Gusalina's Big League Blog!

F’ing Juvie

2010-10-06T17:33:00.001-07:00

So I’m F’ing back. I don’t think that we need to go through any kind of pretend apology from me or anything – I seriously don’t give an F’ing shit about you losers complaining about me not posting. Here’s what I do between my posts – I K up douchers with my first round talent, fingerblast skanks with no future and convince them to do some seriously F’ing freaky Redtube shit that will scar them emotionally for the rest of their lives, and dip four pouches of Skoal at once because I’m an F’ing badass. Here’s what you whiny douchers do between posts – cry because I won’t be your F’ing friend, not kiss girls, get stuck reading Club Trillion, and use over $100 worth of Proactiv in the hopes that you won’t have to kill yourself from ugliness and acne. Pretty much, Gusalina has an F’ing life and doesn’t care that all you douchers’ lives suck when I don’t post about how awesome I am.

When I last gave you queers a glimpse of my first round life, I was getting sentenced to juvie for 1) being popular and drinking before I was 21, 2) kicking the shit out of multiple pussy cops, 3) refusing to compromise my swagger by taking out my dip in court, and 4) leaving my three-fingered autograph inside the judge’s daughter a few months earlier, but never calling her again because the day Gusalina gets tied down to one skank will be the day it’s F’ing Opposite Day.

After my sentence got handed down, I pretty much had to go straight to juvie. Since this would be my last chance to see Judge Wilson, I figured I’d get in a few more parting shots on my way out. As he was calling the next case to the stand, I kind-of-quietly-but-still-loud-enough-for-him-to-hear said under my breath “with an F’ing great father figure like you, no wonder your daughter fueled from the Gusaline Pump the first time we hung out.” When he said “Excuse me?” I said “You’re excused, doucher” and then gave him the SuFi. Then a moment of brilliance hit me, and I added my index finger to the SuFi and said “Actually, your daughter preferred three” while the bailiff led me out of the court before he could in a comeback. Gusalina - 92, Doucher Judge Wilson – Negative Gay.

So from court I had to get on the bus to take me to F’ing Scioto for all my juvie processing. It was seriously the worst F’ing ride of my life. I’m used to riding in buses a lot, because I’m always traveling for baseball given my first round talent, but none of my baseball trips ever required me to be so helpless around such F’ing losers. First, the entire bus was full of F’ing white trash kids who got arrested for stealing Sudafed for their mom’s meth lab or trying to get a BJ from their younger sister or something. And if the kids weren’t white trash, they were F’ing Mexicans who apparently never understood the F’ing translation from Spanish to English that Grand Theft Auto is only legal in video games, and not when they try and hotwire an ‘86 Chevy Corsica so their family of 14 can cruise around town. Seriously, an ‘86 Corsica? Dream F’ing big.

Besides being the only person on the bus that was keeping God from doing some serious natural selection by wrecking it and killing everybody on board, I was also not allowed to have an iPod, so I couldn’t team up with Chad Kroeger and zone out for the 2 hour ride. With no music allowed, I tried to close my eyes and fall asleep, which was a serious F’ing mistake, because when I closed my eyes my lack of sense of sight enhanced my other 5 senses (yeah I have 6 F’ing senses – sight, smell, taste, touch, hearing, and strikeout. I was born with it, sorry douchers.) and my nose was immediately filled with the collective smell of every unshowered failure on board with me. I seriously F’ing gagged. I guess I’m kind of lucky though, because there were no black people on the bus. If I had smelled cocoa butter I would have hurled all over the bus like I was one of those pussies from the Sandlot taking their first dip.

So I had to sit there the entire bus ride, stewing that any of this was happening, just getting ready to deliver a 92mph fistball to the temple of the first person who tries to share a cell with me when we got there. Finally, the bus pulled up to the juvie facility and we all got off to get checked in.

We got led down a hallway and there were these guards ready to search us for drugs and weapons. This guard asked me if I had any weapons on me, and I said “yeah, this one,” shook my pitching arm at him and said “but I don’t think you’ll be able to confiscate it, doucher.” I noticed a second guard wearing latex gloves and I’d narced on enough sketchy-looking Arabs at the airport to know what that meant. I needed to nip this situation in the F’ing bud right away, so I looked at the guard and said “I don’t even wear condoms, so if you and those F’ing gloves get anywhere near me trying to do the cavity search you plan on doing, I’ll end your F’ing life. I bet you don’t even need to do a cavity search, you just want to do it you homo doucher.” Luckily for him, he wisened up and walked away before he did something he’d regret for the rest of his life.

After that was over, we went down to a new room, where we were given the clothes we were required to wear everyday. Since there was no F’ing way I was going to look like a doucher in the beige t-shirt and pants that they gave us, I decided to modify it AKA make it F’ing x-treme and worthy of Gusalina to put on his body. The first thing I did was rip off the sleeves. I don’t do shoulder presses for nothing, so by ripping off my sleeves, all the other kids would see my F’ing jacked shoulders and know I’m a serious F’ing badass. The next thing I did was steal a Sharpie from a guard when they weren’t looking and write FIRST ROUND on the front of the shirt, and GUSALINA on the back with a giant 4 so it looked like it was a jersey. It still wasn’t looking badass enough, so I freehanded an Ed Hardy-style tiger on the front to let everyone know I’m popular and get a ton of F’ing ass on the outside. I didn’t do anything too F’ing x-treme with my pants, I just took the Sharpie and made a big mark about 2 inches above my knee so everybody would know just how far the F’ing Gusaline Pump hangs down.

Once I was changed into my uniform, I got led to where my cell was. It turns out that those pussy doucher cops who couldn’t take me in a fight called the juvie officers and told them that I was a threat to everyone’s safety and that I required a cell in the tighter security section of the prison. On the one hand, yeah, they’re right, because I dropped their asses while I was drunk and not even trying really hard, but on the other hand, seriously, what are those douchers thinking? You got your asses beaten by a first rounder, do you really want to keep messing with him now and feel his wrath when he gets out? No wonder you F’ing losers ended up being Ottoville cops with nothing good in your lives.

The more I thought about it, the better the maximum-security sounded, though. I would get to be in solitary confinement, which meant that I wouldn’t have to be stuck in a cell having to deal with the daily annoyances of some Mexican praying to the Virgin Mary or some white trash loser trying and failing to learn basic Algebra because he wanted to pass his GED when he was in. Instead, I would get to sit in my cell by myself every day, do an F’ing shit ton of pushups and get jacked, listen to the iPod that Wayne would sneak me in, and try to make as many F’ing weapons as I could so when I got caught the guards would get fired for being so F’ing shitty at their jobs. So imagine how F’ing pissed I was to discover that maximum security didn’t also mean solitary confinement and that I was going to have a cellmate.

