I've been up all night talking to the porcelain god after a few too many Mojitos. I was booked to play a wedding party that turned out to be the marriage of two obviously dangerous alcoholic folks who liked to insist everyone drink with them till they fell over in a pile of their own vomit. Tony ain't one to turn down a proposal like that, so count me in, baby.

The problem with such events is, once you've finished your stint, you've usually managed to wow a few folks with your suave tunes and debonair mustache, usually folks who've had several too many glasses of champagne.

And it's never the nubile bridesmaids either. It's more like the bride's mom. The bride's mom loved the shit out of me. She also had about fourteen hands judging by the bruises on my ass right now. Pincers might be more accurate. She couldn't keep her mitts off my hiney. It was like trying to dodge a large, mechanical octopus. She was also reminiscent of a hippopotamus squeezed into a pink polyester two piece and horn-rimmed glasses.

As y'all know by now, Tony is a fan of all the ladies regardless of size and physical abnormality but this chick was just a test of my faith in womanhood. She probably hosted every damn weird defect known to the human race and a few previously undiscovered ones too. I mean even the seventeen cocktails I'd consumed didn't Madonna-ize her or anything.

I gave her the slip by telling her I was heading to the buffet table to get her some crabs then hoofed it out the back way and hailed a cab home. I called Pedro from the cab to tell him to take care of my organ.

I'm getting too old for this shit, seriously.

Honestly folks, you have to love Vegas. And by "love" I totally mean "be baffled as holy fuck" by it. It's a city filled with debauchery and deviants at every turn. Every vice is here, man. If you want to stick your twadger in a dead pig while a French tart dressed as Hitler sings "Frere Jacques" and stirs a cauldron filled with the amputated toes from Pygmies, Vegas will house someone who provides that service. For a price, you understand.

Therefore, it wasn't a huge surprise when Pedro's cousin, Arsenio, managed to hire twin Japanese midget plate jugglers for his bachelor party last night.

The twins were kind of cute actually. You might remember old Tony Spunk dated a midget a few months back. Sorry, a vertically challenged lady. She was vertically challenged when I dated her, that's for damn sure! She was horizontal 90% of the time (the other 10% she was bringing me a beer or washing my scants). She was a goer, that gal. I was amazed by her aptitude and gymnastability in the sack. She was insatiable.

So naturally this was all going through my head when the midget twins appeared in their tiny sparkly bikinis, juggling their plates in the air, which ensured I had to remain seated throughout the whole act or else knock over the buffet table with my stupendous boner.

I don't know but sometimes I think I'm wired all wrong.

Anyway, the little Japanese chicks did their thing and ended by whipping off their g-strings and doing something with grapes I've never witnessed before and will no doubt have a confusing combination of (wet) dreams and nightmares about for the next six months.

Arsenio was about twenty sheets to the wind by this stage and missed the big finale but seriously, if I hadn't been meeting Carmen right after the show, I'd have used my charm and juggled those two little firecrackers in a most pleasing manner. And by that I mean right on my cock.

As you can see, I go to some weird events but as always, I stay classy.

Man, what a weekend. I mean they're all fairly insane lately but this one was just looney tunes from beginning to end.

Firstly, this chick Carmen that I've been seeing on and off. She had her "Ladies time" and was therefore in bitchville the whole time. Sorry ladies, I know it's biological and natural and everything but whoa nellie! Carmen turns into Charles Manson during her crimson tide. I mean I had to hide my kitchenware in case I woke up with a cheese knife buried in my family jewels.

She kept on asking me did her ass look huge in those pants and I kept on reassuring her that yes, her ass looked like two elephants having a territorial war inside a polyester sack, as it wobbled around like an underset jello. I mean it was a compliment! Everyone knows there's nothing Tony likes more than some colossal ass-flesh busting out at the seams. She got all homicidal though because apparently she thought it was an insult and punched me in the eye.

I don't get the ladies sometimes, truly.

Also I had a show Saturday night on the strip. Not a headlining gig or anything but it was opening for some homo dude who does juggling tricks with pies while wearing a body suit. I don't get it, personally, but any excuse to perform for me is groovy. The audience was a little lispy. For real, I never saw so many friends of Judy in one place before. They're pretty good dudes too, this one guy in leather pants bought me three cocktails and everything!

There was this one alarming dude in the front row wearing a tight pink crop top and I swear he was eyeing up my mustache with some nasty intent. I mean I don't swing that way (not that there's anything wrong with it) but I appreciate my loveliness extends to the fellas as well. I mean I'm a sexual being!

Just to reaffirm my heterosexuality I went home and boned the living shit out of Carmen. Cuz you know, I'm totally straight.

So we had an election here in the good ole U. S. of A. yesterday, you guys might have seen it? That Barack dude won, which pleased all the Mexicans I know so much that my local liquor store ran out of tequila.

And who can blame them? The last guy wanted to send them all back to Mexico or shoot off their danglies or whatever. Maybe the new guy will be more friendly towards our little brown friends?

I'm not a political type of guy, my politics mainly extend to the ladies and how to get the ladies into my waterbed, you dig? I don't toe the party line or anything due to my general distrust of politician types, although the day a candidate campaigns in a pink tuxedo I might vote for that guy due to his enormous, globe-encompassing balls. But I'm sort of hopeful this Obama guy will do something good for the country and quit the Bush favorite pastime of executing people with one leg and pardoning murders and stuff like that.

Plus, let's be honest here, Obama's wife has a fine badonkadonk on her that old Tony wouldn't mind slapping with a rubber glove. If you're going to vote a dude to be President, make sure he has a nice looking wife. I mean y'all voted for Clinton once and look what happened there. Y'all didn't look at Hilary did you? Plus you can say what you want about old Bush (and I often do after a few martinis) but his wife's a looker. Not bad for an old broad at all. Although you have to wonder what mental deficiency she's hiding that convinced her to marry that old dingbat, right?

So here's to a new America, or at least the old one with some enthusiasm. I'm going to go see if Pedro's come out of his tequila coma yet so we can work on some new numbers. Take it easy compadres.

So, putting Mexico aside for a second, if that’s possible, let me tell you a little of what old Tony’s been up to the last few weeks. It’ll blow your mind, baby. Or at least give you a tiny tremor (hopefully in your pants).

Firstly, I was asked to contribute a couple of songs to a musical. A real musical too, the sort you see on a stage in a theater where people clap their hands and grin like something out of a toothpaste commercial. The musical’s about the 1920s gangster scene so why they wanted Tony Spunk’s fine organ is a mystery, but I’m always up for some adventure, so I got out a couple of my best home compositions, dusted them off, changed the lewd bits and presented them to Jaime (he’s the dude writing the musical), who said he’d be happy to insert them. I assume he meant the song, otherwise, whoa Nellie. I don’t play them in the play or anything, some actor dude does that stuff, I just wrote them. They’re for some background music in a shoot out scene or something. Musicals ain’t really my style, you dig? If I wanted to declare my homosexuality to the world, I’d wear a pink satin suit and develop a lisp. What am I saying, I own a pink, satin suit anyways. My suit is 100% testosterone though. The ladies dig it and if the ladies dig it, it’s all man, baby.

