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:
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
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