As the cell opened, I immediately ball-tapped the kid in the cell with me, and said “don’t even F’ing look at me, doucher.” This setting of the tone was really not necessary, as I would later find out, because Chris, my cellmate, was easily the biggest F’ing pansy I’d ever met in my entire life. That I doubled that timid doucher over in testicular pain was only an added bonus. Despite my best efforts to let him know that I thought he was even gayer than Elton John and whoever that really gay-looking soccer player is smashing dongs together, he proceeded to tell me his entire F’ing life story like I was his best friend.

He was a sophomore in high school, and he was from some town about 45 minutes away that I didn’t bother to listen to the actual name of, and he was in juvie for stealing a cantaloupe. Yeah, that’s right, an F’ing cantaloupe. It turns out that this lonely doucher worked at a K-Mart that was in the same strip center as a grocery store. During his break, Chris went into the grocery store, and instead of dealing with the awkward questions as to why he would be buying only a cantaloupe, he decided to just steal it. Then he took the F’ing thing back to K-Mart, cut a hole in it, F’ing MICROWAVED IT, and then proceeded to do the most F’ing pathetic thing I’ve ever heard anyone do (and I’ve heard the things Pritchard’s dad does to afford Christmas presents). This F’ing doucher decided to start humping his warm cantaloupe while watching the F’ing Disney Channel in the break room! And to make it even better, he got caught doing it!

After laughing uncontrollably for no less than 75 straight minutes, I finally heard the rest of the story – he got fired on the spot, he was an F’ing moron and said he stole the cantaloupe when his manager asked him where he got it, and get got sentenced to 6 months in juvie because the people in his county don’t take kindly to fruit sodomy. Honestly, after hearing this, I was F’ing glad I was in juvie, because my life was better now that I’d heard about the dumb shit this doucher had done.

Still, it wasn’t very clear on one thing – why was this doucher in maximum security? Was there an F’ing kitchen with a fruit basket that is easily accessed in the normal cells or something? His answer would please me to no end. “They put me in here because all the other kids make fun of me too much and they want to protect me.” Clearly, he would be getting no mercy from me, as the rest of the time we were together I would call him “Cantaloser” “Melon Banger” and “The Virgin Who Put His Dong in Fruit”, among other degrading nicknames, as well as never passing up an opportunity to say something like “Hey, does that count as oral?” when he would eat the fruit that came with our meals. If we were allowed to have shoes with shoelaces, Rind Grinder would have definitely tried to hang himself from the emotional abuse I dished out.

After hearing the criminal exploits of a kid who’s so dumb that he tried getting off (while inside microwaved fruit) to a girl on the Disney channel that wasn’t Hannah Montana or that fine-ass Mexican one, it was time to go down to the common area for some of my only allowed time of the day.

At first they told me I was only going to get a half hour every day before I had to go back to the maximum security area, but I told those douchers hell F’ing no, because that didn’t give me nearly enough time to both throw a bullpen session and max out in the bench, so I’d be taking as long as I F’ing needed.

Anyways, as I made my way to where all the other juvie prisoners were located, I knew this was going to be my only chance to make a first impression. Eyes were already starting to turn and focus on me, because a) I was dressed like an F’ing badass x-treme 2damaxxx, and b) my heavily front-weighted Gusaline Pump and natural charisma cause my walk to be much different than most of the losers you encounter in life, so yeah, people turn and look when I walk into a room.

I scanned my surroundings to gauge who I’d be dealing with. I’d seen enough prison movies to know that if I was to exert my dominance over these douchers on day one, I’d need to take out the toughest guy there. Then nobody would try to mess with me, instead they’d all steal dip and porno magazines for me in order to try and win my favor (yeah right douchers, Gusalina’s a lone wolf).

A quick glance showed that most of the large common room was split up into different ethnic groups for the most part. All the Gaysian douchers there posed no threat, as their size and general faggy demeanor showed they were probably in here for hacking computers to get more Starcraft points or something of similar non-badass nature. Besides, if they knew how to fight, it would be karate, and if you’ve ever seen any UFC (and I’ve seen a shit ton of UFC because Wayne steals pay-per-view and we get drunk and watch them), you know that karate douchers either get knocked out or tap out, so yeah, I don’t think I needed to worry about the Gaysians.

All the Mexicans in there were just like the Latinos I face in summer AAU ball – they can’t hit a curveball, and they sure as shit wouldn’t be able to hit Gusalina. So there wasn’t a lot of worrying that they would be able to go Oscar de la Hoya on me if I tried to throw down. The white trash kids weren’t any better. I’d given Pritchard more than enough dead arms in my day to know that white trash douchers suck at fighting and are total pussies. I kind of didn’t want to start anything with one of them though. I mean, sure, I would have beat that ass, and there was no chance of me losing the fight, but white trash kids can take a beating. Most of them have years of practice from their alcoholic dads taking their shortcomings out on them via belt and closed fist, so the fight would have gone unnecessarily long due to their tolerance for pain. Gusalina wasn’t trying to have that.

That left only one group of people left – the F’ing black kids. I’m from Ottoville, and we don’t have any black kids (which probably explains why the cops are never busy enough to not get up in Wayne’s shit). Still, I’ve seen enough of them during summer ball to know that the majority of them are just total pussies who are trying to act hard. Seriously, from the first point of seeing them in juvie it was like 95% of them were trying to be Lil’ Wayne or some other lame ass rapper who goes to jail for a pussy charge like marijuana. Gusalina had a news flash for these douchers – he was about to turn into Weezy F’ing Baby and give them real teardrop tattoos when he delivered 92mph fistballs and made them all cry.

In the crowd there was one really big guy, and you could tell everybody thought he was the shit. He probably benched over 225, but seriously, big F’ing deal. I would have been able to do the same thing had I been in juvie for the last 3 years, being able to bench press twice a day and not having to deal with my nagging mom Donna all the F’ing time. Anyways, I decided right then and there I was going to drop this dude’s ass so everybody would see how F’ing x-treme Gusalina is.

I walked through the room, ignoring the jealous glances I was getting from everybody who could see how big the Gusaline Pump was (especially the Gaysians), and walked right up to the guy. He was talking with friends, but I wasn’t about to sit there and listen to their stupid argument about LeBron vs. Kobe, so I sent a 92mph fistball right into his temple without him looking. I don’t know if you read that, but I throw 92mph (with movement), so yeah, he hit the ground pretty much immediately. From there, I summoned my inner Brock Lesnar and dropped some serious F’ing hammer fists on the doucher’s skull until the guards ran from across the room to take me away.