And this Jaime dude paid me. Real money! Usually when some dude with blue hair and holes in his t-shirt says he’ll pay you he’s talking about a few beers or a blow job in the parking lot (I’m told) so this is all above board, real work shit, peeps.

What else? Oh yeah, while working with this Jaime dude, I met a new lady. Name of Miranda. Legs up to here. Smile like Venus herself. Not too bright but seriously, who cares when she has bazoombas like ripe watermelons? If I wanted to spend my evenings debating the world's problems I’d date old Sarah Palin for God’s sake.

That Palin woman makes my manly bits shrivel up and try to hide inside my body. She’s a scary witch. Sure, she’s easy on the eye and I’d be lying if a pleasing image of her with a riding crop in her hand, re-enacting the Kentucky Derby on my one-eyed pony didn’t cross my mind every now and then, but the woman is frightening. If you ask me she needs to get some serious man-meat wedged in her hallway then maybe she’d chill out.

Anyway, this is getting lengthy (and I don’t mean my womb tickler, ladies - it's already colossal!) so I’ll leave it there. More later. Y’all take care now, you hear?

The last three weeks have been a blur, my fine amigos. Not through any drunken "lost weekend" type of thing or anything cool like that, just because since I got back from that depraved country south of the border, I've been inundated with crap to do. Gigs, guest spots, doing a job for Siegfried & Roy (please, don't ask, you'll have nightmares) and basically trying to recover from the debauched time in Mexico.

That fuckin' country is full of depravity. I mean for a land full of statues of the little Baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary and people with the word "Concepcion" in their name, it's certainly full of immoral psychos with debauchery on their minds. Not that I'm complaining, I'm not averse to a little deviant behavior myself when the occasion arises. The "occasion" usually is in my pants. Hah hah. It's just that the time there can be summed up in a few words: sex, tequila, music, refried beans, vomit, donkeys, fondling. Let your imagination have at it.

Anyway, more on Mexico in other entries, this one is just to say I'm busy, I'm horny and I'm diddling a new lady. Stay tuned. I'm now going to rearrange my pants.

Well hola mis amigos, Tony Spunk is back in the land of warm apple pie after a ten day stint of total debauchery south of the border. And I don’t mean that lame theme park place in South Carolina either (Sorry SC but really… Noho on the theme parko.)

I actually only performed six shows during those ten days but seriously folks, thank the lord Fuckery it worked out that way because I was bombed like London during the blitz during most of that period and any more would surely have killed me stone cold. Mexico is one seriously depraved place if you know what you’re doing. And especially if you have no clue.

Where to start? Let’s start at my first location in Cozumel for today, shall we? Let’s just say it can be described in five short words: Spring Break hell on Earth. That place is pretty but stacked to the gills at all times with possibly underage, steaming assholes trying to get as much Jose Cuervo in their guts as at all possible without puncturing a membrane or something. Idiots who, after a few slammers, think they can sing like an angel and let everyone within a five mile radius know it by screaming atrocious Kenny Chesney hits at the top of their voices in a key only dogs can hear.

Don’t get me wrong, about 50% of this drunken tomfoolery came from the ladies (and you know Tony loves the ladies) and the ladies when rubberized, even though they make even less sense than usual, are a little more charming than the boys. At least they do amusingly drunken things before they vomit on your suede creepers, like lift up their tank tops and shake their jubblies in your face, whereas the guys just punch your shoulder, turn purple and spew a fountain of cranberry shots into your lap, your face and your dignity.

Naturally, the resort I was scheduled to rock was a seniors’ retreat. Lots of old dears held together by pins, trying to gyrate to Perry Como numbers and drinking copious amounts of Melonballs. Not really the Mexican lost weekend I had in mind, you dig? Those wacky old spinsters would creak on by silently after my set, then grab my ass when I was bending over the bar pointing to the cerveza I wanted. And boy, those bony old hands can squeeze hard, let me tell you. I have bruises, man. Bruises.

There was this one young waitress there called Marlena. Marlena was half Mexican but grew up in Atlanta. She had all the exotic appearance of a Latina goddess – big round ass, equally impressive bazoombas, beautiful smile, shiny, long, black hair – and all the uncouth charm of a cussing Tennessee hillbilly. Hilarious.

She also put out, which I approve of heartily, especially when the recipient is yours truly. Boy she was a handful. Several handfuls if you want to know the truth. Didn’t matter where you grabbed you got yourself a fistful of awesome. After my set was over and I’d placated 70 octogenarians determined to detain me for the rest of my natural life for their immoral pleasures, Marlena would finish her shift and smuggle me out the back door like a freaking rock star, when we’d shuffle on over to this other bar on the “quiet” side of town and party till dawn. On my second and last night there, we partied behind the bar when the place closed down. On the floor. All together, we had a smoking good time those couple days for sure.

As Marlena subtledly summed it up while puffing on a cigar, “The past few days are like a gold-dripping c*nt!”

They’re fucked up those Southerners.

Jesus Christos. Mexico is fucking insane, you guys. If I make it back alive I'll tell you about it. You know, once I get out of rehab and the Clap clinic.

Laters.

Hola Esses!

What the hay, it’s been a few days since Senor Spunk saturated you with his supreme wisdom and sparkly life highlights, huh! I have a good excuse though. I just plum didn’t feel like it.

Don’t get me wrong though I’ve been working hard. You don’t know hard till you’ve whored yourself out to an entire sorority house, singing Backstreet Boys and Nsync numbers for $200. And let's not forget the awesome opportunity to observe 20 something females drunk off their asses on cheap tequila. But hey, if anyone’s up to romancin’ the college chicks, Tony’s your guy.

At least that’s what I was thinking when I agreed to do the gig. It’s not my usual forum certainly, but it’s one I was agreeable to in the vain hope there’d be some sort of “Girls Gone Wild”, chicks-making-out type celebration taking place with much gratuitous flashing of firm fleshy mounds and drunk-assed, inhibition-free blondes asking to sit on my organ. And I was sort of half right.

The sorority was part of a local college that specializes in providing education for ex-prisoners and kids who came through the reform system. They were all full-on pleased to be at the party but man some of those gals were rode hard and put away wet in a big way. A couple of them I’ve seen off the Strip wearing not much more than a shiny belt and lipstick, if you get my drift. Some of those party gals kind of make you want to hand over your hard-earned bucks if they’d just agree to keep their tops ON, dig? One of those chicks was deformed. She insisted on dancing to every song. I couldn’t take my peepers off her strapless top. Imagine two hippopotamuses having a fist fight in a mail sack and you’re sort of halfway there.

Anyway, yeah the show was ok. I felt a little overdressed in my purple satin tux and bow tie (stylin’ is my middle name y’all) when most of the guests were wearing handkerchiefs for dresses and no panties, but you know, I like to be professional and all. Besides I got out alive and virtually unscathed although I needed to bleach my eyeballs after some of those more doughy ladies attempted some naked somersaults.

