sorry Facebook douchers, you can make Facebook look as gay as you want, Gusalina is going to get his. If you want to be my Facebook friend, click on this F’ing link.

As for MySpace, yeah F’ing right. There are so many hating douchers on here that your comments would cover up all the ones I have from these skanks who want to touch the Gusaline Pump, so yeah, there is no way I’m going to tell you what my MySpace address is. Find it for yourself douchers. If you’re some sexxxi girl reading this, and you want to be my MySpace friend, send me an email at Gusalina4@hotmail.com and include at least two pictures for me to decide if you’re hot enough.

I was directed to your "blog" (if such a pathetic manifestation of such a thing even deserves such a title) by a friend of mine.
Frankly, I'm appalled for a number of reasons.
First of all, you obviously think pretty highly of yourself to give yourself a ridiculously obnoxious nickname. "Gusalina?" Really? You sound like Cinderella's lost mouse. (Though I'm sure said creature was given far more in brain capacity than you could ever hope to achieve.)I would recommend that you take a step down off of your horribly constructed soap box and give the phrase "shut the fuck up" a nice, valiant effort.

Try shoving Pritchard's dick (whoever the fuck that is) in your mouth. I'm sure that would soothe both of your over-stroked egos. )Not to mention the fact that it would most likely be the first bit of action you've seen in... well, I'm sure that's embarrassing for you to talk about... try not to come too quickly. I don't think Pritchard could handle that kind of disappointment.) I'm sure everyone in your vicinity will appreciate the absence of your obnoxiousness.

Second of all, with grammar and sentence structure as terrible as your own--along with a poorly processed stream of consciousness (which is obviously reflective of how life must really be for you... Jesus, your poor mother...) I'm frankly surprised that your ass even got accepted to any sort of post-secondary education. I legitimately pity the professors that are required to grade anything you manage to pull out of your ass and slap on paper... their pain must be nearly unbearable.

Thirdly, please, for the love of GOD stop referring to yourself in the third person. You might think that your baseball abilities qualify you as some sort of God (which clearly isn't true, considering "major league scouts" wish only to contact you via e-mail... you do know that's a sign for "you fucking suck too terribly for me to waste time making a phone call," right?), it does not. Your half-assed athletic abilities stimulate nothing more than your over-abused libido--and quite frankly, you being a pretentious asshole is nothing more than an insult to every individual with even a morsel of intelligence at whatever establishment was blind enough to send you an acceptance letter.

Do the human race a favor and never attempt to "blog" again. It's nothing more than a painful reminder of how the American education system seems to have disappointed us all yet again...

You’re an F’ing docher x-treme!!! You wish you could be Gusalina so bad that you’ll write an entire English paper in the hopes that Gusalina will try to be your friend. Sorry doucher, I throw 92 with movement, you type boring ass comments on Blogger that makes everyone want to hang themselves when they see. I’m going first round, and you’re going to write 4 F’ing paragraphs trying to make yourself look smart when you’re really as dumb as Mr. and Mrs. Pritchard for not just leaving Kyle in the State Fair portapotty when she gave birth to him all those years ago. So yeah, doucher, you’re even F’ing dumber than that poor, white trash, friendless, shitbaby Kyle Pritchard. Congratulations, before you wrote that comment Gusalina thought that was F’ing impossible.

I’m thinking that I’m going to institute a new feature in my blog. It’s going to be called “The Dumbest Doucher in the F’ing World.” I will name one every new blog, and it will come from an e-mail or a comment that I got from some doucher who is incredibly jealous of Gusalina and proves it by writing stupid shit in order to get Gusalina to be friends with them. F off douchers, it will never happen.

DUDE! I need to show all my friends how funny Dane Cook is. Can you help me pick out a clip for me to show them?

Are you F’ing serious? How are you supposed to pick just one Dane Cook clip? You should just sit those douchers down, make them listen to all of his albums back to back, and then watch yourself become the coolest F’ing dude in your group of friends. If any of them don’t like Dane Cook, tell them that they are seriously the F’ing least x-treme person you’ve ever met, and then give them the SuFi for being an idiot.

If I was forced to pick just one clip (which is F’ing tough!!) I would probably pick the Burger King one, but it doesn’t show how F’ing awesome he is onstage, so you should show them “Public Restrooms.” They’ll see how F’ing x-treme Dane Cook is.

I seriously listen to Dane Cook every F’ing day in class. I bust out laughing so F’ing loud all the time. My classmates get all pissed off because they’re trying to take a test or something, but I don’t really care, because I’m going first round.

What is the coolest thing you’ve ever done to that white trash doucher Kyle Pritchard?

I will be addressing this within my next few blogs you F’ing doucher, just be patient.