As they were dragging me away, I looked at all the terrified faces, shouted out “There’s a new ace in town!” and then broke one of my arms free from the guard’s grip and gave everybody the SuFi as they brought me back to the maximum security area. So yeah, after that, nobody gave Gusalina any kind of shit.

From then on, I spent pretty much all the time I was allowed out of maximum security working out and getting F’ing swole. Every single day I was out there, doing things that were going to make me K up any doucher who dared challenge me. Bench press, biceps, triceps…you should have seen all the other kids there in F’ing awe of Gusalina’s natural strength and power. The glances got me a little F’ing worried, though. If they were looking at me like this now, imagine how they were going to react once they saw that combined with the Gusaline Pump in the showers. So I started to do some MMA training on top of the baseball training, just to make sure I would be able to protect myself. The losers in juvie are desperate, and I look good as F’ing shit, so yeah, they were probably going to try and rape me (and get their F’ing ass beat).

Between the serious tonnage I was putting up on my upper body and the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu I was doing, you would think I didn’t have time for actual baseball work. Well, that’s why I’m going first round and you’re an F’ing moron, because I did. Every day I made it a point to throw a bullpen session, because you never knew when a scout was going to stop by, and because everybody else seeing me throw 92 with movement was just another reminder that I could and would wreck their shit at a moment’s notice.

I wasn’t about to use one of the gloves that juvie provided, so I made Pritchard pay for Wayne to drive up so he could deliver me my personalized glove, some good F’ing baseballs, a couple Phitens, and other cool shit (more on this later). Now that I was geared out, I was ready to unleash death by velocity all over that prison yard.

Wayne was kind of F’ing busy and couldn’t come be my bullpen catcher everyday, so I made Cuntalope come catch for me. Since he got arrested for having sex with fruit, it should go without saying that he’s not good at sports and had never played baseball before in his life. He was a total puss, flinching every time I threw the ball at him. He even got hit by like half of the balls. It didn’t matter though, Gusalina was getting in some serious pitchwork.

One day, I was lighting into Fruitcock especially mean, because he was a terrible F’ing catcher. I said that if I wasn’t so F’ing naturally talented that his shittiness would be stunting my development, and that maybe he should just pretend like the baseball coming at him is a warm awful-tasting piece of fruit and he might be able to catch it better. I ended by telling him that he was truly the worst athlete I’d ever known (including F’ing Pritchard) and that I would give anything for a new bullpen catcher. It was at that time I saw the warden walking towards me.

Before he could even get a word out, I defended myself, saying “He put his dick in a cantaloupe, how do you expect me to not make fun of him for that?” The warden laughed, and said “it is pretty gay, isn’t it? That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about though. Why don’t you come on into my office, I have a proposal for you.” After repeatedly telling him that I’d been doing MMA all day, and that if he tried to touch my Gusaline Pump that I’d F’ing end him, I went inside with him, and the rest of my time at juvie changed completely.

Since the warden wasn’t trying to talk to me about making fun of the Fruit Banger, I thought I was about to get in deep F’ing shit for having my collection of shivs discovered in our cell or something. I immediately started prepping a story about how it they belonged to Melon Cock, but the meeting wasn’t about that. As it turned out, the warden was seriously F’ing impressed with my baseball skills, which should come as no surprise because I’m going first round and he spends every day surrounded by a bunch of no-talent douchers whose only skills in life are being poor members of society. He was so impressed that he wanted me to give his 16 year old son pitching lessons. He said that his son was a really good baseball player, and that all he needed was a little extra coaching to take his skills over the top.

I should have told him right then and there that you can’t teach the natural Hall of Fame skills that I have, but again, I’ve seen enough prison movies to know that you can use situations like this to your advantage. Instead, I told him that if I was going to coach the son, I wanted to be excused from cleaning and all that other bullshit the rest of the kids in juvie had to do, because it’s an F’ing disgrace that Gusalina should have to risk his first-round status by inhaling too much Wal-Mart brand ammonia mopping floors and shit. I also said that the doucher son has to be my new bullpen catcher, mainly because he had supposedly played baseball before, and to my knowledge he had never raped a piece of fruit. The warden agreed to all these conditions, and we set up the first practice session.

Now, I assumed that the warden was exaggerating about his son’s baseball skills. I’m F’ing used to it by now. “These are C-cups” (Sophomore girl who definitely was an A cup at best), “We’re not that poor” (Kyle Pritchard), “I’m sure I could take the whole Gusaline Pump” (every skank on Myspace ever). So I wasn’t expecting someone who would even be within 10% of my level in terms of baseball talent. Still, you would never believe how F’ing bad this kid was. I’m telling you, he was so bad that he made Kyle Pritchard look like an F’ing All-Star, and the only talent Kyle Pritchard has is staying slightly overweight while living on food stamps. I could not F’ing believe how much this kid sucks, but since I was getting out of doing a bunch of bitch work, I pretended like I was coaching him even though you can’t improve someone who sucks as bad as this kid did.

Eventually I got tired of him looking like a Down’s syndrome kid giving a high five every time he threw a pitch, and made him start catching for me instead. I explained to him that he should just watch and see how pure, perfect-formed 92 with movement looks when it explodes from your hand. This became my go-to coaching drill, because it meant I didn’t have to spend a bunch of extra F’ing time trying and failing to get this doucher to be a coordinated athlete and throw two strikes in a row, let alone three. When his dad came to supervise, I pretty much just half-assed a couple of critiques to the kid and made it look like he was making all these great improvements when in reality he still F’ing blew hardcore.

The more and more lessons I gave, the more I wanted to kill myself for being around someone who was so F’ing terrible yet thought they could be good someday. To make things tolerable, I started adding extra demands to the warden to keep me coaching his son. Since I had him convinced that his son was getting so much better, he was happy to oblige.

My first demand was that he bring me Taco Bell after each pitching lesson. While an XL Baja Blast would be good enough on its own to unwind in juvie, I was able to combine it with the Smirnoff and Gatorade that Wayne snuck in for me (again, more on this later) to make some sick nasty Wayne Blasters and get a solid buzz going, which was F’ing sweet.

