Okay, so you douchers have been flooding gusalina4@hotmail.com with questions questions about my F'ing suspension. Listen douchers - it's over. I'm back at school, and that freshtard is fearing for his F'ing life because Gusalina is going to give him a 92mph fistball the first chance he gets. My dad wasn't even mad at me for what I did. He knows I'm going first round, so there's not even a need for me to do well in school. It's my doucher psycho mom that is getting on my nerves. She was all "Gusalina, I don't want you to love me or give me any money when you go first round, so I'm grounding you."
Of course, I fired back with a "Yeah F'ing right, Donna" which really got her pissed because she changed her mind on grounding me and instead took away my F'ing Camaro, which she probably thought in her mind would be worse since I couldn't drive. Apparently she doesn't realize that if you have a sweet older brother who drives a Cumero, you don't need a car of your own to party.
So anyways, I'm on Myspace Saturday night looking for a ride to poon city. I had 3 or 4 solid options lined up but I was really F'ing intrigued by this girl Katie. She messaged me and said her parents were out of town, that she was having a basement party, that she really wanted me to come to her house and that there would be beer and music and shit, and then she asked me if I was allowed to come because of the suspension and all. I hit her back and told her a) no need for beer, I'm bringing F'ing Wayne Blasters and b) I didn't have a car but I had a friend that did. I'm sure I don't need to explain to you douchers by now that the friend I would be bringing would be none other than The Waynemaker himself.
I stayed on Myspace for a little longer just to make Katie think that I might end up going to someone else's party instead just so she wants me more. Yeah, I kind of have Myspace game. Don't ask me for tips, douchers, it's an ability I've had since birth, and there's no way you douchers could do the things Gusalina does. But I digress. Anyways, I'm on Myspace when white trash Kyle Pritchard messages me and said something like "Hey Gusalina, where's the party tonight?" Naturally, I told that welfare doucher that we were all going to a party in Continental and no, he couldn't ride with me. I didn't want his white trash K-Mart clothes making Katie's basement smell. If I wanted to spend an entire night in a smelly room I'd go visit my grandma in her nursing home. I sure as hell don't want to do that, so I'm definitely not going to let Kyle Pritchard be anywhere near me when I can help it.
So 7pm rolls around and I hear what sounds like an entire F'ing pride of lions in my driveway. I look outside, and of course, it's just the roar of the Cumero. I throw on a sweet Yankees Majestic pullover (which is about the only good Christmas present my stupid mom has ever got me) and got in the Cumero. Since this isn't Amateur F'ing Hour, Wayne and I did the sensible thing when a fingerblasting is likely to happen later in the night - we hit the movie theater for a DDR warm-up. We didn't stay for too long, just three or four games to get our blood flowing and to check that we were still in the high scores (we were you F'ing idiots). The people in the theater were disappointed when we stopped. Some old lady with saggy tits and a noticeable mustache even came up and told me that the way Wayne and I moved reminded her of Tom Hanks playing the piano in Big, whatever that F'ing means.
After we left the movie theater we did the next logical thing - stopped back at Wayne's to make some F'ing Wayne Blasters. We didn't trust Katie to have a proper amount of lemon-lime Gatorade, and Wayne Blasters are something you don't leave to chance. So we head out the door with a perfectly mixed two liter of Wayne Blaster apiece and hit the road for Katie's house. Wayne just went to Best Buy and got some sweet _ speakers installed, so yeah, we listened to Limp Bizkit's Greatest Hitz as loud as it could go. Wayne said it would help us focus, because tonight we were definitely doing it all for the nookie.
We show up at Katie's and it becomes clear to me that she was an F'ing liar. When she said "sweet basement party", she didn't mean it. Here's why I say this. We walked in and the first thing I noticed was that the basement was filled with these soccer playing douchers, who I specifically told Katie not to invite. Next, that stupid cockgobbler tried to get everyone to play Spin the Bottle. Wayne and I did for a couple turns while finishing up our Wayne Blasters, but stopped after Wayne said that the bottle was pointing at his WayneMaker and not his lips but the junior girl who spun wouldn't kiss it. You can't pick and choose the rules. I tried to rectify the situation by suggesting that Katie and I go play 7 Minutes in Heaven, which some soccer doucher ruined by whining about "what are they going to do while you're in there" or some shit. It was clear that he was trying to cockblock Gusalina, and I was pissed. I had specifically worn breakaway windpants to the party so I could quickly access the Gusaline Pump without having to take off my sweet Shox. You think I would leave those unattended in a party full of jealous douchers? Yeah F'ing right. I guarantee if I did that then someone like Kyle Pritchard would swoop in and try to sell them for a month's worth of food for his white trash family.
Speaking of F'ing Pritchard, despite my best efforts, I heard "Gusalina, I thought you were going to Continental tonight?" from behind me as I was trying to tell Katie about the benefits of diesel fuel from the Gusaline Pump. Needless to say, I was beyond pissed at the sound of Pritchard's voice, but I almost committed F'ing murder when I turned around and saw what Pritchard was wearing. Instead of brand new Nike Shox, he was wearing Athletic Works Shox, which I am absolutely positive were a hand-me-down from his dad. And he was wearing F'ing breakways too, except he wasn't wearing them to quickly bang some girl. No, Pritchard was wearing them because his family shopped at Goodwill the day that they brought out new clothes and he got F'ing lucky. He seriously won the F'ing Welfare Lottery. I was so pissed, because the sight of looking anything remotely like Kyle Pritchard meant that I wasn't going to get any from Katie that night, so Wayne and I did what anybody would do in our situation - we held down karaoke for an entire half hour.
We wanted to start off with some x-treme songs, like "With Arms Wide Open" or anything by Nickelback, but we were quickly disappointed to find out that Katie and her queer friends apparently bought the Backstreet Boys karaoke CD instead. This killed our plan to change the words to "With Legs Wide Open" and get the remaining girls wet for the Waynestorm in hopes he would cover them with his flesh umbrella. Wayne was pretty pissed at first, and he even spit on some soccer doucher who told him to calm down, but we eventually settled on Sir Mix-a-Lot's "Baby Got Back." After we finished laying down an F'ing karaoke masterpiece, I stepped aside and let the partygoers experience a verbal Waynestorm. Wayne went about a solid 20 seconds of freestyle while I threw my hands at the crowd as if to say "yeah, that's my F'ing brother, be jealous you douchers." Unfortunately for Katie, Wayne dropped a sweet line about her being a cocktease who throws shitty parties. We were asked to leave, and Wayne was such a badass that he told her she was going to have to wait while he finished his Wayne Blaster.
Once Wayne finished chugging the best drink on the F'ing planet, we left Katie's house, just the two of us. Or so we thought. As we were leaving, F'ing Pritchard came outside with us and said he didn't have a ride home. He asked if he could ride with us, and Wayne told him the only way he could is if he went back in the house and called the cops and said some soccer doucher was raping all the girls in the house. We left in the Cumero after Pritchard made the call on the home phone (we weren't about to let him use our F'ing cell phones). That will show Katie not to put out when she messages Gusalina.
Since the night was still young and Wayne and I both had a two liter of Wayne Blasters keeping us horny, we decided to go to the strip club. One of Wayne's old baseball teammates is a bouncer there so I got to go in even though I'm not 18 yet. Wayne said he's totally going to give me his old ID though so I can get in without him in the future. My brother's such an F'ing badass. Since I was still pissed at Pritchard for copying my look, I told the bouncer not to let him in. So Pritchard had to sit in the car while all these girls took turns trying to get the Gusaline Pump to spill. Nice try ladies, you have to try a little harder. Maybe use your F'ing mouths next time. We hung out in the strip club for about another half hour even after we ran out of money just out of the hope that Pritchard would F'ing freeze to death while he was waiting.