That’s all I got. Deal with it guys.

Last night was a rare night where I had no place to be. I’ve been playing a lot of shows lately and playing a lot of shows generally means drinking a lot of drinks and that usually means my liver packing its bags and going to cry in a corner.

So instead of an update on my crazy, sparkly life, I thought I'd show you some of my fan mail. Today's letter is from a little chick (a teenager if you can believe that shit!) named Trixie. The ladies dig me, truly they do. I'm a magnet of sheer sexifullness.

[caption id="attachment_171" align="aligncenter" width="450" caption="She ain't the sharpest knife in the drawer but probably hawt"][/caption]

I found out she's 18 so it's perfectly ok to be lewd. I mean she's probably dim as a 3 year old bulb but sometimes those gals are little livewires. And Tony digs the livewires. Plus she can't spell worth a damn but I figure so long as she can spell "put" and "out" all's good. I'm a dirty old man, what can I say?

I totally made that image myself from what I could make out of her letter because you couldn't read her actual letter properly due to the stains all over it from tacos and desperation. Y'all pretend it's the real letter though, okay?

Saturday night something extremely weird happened. Something unexpected but that had to happen eventually, judging by the business I'm in and the law of averages. Yes my people, Antonio Spunk III had a threesome, with two lovely ladies from Nebraska. A guy gets lonely, what can I tell you and when opportunity lands in your lap it would be cruel to turn it down, no?

I know what you're thinking; that's an oxymoron of sorts, "lovely ladies" and "Nebraska" but you'd be wrong. These gals were quite the hotties. Well if you squinted a bit and made sure you were toasted. I mean they looked kinda like something The Hef discarded in the '70s, their bodies were still top notch, grade A bazoomba but the faces were a little on the "mood lighting" setting.

One of them, Marina, was a little odd looking facially. Like she'd been stretched sideways and stapled. Just her face though, nothing important. Her boobs were like exercise balls. Definitely silicon, but still fun to de-stress with and she had a tiny ass, which normally ain't the Spunk's thing but it was given a pass due to the stylish beach balls she kept up top. It just amazed me she managed to walk upright most of the time. Fascinating.

The other gal was called Irene and she was younger but no less "worn-in" - maybe mid-thirties or thereabouts. She was a "supersized lady" let's call her, and I ain't averse to supersizing, no sir. She was kind of like the Michelin man only with bigger honkers and Spanx. Her ass was like a huge, rippled balloon after you let some of the air out and it goes kinda wrinkly and droopy. Hours of fun can be had with that ass although enormous and firm is really the ideal. Hell, Tony Spunk is not Adonis so I don't really give two shits if a lady ain't a perfect ten.

Marina quit early, she wasn't all that into it really, once the Martini wore off, when she suddenly remembered something she had to do and left without her panty hose. But honestly, that was the best part. Because that Irene, let me tell you. I'd love to see that gal on a mechanical bull because I have a feeling she could go the distance. There was plenty to get hold of I assure you and all was splendid apart from a small mishap where I mistook a fatty fold of flesh for...well we won't get into it, but it could happen to anyone.

Played a weird show yesterday afternoon my fellow journal guys. Private birthday party for some business geezer's wife at a dingy little lounge just outside the city, surrounded by nothing but desert and drunks in stetsons.

You know, playing Tom Jones classics at four thirty in the afternoon is just plain wrong, even by Vegas standards. There's something inherently sad about it. Gin-soaked cat ladies with mustaches who never got a husband and old, leathery, crinkled guys lamenting the good old days where you could get a horse, a steak and some punani for a hundred bucks and still have change left over for a fifth of Jack Daniels.

This was a party however, but it's still wrong if you ask me. It's like drinking daiquiris from a highball glass, you just can't do it without cringing at the magnitude of wrong that suggests.

It all went ok though, despite that fuckin', deadbeat Pedro letting me down last minute with a hangover sent from el Diablo himself. He broke up with his dancing chica and was self medicating his way back to normality. I had to recruit my old buddy Perry DiSopo on bass and occasional guitar, since it was a full band effect this show needed and he's a full-on kinda guy.

Perry and I have jammed a number of times over the years and despite his being somewhat advanced in age he can still shake it with the best of 'em, so it wasn't as uncomfortable a job as you might expect. Think a shriveled, more orange Tony Bennett with Parkinson's and high on amphetamines and you'll have a decent idea of what that entails. Happily his legendary hip didn't give out - last time he did a guest stint he swiveled it a little too far. People were hugely impressed till they realized the dude had dislocated the fucker and his sexy 'come hither baby' look was actually saying 'holy shit I'm dying get a fucking paramedic you c**ts!'

Also the guy's not at all pleasant to look at and I'm sure he wouldn't mind me saying so. The years (and the liquor) haven't been all that kind. He kinda looks like someone superimposed an elephant's ass on his cheekbones. More contours than a map of New Mexico. Cool guy though. Straight up fella. His blood is 100% gin at this point in time, the crazy old fucker.

The lady having the birthday was delighted. She drank, clapped and jiggled around like a 14 year old Latina at a Menudo concert, only in a much less aesthetically pleasing fashion. There are parts that really should not wobble that just took on a life of their own. But the old gal had a damn good day and I think my version of "It's Not Unusual" sung with her sitting on my lap, made her whole fuckin' week. Wish I could say the same for my leg, I feel like I've been kneecapped by Al Capone. Plus the chick kept licking my neck, what the dilly is that all about, y'all? That ain't kosher.

Still, a couple C notes isn't too bad for a little leg discomfort and a soggy neck, know what I mean compadres? Rock out.

Yeah so last night was the Skybar show. The one I promised would be full of crappy Michael Bolton numbers and guys who wanted to kill Tony Spunk for the honor of their ladies. Well the night did not disappoint, ladies and gentlebums.

Firstly, I couldn’t get the truck from Ronny, he’s the dude I normally borrow from for a small fee, so I couldn’t take my Yamaha Electric Grand Piano to the show. This sucked for a variety of reasons, most of which involve showing off its shiny, sparkly, electric blue goodness to the ladies who naturally want to caress it lovingly. The thing’s just too damn clumsy without a truck however, so I took along a more portable organ instead. No biggie, I still fingered it lovingly and stroked some fine tunes out of it. Well, fine tunes and Douchebag Bolton. If it’s any consolation to y’all I think it’s the last time I’ll be doing his numbers. Sure the ladies might dig it but I felt dirty. Like seriously, just ‘fucked Paris Hilton in the glory hole’ dirty.

It was pretty funny though. There was this one chick who was blasted. I mean like rubberized. Chick could barely stand on her own two feet. The second she heard the first few bars of the first Bolton number she was on her feet, bobbing around like a half-anesthetized kangaroo, waving her lighter around. I mean like that isn’t hilarious enough, who waves their lighter at Douchebag Bolton numbers? I mean how is that possible? Does he get that a lot? Unless you're trying to set his hair on fire, in which case, go with God, little drunk chica.