Next, I convinced him that his dumbass son wasn’t going to be able to understand what he was doing wrong until he saw it on video, so I made him get us a video camera so we could film every session. I wasn’t about to F’ing sit there and break down video with this doucher, but pretending like I was gave us private access to a computer in his dad’s office. I made the doucher sit outside and stand guard (I told him it was helping develop the ability to follow coach’s instructions, which just sealed the deal for him sucking because if he had any talent he would understand that coaches don’t know shit) while I got on his dad’s laptop to browse YouJizz and watch videos of girls with massive racks get slammed. The Gusaline Pump had definitely accumulated some extra fuel since getting into juvie, and since I wasn’t about to beat off with the Melon Rapist in the room because he’d like it too much, I needed to use the YouJizz instead. When I left the room, I’d look at the kid and say “Baseball Quiz: Do you know who Jayden James is?” and since the kid is a loser who doesn’t even go to the homecoming dances, let alone get dates to them, he obviously answered no. So I replied “That’s why you’ll never be good at baseball, doucher. Learn to get some.” and then I gave him a dead arm in his pitching shoulder.

This charade of me trying to coach this kid continued for awhile, but I grew more and more annoyed that I had to do it as it became closer to my release. For the last two weeks before I got out, I told him that he needed to improve his fielding, which was really just me giving a good enough excuse to hit line drives at him on the pitcher’s mound as hard as I could in the hopes that I would drill him and leave permanent damage. It was, good, however, to have that little doucher as a catcher, because I was throwing serious heat every day in my bullpen sessions. He must have been seriously F’ing depressed after seeing me pump 92 with movement day after day and realizing that he’d never be able to do that himself.

Still, the private coaching allowed me to do pretty much whatever I F’ing wanted to the rest of my time. I had free reign to do anything, because the most they could threaten me with was sending me to the warden, and what was he going to do, make me coach his son more? That just meant I would get more Taco Bell and YouJizz, so it was pretty much rewarding me for being a badass who broke the rules. Case in point was my stance on education in juvie.

Now, anyone who has half an F’ing clue knows that I hate reading anything other than my own newspaper stories. So when they came around with the book cart and I took as many as I was allowed, I’m sure a lot of people thought I was trying to get reformed. F’ING WRONG. I would take each and every book that I got off the cart, and rip all the pages out of them so nobody could read them again. Again, reading is for lame ass Gaysians. I was doing everybody a favor.

There was another time where we all had to listen to some middle-aged lesbian looking lady give us a speech about how we all needed to work toward getting our high school diploma and keep up on our school work and shit. I decided to loudly fake yawn about twice a minute to let the skank know just how boring her speech was, and I even said “Wheeeeennnnn is this going to eeeeeeennnnnndddddd????” really drawn out so she would hate her F’ing life. She stupidly decided to confront me, telling me to sit down and start doing my school work. I responded by giving her a SuFi. By now, she was half-crying because she was so embarrassed/angry/scared/lonely-in-her-outside-life so she kind of stammered out a “Mr. Trotter, you need to get your diploma!” I wasn’t going to tolerate her bullshit anymore, so I grabbed the Gusaline Pump over my pants, yanked it around a little bit to show I meant business, and said “I’ve got your diploma right here lady!” I followed that with “I’m going first round, I don’t need an F’ing diploma you dumb skank.” It’s pretty hard to get more badass x-treme than that, so yeah, she didn’t nag me about my school work after that.

By now you’re probably saying “Gusalina there’s no way you’d be able to go 3 months without splashing Gusaline Fuel all over some skank,” to which you are absolutely right. First, I need to clarify something. After you spend a month or two seeing a bunch of fat Mexican dongs in the shower, the sight of any girl is good. This is why it should be F’ing understandable as to why I banged out someone of obvious lesser attractiveness than me while I was in juvie. Let me explain.

Every day there was this female guard who escorted me to and from my pitching lesson. She was a drunk 5 at best, and her rack was only okay, but again, after 6 weeks you begin to talk yourself into it. Well, one day I was putting some pine tar on my bat while watching Phoenix Marie get crushed, when the warden’s loser son came in and decided to interrupt like a total doucher. This meant that I didn’t get to finish, and it also meant that the Gusaline Pump had some fuel in it when the female guard was escorting me back to my cell. She was obviously in awe of the Gusaline Pump, so she offered me some assistance. Normally I would laugh, say “yeah F’ing right” and then point out her many physical flaws before calling up a girl from Myspace to take care of the job, but I was trapped with no other options so I decided to go below my standards and settle for a single when I would have normally hit a home run. I’m not going to give you lonely Star Wars fags any details for you to beat off to, but rest assured that Gusalina got his.

Still, above all else, the best times when I was in juvie were when my badass older brother Wayne came to visit. Wayne knew that I was in juvie because I had covered for him and not let him get arrested, so he would not only come see me a lot but he also wouldn’t let our annoying ass mom Donna come visit either so I didn’t have to be bothered by her coming to nag my head off all the time.

Since Pritchard was also partially responsible for me getting arrested, Wayne made him fork over gas money so the Cumaro could make the two hour drive. But Pritchard wasn’t allowed to ocme with Wayne, because Wayne wouldn’t be able to tolerate Pritchard for that long, let alone be able to put up with the permanent smell of white trash and generic laundry detergent that Pritchard would leave behind. Instead, Wayne made the drive by himself, and always made sure to bring essentials.

The first time, he started off basic, just to see what he’d be able to sneak in in the future. He brought me the newest copies of Eastbay and Baseball Express so I’d be able to see the sickest new gear that was coming out.

The next time, he brought me 15 cans of Skoal so I would be able to dip and not lose my F’ing mind after waking up and realizing I was in a cell with a doucher who went balls deep in a piece of fruit. From there Wayne just started sneaking in more and more badass things for me. Sometimes a couple handles of Smirnoff and a gallon or two of Gatorade. Once a Fleshlight that he made Pritchard shoplift from a porn shop. By the time I was giving pitching lessons, I could pretty much have whatever I wanted snuck in and not get in trouble for it. Wayne snuck in some pepper spray and one time when my cellmate was sleeping, I yelled out “CANTALOUPE JUICE!” and sprayed him in the face with it. When the guards came and asked what was going on, I told them that his face was red and he was crying because he was remorseful that he didn’t bone a honeydew instead. They believed me because he was seriously that F’ing pathetic.

Probably the coolest thing Wayne ever did when he came to visit was sneak in a recorder so we could make freestyles about my time on the inside. Wayne would make beats with his mouth, and I would channel all my inner emotions and pain and go all Mike Shinoda on the tracks. Wayne would take the recorder home and load the songs onto my Myspace so all the skanks could stay wet while Gusalina was away.