To our dismay we came outside to see Pritchard's stupid F'ing smile that someone could only have if his family couldn't afford braces. Since our Wayne Blasters were starting to fade, we were getting hit with some serious F'ing hunger. We could have gone to Taco Bell to grab some Baja, but that would have just made us pissed because we didn't have any Smirnoff or Gatorade to make Wayne Blasters with, so we decided to go get pizza instead. This girl I use to splash with my Gusaline Pump works there, which meant we were pretty much F'ing guaranteed to get a discount. Wayne didn't know that I had been with this girl before, because the first thing he asked when we sat down at her table was, "Hey, have you ever been fingerblasted by a guy who does it with his hand forming the Westside sign? Do you want to be?" This put me in a tough spot - do I tell off my sweet older bro for saying that to this girl I've been with, or do I try to help his Wayneclouds unleash a Waynestorm? Just kidding douchers, it wasn't a tough spot at all. Three words for you douchers - Bros before Hos. I don't care if Wayne tries to get with her, she has big hammers. The only girl I would never let Wayne get with is my F'ing dream girl. If he touched her I would seriously consider throwing him a fistball. I told Wayne he was a badass and he was definitely going to get some tonight, and then made Pritchard call his white trash dad and wake him up to come get us so Wayne could take that girl home.
After we ordered our pizza, I went up and added black olives to it. I don't even like black olives, and me and Wayne even picked them off when the pizza came out, but I knew that Pritchard was allergic to them, so he couldn't eat the pizza with us. That's what Pritchard gets for trying to steal Gusalina's look. There is justice in this F'ing world afterall.
With all that excitement, you might think that I didn't find time to get any baseball work in. Think again douchers. I spent the better part of last week throwing in the bullpen. For anyone asking how fast my fastball was going - I didn't throw it. I only threw curveballs and splitters, because you don't have to practice 92 with movement. And no week would be complete without some serious F'ing iron pumpage. I blasted my bis, tris, shoulders and pecs like they were opposite field homeruns. You might think I have to be on steroids for me to put up 170 for one and a half (F'ing Pritchard was spotting me and helped me on my second rep but I definitely could have done it without that doucher's help) but you couldn't be further from the truth. Gusalina is all legal and for all ages. You can think I'm on HGH all you want, but I'm just on a steady diet of NO Xplode, N30, CE2, and EAS Myoplex. I pop a couple CE2s right before the workout to get the blood flowing, and stack that with the NO Xplode and N30 in between sets of curls so my veins are about to rip out of my F'ing forearms. I take EAS Myoplex after my workout, because Brady Quinn takes it and he's an F'ing beast. He might be the only person in Ohio who can throw harder than Gusalina. Just kidding you douchers, nobody throws harder than Gusalina.
One last thing for all you Gusalina groupies out there. Since my blog is probably the most famous future first-rounder blog on the internet, I would be an F'ing idiot to not sell some Gusalina shirts to you douchers. You might not be able to play ball like Gusalina, but at least you can try and look like Gusalina. Wayne's roommate is designing them. He's a tattoo artist, so yeah, they're going to be F'ing sweet. More details to follow.
Dropping bombs like Enola Gay,
Gusalina #4
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Go Big or Go 20th Round
It's not like I even needed another reason for you douchers to feel like I'm a bigger F'ing badass than you, but I'll give you another anyways. I got F'ing suspended for 3 F'ing days.
It all happened in gym class. We were playing dodgeball and I was seriously F'ing close to murdering people I was throwing the ball so hard. I didn't even care if I was throwing at girls. I mean, when I make it to the big leagues, am I really going to have to worry about gender when I'm hurling brushbacks? I even hit white trash Kyle Pritchard in his ribs again. He cried like an F'ing bitch. Seriously Pritchard, that is why you don't fingerbang skanks like I do.
But anyways, I'm hitting these freshman girls so hard that they'd be having F'ing miscarriages if they were pregnant (just one less Gusalina Jr. trying to profit off my Hall of Fame status is what I say), when all of a sudden I get nicked by a dodgeball. Since there was no F'ing way I was going to leave the game, I told everyone that this douche-ass freshman got hit first and then the ball touched me. For anyone asking me who this F'ing freshtard was - I don't know and I don't F'ing care. I don't learn the names of any freshman guys and I only learn the names of freshman girls when they change their F'ing Myspace names too much. Seriously, how am I supposed to coordinate a fingerbanging when you change your F'ing name from <3jessica<3 Jonas Brothers song lyric? So this freshman doucher, the one I didn't see get hit with the dodgeball, but I was pretty F'ing sure since I'm the best athlete in the school and it would be hard to hit me, not only doesn't go out, he decided to sign an F'ing death certificate for the remaining days of Gusalina's life at Ottoville High School. This doucher decided to go tell the substitute teacher on Gusalina for having a dip in. At first I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Hell yeah I have a dip in at all times! I'm going to play F'ing professional baseball, so yeah, I'm kind of allowed to. For some reason, my teacher didn't find this to be the case, mostly because she's just some jealous skank who wants to fuel from the Gusaline pump but I won't let her. She was all like "You need to go see whoever's in charge of this school so they can punish you" and I was like "You must be an F'ing idiot lady. I'm Gusalina - 92mph with movement, first round, ring an F'ing bell? - I'm in charge of this F'ing school." She just mumbled some lesbian bullshit after that and made me go to the office. Since the principal of this gay ass school couldn't hit my 92mph fastball, he's totally jealous of Gusalina and tries to take out the fact that he has a 3 inch dong on me. He said something like "Normally, this would just be detention, but since I don't like your attitude or the fact that you're going to go first round and make the Hall of Fame, I'm going to give you three days suspension." What a dummy. Suspended? He might as well have given me day passes to Cedar F'ing Point, because three days with no school is three days for Gusalina to F'ing party. This all happened on Tuesday. Naturally, I did what any person would have done in my situation - I called my F'ing badass older brother Wayne.
Wayne thought it was F'ing sweet that I didn't have school. He said I could come crash at his place just outside Ottoville. When I told him what had happened, he was like "Yeah, you should have seen that F'ing coming from a mile away. I went to school with that substitute teacher and she was a total softball bulldyke. She might have spent every waking second of her life trying to get Wayned on by the Waynemaker." Yeah, Wayne's nickname is Waynemaker because he hit so many F'ing home runs in high school that people started to think that he was making it rain, or should I say making it Wayne. So Wayne comes back to our house while I grab a hooded sweatshirt, F'ing sweet flat-billed hat, M Frames, and a pair of jeans with a sweet rip on my thigh that makes girls think that they can see the Gusaline pump hanging out of but really they can just see my gym shorts because people that don't wear gym shorts underneath their jeans are F'ing homos. I tell my mom that I got suspended from school and she starts to run her F'ing mouth like a psycho so I'm forced to tell her that I won't get suspended for dipping at the All-Star game so she needs to take an F'ing chill pill and get that through her thick skull. The whole time she was yelling, Wayne was behind her and he kept mocking everything she said. He's such a badass.
