BBC. Brunch, Booze, and Crap: A Divine Comedy!

With the sun shining and the birds chirping, it's like the whole world's hormones hit the dance floor, even the Trabubus, those sneaky little creatures, who are basically sock and underwear thieves. They’ve made it their life's mission to swipe your most prized possessions. One day, you're doing your laundry, minding your own business, and suddenly, poof!? Your favorite socks and most colorful undies vanish into thin air. Who's to blame? The Trabubus. They're like tiny sock goblins, invisible to the naked eye, but oh-so-real in their thievery. You could swear you hear their mischievous giggles echoing through the laundry room as they snatch up your best garments.

And like you, they've been waiting all winter to show off their fashion sense at a fabulous brunch. And spring doesn't discriminate. Even God upstairs can't resist peeking out of his heavenly office window to see what all the fuss is about down here. I mean, it's been about 2000 years since God was up there twiddling his heavenly thumbs, thinking. - You know what?? I could use a mini-me. I want to have a kid. So he summons his go-to archangel, Saint Gabriel, who flies in like a superhero, ready for divine duty.

GOD.- Gabe, I want a kid.?

They have known each other for 2000 years so I guess he calls him Gabe.

Now, Gabriel, bless his celestial heart, tried to keep it real.

Saint Gabriel. - Uh, ok I'm more fluid than a yoga pose and as binary as a "yes" or "no" question. But Lord, not to be the buzzkill or rain on your parade, but if this is a booty call, wouldn’t you buy me a drink first?

GOD.- Stop binge-watching Ricky Gervais and focus. Gabe, I’d like a Cali girl this time. Go down to Earth. I’ve been told in L.A. there are plenty of eligible bachelorettes. Find a virgin, announce yourself, and tell her I want to have a child.

Saint Gabriel. -Alright, alright! So, you want me to pop down to Earth, find a virgin, and tell her you're looking to expand the family tree. Got it.

So He flapped his wings four times and descended to Earth. He landed in Marina del Rey first, and from there to Venice, but truth be told, a virgin, in the true sense of the word, was nowhere to be found there so he went to Santa Monica to visit the pier and do some sightseeing, not because he expected to find any virgins there. God fills all his angels with hope and faith, but that doesn't make them idiots. The truth is, S.A.G. wouldn’t let them do it, and this is a nonunion gig.

He was about to throw in the towel when he stumbled upon a gaggle of gals in Orange County, aka the Brunch Ladies Patrol. They're like the Avengers of day drinking, assembled every Sunday for mimosas and gossip. They call it brunch to sound classy, but hey, it's still booze before noon! Gabe always wanted to get to know the people of Los Angeles and their ways in-depth, so he decided to spend the weekend in Orange County.

So, there's Gabriel, with his wings and halo trying to keep it real sipping Mezcal shots and caught between one agave-infused moment and the next. He is dropping some divine gossip like it's hot. He leans in and whispers, "You know God? Yeah, it turns out he's going through a mid-divine-life crisis. I’m telling you guys I think he is pre menopause. I mean every year with the same shit

Saint Gabriel. -(mimicking GOD) "I wanna be a dad, Gabe! I really do!"?

This is the fucking original déjà vu, a cosmic Groundhog Day. And then, of course, he ghostwrites himself out of the parenting gig, leaving Gabe, to pick up the celestial pieces.

Saint Gabriel. -So, last time, I'm cruising through Bethlehem, right? Trying to find this mythical "virgin", Gabe told to the Brunch Patrol Girls. Now, imagine you're María, drying dishes in your kitchen when a 6’2 tall brown angel with abs of steel pops in. Right?

The Brunch Ladies Patrol is like a squad of skeptics with a side of sass. Abs of steel, they say? Show us the receipts, Gabe.

Saint Gabriel. - Chill, Girls. -I’m here to deliver a message. Gabe had another shot and kept telling the story.

Could've just sent a dick pic like everyone else?

Do you have a burner phone? Ask the redhead one.

So, there goes Gabe, soaring through the skies like an angelic matchmaker on a mission, ready to spin a divine tale, seal the celestial deal, and vanish into thin air faster than a Tinder date ghosting you. But before he can even finish his heavenly sales pitch, the Brunch Ladies Patrol swoops out like a flock of tipsy seagulls, leaving poor Gabe with nothing but a muttered

"Proxima vez, no pantalones se?or, gracias!"

(Translation? Next time, skip the pants, buddy. Thanks!)

I know what you all are thinking, WTF I just read. But hey, blame it on a feverish writing spree. How we got here you might ask?

But let's rewind a bit and talk about the Brunch Ladies Patrol, aka the BLP.? As I mentioned before, these gals are gathering once in a while for a Sunday Funday Extravaganza. I was so thrilled to get an invite that I didn't dare to question why Sunday Funday was going down on a Saturday. I'm not reckless – I mean, I don't have a death wish, and there were no male reinforcements because, contrary to what I was promised, the other boyfriends were MIA.

I was like a lone ranger in a sea of brunch madness.? Suddenly, it hit me, I was experiencing what Maria felt when Gabe dropped by and made his celestial cameo.– There I was, blessed among women, full of grace and maybe a bit too much tequila. It was as if I had donned the glasses of truth.

My vision became clearer than a freshly Windexed window, seeing everything with the clarity of a squirrel spotting its next nut stash. In the grand game of life, we're all just playing Jenga,?we're all just stacking up our relationships like a tower of wobbly blocks, carefully testing up our partners like precariously balanced blocks, cautiously testing each piece's stability before making a move, more nerve-wracking than trying to parallel park a double-decker bus. It's like trying to navigate a social minefield armed with a mimosa in one hand and the delicate art of small talk in the other. One wrong move and the whole tower comes crashing down

But I strut into this life like I own the place, ready to play the game with all the gusto of a kid in a candy store. And between playing it safe and diving headfirst into adventure, guess which one I always pick?

So, there I am, POISED to showcase my mad skills in one epic move. I was struck speechless. And no, not because I pulled off some jaw-dropping stunt. Nope, turns out my move was so mind-blowingly brilliant that I lost my voice in the process. Only if I'd listened to J's advice about wearing underwear, things wouldn't have gone south so fast.

Perhaps inspired by the divine story of Saint Gabriel, J wanted to save me, so she gave me a nectar to drink that I will never forget. And I immediately baptized it with the sonorous name of "What the hell is this"??

And this is how J made me recover my voice in one sip.

But Lorenzo, you still haven't explained what this has to do with San Gabriel.

You're right!!

J forgot to mention that the “What the hell is this" drink helps whenever you are constipated, which was not the case. And 3 hours contemplating the meaning of life while my guts stage a great escape, sitting on the toilet seat watching my life sneakily escape in the form of poop, there's a lot to think about. Like, who knew giving birth or getting knocked up could be as surprising and messy as my solo toilet time?? I witnessed a long-lost Ramen from when I was 7 years old make its grand exit, trust me watching your past meals make a grand exit really makes you ponder life's mysteries. Every time someone got diarrhea an angel get his wings.