Eventually, my three months were up and it was time to leave. You should have seen the looks on everybody’s faces there. You could tell that they were sad to see me go since I was so F’ing badass, but at the same time they were relieved because I was no longer going to be around as a threat to cave in their F’ing skull with a fistball for looking at me the wrong way.

My doucher cellmate tried to give me his e-mail address and a bunch of other contact information on this piece of paper, but I threw it away right in front of his face and told him that he was a creepy loser that I would never talk to for the rest of my life, let alone hang out with. He got all teary-eyed so I told him that there was probably a watermelon around here somewhere that wouldn’t be able to say no, and then I walked away.

Unfortunately for me, my escort to the warden’s office was the female guard again, and you could tell that she was really F’ing upset that I was leaving. She tried pulling me into an empty room so she could fuel from the Gusaline Pump one last time, but I pushed her off of me, looked her in the face, and said “Do you understand how much high quality ass a first rounder like me is about to get on the outside? No F’ing way.” Then I told her that she was a busted 30-something year old lady that I only banged so I had something to say during “Never Have I Ever.” She started crying, so I just walked away towards the warden’s office by myself.

I went through all the formalities of the warden asking me if I was ready to change my life and all this bullshit, to which I was honest and said my life was really F’ing awesome and I planned on changing nothing about it. He still signed all the necessary papers and cleared me for release, probably because he still hoped one day his son could have the first round talent that I have. As I was walking out of his office, the warden told me he was going to try and have his son added to my AAU team for the summer. I matter-of-factly told him that his son sucks F’ing dick at baseball, and would never be able to play on JV, let alone the same summer team as a first rounder. This pissed him off but he’d already released me so there was nothing he could do about it.

I walked outside just as Wayne was pulling up. He was blasting Akon’s “Konvict Music” as an audio F.U. to the juvie system. They thought they could keep Gusalina locked up, but now I was out and even more x-treme than ever. Wayne burned out for a second in the parking lot before peeling away. We switched the radio to Limp Bizkit as we went over 100 all the way home. I was F’ing free.

There’s going to be more to come soon, and I’m F’ing serious this time. In the meantime, comment on this F’ing blog and tell all your friends about it so everybody knows just how much of a badass I am and so you don’t seem like a doucher.

Never been on JV, but been in Juvie,
Gusalina #4

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

2010-04-01T20:56:00.001-07:00

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.

----------------------------------------------

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

Just So You Douchers Will F'ing Shut Up

2009-04-17T08:11:00.000-07:00

I swear to F'ing God that Gusalina can't go a single day without twelve of you douchers pestering me at Gusalina4@hotmail.com, my Facebook, or my Myspace (yeah right douchers, like I give that out to just anyone) about writing a new post. Unlike all you stupid momma's boys, I actually have an F'ing life, that involves getting some from girls who aren't emotionally or physically capable of handling my Gusaline Pump (if you know what I F'ing mean), as well as being a first round prospect. Seriously, the next time you're on the F'ing internet and you want to whine about not being able to live your life through my first round experience, follow these three letters - JJO. That's Just Jack Off for you Gusalina readers whose mother couldn't help but party it up a little bit while she was pregnant with you.

But seriously, watch some porn. Here are three of Gusalina's favorites - Brazzers, BangBros, and billyhillyardsbigtitwebcam.com. Just kidding on the third one you douchers (though that doucher x-treme Billy Hillyard probably has some of the biggest natural boobs on the internet) but you get the F'ing idea. Stop complaining about not getting a new blog when I deliver reading material everytime the same way I deliver my 92mph fastball - like an F'ing first rounder.

Besides, a lot of stuff has happened in the past month that has kept me F'ing busy. This includes baseball tryouts (I'll talk about in this post), St Patrick's Day (I'll talk about in this post), mother F'ing WAYNETONA spring break (that's next post you douchers), and my F'ing birthday (I don't know when I'll get to that one. You just might never F'ing hear about it). So yeah, I've been kind of busy. That's just the life you're given when you throw 92 with movement and have first round on lockdown. It's a gift and a curse. The gift is I'm going to get paid big time. The curse is I have to deal with skanks Superpoking me on Facebook. They throw sheep at me, but I don't throw anything back because "92mph thunder with movement" is not an option. Seriously, send me some pics or face a defriending.

But enough about all the skanks who flood Gusalina4@hotmail.com, my Facebook, and my Myspace (yeah F'ing right doucher, like I give my Myspace out to just anyone. Read the Mystery Method sometime you lonely doucher and learn how to pull some ladies) with pictures of themselves begging for the Gusaline Pump. Let's get down to business. I'm going to talk about something that's a little bit of a touchy subject for me - the Ottoville baseball team.

As anyone who knows a professional scout will tell you, Gus Trotter is the only redeeming quality of the Ottoville Big Green baseball team, and the entire town of Ottoville in general (Wayne lives outside city limits because of his restraining orders you F'ing idiots). Because of that, you may be assuming that Gusalina doesn't even have to try out for the baseball team. That was the impression I was under until that white trash doucher Kyle Pritchard (sidenote - Pritchard is so F'ing poor that he continually has a snotty, runny nose because he can't afford cold medicine or doctor visits. Seriously, I think the only time he's been to the doctor was the day he was born, and I'm not able to confirm he wasn't born in a barn or in the back of his uncle's LeBaron or some shit either) came up to me and was all like "Hey Gusalina, can I get a ride home with you from tryouts?" My initial reaction was obviously "No F'ing way doucher!", but I eventually softened my stance to "Only if you don't wear your seatbelt." I figured I would do natural selection a favor by tossing him through the windshield if I hit a curve going 100+.

The fact that Pritchard was talking about tryouts went over my head the first time he said it, admittedly. I had planned on going for 175 for a double/assisted triple in the bench press while all the no talent douchers like Pritchard had to do fielding drills or whatever they do when you can't throw 92 with movement or get drafted in the first round. Gusalina doesn't do PFP (that's pitching field practice for you douchers who aren't going first round) and there is no fielding required after you strike someone out, only celebrating (aka SuFI!!!!), so yeah, I don't do many fielding drills. Anyways, I'm in the weight room, repping 135 like 6 or 7 times (as a warmup) when the new doucher head coach comes storming in.

As a rewind, I forgot to tell you douchers reading this that the new coach and I have history. He hasn't liked Gusalina since he got here in the fall, because at the team meeting introducing him I suggested that a) we cut Kyle Pritchard immediately and ban him from trying out, and b) we change the traditional Ottoville Big Green colors to a more modern, x-treme shade of green. He didn't like either suggestion (though I'm not completely sold that he didn't strongly consider option A) and has held a grudge against Gusalina ever since then, because I get more attention and respect than he does. I met with him multiple times to explain that I am going to get millions to pitch in the big leagues and he's an F'ing high school baseball coach, so yeah, I'm going to be more important.