I want you and the Waynemaster to fight me. You sit here and run your mouth about how you can pitch 92 mph well guess what i won a state title in baseball my senior year. I batted 404 with 12 homeruns and 67 RBI's. You need to back your shit up before you start running your fat fucking mouth. You dont have a camaro you probably couldnt throw a baseball if you had roger clemens arm you fat fuck. Oh ya and you need to treat you mom with some respect you fucking punk. Your nothing but a piece of shit and don't deserve to live if your going to treat you rmom and girls like that. If i ever see you on the street your ass is mine because you have no respect. Your never getting to the bg leagues because that involves talent something you dont have. So keep dreaming while I am living the dream playing for the Cubs triple A system and unlike you i will make it to the big leagues. I wouldnt care if you were serious about making it to the big leagues but your not your just making a joke of it. Some of us are actually trying to pursue dreams. So keep your mouth shut about the big leagues bitch!

Just kidding – that was that F’ing doucher Billy Hillyard!!!

 
Pictured: Gay

I’ll be back next week with a new blog. Also, Gusalina t-shirts should be available soon. I’ve been working with Wayne’s roommate, who is a tattoo artist, in making them, so yeah, they’re going to be F’ing sweet. I’ll put the link up to them when I get them done.

Inside the park home runs are for douchers,

Gusalina #4

How Is Gusalina So F’ing Awesome?

Just a note for you whiny douchers out there – this blog is going to be F’ing long, like most of the Gusalina’s things if you know what I mean. If you can’t handle it, read it in F’ing parts and don’t be a whiny doucher about it. If you’ve still got a problem, I’ve got a fistball that goes 92 with movement with your name on it. –G#4

Okay Gusaholics Anonymous, I’m back. I’m sure you’ve been checking ESPN.com ten times a day to make sure that Gusalina didn’t die or get arrested for F’ing too many girls I met on Myspace. Rest assured, I didn’t die, but I can’t say that I haven’t been splashing Gusalina over a bunch of Ottoville and the surrounding area’s finest. Luckily for me, that’s not a crime.

The real reason I haven’t posted in awhile is pretty simple – that white trash, on welfare, poor, ugly, pervert doucher Kyle F’ing Pritchard. If you don’t know by now, every redeeming quality of Kyle Pritchard is dried up and caked on the corner booth at the Waffle House where his parents met. He was a dishwasher, she was a waitress, they were both F’ing morons that thought it would be a good idea to have sex in a Waffle House after work. It’s really the All-American story. Nine months later that fetal alcohol unathletic idiot Kyle Pritchard was born, and he has been an embarrassment to the human race ever since.

Even though you already knew all of this, it’s necessary to bring it up again. A couple days after I posted my last blog, my idiot mom Donna thought it would be a great idea to ask Pritchard to stay for dinner after he brought me a Baja Blast that he paid for with a food stamp. Before I could protest, Pritchard got excited about eating something other than Salisbury Steak for the first time in weeks and said yes. I can’t wait until I go first round so I never have to see Donna again. The only reason I don’t go live with my sweet older brother Wayne right now is because he doesn’t have an extra bedroom.

But anyways, there’s some extra time before dinner’s going to be ready because my mom takes forever, so I ignored the fact that Pritchard was there and went to my computer to listen to an awesome Good Charlotte video playlist on YouTube. I had just got done blasting “The Anthem,” yelling “ANOTHER LOSER ANTHEM WHOOOOOOOAAAAAAA” in Pritchard’s face as loud as I could in the hopes that he would go home, when he told me that he knew this F’ing sweet porn site. Since I’m not some queer that turns down free porn, I went to what he claimed was the site. I completely forgot that Pritchard has the mental capacity of a 9 year old because his mom had nightly threeways with his dad and Jack Daniels when she was pregnant, and that Pritchard can’t spell for shit. Anyways, I hit enter on the address he gave me, and the next thing I know, my computer going F’ing haywire. Five seconds later, my computer is broken. Pritchard gave my computer an F’ing virus.

Pritchard lost me my entire music collection. He obviously has no idea how long it took me to download all the sweet Papa Roach, Green Day, 3 Doors Down, and Hinder tracks that I rock out to. It was really selfish on Pritchard’s part. For almost two weeks, I had almost no way to read the emails that the major league scouts were sending me at gusalina4@hotmail.com or check my Myspace. When I finally got some Gusalina groupie to come over and fix my computer, I signed onto my Hotmail and saw this email from this doucher Billy Hillyard (hillyard33@yahoo.com):

I want you and the Waynemaster to fight me. You sit here and run your mouth about how you can pitch 92 mph well guess what i won a state title in baseball my senior year. I batted 404 with 12 homeruns and 67 RBI's. You need to back your shit up before you start running your fat fucking mouth. You dont have a camaro you probably couldnt throw a baseball if you had roger clemens arm you fat fuck. Oh ya and you need to treat you mom with some respect you fucking punk. Your nothing but a piece of shit and don't deserve to live if your going to treat you rmom and girls like that. If i ever see you on the street your ass is mine because you have no respect. Your never getting to the bg leagues because that involves talent something you dont have. So keep dreaming while I am living the dream playing for the Cubs triple A system and unlike you i will make it to the big leagues. I wouldnt care if you were serious about making it to the big leagues but your not your just making a joke of it. Some of us are actually trying to pursue dreams. So keep your mouth shut about the big leagues bitch!