So anyway, this dude who wanted to kick my nut-sack into next Thursday? He showed up and he was steamed. I mean his little, fat, unshaven face was red as a Halloween apple. He wanted a piece of old Tony, bad. Luckily he was also as round as a Halloween apple so his movements were a little on the side of an elephant practicing ballet so he was fairly easy to dodge. Plus I had my Mexican guard and all so you know, no damage was done. I even rubbed salt into his wounds by serenading him with “Isn’t She Lovely?” (you know, the old Stevie Wonder song?) as he was being escorted out by his suspenders, by the management. Man, he looked like he was about to pop like an over inflated balloon. Good times.

Anyway yeah, no more Douchebag Bolton. I don’t mind compromise but I ain’t willing to sell my soul to El Diablo. Here's today's thought though. You never see Michael Bolton and Fabio in the same room do ya?

So cabrons, (Heh the spell check keeps changing that to 'carbons'! Hi carbons!) I have me a show down at the Skybar later tonight and it’s come to my attention that some dude with a bad attitude is planning on attending the show just to fuck with Tony Spunk. I know right? Surely not! It's not just any dude either, it's some fella with an extra Y chromosome and probably a penis like a breeding stallion. Some dude who wants to kick my shiny, satin ass and those were his words. Yeah really! Can you imagine? I am peeing in my silk monogrammed pants. OK not really.

I think this dude is a little, teensy bit touchy because I might have squeezed his wife’s booty or something at a show or let her stroke my organ, but to be honest the whole thing’s a bit cloudy. That describes most nights at my shows, let’s be frank here. Then dudes get all sensitive about these matters although seriously, I didn’t force his old lady to touch my organ she did it all on her lonesome. I ain’t going to stop a lady from showing her love for my organ, you dig? She even commented on its fine luster. I guess her old man thinks that’s grounds for a beatin’. He probably imagines he’ll look hot to the ladies, socking some guy in a sparkly suit with a nicely coiffed mustache. I bet he thinks bloodying up a Senor with a dazzling repertoire of musical genius and shiny apparel will make him seem all kickass ninja.

Well you’re wrong, guy because I have a little surprise for you. My “bodyguard” is coming to the show tonight. So you better watch your badass, testosteroned up, macho self.

OK, he’s not really my bodyguard, more of a Mexican friend of Pedro’s who weighs about the same as a combine harvester and has fists like two giant hams, but he says for a few beers and a beef burrito he’ll take care of me so I think I’m good. So bring it, angry wife-possessing dude.

It should be a good night as I’m debuting some new material I’ve been practicing, like some Michael Bolton (I know, I know, the guy’s a colossal douche who sings music for douches, but the ladies are always requesting his douchebag songs so I broke down, got drunk and downloaded a few of his douchey tracks to learn. It was torture but I ain’t proud. I am however broke and I’ll sacrifice anything, including my dignity to woo the ladies, so Douchebag Bolton it is) and also some Elvis. Normally I don’t touch Elvis. No one can touch Elvis and people get pretty steamed if you even try, he’s that close to God. I’m not even an Elvis fan myself but hey, there’s no denying the popularity for the dead dude. Besides I give those songs a distinctively Spunky feel complete with a Wurlitzer sound so I should be ok. I like a challenge.

Hell, Elvis only wishes he had a Wurlitzer.

Well hola my babies, Tony Spunk is back in da house, did ya miss me?

I had a touch of the influenza this weekend. The '24 hour zap your energy and leave you crying for your mama' type of thing. It was like breathing in a Louisiana swamp all in one sitting. I was a little delirious for a while there and momentarily forgot to unleash my great fabulousness on the world but I'm recovered now so I think it's safe to say I'm good to go.

Or come, if you prefer, ladies.

I went for a little body waxing today. Don't laugh, a guy must maintain some standard of grooming if I'm to believe those dickwads at 'Maxim'. Of course the chest hair remains (Rowr!) but the back hair had to go. Tony is a dark, devilish guy covered in dark, devilish hairs and one needs to control this hirsute manliness somehow. A lady doesn't want lots of dark curlies under her nicely manicured fingernails, am I correctamundo, gals? I think so.

Talking of, what's with those little decals the ladies are wearing on their nails these days? Little rhinestones and shit? Not that El Spunkarino is complaining or anything, it's just kinda wacky. Especially when the lady scratching those babies down your back has little decals of Mickey Mouse on her digits. That ain't right, truly. That's some perverted shit right there.

So after a weekend without playing any shows I actually feel kinda revived and ready to party. I dusted off my leopard skin pants and polished my medallion and once I've given my organ a good rub down I'll be at the Skybar tomorrow night. Be there or be absent, ladies. Wink.

I just found out last night that I may be zipping down south of the border to do a short stint this Fall for a chain of casinos run by tequila-swilling bandits. This would be totally north of awesome since everyone knows Mexico is a den of vice, spice and possibly lice. The drinks are cheap, the ladies are cheaper and basically, to put it in perspective for ya - those people who envisage Hell as a big, hot, sweaty place full of hard liquor, scantily clad dancing ladies and horny beings torturing people, they're really imagining Mexico.

I actually embarked on a ten day Mexican tour in 2004 which took me all over the damn place, dodging banditos and raunchy senoritas. Admittedly, I tried harder to avoid one of those groups than the other.

It was pretty awesome at least what I can remember of it which admittedly, isn't a whole lot. I mean it's a country full of hallucinogens and cheap liquor, so if you come back remembering anything and wearing more than one shoe you did it wrong.

Anyway, that trip was basically ten days of ladies waving their fajitas in Uncle Spunkarino's tired old face. Ten days of debauchery with the craziest people on Earth. Ten days of having various dark skinned minxes taste my burrito of leurve.

Naturally, by "burrito of leurve" I mean my ginormous cock. And not the fighting type either.

I think we crossed back over the border at Yuma, Arizona with a gallon of home brewed tequila, a straw donkey and a hat so big it wouldn't fit in the El Camino. My companion, Rossi del Muncho, had to cart it back in the truck we toted the equipment in, the next morning and explain it to customs who thought he might be smuggling entire Mexican families in it.

The only grievance on that tour was we were minus a bass player, since Pedro couldn't come seeing as how he spent two years trying to escape that godforsaken country by less than legal means and now he's in the U.S. well, let's just put it this way, leaving the country again would be a bad move. I did call him from the Baja to give him a quick report on the state of Mexican affairs, the size of the chicas castanets and to call his mama a "puta". Good times.

Anyway, yeah, here's to another couple weeks of bad livin', bad wimmen and bad breath.

The esteemed blogmeister and all round crazy guy, Dr. Zibbs, from That Blue Yak (why won't this shitty thing accept Tony's html linking skills?) requested that I give a little summary of my sense of cool. I'm not entirely sure my cool can be conveyed by mere words but I'm going to have a valiant stab at it, in the hope I can make the world a little more groovy with my knowledge. Don't try this at home though kids. It takes years of practice to reach this level of perfection, you dig?