Anyways, this doucher barges in running his mouth right as I'm getting myself psyched up to blast out my 175, so I don't even have a chance to try for a new best on my bench press, and that seriously pissed me off. This idiot continued with "Trotter! Why aren't you on the field with the rest of the team?" or something. I wasn't really listening because I had Staind "So Far Away" F'ing BLASTING on my iPod, and that was much more important to me. Still, with a smile and a SuFi, I informed the coach that in case he forgot, my name was Gusalina and first rounders don't need to try out. This doucher was on a serious power trip so he dragged me out to the field and ordered me to do ten poles as a punishment for being late. I laughed off that suggestion and told the doucher that if I'm going to be out on the field I'm going to F'ing pitch or I'm going to go home. Realizing that I throw 92 with movement, he put me into the scrimmage they had going. After barely warming up on the field (I considered by bench pressing my warmup), I quickly mowed through the first two batters with six pitches. There was no way these kids were going to make the team because they were flinching like serious pussies every time I pitched inside. I know it was like 40 degrees outside, but just F'ing deal with it. You know you're not going to make contact anyways, take your strikeout like a man.

So obviously, I'm starting to get into my groove on the mound. I'm making the coach feel like a real doucher x-treme for making me miss my max out to come pitch to these second and third class ballplayers. Unfortunately for him, the next guy to step into the batter's box was Sammy Robinson, and that's where the story gets interesting.

Sammy Robinson is, for all intents and purposes, a doucher x-treme. He is Billy Hillyard without the F'ing double E's. While I'm going first round, he's just hoping to get lucky enough to find a junior college desperate enough to take his doucher ass to ride the pine. He thinks he's this stud right fielder, but in reality he has a pussy arm and never has to make plays because Gusalina K's up the side more often than girls talk to him at school. To be perfectly honest, Sammy Robinson is incredibly lucky that Kyle Pritchard exists, or he might be my least favorite person in Ottoville. That doucher thinks he's god's gift to baseball, like he's related to Jackie Robinson, when in reality he is a white trash loser who is more likely to be related to Kyle Pritchard than Jackie Robinson.

Anyways, Sammy Robinson steps into the batter's box and makes the serious mistake of telling me he's about to take me yard. So naturally, I'm all ready to strike this doucher out and SuFi him the entire next inning from the dugout. The first pitch I let loose and sit 90 with a little movement right past him for strike one. I wanted to let him think he had a chance to touch my stuff. I forgot he's one of the biggest pussies I've ever known, but I was reminded of this fact when I saw a little trickle of piss form on his baseball pants because of the fear of Gus I had just put in him.

Now that I knew that the doucher was mine to strikeout, I set up for 92 with hellacious movement for the next two pitches, just to make him feel really shitty about his life. So I get into my stance, find my grip, and start to wind back.............when the doucher calls time to adjust his batting gloves.

There are things in life you just don't do. One, never message me on Myspace if you're a guy. Two, don't claim that your car could beat my Camaro in a race. Three, never call time when I'm in my windup about to deliver 92 with movement to you when you won't even play JC ball. Naturally, I was livid about this situation. I called Sammy Robinson every derivation of doucher that I've ever learned and held a SuFi at him for a solid minute while he tried to say "Gus man, just pitch." I had to let this F'ing idiot know that what he did was unacceptable. The only problem was that I felt he didn't understand it from my cold stare, verbal insults, and SuFi.

So when he got back in the batters box, I was going to let him know for real why you don't mess with a first round prospect. He starts to get all ready to get the next pitch, and I cook up something special for him. He was expecting fastball, and I gave him at least 92 (maybe even 93) with movement, right into his neck and spine.

Since I strike a lot of douchers out, there isn't a lot of time for message pitches like that, so I wasn't sure what was going to happen. Well, the first thing that happened was that doucher cried on the ground for seriously like 5 minutes while my coach yelled at me for being a hothead or poor sportsmanship or something. Again, I really wasn't listening. I gave my coach a SuFi while looking at Sammy and repeatedly saying "Don't call time on a first rounder next time, doucher."

Finally, after F'ing forever, Sammy gets up and starts hobbling his tear-streaked face over to first base. Since I still technically had a no-hitter going, I was starting to focus on striking my next batter. And looking back on it, everything would have been fine if that doucher would have just kept his mouth closed. But, as I've already mentioned, he's probably going to community college, so yeah, he's not the smartest dude out there. About 30 feet towards first, he looks at me, and in a stammering, still-crying voice, he shouts out "You're just a first round asshole, Gus!" Well, guess what Sammy? You shouldn't have said that.

Since the catcher still had the ball because of the big waterworks show after he got hit, I didn't have another ball. What I did have, however, was a rosin bag. The temperature outside was pretty F'ing cold - in the 40s for sure. So this bag felt like an F'ing rock. Well, nobody calls me a first round asshole and gets away with it, so I cocked back with the rosin bag and shouted "He Sammy, enjoy a Frozen Rosin (except I said it to make them sound like they rhyme), doucher!" and drilled him in the ribcage with it.

By now he's a sobbing mess on the ground, and the whole incident sends my coach into an F'ing rage. I thought he was going to bitch out Sammy for running his mouth to the greatest player to ever come through Ottoville, or maybe cut Pritchard on the spot to show that he has institutional control, but that doucher told me I was cut, and to get off his field.

At first I thought it was some big joke, because I throw 92 with movement and I'm going first round. You don't cut guys who throw 92 with movement and throw first round. But he was 100% dead serious about it. I would later find out that the doucher was in a bowling league with Sammy's dad, and they drink beer and probably fingerblast each other, so I was screwed the entire time. Typical Ottoville politics.

So it finally hits me that I'm really getting cut. I can't say at this point if I'm truly upset about it actually happening, because I'm going to go first round regardless of whether or not I play for the F'ing Ottoville Big Green. I get most of my scout attention from travel ball and showcases anyways. But I did leave tryouts with a bang.

As I was storming out, I found the water cooler in the dugout and poured it all over Sammy Robinson's baseball bag. I hope it ruined his F'ing cell phone, to be honest. Then I knocked over all the balls and bats out of the dugout, and tossed the rest of my dip in my coach's direction as I was leaving. Since this is the coach's first year and he's an F'ing novice, he forgot to take the padlock to the gate with him onto the field, so as I was leaving, I locked the entire team into the baseball stadium. I heard they had to climb an 8 foot fence to get out. Serves those douchers right.