So Wayne and I start heading for his house. I was all like "Wayne, we should stop at Taco Bell so we can pick up some F'ing Baja Blast before we get to your house" and he looked me square in the face and said "Gusalina you're an F'ing idiot, I have Baja Blast at my house." Being something of a Baja Blast expert I immediately called bullshit on Wayne since you can only get Baja Blast from Taco Bell. That's when Wayne told me something that proves once and for all that he's an F'ing badass and could kick the shit out of your older brother. He goes, "Gusalina, do you remember that total butterface I was making Wayne showers on a couple months ago? It sure as hell wasn't because I thought she was a good person. I met her at Taco Bell, and I used her to steal me a couple cases of Baja Blast syrup." Holy F'ing damn. Besides being probably the only person on the planet who might be able to make contact with my fastball, Wayne is also probably the smartest guy in Ohio. Now he doesn't even have to go to Taco Bell to get a Baja whenever he wants one, he just has to go to his F'ing kitchen!
Since I didn't have school the next day, you should know the next step by now. We drove to F'ing Kroger, where Wayne picked up a bottle of Smirnoff and three cans of dip - for each of us. So yeah, we kind of know how to party. We go back to Wayne's house and I'm all like "Do you want me to make you a Baja and Smirnoff?" and he was like "No, dummy, make me an F'ing Wayne Blaster." I felt really stupid at that moment because I didn't know what a Wayne Blaster is, but then I didn't feel too bad anymore because you guys don't either and I'm going first round, so yeah, not feeling that bad anymore. A Wayne Blaster is - get this - Baja Blast, Smirnoff, and some F'ing Lemon-Lime Gatorade, because we are F'ing athletes and we need to stay fueled like athletes you douchers. After about 5 or 6 Wayne Blasters I'm feeling a pretty decent buzz while at the same time feeling like I can run a sub-6:00 mile because of the F'ing Gatorade, so Wayne and I decide to do what any man would do - go find some F'ing chicks. Wayne doesn't have a computer, so I couldn't get on my Myspace, which meant that we had to do the next best thing - go to the movie theater, and DDR the poon into submission.
I started to get into my Camaro when I saw the look on Wayne's face. It was telling me that if we wanted to guarantee ourselves some sweet vag tonight, we would ride in his Cumaro instead. Duh. So we get in there, and Wayne isn't even drunk because he can drink about 10 Wayne Blasters and not even feel it. So he's driving to the theater and has to be going at least 125 (he took the governor off of his Cumaro you F'ing retard). We get to the theater and its just swarming with ladies craving for some Gusaline. Obviously, since I'm wearing a sweet hoodie and hat combo so I kind of draw some attention, but once my feet touched those DDR arrows, they might as well have shut down the movie theater, because everybody was there to see the premier of "Gusalina and the Waynemaker Dancing" and we were about to win some Academy F'ing Awards. I don't mean to brag, but I'm kind of good at DDR. Like, really good. So I'm moving my feet to the beat, and I'm dominating expert even though I'm buzzing from the Wayne Blasters and the fat dip I have in my mouth. Even Wayne stopped playing because he didn't want to get shown up by Gusalina, and he has won two different DDR tournaments at the mall, so yeah, I'm kind of good. All of these girls are just F'ing losing their mind over how good I'm doing. Like seriously, they're reaching out and touching me and shit when I'm dancing, which in my opinion is just short of charging the mound on my list of Gusalina No-No's. One girl touched me while I was dancing and she made me mess up and end my game. I freaked out on her and told her that I was defriending her on Myspace. I might as well have been her stepfather molesting her because she started bawling her eyes out about it. I don't care though, I'm F'ing big league, and if you want to be around me, you need to know your F'ing place. There were these two girls there that seriously wanted to add "-Trotter" to their last name because they were giving looks to me and Wayne that said "We want to F'ing dome up both of you guys, tonight." Wayne is kind of an expert in that look so he went over and started talking to them while I added my initials to the DDR high score. He came back to me and said "These girls are both 17, let's go to the Cumaro." And like that, we were off to Wayne's house.
Wayne's Cumaro has leather seats, which I always used to hate sitting in when it got hot in the summer, but tonight I figured out it's easier to clean them off when you have two 17 year olds who are seriously F'ing wet at the thought of doming up a first rounder. I'm thinking about changing my Camaro seats to leather now too. Even though these girls were a done deal in my opinion, totally wanting Gusaline, Wayne decided to go in for the kill. When he emerged from the bedroom with his acoustic guitar, I knew what time it was. It was "Butterfly" time. Wayne played the acoustic guitar while I laid down a hybring singing/rapping flow that would have made Shifty Shellshock jealous. At the end of the song, Wayne told the girl that he was a weatherman and definitely saw a Waynestorm in the forecast. Like that, it was on. He took her to his room, and then the stereo started blasting "No Limit," which meant that Wayne was pounding this girl to Jock Jams, Vol 2. Wayne might have softened her up with the acoustic guitar, but he was F'ing getting after it in the bedroom. And what better way to do that than with the true music of an athlete, Jock Jams?
The other girl was still in the living room with me, so I made two more Wayne Blasters and did the two F'ing things Gusalina does best - talking about how good I am at baseball, and fingerblasting. In no time she was begging for the Gusaline pump, and who was I to tell her no? One thing led to another and Gusalina was in need of a refuel so I stepped outside to take a dip. While I was outside, Jock Jams played it's last track, which meant that the girls were F'ing out of luck. Wayne came out of his bedroom and told them it was time to go, because they sure as hell couldn't spend the night. He was nice enough to offer to take them home, but he made me let him drive my Camaro because, as he's said before, his Cumaro is used for three things - going to work, getting poon, and beer runs - and we were doing none of the three. The skank who I just pitched a no-hitter to (would have been a perfect game but I had trouble finishing up the ninth inning because of the Wayne Blasters, if you know what I mean) had Gusaline stains all over her sweatshirt (I had to use something to clean up with or Wayne would have beat my ass for making a mess on his couch) so she asked if she could have mine. Yeah F'ing right! That sweatshirt would be all over eBay by tomorrow, there was no way I was letting her have it. You can freeze for all Gusalina cares, it serves as punishment anyways for not growing bigger boobs in the first place to keep yourself warm you surfboard.
Wayne dropped his girl off at her house and I made her get out at that house too. She can tell her parents she was with Gusalina. I bet they won't even be mad. In fact, it will probably be the only time in her entire life that her dad loves her. Once we got rid of those two sluts, Wayne and I decided to get back at the school for being such dip Nazis. We drove down to the high school, and put the fattest chews in our F'ing mouths. We spit every last drop into the snow, and then we took that snow, made snowballs, and threw them at the F'ing school. Obviously it wasn't going 92 because there weren't any seams, but I can almost guarantee they were going over 80. They were going so fast that I tried to get Wayne to film me throwing them for scouts but he ball-tapped me instead. I guess that's why he's the F'ing master. I accidentally threw one of the snowballs through one of the windows, and I was worried for a second, but then I remembered that the sheriff and my dad played baseball together back in the day so yeah, I don't think I'll be getting in trouble for that one.
The next day Wayne made me drink two Wayne Blasters at breakfast and then he tied a sled to the back of my Camaro and started doing donuts with it. I fell off and was a little dizzy at first and I couldn't tell if it was from the Wayne Blaster or hitting my head on the ice. Maybe that was what Wayne F'ing intended. Before you ask, no I wasn't wearing a helmet. I don't wear them in the batting cages, I sure as hell am not going to wear one outside of baseball.
That's about it in terms of what I've done while suspended. I still have tomorrow too, so hopefully tonight me and Wayne go out and snag two more girls looking to get a little first round and first round older brother in them.