Where do I even start? First, who is the Waynemaster? I know you aren’t talking about my F’ing sweet older brother Wayne, because nobody calls him the “Waynemaster.” That’s the stupidest F’ing nickname I’ve ever heard. And you want to fight him? I know you’re a doucher, but I didn’t know you’re also the world’s biggest idiot too. Do you know how many people the Waynemaker has destroyed in bar fights? It’s F’ing brutal. He’s on probation right now for one of the fights (and for providing alcohol to a minor, but that girl was smoking hot so you can’t even get mad at him) so yeah, I don’t think you want to fight my older brother Wayne.

You won a state title? Well that is awesome. I didn’t know winning a state title would help you go first round. Oh wait, it F’ing doesn’t. Gusalina would win state championships too if he didn’t have shitty white trash teammates like Kyle Pritchard. And your stats would be awesome if you were a freshman playing F’ing varsity in your first 20 games but you were probably some JV doucher as a senior. You probably had to have your parents make the principal let you play JV when you were 18 F’ing years old and you probably still got struck out every time you were up at bat by some cross-eyed retard who only gets to pitch because he’s left-handed.

I’m not even going to address the Camaro because I can give you about 50 Myspace links to girls who have spent a lot of time pinch hitting in my Camaro if you know what I mean. And they can tell you just how F’ing sweet of a car it is too you jealous doucher. As far as my mom goes, Donna deserves everything she gets. She doesn’t have a job, so it shouldn’t be hard for her to cook for Gusalina and give him some money for a Baja Blast every day, but she still somehow finds a way to screw it up.

Let me pause for a second while I laugh at you saying that you’re “living the dream” by playing in Triple A. Are you F’ing kidding me? I’m two years away from going first round because I throw 92 with movement. The agents and scouts that I’ve talked to have already said I’m one of the most polished pitching prospects to come out of high school in years. They differ on some things when it comes to Gusalina, but they all agree on one – I’m not going to spend one F’ing week in the minors. Congratulations on being not good enough to make the majors you doucher.

[GUSALINA UPDATE: Some Gusalina groupies have tipped me off that this doucher Billy Hillyard isn’t even in the minor leagues! You’re an F’ing doucher x-treme! If you don’t believe me, check out this link to his Facebook. I would have checked myself but Gusalina operates strictly on Myspace. But seriously Billy Hillyard, you are an F’ing doucher who doesn’t even have any friends. Here is how Gusalina knows this. First, you have to take pictures of yourself because nobody wants to be friends with you. Second, you F’ing suck at baseball. Who wants to be friends with a guy like that? Third, you have nobody in your F’ing life to tell you that your shirt is so tight that if a dude was desperate enough (probably doucher Pritchard) that they would try and motorboat those man cans of yours.

Pictured: An F’ing Doucher X-Treme with a lame Hollister shirt

My Gusalina sources also tell me that this doucher is friends with another doucher who commented on my last blog named Jarrod, who wrote such F’ing stupid things as:

You're a bitch Gusafag. I'd hit your 92+ w/movement out of the F'n park, and I'll take that fistball and shove it up your ass. Then I'll beat Wayne's ass just to laugh! You're nothing Gusafag

and

And btw, I was lifting 170 when I was 15 you douche cock. When I was 16 I was lifting 230, and I weigh 150 pounds. Suck on that one you fat bitch

This Jarrod kid is obviously jealous of Gusalina and the fact that he’s going first round, and he from the way he types he might even want to fuel from the Gusaline Pump for all I know. Gusalina doesn’t roll like that you doucher. This Jarrod kid wants to be Gusalina so much that he even started writing a blog, which I’m not going to link to because it honestly might be the stupidest F’ing thing on the internet, it’s that awful. So to you two douchers making your iron-on Gusalina shirts and shaving 4s into the back of your heads trying to be like me, just give it up, wait for Wayne’s roommate to finish making the official Gusalina shirts, and maybe I’ll autograph them for you if you pay me enough. Douchers.]

________________________________________________

But enough about these swordfighting douchers, you Gusalina fans read this blog so you can learn how to be more like Gusalina, not how to how to be a doucher who doesn’t even wear M-Frames. Seriously doucher, the only thing you should be buying from the gas station is Skoal, not sunglasses. I know you’re all practically showering yourself in Gusaline trying to figure out what I did for Valentine’s Day, but we need to get a couple of other things out of the way first.