Also, I left without giving Pritchard a ride, so I can't really say it was a bad day.
_________________________________________________

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.
_________________________________________________

There have been enough idiot douchers to email Gusalina at Gusalina4@hotmail.com over the past few weeks to warrant the title of the "Dumbest Doucher in the F'ing World," and I would have picked one of them, had it not been for this comment I got on my last blog:

Anonymous said...

Hey Gusalina, it's Kyle Kuric and I play for the #1 seeded Louisville Cardinals basketball team. You are way to into yourself man. I'm actually doing something with my life and you just sit around and brag about yourself. I'm also playing for Louisville's baseball team this year. Why don't you come down to a practice once I get there so I can take you yard? Scared, thought so, I would be if I was you.
Draining 3's and hitting long ball's all game long, -Kyle

So obviously this Kyle Kuric doucher is the "Dumbest Doucher in the F'ing World," right? That's what I thought. I looked up this doucher on Facebook to talk some serious first round shit to this guy and what do I find. This Facebook group called "Fuck Kyle Kuric." It looks like they deleted it now or they blocked Gusalina from looking at it, but guess who the creator of the group was? None other than the greatest set of tits in AAA, Billy F'ing Hillyard. So yeah, the "Kyle Kuric" who was posting on my blog was almost certainly Billy Hillyard, the doucher who you may remember has lied trying to make himself look cool in front of Gusalina. Well, Billy, congratulations. You have not only made yourself look like a doucher x-treme2damax, but you have also won the title of "Dumbest Doucher in the F'ing World." Way to go, D-Cup.

Because I don't want to deal with you douchers flooding my inbox when I could be getting sweet emails from sexxy girls, I'm going to write a nice, long recap for all you douchers about my time in Waynetona. It will be my longest post ever, and it will come in the next two weeks. Gusalina F'ing promises.

Popping flies all over skanks faces,

Gusalina #4

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

2009-03-10T13:22:00.001-07:00

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

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

-Gusalina can I be your agent???

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pictured: Gay

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

Inside the park home runs are for douchers,

Gusalina #4

How Is Gusalina So F’ing Awesome?

2009-02-19T00:47:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and

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

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

________________________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have such a sweet older brother.

________________________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

________________________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instant F'ing Party - Just Add Gusalina and Wayne

2009-01-27T18:59:00.000-08:00

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

Go Big or Go 20th Round

2009-01-21T20:09:00.000-08:00

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

The Price of Gusalina is Rising - Fuel Up Now Ladies

2009-01-11T20:28:00.000-08:00

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 douche r 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

Gusalina Strikes Again

2009-01-05T20:23:00.000-08:00

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

Santa Claus Couldn't Hit My Hammer

2008-12-21T12:48:00.000-08:00

I need to start this blog by saying two things. First, thanks to all the honeys out there that added me on Myspace. Unfortunately, I only have 16 top spots on my friend list. If you want to be in my top 16, step your game up. I know you all have camera phones and bathroom mirrors, send Gusalina some pictures. Second, to the guys emailing me wanting to know how to get Gusalina fresh big league style, just give up the dream. I mean, you've read my blog, so you have to know that I'm the F'ing man and that you can't roll like me. You can't capture Gusalina's essence, but I guess you could try to equip yourself like Gusalina does.

I found some time out my day that I wasn't stuffing stockings (if you know what I mean) to write this blog about what I'm asking for for Christmas. Not all of this stuff is going to come from my parents. I have some equipment deals since everyone wants to try and catch a ride on my D train before I make it to the big league. They send me all sorts of stuff so I'll endorse their hamburger or something. News flash, I'm not going to do that, unless your hamburger is made out of Cell Tech.

So here we go. If you want to be like Gusalina, these are the things you're going to have to hope Santa Clause brings you.

Does Cell Tech make HGH? If not they should. I'm totally getting some for Christmas. I'm going to use it now, but not when I make it to the big leagues. I'm not a cheater. I'm just trying to get up to 185 before the season starts. Then I'll be roped.
I want a custom license plate cover that says "I drive a Camaro, so yeah, I'm a badass"
A mother F'ing Rawlings Primo Glove. Not a regular cheap one, an F'ing custom one with flames on it. But in the flames are cursive letters that spell Gusalina #4. F'ing badass. They'll be calling me the next Eric Van Leemer. That's a Summer Catch reference you dillweeds. Mark my words, I will play in the Cape league and F Jessica Biel in the Press Box.
An Ed Hardy shopping spree. I don't trust my mom to buy me any clothes because she dresses like a lesbian, so I just want her to give me like $1000 so I can get some F'ing sweet clothes.
I'm getting 6 Phiten necklaces. Yeah F'ing 6. Straight from Japan. I'm talking like delivered on my doorstep from someone who still hates me because of World War II. Have you ever seen someone wearing 6 Phiten necklaces at once? Of course you fagn't. Then again, you haven't seen someone blast one 378feet to the opposite field and then come back five minutes later to strike out the side but that's what Gusalina does.
I was reading Mark Titus's blog, and his friend was talking about his little sister wanting to do Mark. If she thinks that queer is cool she would probably try to drug Gusalina and marry him. Add me on Myspace sometime Ashley Keller and use that camera phone girl.
I'm making the school buy me a Derek Jeter Hurricane batting machine. He's a big bitch but that machine is the F'ing bomb. Speaking of bombs, I'm going to hit about 3 a game this year, even when they try to intentionally walk me.
I want Alex Rodriguez to add me on Myspace. Everybody tells I'm the next A-Rod only better looking and more of a beast on the diamond, so if I were him I would add me on Myspace to tell me good luck. Don't be a prick dude. Gusalina just does what comes natural to him.
I'm also making the school buy a new F'ing radar gun. I swear to god that one we have is broken. Every time I pitch it has me coming in at like 83 but I know I'm sitting at least 92. WITH MOVEMENT. I can tell because we used it to clock my Camaro once and it had me at 95 when I was going at least 120. My Camaro can F'ing fly
Cinemax. Come on mom, don't be a bitch about it. If you say we can't afford it, get a F'ing job so I can be happy on Christmas. You're my mom, you have to do it. When I get Skinemax (Name I made up for it, cuz of the porn! LMAO), I can watch all kinds of porno. I like it when it's a guy and a girl and not just two girls. I'm not gay or anything, the guys just have some sweet hairstyles and sideburns that I might want to copy.
Not one, but two Air Exo bats. Gusalina doesn't swing anything that doesn't round up to 4 bills. I've got to keep the price of my bats within 50 points of my batting average.But why two? I need one for the game, and one for me to hold when people are taking my picture for magazines. What about practice? I use wood, duh.
I want every stand up that Dane Cook has ever made. I'm going to start giving the SuFi to every batter that I strike out, so I want to have it perfect
M-Frames (At least one pair), eye black (Not the F'ing strips), and wrist tape. Badass doesn't happen by accident.
Taco Bell needs to send me like 100 2-liters of Baja F'ing Blast. I swear I would go through all of that in like 6 months, tops. I inhale Baja Blast so quick they might as well call it Gusalina's F'ing Oxygen.
A wrist roller. I need something to do between classes to keep the chicks F'ing moist, and this way I'll be coming closer to having forearms as big as Josh Hamilton.
A F'ing tattoo. Something Chinese because I'm spiritual and mysterious.