Firstly, the Doc wanted to know about the "toe tapping and finger snapping" stuff that cool guys like myself employ from time to time to say, "Hey, we might be happening and sparkly but we're really just regular guys like you, with shinier suits!"

Here's a little breakdown for you:

UNO: The step forward on one foot, wink and point movement. This little move lets a lady know, "Hey, I'm looking at YOU, Sweetcheeks, and may I say you are lookin' foxy this evening?" Don't forget to swing your lead shoulder around sexily as you go into the point. If you can raise one eyebrow simultaneously, even better. This gives a sense of confidence in your own foxability. And whatever you do, don't forget to practice this in the mirror to make sure that wink and pout are smoldering. There's a fine line between smoldering and "Wow, I need to take a dump the size of Oklahoma!" This is important.

DOS: The lip curl. The lip curl was perfected by that big, old, dead swinging pelvis from the fifties, Elvis. The thing most folks don't realize is that the King didn't do that shit to be sexy, he did it because he had a twitch whenever he smelled cheese, which, if you're Elvis, is a lot. Same with that pelvis shaking business. He had Restless Legs Syndrome and had to move them all the time or he'd seize up and have a spasm on the floor or something.

The lip curl is either something you got or you don't. Tony Spunk has it and can growl menacingly while using it to mesmerize the ladies. Don't feel inferior if you can't pull it off though, it's really not essential. Sure, you'll never be as awesome as me, but you can still get by, ok, so long as you're rich as shit.

TRES: Toe Tapping: This technique is all about rhythm. Having rhythm is sexy but again, you have to do it right. Firstly, the song has to be mid-tempo and smooth otherwise you start tappin' to a fast, paced little number and you look like you're having some kind of seizure. And seizures ain't sexy. The song is too slow and it looks like you're just plain riding the short bus.

Secondly, tappin' alone won't cut it with the ladies. The ladies aren't dumbasses, they need a little more than a tappin' toe to dampen their gussets. The tapping must be accompanied by a little wink or nod or sly smile. Just a flash mind, nothing full on that shows the dazzlin' chompers. Those smiles are reserved for the old, drunk, rich people who look like they're half senile and tip crazy well . Just a little quick smile to suggest, "Hey. You and me could make beautiful music, baby!" is enough for the regular gals. Even if the lady looks like something a dog chewed-up under the Christmas tree, it helps to massage the lady's ego and let her think she's special. Plus her old man probably gave her some Benjamins to spend which she will dutifully use to tip you afterwards or buy you cocktails.

I would go into more detail, but a guy doesn't want to give away all his secrets in one go. Plus, you can't just jump into awesome, you have to let it come to you.

OK, first of all? Any of you folks here in Nevada who saw the article in the Sun the other day from my Caesar's gig? That was not my naked ass. Sure, it looked maybe a touch like my ass but, as most of the ladies in Vegas will attest, my ass is much less hairy than that guy, a lot less flabby and I prefer my mustache on my face, thanks all the same. I did call the Sun to protest and they assured me that it was hard to get me in the photo as that dude's caboose was taking up the entire shot. Dude was every freaking where the camera man went. He was sort of like my own personal "Soy Bomb".

On second glance I sort of recognize that ass. I'm sure I've seen that huge, hairy mole bobbing up and down at that party we did a set at last summer. Bobbing up and down on top of a senator's daughter I seem to recall. She was either asleep or completely wasted at the time. Either that or I'm thinking of Enrique Iglesias' face. A guy's memory gets cloudy after so much martini...uh...time.

The show, a fundraiser for a local animal shelter, went pretty darn well. We raised over $3,000 and the roof. Hah. It will be a long time before those guys forget Pedro in a bowtie and nothing else doing a Russian dance on top of the Mayor's table, his wind section swinging free in the breeze. I guess if that didn't persuade folks to neuter their animals I don't know what will.

I know what you're thinking, you're thinking "What the hay is Tony Spunk doing up before noon?" Well I have a good reason people. I haven't actually been to bed yet. Not to sleep anyway, heh.

That was my way of saying "I tapped some badonkadonk last night." And again this morning if you want to be specific. That little Vanessa is a livewire.

It's also my birthday. I'm officially older than dirt (and just as filthy). Happy birthday to me. I got a great card from my mom who still thinks I'm 12. She also sent some "Old Spice" and this thing...well I'm not exactly sure what the thing is, but it looks like some kind of torture implement from Roman times. I'm sure I'll figure it out sometime. Let's face matters, if an object of unknown origin doesn't relate to eating or the wiener, I'm kinda stumped.

The other great gift I got, besides the roll in the hay, was a remote control cocktail robot courtesy of the Mexican. It's a little mechanical dude who can carry you a cocktail clean across the room from the bar. Or kitchen sink if you don't have a bar. Sort of like me. Problem is, he doesn't know how to make a darn cocktail so it sort of voids the whole convenience issue. I have to make my own drink, give it to the robot and he brings it to me on the couch. I mean does that sound like a sensible idea to anyone? Still he impresses the ladies and scares the neighbor's dog so all is well, I'm thinking. He also has a super scary mechanical voice. Sounds like a big, metal German dude. "Vee hef vays of making you cocktails."

I know you've all missed the shit out of old Tony Spunk the past two days. Don't deny it. You've been sobbing like a chick at "Titanic".

I might as well just come right out and say it. I've been doing a midget. And by "doing" I mean inserting parts of my anatomy into her various exits and entrances with gay abandon. Don't knock it till you've tried it fellas. The little girls are fighters. Just make sure you get one with some curves otherwise it's like bouncing around with a ten year old and that ain't cool.

Her name's Vanessa and she doesn't appreciate the term "midget" I'm reliably told. "Little person" seems to be a preference of hers although that really puts a guy off his stroke because I don't know about you guys, but that term makes me think of Keebler Elves or like leprechauns or something. That ain't good for a guy's karma at crucial moments, you dig?

Then one night she choked on a piece of salmon and her face for a moment was alarmingly red. She got really pissed off at me, even though I performed the Heimlich Maneuver perfectly. I mean all I said was for a moment she looked exactly like an Oompa Loompa. I mean she truly did.

Then last night she left me sitting in the Golden Queen in the middle of my dim sung just because I mentioned that she couldn't finish dinner because her organs were smaller due to her being "pocket sized". It was a compliment, dammit! I guess I still have a lot to learn about the ladies. Especially the miniature variety.

My ma came round yesterday and rearranged chez Spunk. So screw you guys who thought I lived in my ma's basement. She left a lasagna in my freezer and a mason jar of iced tea in the fridge so I guess all's ok with the world. And every guy knows, no woman will ever love them like their ma.

And I don't mean that in a dirty sense, you filthy heathens.