So the first week that I didn’t have a computer because of that white trash doucher Kyle Pritchard, we had to drive all the way to F’ing Zanesville for my grandma’s birthday. At first my parents tried to make me ride with them, but I told them no F’ing way and hopped in the Cumaro with my sweet older brother Wayne. 3 1/2 hours in the car listening to Donna bitch? Yeah F’ing right. She won’t even let me play my Trapt CDs in the car, so yeah, Gusalina isn’t going to be riding with her. The Waynemaker more than anyone knows what it’s like to be headstrong to take on anyone because he’s on probation.

So my dad tells Wayne not to drive fast so we don’t get separated, but Wayne drives a Cumaro, and that thing doesn’t do under 70 unless it has to. What does my dad F’ing think is going to happen when you’re dealing with a Cumaro, Jesus? So anyways we took off for Zanesville with “Last Resort” playing as loud as it could on Wayne’s stereo. We hit Columbus in nearly no time, and as we passed by the Ohio State area, we both threw up SuFis at that doucher x-treme Mark Titus, and then Wayne made a gun with his fingers so Titus knows what is going to happen to him if he doesn’t send me my F’ing cards.

By the time we got to Zanesville we were almost an hour ahead of my parents, probably because Donna wouldn’t stop bitching and made my dad go under the speed limit the entire time. Since we sure as hell weren’t going to go inside and spend more time with my grandma than we had to, Wayne drove to the liquor store a couple streets over from her house and picked up a sixer of MGD. We drove back to my grandma’s house and parked across the street. Wayne has a sweet burned CD that was pretty much all Creed, so we started blaring it as loud as we could. Since Wayne is on probation and can’t get caught drinking outside, we decided the best thing to do would be to shotgun the beers. You probably don’t know this, but Wayne is kind of a badass at shotgunning beers. He does it so much that he even knows that MGD shotguns better than every other beer, which I bet you douchers didn’t know. Wayne let me shotgun the first beer, and I don’t mean to brag, but I drank it pretty F’ing fast. Or so I thought. The Waynemaker went next, and I counted while he was finishing it, and he did it in 7 F’ing seconds. That’s not a typo you douchers. Gusalina throws 92 with movement, Wayne shotguns beers in 7 seconds, the Trotters are just that F’ing good.

So we finish the entire 6 pack, and our parents still haven’t made it yet. Since there were still like 8 more songs left on the CD, we decided to throw in some hog dips and rock the F out. We made sure to keep our backs to our grandma’s house. We could hear her yelling for us to come inside and say hi to her from her front porch, but we pretended like we couldn’t hear her and didn’t turn around. Just because it’s her F’ing birthday doesn’t mean that I’m going to spend extra time with her. That’s just an open invitation for her to ask for money once I go first round.

Finally, my parents showed up, so we had to go inside. We said hi to our grandma, stood there while she opened the birthday card, and pretended to actually care that she liked the Ottoville sweatshirt that my family got her. My idiot mom insisted that we sing “Happy Birthday” to her, so Wayne and I stood there and pretended to sing along with my mom and dad when we were really just mouthing the lyrics to Sugar Ray’s “Fly.”

After awhile, I was seriously about to F’ing kill myself from the boredom, but Wayne had a sweet idea. We pretended to be allergic to our grandma’s cats (she has them because our grandpa died and nobody wants to marry her again because she has an F’ing old lady mustache). I started itching my arms and Wayne started sneezing obnoxiously loud because he’s a badass, and we told our parents we needed to leave before the allergies killed us. Those idiots actually believed us.

We left without even saying goodbye to our grandma. I think the birthday card was enough for her, and if she doesn’t like it, then she sure isn’t going to like it when I never talk to her again after going first round. I thought that was the end of thinking about my grandma until her funeral, but as usual I underestimated the Wayneman. As we were driving out, he whipped out what I thought was a credit card. After a closer inspection, it was my grandma’s gift certificate we got her to the mall for Christmas. There was seriously like $250 F’ing dollars on that thing, and Wayne stole it from her. That can only mean one thing – the Waynemaker and Gusalina were going on a shopping spree.

We decided it was probably best not to go to the malls near Ottoville because Wayne has fingerblasted just about every female Abercrombie employee who has worked there in the past 5 years, which could lead to some awkwardness, so we decided to go to a mall in Columbus instead.

Our first instinct was to go hit up the Dick’s Sporting Goods, but since I’m sponsored by pretty much every baseball company in America, not to mention Phiten, it didn’t really make sense to buy something I could get for free. Since we were in the mall, it left us with one store and one store only. Spencer F’ing Gifts.

We quickly found out that having $250 in Spencer Gifts meant that we could own pretty much the entire F’ing store, which was good because there were so many sweet things we could buy in there. Getting a sweet neon lamp for Wayne’s apartment was our first mission, and we had a serious “Mission: Accomplished” when we got both a “Live Nudes” neon sign and a Playboy lamp.

After that Wayne picked up some stuff for some girl who works at the bowling alley that he’s been giving Wayneshowers to. He grabbed two or three Playboy thongs that he’s going to make her wear while she dances to Jock Jams as he pounds Wayne Blasters. He also got a chocolate pen and said he was going to write “Property of Wayne” on her forehead with an arrow going all the way from her forehead to her vagina. So yeah, he’s an F’ing badass.