So there you have it. That's what I'm going to get for Christmas, and if you don't like it you can drink some Diesel Fuel from my Gusaline Pump. Be back in a few days to tell you how much better my Christmas was than yours, mostly because you're poor and I'm going pro.

Gusalina For Free

2008-12-17T15:19:00.000-08:00

What’s up you little bitches? If you’re reading this, you already know who I am. My name is Gus “Gusalina” Trotter, and your probably saw a picture of me in the Ottoville Sports Extra. That was me strokin’ the long ball. I’m known to do two things in life – be the hardest hitting RF/LHP in Putnam County, OH and fly American flags. If you’re still wondering if I’ll sign an autograph for you, you are f’ing crazy. I know you’ll just turn around and sell it on eBay so you can afford Christmas presents for your whole poor family. That’s not the way Gusalina rolls. Since you want to be me right down to having your Spanish teach call you Senor Gus, here ARE the ways that I roll. Always imitated, never duplicated. You’ll never have my big league status.

My typical morning involves me rolling out of bed and bitching at my mom for not having my morning protein shake ready. She doesn’t have a job, so it shouldn’t be a big F’ing deal for to have my Cell Tech sitting on the kitchen counter when I come downstairs. Jesus Christ. She thinks that you get to be 170 pounds of muscle by accident or something.

After breakfast I head to school. I’m 16, so you know what that means. I drive a ’94 Camaro, and it’s the bitchinest ride in the whole school. I show up 20 minutes early every day so I can do donuts in the parking lot. The chicks f’ing love it.

My first period blows. I’m like totally naked without my iPod, so I have that shit with me at all times. I never take the headphones out of my ears. Ever. Seriously, the only thing stopping me from calling my science teacher a fat lesbo is 3 Doors Down. Instead of paying attention I like to put the hood up on my hooded sweatshirt and flirt with this girl in my class. She’s a year older, and I heard she F’ed this guy from Sugar Creek that she barely even knew. Before you know it this skank’s gonna be beggin for some Gusalina. If the teacher ever asks me what the answer is, I tell her my batting average.

At lunch time I sit at the coolest table. I have the most Myspace friends out of anyone in my grade, so a lot of people want to sit with me. The other guys at my table love it when I quote Dane Cook. He’s F’ing hilarious. The other day these douchenozzles tried to sit with us at the table and I gave them the SuperFinger (SuFi!) and told them that I was going to shit on their coats. I’m a badass.

Just before school gets out I have study hall. Yeah, right, like Gusalina needs to study. I totally watch Vin Diesel movies on my portable DVD player and don’t get in trouble for it. My older brother was on the same sectional runner up football team as my study hall teacher, so I can do whatever the F I want. That’s Ottoville Big Green pride, what you know about that?

My school day ends the same every day – pumping iron, getting cut up. I eat a protein bar because even though I’m made of Gusalina I still need fuel. After that I just take off my jeans and I’m ready to go. I wear my basketball shorts underneath my jeans. If you don’t, you must be some kind of a fag. The strength coach at this school is an F’ing idiot. He tries to get me to do squats. I told him I’d start doing squats when I swung the bat with my feet, and I gave him the SuFi. My workout is pretty simple – bench, incline, curls, triceps, wrist curls. I usually do sets of 5 or 7 in most of the stuff but I always max out in the bench so I can put it on my Myspace when I get home. Today I got 155, but I totally could have got more, my shoulder was sore from throwing weighted balls in my bullpen yesterday. I don’t shower at school, that’s for homos. Besides I don’t want to intimidate any freshmen with the size of my massive D, which I’ve nicknamed my Gusaline Pump.

When I go home it’s straight to my Myspace to check and see if I have any new comments. I edit my pictures to make myself look even more like a badass. I know you thought that probably wasn’t possible. But I’ve totally called dibs on these three 7th graders that are going to be smoking hot in a couple of years. They’re practically begging for some Gusalina, but I still won’t put them in my top 32. Don’t hate the player, hate the game.

After that I’ll jump back in my Camaro and do what any big leaguer would do – go to Taco Bell and buy a Baja F’ing Blast. I seriously drink like 9 medium Bajas a week, including refills. The total comes to like $1.47 but I give them $2 and tell them to keep the change. I don’t need any pennies in my pocket. Besides, those kids working at Taco Bell are poor, and I’ll be called up to the majors in 2 years, so yeah, I don’t think I need the change.

Once I finish my Baja I’ll throw in a fat dip and use the cup as a spitter. This older guy from my school buys me my citrus pouches, probably because he wants me to buy him a car or something when I sign my first $100mil contract. Figures. Everyone wants to get some Gusalina. There’s always these stupid freshman kids hanging around Taco Bell trying to act like they’re the biggest badasses around because they do BMX. I remind them that I had the fastest pitch over the summer at the Putnam County Fair. That usually knocks them down a peg or two. Besides, they wear Hollister sweatshirts with Abercrombie jeans. You never mix the two. Are you F’ing retarded?

Eventually it’s time to go home. I go in through the back porch so I don’t have to listen to my mom nag at me for not eating her stupid F’ing dinner. I swear, she’s such a bitch to me now but she’s going to be all lovey dovey when I’m a billionaire and in the Hall of Fame. I go up to my room, lock my door, and turn the channel to Cinemax. We don’t actually get it on our cable, so it’s scrambled but you can still see boobs. I put some pine tar on my bat if you know what I mean and then I fall asleep and dream about how I’m going to be the best player in America by the time I’m 21. I’m serious. My trainer used to work out with A-Rod and he said I’m even better at my age than he was, so yeah, I have that going for me.

You think you can do that? Think again. This has been Gusalina, and I’m the man.