Plus you need to see my shitter, honestly. You could eat dinner off that thing. It's like a toothpaste commercial full of sparkle. One thing moms are good for is providing your ass a clean receptacle to drop a deuce into.

But talking of eating, as we were briefly up there, my ma brought me some table set thing. You know, plates, cups, those little plates you put a tea cup on, the whole shebang. She was displeased with my old kitchen apparatus. My old plates I'd had since 1989. I got them from a Mexican restaurant that was closed down by the health department. They're made of some plastic compound with cacti around the rim and had gotten a little warped and bumpy over the years. It was like eating pizza off of Gwen Stefani's ribs. No more though. Thanks ma.

In other news, Pedro is dating a flamenco dancer. It's serious lust. One shake of her castanets and he's jello. Plus the last time I saw that dude gel his mustache, the Pope was in town hanging with Tony Bennett.

It hasn't been my month frankly. First the wanger bending, then the ball zipping, now today I'm suffering a little from what Johnny Cash referred to as "Ring of Fire" due to some deadly-hot Indian chow last night. I was up half of the night blasting the porcelain altar with the remnants of indescribable vegetables. My toilet looked like that shitter in "Trainspotting". Remember that thing? I loved the movie but didn't understand a fucking word those people were saying. Thank God for subtitles.

Anyway, yeah that was my boudoir last night. In all honesty, my anus hasn't been this inflamed since I was seven and Tommy Bardelli tried to convince me that doing Evel Knievel stunts on a bike with a missing seat was a good idea. Thanks a fuckin' bunch, Tommy. Took me a month to walk like I hadn't just been pounded by a horse. Dude's in jail now, hopefully receiving a little anal inflammation of his own.

Played an emergency show at the Bellagio last night, suckers. That's big time y'all know. I was helping a bro out however, not headlining or anything tres cool like that. I was playing piano for Big Bobby Flatbush who is a 450lb African dude who has hair straight from a 1976 roller disco and a voice like Marvin Gaye. He also hosts the most alarming suits seen on a dude since that cool, black pimp dude on Starsky & Hutch. Good time was had by all and there was an all night free buffet. That's a Boofay not like...Jimmy Buffet. Though come on, really, the guy should just call himself Jimmy Boofay and add some comedy to the world because his songs sure aren't helping much, unless you're in need of an insomnia cure or a need to kill.

Now I gotta go grab some sleep before my eyelids go on strike. I'm getting too old for this staying up all night, shit.

Just when my wanger had regained a shred of dignity after the "bent" incident, I go and catch my balls in my zipper and have to go to the E.R. to get them "unzipped". That's what happens when you have a late show at night and get up too early next morning. I'm telling you, you know shit about indignity till you've had some 600lb lady named Helga, approaching your fishing tackle with pliers. Jeebus!

Not to mention the pain, although I will mention it anyway, because IT FUCKING HURT! Looking down at my Little Hasselhoff, it was like it was being eaten by some angry little silver teeth. Goddamn, there's pain then there's getting your chalupas stuck in a zipper.

What else? It's hard to think with swollen red cajones and everything. Oh yeah, work. We have done some shows sparodically over the past couple of months, myself, Pedro and Alfonso Del Bautista Maria Concepcion. That's his real name, y'all he's not being an ass or nothing. He even has his name stenciled on the rear window of his Chevy, in case there's any doubt. For real. Takes up two fuckin' lines. Anyway, Alfonso is one of those dudes who can get a tune out of a milk bottle and a fart if you ask him to. So he's plenty useful for a set of lounge classics. He plays regular guitar, slide guitar, bass, piano, all sorts of stuff that you blow. Dude's like a one man show and the drunker his ass gets the more saucy his tunes. He can make grown women weep with his trumpet. Even El Spunkarino is a little in awe.

Anyway the shows (six in all) were all in the same little club, the last one being last night and we had to arrange the band around the strippers' pole which was tricky but we managed. Last night as a finale we knocked out a kickass version of that Barbra Streisand/Kenny Rogers number "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" with Alfonso doing the girl's part to my Kenny. I admit fully we were beyond blasted at this stage of the proceedings and it wasn't a real kiss, my mouth stayed shut.

Back in the summer of 1973, when I was nine years old, my dad, Antonio Spunk II and his brother Ricardo "Dick" Spunk, used to have a kind of faux mariachi act on the Vegas strip. They had sombreros with shiny bits on, they had Spanish guitars and they had shirts that would make a baby cry. They played all kinds of dives and basements and occasionally they'd get to debut at some glittery gala at Caesar's, on like a Tuesday night, opening for some old lush in a sparkly dress (and sometimes the occasional woman too!).

My dad was a mediocre musician, more into gambling and martinis and fast women than actually playing his instrument although you could argue he played his instrument plenty if you get my meaning. Plus he had an unusually small head which caused a whole bucket full of problems keeping that damn sombrero upright. Some nights, mid song, his giant sombrero would slip down over his eyes and the audience, who'd spent three hours downing cheap Scotch, would spend ten minutes wondering why they were watching a giant hat play a guitar.

My uncle Dick though, he was a genius. A man's man. A guy so comfortable in his own testosterone he didn't think twice about wearing pink ruffles on his shirt or sewing sequins on his matador pants. It was Dick Spunk who taught me to play piano when I was eleven. He taught me to read music by a complicated procedure where he compared various music notes to a woman's anatomy. I never quite got the hang of that philosophy (he did drink a fuck of a lot) but even now, when I get close enough to a lady to twiddle her crochets, I still expect to hear a B#.

So this pina colada I'm holding in my hand right now? It's for my uncle Dick Spunk. Still a player after all these years. Happy birthday Dick.

Arriba! Forgive old Spunko won't you guys, I am a little bit toasted from drinking some potent little fuckers called "Bombarderos". Basically it's a highball glass with a shot each of the following: Scotch, vodka, tequila, gin and some kind of weird foreign bitters, filled to the brim with ice, lemon juice and Sprite. After a couple of those you are so bombed you would find your own mom attractive if she bent over in a denim mini skirt.

Not to mention the lady cop who stops your wasted ass on the way home. She was hawt stuff folks. Well she was hot after four bombarderos, at least. Something about a lady who's packing and stacking that gets the juices flowing. She had a giant ass you could bounce tennis balls off. Or any kind of balls you wish, to be brutally honest. I can think of some balls I'd like to bounce off that badonkadonk.

Oddly enough, asking if she wished to finger my gun got me cuffed. Well the joke's on you lady cuz I don't have a freaking gun, I was referencing my cock.

I wasn't driving during any of this, I hasten to add. The Mexican was in charge of that chore. He's under doctor's orders to lay off the booze while he's taking some antibiotics. This is fine with me. I get to charm the ladies and drink the refreshing beverages all on my lonesome, while he drives me home and puts me to bed.

Damn assladycop gave us a ticket for a busted headlight. I refrained from any more jokes regarding her own headlights, which, let me tell you, were shining pretty bright, if you get my meaning.

Ain't it sweet.

(Hey, has my gibberish alien code disappeared yet?)