They had this 24” inflatable penis that Wayne asked if he could take out of the box and blow up. They normally don’t allow it, but I assured them that I was going first round so they let us. Wayne took the giant dong and started hitting all the girls in the store with it. A couple of them were with their boyfriends, and when they said something to Wayne he got in their face and asked them if they had an F’ing problem. They were seriously lucky that he was on probation, that’s for sure.

Since the penis was pretty F’ing gay, we weren’t going to buy it. Wayne gave it to the guy behind the counter and told him we were going to come by and buy it when we left the mall later. Of course, we had no intention of doing so, but the dude was an F’ing idiot, which was probably why he was working at Spencer Gifts in the first place.

After Wayne stocked up on all that sweet stuff, we made them add everything up so we could see how much we had left on the gift card. There was about $50 remaining, and there was only one logical way to spend it – on t-shirts with sweet F’ing sayings on them. It sucked that we only had $50 left, because there were so many that I wanted to get. I ended up picking one this one and this one, while Wayne got this one. We aren’t supposed to wear shirts like that to school, but I’m going first round so I don’t F’ing care.

We finished paying for all our Spencer’s stuff (Thanks Grandma) and we decided to hit the food court. We were pretty F’ing hungry, and we saw a Taco Bell, so it seemed like a natural fit. We passed by these lonely looking Asian douchers giving out free samples of whatever dog meat they were trying to sell on these little toothpicks. Since Wayne has always said “you can never trust food cooked by an Asian not wearing a black belt,” he took the sample and shook the food off the toothpick onto the floor just to watch the Chinaman’s eyes tear up. Wayne was still holding the toothpick and, noticing the obvious similarity, asked the Asian kid which was bigger – the toothpick, or his Asian dong. The kid paused for a second trying to form a response, which for Wayne was a good enough admission of being hung like a toothpick, because he shouted “your silence gives you away, tiny dick!”, flicked the toothpick at his face, and started walking to the Taco Bell.

It’s always hit or miss with a food court Taco Bell in terms of what the food selection is going to be, but if you read this blog you would know that it wasn’t the soft tacos that we were interested in. When we stopped at the liquor store back at my grandma’s, Wayne also grabbed a bottle of Smirnoff. So here at the mall, all we had to do were order a couple Baja Blasts and grab some Gatorade when we stopped for gas and we would have some road Wayne Blasters. So Wayne orders some bullshit food like quesadillas or something, just so we won’t be hungry anymore, and then asks for 2 extra large Bajas. At any normal Taco Bell this wouldn’t have been a problem, but the Taco Bell we were at didn’t have any F’ing Baja Blast. The doucher behind the counter was lucky that Wayne already hit that Asian with the toothpick, because if he still had it, he probably would have stabbed that 14 year old Mexican behind the counter right in his dirty mustache.

Since we were had already paid, we were forced to settle for regular Mountain Dew, which is pretty much the drink for second day draft picks. Gusalina is going first round, not second day, so yeah, it was pretty F’ing awful having to drink something other than Baja with my tacos. Seriously, I could taste the nasty aftertaste of failure with every drink of the Mountain Dew. Since you can’t make a Wayne Blaster without Baja Blast, we were now stuck with two half full cups of Mountain Dew. A normal doucher would just throw the cups away, but that’s the reason they aren’t as badass as me and the Waynestorm. I took the lid off of my cup, and then “accidentally” knocked it on the floor so some janitor who was probably related to Pritchard had to clean it up. One down, one to go. Wayne took his cup with him, just biding his time for the right moment.

We passed by a sports memorabilia store that had a bunch of shitty autographed cards from douchers like Randy Johnson and Dante Bichette. Yeah F’ing right, like anyone is going to want to buy anything with those douchers on them. I decided to be a good guy and help drive the store’s sales, so while Wayne distracted the dude working the cash register, I took out my Sharpie (if you’re going first round, you carry one on you at all times, doucher) and signed “Gusalina #4” to an entire row of framed baseball cards, along with a game worn Bernie Kosar Browns jersey. Maybe, just maybe, now they will actually be able to sell them.

At that point we were finally ready to take off from the mall. Wayne was still carrying his drink, and it was beginning to look like he was going to have to just throw it away in the trash. But as we were reaching the exit of the mall, a beacon of hope appeared in a mass of black t-shirts and F’ing Dickies. Looking into the store, it was like someone designated it as the gathering spot to be an emo doucher extra for the F’ing Twilight sequel. That’s right, I’m talking about Hot Topic. I didn’t even have time to point out the store before Wayne was popping off the lid to his Dew. Wayne deliberately slowed down his pace as the Hot Topic approached on our right, and in one swift motion as we passed the front of the store, threw the open drink into a crowd of homo douchers wearing eyeliner and yelled “Write some poetry and slit your wrists over how you just got an F’ing Wayne Shower you douchers!” then ran for the exit since we were probably going to get kicked out if we stayed.