You guys might be wondering why I didn't talk much about baseball this blog. Well, I've been experiencing some elbow soreness. After I hit Kyle "I'm on Welfare" Pritchard in his ribs, he tried to apologize to me for not realizing how much my fastball moved and ruining my radar baseball by giving me his dad's password to Naughty America. I was like "Pritchard, you're poor but your dad still pays for porn every month? Figures" and then I totally went home to check it out. Since this was before I had the Waynemaker as my wingman, I definitely pumped some ched to multiple scenes, and then I did what any man would do. I changed the password to the account so Pritchard's dad can't get on it anymore. That's how Gusalina rolls.
I wasn't going to say anything to Mark Titus, because actions speak louder than words, but then I saw this. Now, I know this wasn't you Titus, because you're too much of a sissy to even respond to Gusalina, but you need to tell whichever one of your little fanboys that thinks they can mess with Gusalina and not get their face pounded in by a hand that throws 92 and his brother the Waynemaker that they can't, and if they were smart (which they aren't), they would just back down. I know you've backed down more than once Titus. I'm still not going to let up on you until you send me the cards, but I'm at least going to show you mercy for the time being. You'd still better send me my F'ing cards, because now you have to deal with me, and Wayne. And Wayne's never lost a fight in his entire life. Wayne doesn't rhyme with "pain" for no reason you dummy. You decide - send the cards, or lose your life.
Pimping my three-run blasts,
Gusalina #4
It all happened in gym class. We were playing dodgeball and I was seriously F'ing close to murdering people I was throwing the ball so hard. I didn't even care if I was throwing at girls. I mean, when I make it to the big leagues, am I really going to have to worry about gender when I'm hurling brushbacks? I even hit white trash Kyle Pritchard in his ribs again. He cried like an F'ing bitch. Seriously Pritchard, that is why you don't fingerbang skanks like I do.
But anyways, I'm hitting these freshman girls so hard that they'd be having F'ing miscarriages if they were pregnant (just one less Gusalina Jr. trying to profit off my Hall of Fame status is what I say), when all of a sudden I get nicked by a dodgeball. Since there was no F'ing way I was going to leave the game, I told everyone that this douche-ass freshman got hit first and then the ball touched me. For anyone asking me who this F'ing freshtard was - I don't know and I don't F'ing care. I don't learn the names of any freshman guys and I only learn the names of freshman girls when they change their F'ing Myspace names too much. Seriously, how am I supposed to coordinate a fingerbanging when you change your F'ing name from <3jessica<3 Jonas Brothers song lyric? So this freshman doucher, the one I didn't see get hit with the dodgeball, but I was pretty F'ing sure since I'm the best athlete in the school and it would be hard to hit me, not only doesn't go out, he decided to sign an F'ing death certificate for the remaining days of Gusalina's life at Ottoville High School. This doucher decided to go tell the substitute teacher on Gusalina for having a dip in. At first I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Hell yeah I have a dip in at all times! I'm going to play F'ing professional baseball, so yeah, I'm kind of allowed to. For some reason, my teacher didn't find this to be the case, mostly because she's just some jealous skank who wants to fuel from the Gusaline pump but I won't let her. She was all like "You need to go see whoever's in charge of this school so they can punish you" and I was like "You must be an F'ing idiot lady. I'm Gusalina - 92mph with movement, first round, ring an F'ing bell? - I'm in charge of this F'ing school." She just mumbled some lesbian bullshit after that and made me go to the office. Since the principal of this gay ass school couldn't hit my 92mph fastball, he's totally jealous of Gusalina and tries to take out the fact that he has a 3 inch dong on me. He said something like "Normally, this would just be detention, but since I don't like your attitude or the fact that you're going to go first round and make the Hall of Fame, I'm going to give you three days suspension." What a dummy. Suspended? He might as well have given me day passes to Cedar F'ing Point, because three days with no school is three days for Gusalina to F'ing party. This all happened on Tuesday. Naturally, I did what any person would have done in my situation - I called my F'ing badass older brother Wayne.
Wayne thought it was F'ing sweet that I didn't have school. He said I could come crash at his place just outside Ottoville. When I told him what had happened, he was like "Yeah, you should have seen that F'ing coming from a mile away. I went to school with that substitute teacher and she was a total softball bulldyke. She might have spent every waking second of her life trying to get Wayned on by the Waynemaker." Yeah, Wayne's nickname is Waynemaker because he hit so many F'ing home runs in high school that people started to think that he was making it rain, or should I say making it Wayne. So Wayne comes back to our house while I grab a hooded sweatshirt, F'ing sweet flat-billed hat, M Frames, and a pair of jeans with a sweet rip on my thigh that makes girls think that they can see the Gusaline pump hanging out of but really they can just see my gym shorts because people that don't wear gym shorts underneath their jeans are F'ing homos. I tell my mom that I got suspended from school and she starts to run her F'ing mouth like a psycho so I'm forced to tell her that I won't get suspended for dipping at the All-Star game so she needs to take an F'ing chill pill and get that through her thick skull. The whole time she was yelling, Wayne was behind her and he kept mocking everything she said. He's such a badass.
So Wayne and I start heading for his house. I was all like "Wayne, we should stop at Taco Bell so we can pick up some F'ing Baja Blast before we get to your house" and he looked me square in the face and said "Gusalina you're an F'ing idiot, I have Baja Blast at my house." Being something of a Baja Blast expert I immediately called bullshit on Wayne since you can only get Baja Blast from Taco Bell. That's when Wayne told me something that proves once and for all that he's an F'ing badass and could kick the shit out of your older brother. He goes, "Gusalina, do you remember that total butterface I was making Wayne showers on a couple months ago? It sure as hell wasn't because I thought she was a good person. I met her at Taco Bell, and I used her to steal me a couple cases of Baja Blast syrup." Holy F'ing damn. Besides being probably the only person on the planet who might be able to make contact with my fastball, Wayne is also probably the smartest guy in Ohio. Now he doesn't even have to go to Taco Bell to get a Baja whenever he wants one, he just has to go to his F'ing kitchen!
Since I didn't have school the next day, you should know the next step by now. We drove to F'ing Kroger, where Wayne picked up a bottle of Smirnoff and three cans of dip - for each of us. So yeah, we kind of know how to party. We go back to Wayne's house and I'm all like "Do you want me to make you a Baja and Smirnoff?" and he was like "No, dummy, make me an F'ing Wayne Blaster." I felt really stupid at that moment because I didn't know what a Wayne Blaster is, but then I didn't feel too bad anymore because you guys don't either and I'm going first round, so yeah, not feeling that bad anymore. A Wayne Blaster is - get this - Baja Blast, Smirnoff, and some F'ing Lemon-Lime Gatorade, because we are F'ing athletes and we need to stay fueled like athletes you douchers. After about 5 or 6 Wayne Blasters I'm feeling a pretty decent buzz while at the same time feeling like I can run a sub-6:00 mile because of the F'ing Gatorade, so Wayne and I decide to do what any man would do - go find some F'ing chicks. Wayne doesn't have a computer, so I couldn't get on my Myspace, which meant that we had to do the next best thing - go to the movie theater, and DDR the poon into submission.