I had a couple buddies in town from Texas this past couple of days, playing a mariachi festival up in the Reno area. They figured while in Nevada, look up the Spunk for a good time. Not that kinda good time, I'm not that kind of boy.

We had a blast just drinkin' and hangin' and boasting about who had the biggest penis, that kind of deal. You know what those Tejanos are like after a few bottles of Tecate. Everything's a fuckin' competition. I'll tell you one thing. Mexicans might not be the Amazons of modern man but they sure have disproportionately large dongers. Not that I looked. Well I might have peeked. A guy's gotta know what he's up against. Again, not literally. Tony Spunk doesn't swing that way. Not that there's anything wrong with it.

The second night the guys joined me on stage at the Pink Flamingo for a little Mexican themed hoedown, complete with sombreros and full bolero jacketed goodness. One thing. Who here knew a sombrero brim could hold a sixpack? My grandfather on my father's side was from Ancuna, Mexico. He used to tell me a sombrero could be used for anything from potty training to berry picking to holding a giant margarita. He was a little fucked from too much tequila however, so I took that with a grain of salt. Margarita salt naturally.

Anyway those guys leave today (vibes to Tito, El Lobo and Esteban!) and my fridge is full of Tex Mex, so I'm gonna go, eat a load, dump a load and get ready for tonight's show. Incidentally, my wanger's doing better now, thanks for your concern. Peace out!

Hey good people of Spunkville!

I think I broke my wanger. I'm not even kidding here, I did a job on it really good. Or bad as the case may be. I think it's a sprain because it's hanging sorta, I don't know, bent, I guess is one way to put it.

Before anyone thinks El Spunko had a particularly energetic week with the ladies, it was nothing like that unfortunately. Not that there's any shortage of punani in my life you dig, it's just that this particular week I was in a "resting" phase. Giving old Dick Johnson a short vacation in the jungle. I know you know what I'm saying. Even the best of us require a little relaxation time.

Anyway, yeah. My wanger's in little bit of pain. It's sort of embarrassing even bringing this up but as I'm a real man I think I can handle it. You know those commercials that say if you sport a boner for more than four hours you should probably get some dude to look at it (in a medical sense, you understand, not for kicks or nothing)? Well I didn't have any four-hour-boners, but I did have a four-ton-boner, or it felt like it. It was like toting a huge concrete pipe in my pants for an hour. I think that while in this concrete state I maybe sprinted a little too fast to my car or something because next thing I know I'm doubled up on the ground clutching my hairy peas and inventing cuss words, with a wanger like a boomerang. My doctor's a lady and I'm hesitant to go put it in her hands, if you savor that image for a second. Before you get too carried away, she's about 60 with chins in triple digits. In fact, next time I get aroused at an inconvenient time I plan on picturing my doctor in her panties and that should take care of matters.

So. I guess if you have advice on unbending a wanger, feel free to drop in and tell me.

Hey there darlins. Busy week for El Spunkareeno.

I had a show last night that was the equivalent of a circus extravaganza. I really had no idea when I showed up that we were playing in a big fuckin' tent.

Now Vegas is crammed with joints. Suave joints, divey joints, glamorous joints, smoky joints, joints full of glitzy elderly women with blue hair, a glint in their eye and evil intent, joints full of mean looking poker players, joints where you can smell the mold on the walls, joints where the chandeliers twinkle along with the piano, joints straight out of a film noir, joints full of fornicating frat boys and joints that haven't changed since 1922. But tents? Not so much.

This was a big old marquee tent outside some dude's mansion. The occasion? His parents' golden wedding anniversary and who better to get those geriatric feet a boogying than the barnstorming Tony Spunk?

Pedro and I set up early. Actually the whole show was early since it was full of elderly people on the verge of expiring who need to be in bed by like nine in the pee em.

The inside of the marquee looked like it had been decorated by Barbie during an aneurism. Fuchsia trim goddamn everywhere and matching pink flowers poking out of every surface imaginable. If the guests of honor had emerged with a big, honking, fuchsia rose protruding from their assholes I wouldn't have been all that surprised. (They didn't. Calm down.)

Then there was all this goddamn lace stuff hanging from the walls and the piece de resistance, some nasty little table centerpieces featuring a little plastic couple grinning from a mini cake. I'm not sure who the couple was - it sure wasn't the celebrating couple as one of them were in a wheel chair and the other had some miraculous pants which reached almost to his chin (what's up with the gigantor pants old guys?) but I guess those sort of authentic figures are difficult to find.

The guests were a mix of the son's friends, their family and a bunch of people recruited from the local nursing home by the looks of things. Seldom have I seen a room more populated by people walking at a 90 degree angle to the floor than in that tent.

I urged Pedro that we should go for some smooth, slower crooner numbers because the mere idea of some of those old dears doing anything involving actual limb movement was a kinda scary one to behold. Besides, there ain't enough paramedics in Vegas to deal with that projected scenario.

It all went down ok though. The old geezers giggled and cooed and stroked Pedro's sombrero lovingly. Pedro was looking pretty damn dapper in a royal blue tux with bow tie and his gold tooth polished to perfection. It's that accent man. Gets them every time.

Upside? Gig paid enough to pay this month's rent which is always a plus.

Downside? I woke up this morning with some old gal's number in my wallet. If you read this Geraldine, I was loaded ok? Unless you're hot then gimme a call, 'k sweetie?

Instead of enjoying a quick, oily hand of five finger shuffle under my velvet deluxe sheets, Tony Spunk spent most of last night in the E.R. with that reprobate Pedro, freshly returned from Californ-aye-ai, after he socked some guy in a bad tux who called him a "Wetback pickle dick" causing world war 3 to break out during cocktail hour, at which time this same assbandit kicked Pedro in the castanets.

Hell you can't blame a guy for taking offense to that shit. Besides I've seen that Mexican's wanger and a pickle it ain't. Not unless you know where to grow a pickle the size of a baby's arm. Still, shiny tux guy wound up with a custom snake skin boot penetrating his back exit so all wasn't lost, except the shine on my boots and one of Pedro's front teeth which took a punch meant for tux guy when he started to insult my midi. Guy had serious attitude. For a guy dressed like a dime store pimp he sure was ballsy about other dudes' stuff. My organ ain't offended however.

So anyway, sleep was at a minimum and the Mexican got to go home only two hundred bucks and one tooth poorer but with his voice an octave higher. He'll live.

I know what you're all thinking, "What the frank is Tony Spunk doing up at 8am on a Monday morning?" Well people, I haven't been to bed yet so, hey ho.

Seems Veronica and I hit a little bump in the road, my good buddies. She was a live wire for sure, but hey, a guy isn't a robot, am I correct? After a few days of bending over my armchair on demand she started holding out for some monetary rewards, like a diamond tennis bracelet or some French perfume. Tony Spunk ain't made of benjamins, girl! So finally I decided it was probably best to bail.

