Instant F'ing Party - Just Add Gusalina and Wayne

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