I started to get into my Camaro when I saw the look on Wayne's face. It was telling me that if we wanted to guarantee ourselves some sweet vag tonight, we would ride in his Cumaro instead. Duh. So we get in there, and Wayne isn't even drunk because he can drink about 10 Wayne Blasters and not even feel it. So he's driving to the theater and has to be going at least 125 (he took the governor off of his Cumaro you F'ing retard). We get to the theater and its just swarming with ladies craving for some Gusaline. Obviously, since I'm wearing a sweet hoodie and hat combo so I kind of draw some attention, but once my feet touched those DDR arrows, they might as well have shut down the movie theater, because everybody was there to see the premier of "Gusalina and the Waynemaker Dancing" and we were about to win some Academy F'ing Awards. I don't mean to brag, but I'm kind of good at DDR. Like, really good. So I'm moving my feet to the beat, and I'm dominating expert even though I'm buzzing from the Wayne Blasters and the fat dip I have in my mouth. Even Wayne stopped playing because he didn't want to get shown up by Gusalina, and he has won two different DDR tournaments at the mall, so yeah, I'm kind of good. All of these girls are just F'ing losing their mind over how good I'm doing. Like seriously, they're reaching out and touching me and shit when I'm dancing, which in my opinion is just short of charging the mound on my list of Gusalina No-No's. One girl touched me while I was dancing and she made me mess up and end my game. I freaked out on her and told her that I was defriending her on Myspace. I might as well have been her stepfather molesting her because she started bawling her eyes out about it. I don't care though, I'm F'ing big league, and if you want to be around me, you need to know your F'ing place. There were these two girls there that seriously wanted to add "-Trotter" to their last name because they were giving looks to me and Wayne that said "We want to F'ing dome up both of you guys, tonight." Wayne is kind of an expert in that look so he went over and started talking to them while I added my initials to the DDR high score. He came back to me and said "These girls are both 17, let's go to the Cumaro." And like that, we were off to Wayne's house.
Wayne's Cumaro has leather seats, which I always used to hate sitting in when it got hot in the summer, but tonight I figured out it's easier to clean them off when you have two 17 year olds who are seriously F'ing wet at the thought of doming up a first rounder. I'm thinking about changing my Camaro seats to leather now too. Even though these girls were a done deal in my opinion, totally wanting Gusaline, Wayne decided to go in for the kill. When he emerged from the bedroom with his acoustic guitar, I knew what time it was. It was "Butterfly" time. Wayne played the acoustic guitar while I laid down a hybring singing/rapping flow that would have made Shifty Shellshock jealous. At the end of the song, Wayne told the girl that he was a weatherman and definitely saw a Waynestorm in the forecast. Like that, it was on. He took her to his room, and then the stereo started blasting "No Limit," which meant that Wayne was pounding this girl to Jock Jams, Vol 2. Wayne might have softened her up with the acoustic guitar, but he was F'ing getting after it in the bedroom. And what better way to do that than with the true music of an athlete, Jock Jams?
The other girl was still in the living room with me, so I made two more Wayne Blasters and did the two F'ing things Gusalina does best - talking about how good I am at baseball, and fingerblasting. In no time she was begging for the Gusaline pump, and who was I to tell her no? One thing led to another and Gusalina was in need of a refuel so I stepped outside to take a dip. While I was outside, Jock Jams played it's last track, which meant that the girls were F'ing out of luck. Wayne came out of his bedroom and told them it was time to go, because they sure as hell couldn't spend the night. He was nice enough to offer to take them home, but he made me let him drive my Camaro because, as he's said before, his Cumaro is used for three things - going to work, getting poon, and beer runs - and we were doing none of the three. The skank who I just pitched a no-hitter to (would have been a perfect game but I had trouble finishing up the ninth inning because of the Wayne Blasters, if you know what I mean) had Gusaline stains all over her sweatshirt (I had to use something to clean up with or Wayne would have beat my ass for making a mess on his couch) so she asked if she could have mine. Yeah F'ing right! That sweatshirt would be all over eBay by tomorrow, there was no way I was letting her have it. You can freeze for all Gusalina cares, it serves as punishment anyways for not growing bigger boobs in the first place to keep yourself warm you surfboard.
Wayne dropped his girl off at her house and I made her get out at that house too. She can tell her parents she was with Gusalina. I bet they won't even be mad. In fact, it will probably be the only time in her entire life that her dad loves her. Once we got rid of those two sluts, Wayne and I decided to get back at the school for being such dip Nazis. We drove down to the high school, and put the fattest chews in our F'ing mouths. We spit every last drop into the snow, and then we took that snow, made snowballs, and threw them at the F'ing school. Obviously it wasn't going 92 because there weren't any seams, but I can almost guarantee they were going over 80. They were going so fast that I tried to get Wayne to film me throwing them for scouts but he ball-tapped me instead. I guess that's why he's the F'ing master. I accidentally threw one of the snowballs through one of the windows, and I was worried for a second, but then I remembered that the sheriff and my dad played baseball together back in the day so yeah, I don't think I'll be getting in trouble for that one.
The next day Wayne made me drink two Wayne Blasters at breakfast and then he tied a sled to the back of my Camaro and started doing donuts with it. I fell off and was a little dizzy at first and I couldn't tell if it was from the Wayne Blaster or hitting my head on the ice. Maybe that was what Wayne F'ing intended. Before you ask, no I wasn't wearing a helmet. I don't wear them in the batting cages, I sure as hell am not going to wear one outside of baseball.
That's about it in terms of what I've done while suspended. I still have tomorrow too, so hopefully tonight me and Wayne go out and snag two more girls looking to get a little first round and first round older brother in them.
You guys might be wondering why I didn't talk much about baseball this blog. Well, I've been experiencing some elbow soreness. After I hit Kyle "I'm on Welfare" Pritchard in his ribs, he tried to apologize to me for not realizing how much my fastball moved and ruining my radar baseball by giving me his dad's password to Naughty America. I was like "Pritchard, you're poor but your dad still pays for porn every month? Figures" and then I totally went home to check it out. Since this was before I had the Waynemaker as my wingman, I definitely pumped some ched to multiple scenes, and then I did what any man would do. I changed the password to the account so Pritchard's dad can't get on it anymore. That's how Gusalina rolls.
I wasn't going to say anything to Mark Titus, because actions speak louder than words, but then I saw this. Now, I know this wasn't you Titus, because you're too much of a sissy to even respond to Gusalina, but you need to tell whichever one of your little fanboys that thinks they can mess with Gusalina and not get their face pounded in by a hand that throws 92 and his brother the Waynemaker that they can't, and if they were smart (which they aren't), they would just back down. I know you've backed down more than once Titus. I'm still not going to let up on you until you send me the cards, but I'm at least going to show you mercy for the time being. You'd still better send me my F'ing cards, because now you have to deal with me, and Wayne. And Wayne's never lost a fight in his entire life. Wayne doesn't rhyme with "pain" for no reason you dummy. You decide - send the cards, or lose your life.
Pimping my three-run blasts,
Gusalina #4
Sunday, January 11, 2009
The Price of Gusalina is Rising - Fuel Up Now Ladies
92 F'ing miles an hour. First pitch.
That's how fast I threw when we were in the gym the other day. I know all you pansy douchers are probably saying "How do you know it was 92mph Gusalina? I like to kiss other men" to which I say we brought the radar baseball into the F'ing gym you moron and you are now not only a doucher but a gay doucher. I use my radar baseball every day, because scouts want to know how fast Gusalina is throwing and Gusalina is going first round. We set up the cage in the basketball gym while those toolbags were on the road getting their ass kicked by someone. Of course, nobody wanted Gusalina to throw to them because I'm not going to take it easy on some freshman just because I can throw 92% of 100 miles an hour and he still wets the bed. Well, I didn't really care because while these losers are trying to improve their hitting, I'm trying to practice pimping my strikeouts. Do you realize how many ways you can give the SuFi?