I have such a sweet older brother.

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I know by now most of you douchers are curious about what Gusalina thinks in regards to the A-Rod situation. It’s no mystery that many scouts have compared my hitting ability to that of a young A-Rod, because my old trainer said that scouts told him and I told you douchers.

So obviously, if Alex Rodriguez says he took steroids, all of you jealous douchers are going to come Gusalina’s way assuming that I had to take them too in order to get the power that I have in the batter’s box. That’s simply false you douchers.

Gusalina is naturally fueled. The only things I will put in my body are Wayne Blasters, regular Baja Blast, Skoal, MySpace poon, EAS Myoplex, NO Xplode, and sometimes I make my stupid mom sprinkle creatine and Muscle Milk on my cereal in the morning. Nowhere does Gusalina take steroids you F’ing idiots!

Yes, there are some things that might make Gusalina look suspicious. First and most obviously, 92 with movement. So many of you douchers email gusalina4@hotmail.com and say I have to be on something just because my fastball moves more than most of you douchers’ curveballs and I strike the batter out pretty much every time I face them. It’s not Gusalina’s problem that he has a live arm. You point out that I don’t need to ice up after I toss in the bullpen, well, again it’s not my F’ing fault that my body heals so quickly that I can fire off splitter after splitter after slider and not be sore or in pain afterwards. It’s why I’m going first round and you’re not douchers.

Even when I escape the accusations about my pitching, though, they just go right to the power that I have with the bat in my hands. Yes, it’s true that I average one opposite field blast pretty much every other game and I pimp those blasts like it’s my F’ing job, but I’ve just got good bat speed and the other pitchers are practically pissing themselves when they face Gusalina, so I make them pay for throwing me stupid pitches. Yes, there was the time in summer ball that I took some doucher on what was pretty much a glorified check swing, but like I said before, if everybody had the talent that Gusalina has, then they’d be going first round too. But they aren’t, and instead are a bunch of jealous douchers who want to be Gusalina, and I just have one thing for them. Yeah, that’s right, an F’ing SuFi.

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I’m finally going to address what all you douchers have been whining about wanting to know for F’ing days now – my Valentine’s Day. I assume it’s because none of you lonely gaywads could get a date for yourself so you want to live through Gusalina. I mean, I can’t blame you, but life must be pretty empty without a fastball that goes 92, a sweet older brother Wayne, first round guarantees, or Myspace poon. Seriously, if I were you I’d probably just F’ing kill myself because you’re one small doucher step away from being Mark Titus. All you need is a blog that nobody reads and an inability to put autographed cards in the mail.

Anyways, after that queerbait doucher Kyle Pritchard broke my computer by telling me to go to a porn website that his dad didn’t pay for with his $350 a week paycheck (that will be the last time I make that mistake) I thought that I might end up not being able to find a girl on MySpace who was looking to fuel from the Gusaline Pump. Luckily for me and even more luckily for Pritchard, I got my computer fixed on the Thursday, which was plenty of time for Gusallina to find some skank looking to get fueled up by a first rounder. I had about 100 Myspace messages from girls all around the greater Ottoville area straight up clamoring to let Gusalina take them out, so it was pretty hard choosing one. I mean, even Zack F’ing Morris didn’t have this many girls trying to get on him at one time. I know we’re in a recession, but it was a little ridiculous how many of these Myspace skanks were trying to get some free Gusaline in their tanks.

So I had got black and white mirror pics of the finest girls in the finest bathrooms from the 419 area code, and was just about to randomly pick one when I saw this girl from Continental that I heard had nipple rings, so yeah, she was my girl. I mean, you put two big targets like that in centerfield like that and Gusalina is going to go after them. Before you douchers start asking, no I’m not going to tell you her F’ing name or her MySpace you perverts. Gusalina has a little thing called class, maybe you should try having it yourself sometime.

Anyways, even though this girl has sent me like 3 different pictures on MySpace, and almost certainly wanted to get sprayed with some Gusaline, I realized that since this was Valentine’s Day I needed to do something romantic. I don’t mean to brag to all you douchers, because you already know how F’ing awesome I am, but Gusalina is a pretty romantic guy. Knowing that, you should be thoroughly impressed when you hear that I saved all of her MySpace pictures to my computer, and then made a slideshow video of them. Since every slideshow video needs music, I set it to Plain White T’s “Hey There Delilah” and put “Want to go first round in Gusalina’s Valentine Draft?” at the end. I know, I know, “But Gusalina you rock so hard to bands like Creed and Nickelback and 3 Doors Down all the time, how could you use Plain White T’s?” Well, when you’re as romantic as I am, you just know when the time is right to slow things down a little.

