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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JUDGE: Mr. Trotter, what are you-

GUSALINA: Just call me Gusalina, bro.

JUDGE: I’m sorry?

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

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

GUSALINA: It’s a 5950, doucher.

JUDGE: What is a 5950?

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

JUDGE: They have no place in my court.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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