Anyways, white trash Kyle Pritchard steps up as the first batter and I could totally tell he didn't want a piece of Gusalina. I wasn't expecting to throw more than 91 on my first pitch, but looking back on it I was feeling pretty good. I woke up early this morning, which gave me more than enough time to hit a ground rule double to this Playboy I have hidden in my room, if you know what I mean. After that, I planted a fence post in some porcelin. Breakfast of champions right there. So I show up to school with about a million little Gusalinas stuck in a ball of Kleenex in my bathroom trashcan, and by the end of the day I was ready to rock and roll again. Since there weren't any 8th graders around looking to break into my Myspace top 16, I decided to do the next best thing - throw heat. So Kyle Pritchard is standing in there, and he's not even wearing batting gloves, probably because you can't buy those when you're on welfare. I'm thinking, "Pritchard you're poor already, you're going to hate your life after Gusalina strikes you out and gives you the SuFi." I didn't even look at where the loser freshman who was catching for me signaled for me to throw it, I had one thing on my mind - fastball. If he can't keep up with it, that's his problem.
I started my pitching motion (scouts say it's a cross between Sandy Koufax and K-Rod) and let loose. Let's just say this fastball had movement. How much movement? It started off going right down the middle, and ended up hitting Kyle Pritchard right in the F'ing chest. We clocked the pitch right before it broke Kyle's F'ing rib and the radar ball said 92 F'ing miles per hour. Someone told me that Kyle's family is so poor that they don't have insurance, and he wasn't going to be able to go to the doctor to see if his ribs are broken or if his liver exploded. I would have felt bad if I wasn't so F'ing stoked about that pitch.
But enough about throwing a moving 92mph fastball without even warming up when I'm 16 F'ing years old. You'll read a lot more about that in 2 years when I go in the first F'ing round. Let's talk about something much more important. I'm talking about my older brother, Wayne F'ing Trotter. Wayne was probably the best baseball player in Ottoville history before Gusalina picked up a glove. He was going to get drafted but he totally got F'ing screwed by Ottoville High School politics. Luckily for me Ottoville baseball is now a dictatorship, and it is run by Gusalini.
So I call up Wayne and tell him about making Kyle Pritchard spit up blood and he was all like "I don't F'ing care Gusalina." Man, I want to be him when I get older. He started talking about how he's souping up his Camaro. I don't know if I've said it before, but Wayne is the reason I got a Camaro. Let's just say when Wayne was in high school his Camaro was nicknamed the Cumaro, so yeah, I think getting a Camaro was a good choice. More on that later. Wayne also told me that he's banging like 3 different girls right now and he doesn't even F'ing care if they find out about each other. My brother is such an F'ing badass.
The day after I guaranteed myself first F'ing roundage by throwing the nastiest pitch of 2009, Gusalina did what makes him feel whole - he ended people's lives in intramural basketball. Since preparing for going first round means I can't play basketball for the team, it sure as shit doesn't mean I can't dominate the band geeks and fat kids of Ottoville every Tuesday and Thursday night. Our team is called the Baja Blasters but it might as well be called Gusalina and the Four Douchers who Make Gusalina want to Kill Himself Because They Are So Bad.
Honestly, first the school won't let me play point guard because I pass the ball too hard. Well yeah, that's 93 miles per hour for you douchers. It seems like the MLB likes that ability quite well. Shows you what Ottoville knows. Then, they make me sub out with my other teammates when I'm easily the best player in the entire school. I shouldn't have to come off the court. Then they have the nerve to let girls play in our league. It just pisses me off that I'm trying to play but I'm being guarded by some groupie who only joined because she wants Gusalina to show her his two-seam grip (if you know what I mean) in his Camaro while we listen to Creed's "With Arms Wide Open" after the game is over. That's what Myspace is for, dummy. Don't go vagging up my intramural league. We'll talk about this more later.
On to more important business. I comment on every Club Trillion post because that mangina Mark Titus promised me he would sign some cards for me and has yet to honor his end of the deal. Anyways, I like to check the comments after I post mine to see if he has apologized to me or said he put my cards in the mail. Of course that dicktickler didn't, but I couldn't help to see that some jealous doucher named "Gusalina Sucks" had written this:
News flash you toolbox - I can pick on freshman because I'm going first round. And you must not know anything about sunflower seeds because if you did you wouldn't be talking crap about me making some loser freshman go get me jalapeno seeds when he F'ing screwed up in the first place. Gusalina needs Jesus? Yeah right bro, I throw 92mph with movement, my opponents need Jesus if they have any hope of even grounding out to first with the ball moving that fast.
As usual, the Gusalina haters just make me do one thing - bench press more. It really shouldn't come as a surprise but I did a double at 16o pounds on Friday. It was pretty F'ing awesome. I could have done 3, guaranteed, but I'm saving that for when the scouts come to watch me work out during season you dummies. People always tell me "Gusalina, you have the weight of this entire town on your shoulders" and I always tell them "It's a good thing I can shoulder press 95 for reps, now isn't it?" Stupid poor people. First round for sure.
Only throwing fastballs,
Gusalina #4
That's how fast I threw when we were in the gym the other day. I know all you pansy douchers are probably saying "How do you know it was 92mph Gusalina? I like to kiss other men" to which I say we brought the radar baseball into the F'ing gym you moron and you are now not only a doucher but a gay doucher. I use my radar baseball every day, because scouts want to know how fast Gusalina is throwing and Gusalina is going first round. We set up the cage in the basketball gym while those toolbags were on the road getting their ass kicked by someone. Of course, nobody wanted Gusalina to throw to them because I'm not going to take it easy on some freshman just because I can throw 92% of 100 miles an hour and he still wets the bed. Well, I didn't really care because while these losers are trying to improve their hitting, I'm trying to practice pimping my strikeouts. Do you realize how many ways you can give the SuFi?
Anyways, white trash Kyle Pritchard steps up as the first batter and I could totally tell he didn't want a piece of Gusalina. I wasn't expecting to throw more than 91 on my first pitch, but looking back on it I was feeling pretty good. I woke up early this morning, which gave me more than enough time to hit a ground rule double to this Playboy I have hidden in my room, if you know what I mean. After that, I planted a fence post in some porcelin. Breakfast of champions right there. So I show up to school with about a million little Gusalinas stuck in a ball of Kleenex in my bathroom trashcan, and by the end of the day I was ready to rock and roll again. Since there weren't any 8th graders around looking to break into my Myspace top 16, I decided to do the next best thing - throw heat. So Kyle Pritchard is standing in there, and he's not even wearing batting gloves, probably because you can't buy those when you're on welfare. I'm thinking, "Pritchard you're poor already, you're going to hate your life after Gusalina strikes you out and gives you the SuFi." I didn't even look at where the loser freshman who was catching for me signaled for me to throw it, I had one thing on my mind - fastball. If he can't keep up with it, that's his problem.
I started my pitching motion (scouts say it's a cross between Sandy Koufax and K-Rod) and let loose. Let's just say this fastball had movement. How much movement? It started off going right down the middle, and ended up hitting Kyle Pritchard right in the F'ing chest. We clocked the pitch right before it broke Kyle's F'ing rib and the radar ball said 92 F'ing miles per hour. Someone told me that Kyle's family is so poor that they don't have insurance, and he wasn't going to be able to go to the doctor to see if his ribs are broken or if his liver exploded. I would have felt bad if I wasn't so F'ing stoked about that pitch.