Needless to say, this skank eats the video up. I mean, in the picture she sent me afterwards (her in the bathroom mirror holding up a piece of paper that says “YES!” except the F’ing idiot didn’t write it backwards so in the mirror it looked like “!SEY.” She’s seriously lucky she’s got a nice rack) her nipples were so hard at the prospect of Gusalina that she had to have been dangerously close to popping her nipple rings off with her THO. That would have been a dealbreaker, so she’s lucky that it didn’t happen.

So anyways, I tell her I’m going to give her a signing bonus (if you know what I mean) on Valentine’s Day and that she should be ready to go at 6:30 if she doesn’t want me to go pickup my backup skank instead. She asks where we’re going and by now I’m annoyed at talking to her and say that we’re going somewhere F’ing nice and that she needs to stop asking stupid questions. She messaged me a few times between then and the date but I pretended like I wasn’t on MySpace. I mean, seriously, Gusalina isn’t trying to get F’ing married here.

A couple days before the date I was going to make Pritchard come over and clean out all the old Baja cups from my sweet Camaro for the date and then make him vaccuum the floor and wash and wax it for messing up my computer and being a general white trash F’ing doucher, but Wayne came over and told me that I could borrow his Cumaro if I wanted.

Before you douchers go doing the only thing in life that you’re good at – jumping to conclusions – no, Wayne was not dateless on Valentine’s Day you morons. Wayne has been giving Wayneshowers to this skank over at the bowling alley for a couple of months now, and she had to work on Valentine’s Day, which was good for Wayne because he could go bowl for free for 4 hours and not have to pay for some skank’s Valentine’s dinner. It’s really a win-win situation. She doesn’t even make him wear bowling shoes, that’s how F’ing sweet my older brother Wayne is. That still doesn’t explain why Wayne wouldn’t need his Cumaro, so let me clue you douchers in. This bowling alley chick is seriously DTF 24/7, she’s that big of a skank And since Wayne can just take her out back behind the bowling alley and get some, he doesn’t want to have to deal with that skank trying to come home with him.

Wayne has that problem a lot, so he did what any sensible man would do for these situations – he bought an F’ing Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle. That way, when these groupies are all “Wayne, can I spend the night?” he just looks at them and says “How are you supposed to fit on the back of my Kawasaki Ninja, you idiot?” and then rides it home at 100mph+ without that skank.

Even though it’s not like Gusalina was going to come home empty-handed on Valentine’s Day, having the Cumaro was like having Gusalina on the mound in the 9th inning with a lead – Game F’ing Over. My stupid mom Donna asked me if I was going to get this girl flowers, and I gave her the SuFi and told her that a) I’m buying this skank dinner, b) that alone is more than I usually pay to defuel the Gusaline Pump, so I’m definitely not going to be buying flowers too, and c) this skank forfeited the right to receive flowers when she forged her parent’s signature and got nipple rings at the age of 17. These are words of wisdom, I hope you douchers are taking notes.

Since it’s still a romantic evening, I decided I would dress up for this skank. So I threw on my best Affliction shirt (a sweet-ass Josh Barnett one, douchers), matched it with a flat-billed 5950 White Sox hat and triple-layer Phiten combo, and walked out the door. I fired up the Cumaro, and the purring engine foreshadowed what was in store for the night.

So I drive for a little bit and finally get to this skank’s house. Her directions were really F’ing confusing which seriously pissed me off. Since Gusalina only deals with adults if they are scouts or agents, I wasn’t about to go knock on the door to let her know I was here. Instead, I laid on the horn for like 5 seconds straight. Except, I had forgot that Wayne had the horn sound replaced with the sound of some skank having an orgasm. I would have been embarrassed if I wasn’t going first round.

She eventually comes outside, but pisses me off yet again when I notice she’s wearing an F’ing sweatshirt. She get’s in the car and I pretend to be super mad at her for what she’s wearing - when I’m only a little mad because I already know she’s going to take it off in the backseat later - because I know that she’s going to try really hard to make it up to Gusalina the rest of the night.

We drive for a little bit and she’s obviously impressed with the Cumaro. Since Gusalina knows how to treat a lady, I decided to go pretty fancy for the evening and treat this skank to some Golden Corral. We get to Golden Corral at around 6:55, but I don’t let her get out of the car right away. Instead, we stay inside the Cumaro in the parking lot doing donuts like an F’ing badass would. At like 7:10 we finally make it inside, only to have my night instantly ruined.

One by one, my senses were dropping me clues to what I was about to discover. I smelled the distinct combo of oatmeal and motor oil. I could hear an adult voice forming words that a 6th grader would use in a twang that can only be explained by some form of inbreeding. I felt my fingers instinctively making the SuFi and I tasted a slight hint of imitation Axe body spray on my tongue. Finally, my eyes completed the picture. Staring me straight in the face, no more than 15 feet away, was the entire F’ing Pritchard family having dinner.