But enough about throwing a moving 92mph fastball without even warming up when I'm 16 F'ing years old. You'll read a lot more about that in 2 years when I go in the first F'ing round. Let's talk about something much more important. I'm talking about my older brother, Wayne F'ing Trotter. Wayne was probably the best baseball player in Ottoville history before Gusalina picked up a glove. He was going to get drafted but he totally got F'ing screwed by Ottoville High School politics. Luckily for me Ottoville baseball is now a dictatorship, and it is run by Gusalini.
So I call up Wayne and tell him about making Kyle Pritchard spit up blood and he was all like "I don't F'ing care Gusalina." Man, I want to be him when I get older. He started talking about how he's souping up his Camaro. I don't know if I've said it before, but Wayne is the reason I got a Camaro. Let's just say when Wayne was in high school his Camaro was nicknamed the Cumaro, so yeah, I think getting a Camaro was a good choice. More on that later. Wayne also told me that he's banging like 3 different girls right now and he doesn't even F'ing care if they find out about each other. My brother is such an F'ing badass.
The day after I guaranteed myself first F'ing roundage by throwing the nastiest pitch of 2009, Gusalina did what makes him feel whole - he ended people's lives in intramural basketball. Since preparing for going first round means I can't play basketball for the team, it sure as shit doesn't mean I can't dominate the band geeks and fat kids of Ottoville every Tuesday and Thursday night. Our team is called the Baja Blasters but it might as well be called Gusalina and the Four Douchers who Make Gusalina want to Kill Himself Because They Are So Bad.
Honestly, first the school won't let me play point guard because I pass the ball too hard. Well yeah, that's 93 miles per hour for you douchers. It seems like the MLB likes that ability quite well. Shows you what Ottoville knows. Then, they make me sub out with my other teammates when I'm easily the best player in the entire school. I shouldn't have to come off the court. Then they have the nerve to let girls play in our league. It just pisses me off that I'm trying to play but I'm being guarded by some groupie who only joined because she wants Gusalina to show her his two-seam grip (if you know what I mean) in his Camaro while we listen to Creed's "With Arms Wide Open" after the game is over. That's what Myspace is for, dummy. Don't go vagging up my intramural league. We'll talk about this more later.
On to more important business. I comment on every Club Trillion post because that mangina Mark Titus promised me he would sign some cards for me and has yet to honor his end of the deal. Anyways, I like to check the comments after I post mine to see if he has apologized to me or said he put my cards in the mail. Of course that dicktickler didn't, but I couldn't help to see that some jealous doucher named "Gusalina Sucks" had written this:
I was hoping we could go one post with out the arrogant fuck gusalina posting on here. seriously you are the biggest fuck i have ever seen in my life. Bragging about picking on freshman that you think want to be just like you and making them buy you sun flower seeds? Wow you are so cool with your weak as fastball and your false hopes of goin pro. You need jesus
News flash you toolbox - I can pick on freshman because I'm going first round. And you must not know anything about sunflower seeds because if you did you wouldn't be talking crap about me making some loser freshman go get me jalapeno seeds when he F'ing screwed up in the first place. Gusalina needs Jesus? Yeah right bro, I throw 92mph with movement, my opponents need Jesus if they have any hope of even grounding out to first with the ball moving that fast.
As usual, the Gusalina haters just make me do one thing - bench press more. It really shouldn't come as a surprise but I did a double at 16o pounds on Friday. It was pretty F'ing awesome. I could have done 3, guaranteed, but I'm saving that for when the scouts come to watch me work out during season you dummies. People always tell me "Gusalina, you have the weight of this entire town on your shoulders" and I always tell them "It's a good thing I can shoulder press 95 for reps, now isn't it?" Stupid poor people. First round for sure.
Only throwing fastballs,
Gusalina #4
Monday, January 5, 2009
Gusalina Strikes Again
What's up douchenozzles and Gusalina groupies? No, I didn't go pro early, and no, I didn't get thrown in jail for driving my Camaro way too F'ing fast, I've just been doing my Gusalina thing over break you know - adding some Frosty to some girls's snowmen, dropping my giant ball on New Years - F'ing stuff like that. I'd apologize for not blogging but you guys will still F'ing love me if I don't so I'm not going to.
I know most of you guys are poor and not big league like me, so I'd tell you what it's like to have a Christmas that's not sponsored by Fruit of the Loom. I woke up Christmas morning with a giant boner, so naturally I put some pine tar on my bat and laid down an F'ing bunt. Jesus doesn't care, he knows how much run I got on my 2 seam fastball. Then I put on my pimpest 59/50 Yankees flat-billed lid with my M frames on top of the cap, and I walked down the stairs. My gay ass mom wanted everyone to pray before we started opening presents, but God already blessed me with the ability to pump 93mph that moves more than a poor family who can't pay their rent. I'm not going to go on and on about how awesome my Christmas was, because you'd seriously think about killing yourself, but I'll tell you this - from all the things I said I was going to get in my last post, I still got more. And by more I mean F'ing NICKELBACK TICKETS. Suck on that one you douchers. It's okay to be jealous. It's not okay to tell people you are Gusalina.
I covered a lot of what I did for New Years on that toolbox Mark Titus's blog (Hey Titus, I know you F'ing read my blog looking for inspiration, send me my F'ing cards), so I'll just talk about what we did before we got to that queerbag Blake's house. At about 7 I had a fat dip in and I was sorting through all the F'ing Christmas cards that the teams that want to take me in the first round sent me. I got one from almost every team. It's cool though, the ones that didn't send me cards are owned by Jews. Anyways, right about then this doucher who graduated in 2005 named Zach called me up and told me he'd go buy me some alcohol if I wanted it. Of course I F'ing want it, I told him. He wanted to know what I wanted. Since I was planning on getting two Baja Blasts later that night (So I could stay up and catch a beat to all the scrambled skinamax porn), I told Zach he was a F'ing idiot, because the only thing that mixes with Baja Blast is F'ing Smirnoff. So yeah, I had Zach get me some Smirnoff. He dropped it off and then started mumbling some shit about going and how he wanted to workout with me, I don't know, I stopped listening to that homo as soon as he gave me my Smirnoff.
A lot of people have emailed me asking what I do be as good as I am in the offseason. So I give you F’ers some help and take you through my daily routine. I F’ing throw a bullpen EVERYDAY. I know no one in the big leagues does that, but they weren’t as good weren’t as good as me in high school so it doesn’t F’ing matter. My warm up is easy. Bicep curls, wrist roller, and tricep dips. Big biceps and roped tris are key to pumping the ched like I do. Every other day I throw my pens with a weighted ball, my superior strength allows me to throw max effort without injury. I throw at least 60 pitches every day, I throw each pitch ten times so you do the math, that’s 6 pitches. I know you f’ing tools will email me asking me what I throw so Ill save you the time by telling what seeds the Gusalina is chucking. Fastball (In the 90’s with hellacious movement), sinker, curveball, a rise ball (Yes its possible when you pump smoke), a big league splitter, and the terminator (Pitch I made up and can only be thrown by me so don’t even think about asking). And no, I don’t F’ing ice after I throw. You ice when you’re injured. Plus with global warming, ice may not even be around when I make it to the show.