Being the upstanding citizen that I am, I ignored Kyle saying “Hey Gusalina!” and immediately walked to the manager and informed them of the family’s inability to pay for their meal, seeing as how they are on welfare and can’t even afford to buy Kyle the real Axe to cover his BO. Even though my suspicion was correct, and the Pritchards couldn’t afford the meal, the manager informed me that they got a discount because the heavyset woman who was waiting on the tables was none other than Mrs. Pritchard herself. I thought that she was working at the China Buffet, but she must have got fired for stealing fortune cookies to delude her children into thinking their fortunes will be anything but miserable.

Needless to say, I demanded to be waited on by someone other than Mrs. Pritchard, because any person who directly contributed to Kyle Pritchard’s life cannot be trusted to serve Gusalina and his date any food. Our new waiter was a man with a wispy mustache and no upward mobility, which, in comparison to my guaranteed future as a first rounder made me look even better to Little Miss Nipple Rings.

Since Gusalina knows how to treat a lady, I told her that she could have anything that she wanted at Golden Corral. Is it Gusalina’s fault that he looks like a generous pimp when she doesn’t realize that Golden Corral is an F’ing buffet? Of course not. So she starts going to town on everything from chicken fingers to corn on the cob, so I did what any gentleman would do – I told the pierced nipple piglet to slow down on the food before she made Gusalina puke in disgust. She got the memo and slowed down, but got a serious staredown from me when she went and got dessert. Seriously, whoever ends up marrying this girl is in for a rude awakening when the slutty girl whose only redeeming quality is her pierced nipples turns into the nasty fat girl whose only redeeming quality is her pierced nipples. Luckily for Gusalina, I don’t have to worry about that.

I’m not going to give you lonely douchers any chance to practice throwing your knuckleball to the thought of Gusalina and this girl in the backseat of the Cumaro so I’ll keep the details brief. Yes, the nipples were pierced. No, she didn’t have pepperoni nipples. I would have kicked her out of the Cumaro right then and there if she did. If you want to know all the things that this Continental skank was willing to do, I’m not going to tell you. All I will tell you is that the only thing I couldn’t convince her to do was an F’ing Menudo Handshake. Look it up douchers.

So after I got done draining the Gusaline Pump of about 3 days worth of fuel all over her sweatshirt (serves her right for F’ing wearing it in the first place), I decided the night was over and I took the skank home. As I pulled into her driveway, it was clear she was looking for a goodnight kiss or something. Sucked to be her. Right after I got done with her in the back seat I had thrown in a MONSTER pinch of Skoal (citrus, you douchers) so I wouldn’t have to give her a goodnight kiss. Gusalina is always a step ahead, can’t let them get attached.

Once I dropped Nipples off I drove past Wayne’s to see if he was home. His F’ing sweet Kawasaki Ninja was in the driveway so I stopped in to see how many times he banged the skank from the bowling alley. According to Wayne, he set up a system where he would bowl a game and if he rolled over 150 then he would go outside and bang the girl. What she didn’t realize was that Wayne is in a bowling league, so yeah, he was getting some tonight. He said that he bowled 5 games and 4 of them were over 150, so you do the math. One of the times he took her outside, when he finished he made her stay outside with her top off to see if his Waynedrops turned into Waynecicles. Yeah, my brother Wayne is kind of a badass.

Since he rode his Kawasaki Ninja home, there was nobody else there. We weren’t really feeling like having Wayne Blasters so we decided to drink Wayne’s newest creation – The Wayne Bomb. For all you douchers who want to know what a Wayne Bomb is, it’s simple. Mix Jaeger and vodka in a double shot, light the top on fire, drop it in a Taco Bell cup 3/4 full of Baja Blast, and chug it. The result is F’ing delicious. If I was the one who came up with it, I would have named it the Flamethrower, since I throw 92 with movement, but quick thinking like is the reason why Wayne is such a badass.

We pound like 3 of those apiece and I’ve got a pretty strong buzz going on. It’s like 2am by now, and we had just got done watching a live Limp Bizkit DVD when Wayne got a phone call. Turns out some stripper has become addicted to Wayneshowers and she wanted to give herself a little Valentine’s present from the Waynemaker now that she had got off her shift. That’s the thing about my sweet older brother Wayne, just when you think he’s done, he brings another girl home, takes her in his bedroom, and blasts Jock Jams. Since I was buzzed, Wayne wouldn’t let me drive his Cumaro home, so I had to sit in the living room listening to Wayne blast “No Limit” while he blasts this stripper. She didn’t even bring a friend home for Gusalina, which in my opinion is straight F’ing bullshit, but if Wayne was getting some you really can’t be upset.

The next couple of days that girl kept trying to MySpace message me, but I ignored them. When the messages persisted, I deleted her as a friend. I think that was a good reminder that she was just this year’s Valentine’s Day conquest for Gusalina.

Stealing Home on 15 Year Old Girls All Across Ohio,
Gusalina #4