Anyways, enough about how good I am, I get sick about talking about how good I am. Sike. But I went over to my computer to check my Myspace. I'd been messaging these girls about trying to get fueled up with some Gusalina for a true happy new year. They were completely down, so I posted a Myspace bulletin telling everyone to go to Alex's house, because everybody wants to hang out with me on New Years and I didn't want all those douchers coming to Blake's. Then I messaged those girls and told them what's up. I told one of them that I was going to show her my corked bat later that night. So yeah, I'm kind of smooth on Myspace. As I was walking out the door my mom shouted "Where do you think you are going?" to me and I yelled "First round!" back at her and gave her the SuFi. I don't want that loser knowing where I'm going and trying to call their parents or anything like that. I got in my Camaro, grabbed my Baja Blasts, and you know the rest. If you're wondering what happened with those two girls I was bringing back, I'm not going to tell you perverts, all I'm going to say is it's going to be a few days til my Gusaline pump gets refueled and their dads would definitely hate me if I wasn't big league like I am.
This is the point in my blog where I'd like to address this loser "Jordan" who commented on my last blog. He claims he's from Continental and that he's never heard of me. He even goes on to say that I must not be good. L O F'ing L, Jordan. Where does Gusalina even start? One, I don't care that you go to Continental, Continental F'ing blows. It sounds like your entire town is an F'ing hotel chain. Why have you never heard of me? Probably because I throw heat and hit home runs for varsity and you're in the F'ing marching band, trying to meet your future husband. And I must not be good? If I wasn't good, how would I be going first round? Answer that, if you haven't already hung yourself in your bedroom closet Queer-dan. As soon as Mark Titus sends me those cards, you are going to be my least favorite person on Planet F'ing Earth. If you're jealous of Gusalina, just let me know, and I won't take my fists that throw 90+ and beat your face in the next time I see you.
All this hater talk on Gusalina is just pumping up the Gusaline Machine. You know what happens when you do that - I set a new max in the bench press. So tomorrow, I'm going to get 165, maybe for a double, depends on if I do curls before or after I bench. I got 160 last week, I was totally going to go over 200 but I had been throwing heat before I started lifting. Seriously, Coach was all "Gusalina, throw under 90 man, and stop making it move so much" and I F'ing couldn't. I was literally on fire. I wasn't really on fire, but I pretty much was. As I walked away when I was done, I pulled the F'ing fire alarm, my heat was that good. That's how I F'ing roll.
Pumping ched on the black,
Gusalina #4
I know most of you guys are poor and not big league like me, so I'd tell you what it's like to have a Christmas that's not sponsored by Fruit of the Loom. I woke up Christmas morning with a giant boner, so naturally I put some pine tar on my bat and laid down an F'ing bunt. Jesus doesn't care, he knows how much run I got on my 2 seam fastball. Then I put on my pimpest 59/50 Yankees flat-billed lid with my M frames on top of the cap, and I walked down the stairs. My gay ass mom wanted everyone to pray before we started opening presents, but God already blessed me with the ability to pump 93mph that moves more than a poor family who can't pay their rent. I'm not going to go on and on about how awesome my Christmas was, because you'd seriously think about killing yourself, but I'll tell you this - from all the things I said I was going to get in my last post, I still got more. And by more I mean F'ing NICKELBACK TICKETS. Suck on that one you douchers. It's okay to be jealous. It's not okay to tell people you are Gusalina.
I covered a lot of what I did for New Years on that toolbox Mark Titus's blog (Hey Titus, I know you F'ing read my blog looking for inspiration, send me my F'ing cards), so I'll just talk about what we did before we got to that queerbag Blake's house. At about 7 I had a fat dip in and I was sorting through all the F'ing Christmas cards that the teams that want to take me in the first round sent me. I got one from almost every team. It's cool though, the ones that didn't send me cards are owned by Jews. Anyways, right about then this doucher who graduated in 2005 named Zach called me up and told me he'd go buy me some alcohol if I wanted it. Of course I F'ing want it, I told him. He wanted to know what I wanted. Since I was planning on getting two Baja Blasts later that night (So I could stay up and catch a beat to all the scrambled skinamax porn), I told Zach he was a F'ing idiot, because the only thing that mixes with Baja Blast is F'ing Smirnoff. So yeah, I had Zach get me some Smirnoff. He dropped it off and then started mumbling some shit about going and how he wanted to workout with me, I don't know, I stopped listening to that homo as soon as he gave me my Smirnoff.
A lot of people have emailed me asking what I do be as good as I am in the offseason. So I give you F’ers some help and take you through my daily routine. I F’ing throw a bullpen EVERYDAY. I know no one in the big leagues does that, but they weren’t as good weren’t as good as me in high school so it doesn’t F’ing matter. My warm up is easy. Bicep curls, wrist roller, and tricep dips. Big biceps and roped tris are key to pumping the ched like I do. Every other day I throw my pens with a weighted ball, my superior strength allows me to throw max effort without injury. I throw at least 60 pitches every day, I throw each pitch ten times so you do the math, that’s 6 pitches. I know you f’ing tools will email me asking me what I throw so Ill save you the time by telling what seeds the Gusalina is chucking. Fastball (In the 90’s with hellacious movement), sinker, curveball, a rise ball (Yes its possible when you pump smoke), a big league splitter, and the terminator (Pitch I made up and can only be thrown by me so don’t even think about asking). And no, I don’t F’ing ice after I throw. You ice when you’re injured. Plus with global warming, ice may not even be around when I make it to the show.
Anyways, enough about how good I am, I get sick about talking about how good I am. Sike. But I went over to my computer to check my Myspace. I'd been messaging these girls about trying to get fueled up with some Gusalina for a true happy new year. They were completely down, so I posted a Myspace bulletin telling everyone to go to Alex's house, because everybody wants to hang out with me on New Years and I didn't want all those douchers coming to Blake's. Then I messaged those girls and told them what's up. I told one of them that I was going to show her my corked bat later that night. So yeah, I'm kind of smooth on Myspace. As I was walking out the door my mom shouted "Where do you think you are going?" to me and I yelled "First round!" back at her and gave her the SuFi. I don't want that loser knowing where I'm going and trying to call their parents or anything like that. I got in my Camaro, grabbed my Baja Blasts, and you know the rest. If you're wondering what happened with those two girls I was bringing back, I'm not going to tell you perverts, all I'm going to say is it's going to be a few days til my Gusaline pump gets refueled and their dads would definitely hate me if I wasn't big league like I am.
This is the point in my blog where I'd like to address this loser "Jordan" who commented on my last blog. He claims he's from Continental and that he's never heard of me. He even goes on to say that I must not be good. L O F'ing L, Jordan. Where does Gusalina even start? One, I don't care that you go to Continental, Continental F'ing blows. It sounds like your entire town is an F'ing hotel chain. Why have you never heard of me? Probably because I throw heat and hit home runs for varsity and you're in the F'ing marching band, trying to meet your future husband. And I must not be good? If I wasn't good, how would I be going first round? Answer that, if you haven't already hung yourself in your bedroom closet Queer-dan. As soon as Mark Titus sends me those cards, you are going to be my least favorite person on Planet F'ing Earth. If you're jealous of Gusalina, just let me know, and I won't take my fists that throw 90+ and beat your face in the next time I see you.
All this hater talk on Gusalina is just pumping up the Gusaline Machine. You know what happens when you do that - I set a new max in the bench press. So tomorrow, I'm going to get 165, maybe for a double, depends on if I do curls before or after I bench. I got 160 last week, I was totally going to go over 200 but I had been throwing heat before I started lifting. Seriously, Coach was all "Gusalina, throw under 90 man, and stop making it move so much" and I F'ing couldn't. I was literally on fire. I wasn't really on fire, but I pretty much was. As I walked away when I was done, I pulled the F'ing fire alarm, my heat was that good. That's how I F'ing roll.
Pumping ched on the black,
Gusalina #4
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