Ok, technically, I think she sort of made the decision herself when she ran off and fucked Bald Bob the magician inside his magic tent. The guy truly is a magician if he managed to satisfy that little spitfire. Still, he's fairly loaded in the financial department, if not the hair department, so they should be ok.

Me, I think it's time to move on and concentrate on some new tunes. I've been pumping my organ big time since Thursday so I'm quite exhausted. Managed to squeeze out a few though. Tunes I mean. Some Perry Como and Bing Crosby I was learning for the old coots I entertain on Wednesdays. They like the old style oldies best. Most of them still think 'Chicago' are punk rock and if I tried to sneak a little loungeified Ricky Martin onto my organ, some old dear would have a coronary for sure.

Anyways, not much changes in this neon town.

Another post later when I've caught up on some zzzs and am sober again. I know. You just can't wait.

It's kind of a slow day here in Neonsville. I think old Tony Spunk has developed a touch of the lurgee. I am not sure where this dastardly pestilence came from but it is making all my orifices weep simultaneously and this is not a good look for any guy or gal. I blame that little Veronica for keeping me up all hours when a guy should be catching zzzzzs.

No shows till the weekend, so some time to recover at least. Plus, I thought I needed a break to perform some necessary organ maintenance and some precious downtime after too many Martinis in seedy bars over a short period. Detoxing is not so fun but pretty required in my job unless you want to wake up one day look in the mirror and see Liza Minnelli staring back at you. That could put a dude off his Cornflakes.

Plus the ladies do not dig the washed out, baggy-eyed look. And the general consensus is, Tony Spunk loves the ladies and wants them to appreciate him at his full, shiny glory.

Y'all know it's true gals.

Talking of the ladies, a little story for you. Pedro played a set with a pop piano quartet just before he left for California. The place he played was a little family bar near Henderson, which, despite the piano quartet thing, wasn't really as classy as it sounds. Sadly, it's also an establishment he can never visit again, after he referred repeatedly to the owner's wife as, "Senor" and attempted to bust a wrestling move on her in the bar. He really thought that lady was a dude.

Upon questioning from me later (naturally, after the cops were done with him, "No hablo Ingles! No hablo Ingles!") he was still in shock at his mistake.

"...pero el bigote...." he kept muttering, incredulously, under his breath.

That guy. He's gonna get in real trouble some day.

A little too much Chardonnay has Tony Spunk's head thinking a Mexican drug lord is living in it. It's the fault of the clubs I'm thinking. My whole working life revolves around piano bars where ladies take their clothes off and seedy lounges on the strip. Most of them have seen better days, frankly, with threadbare velvet benches and that kind of corny old-style decor that's a cross between bordello and an Elvis impersonator's arm pit. A guy can only stroke so much fantasy out of his organ you dig? I can take those slightly over-the-hill patrons away from their every day monotony with a tune and a tinkle, maybe a wink here and there at a well-endowed older lady who dresses like it's still the seventies. It makes the old dears' night quite honestly and if their portly husbands demand an explanation with their fists afterwards I can always claim a twitch from too many Mojitos.

The tips are ok for the most part. The more of a sob story you can spin, the better people tip. I guess feeling sorry for the poor guy in the polyester suit and suave mustache makes them feel better about themselves or something. Not everyone who comes to Vegas can afford Celine Dion. Those people get Tony Spunk. And what a fuckin' fantastic show they get too.

Case in point: Last November Pedro and I gave an infrequent show down in the asshole of all border towns, Brownsville, Texas (don't ask, it's best left alone). At least I think it was November - my brain's a little fried by the amount of Martinis consumed that night and the smoking of something I acquired from a shifty, little, sombrero-sporting motherfucker known only as "El Tipo" that I wasn't altogether convinced wasn't that stuff you get in those toilet bowl hangers, that turn your piss blue. Anyway, whatever that shit was, it rocked the bollocks, as our English compadres say. I was tripping so hard I thought my organ was Jane Fonda. From her "Barbarella" days, you dig, not now or anything. That'd be like fantasizing over your granny. Although I don't know, is your granny hot? Have her call me. Heh, I used to call that chick "Jane Fondle" so you can get the idea of what I thought of her in her Barbarella gear.

All I know is we rocked so hard and so long and so excellently that I have no idea what happened after our closing Bacharach medley, but we woke up in some chick's front parlor on the floor, stinking of cigars and piss. Pedro's head was in the kitty litter tray. He woke up and thought he'd been shipped back to Juarez. Dude almost had a panic attack till he figured out he only had a cat turd in his ear, and he was still in the U.S. of A.

I'm not getting the point of this entry, but welcome to my world.

I just got back from a lunchtime gig at some English style pub outside town. It was a little rowdy but I think they dug me ok.

It was touch and go at first. Some young out of town dudes hogging the bar and drinking slammers, you know the kinda thing? Not really fans of "The Girl From Ipanema" and other such classics. But I think I won them over with my sparkling stage presence and all encompassing stage charisma. OK maybe the red, shiny, rhinestone suit hypnotized them into submission or something, I don't know. All I know is by song number five (Do You Know The Way to San Jose?) they were singing along and giving me directions.

"Take the I15!" they were yelling. Fuck you too, guys.

The best thing about the show was all the little chickadees admiring my organ. It is quite spectacular I guess. I put a lot of money into my organ. It's always polished to a high shine and in full working order. Sometimes I'll let a lady stroke it. It makes her feel good, dig?

Pedro is visiting family in California. I got a post card today of a cartoon donkey carting a 300lb lady to the beach. Under the picture Pedro had scrawled the words "Your Mama".

Last night I joined my good buddy Leslie Von Snoot and his band on stage at the Bellagio for a couple of numbers. He needed an organ and the general consensus is Tony Spunk has the biggest organ on the strip.

So we jammed. We threw down some Martinis, we crooned some tunes, we schmoozed with the ladies, we held court at the bar. We were like freaking Siegfried and Roy or something. Only without the tigers. Or the gay. Not that you could tell from Leslie's shirt.

Also, I met a foxy lady myself last night. Her name's Veronica and she's a little pistol. Smart, sassy and stacked. Enormous uncontainable jugs and an ass you could park a Hummer on. You'd need a map to navigate those contours. It's a rack straight from heaven.

Of course, her face is gonna take some getting used to but you know. One thing at a time.

Veronica and me did some slow dancing, some bossa nova and the electricity was flying, and not just the static from her massive beach balls rubbin' against my polyester suit either, I know you're thinking it.

Anyway, I'm a gentleman so I'm not gonna get into what happened after we left the venue but you all have imaginations so knock yourselves out.

You know who's a Tony Spunk kinda gal? That chick from "Dream Girls". Not Beyotchy or whatever the hell her name is, but that other chick, with the enormous 'come-hither-to-Tony' rack. The rack that tremors like an enormous jello with every step. Jennifer Hudson is it? Chickadee who won the Oscar? I'd give that chick an Oscar. An Oscar Mayer. Some grade A prime meat!

And by 'meat' I totally mean my penis!

Sometimes a chick can just carry off that little extra baggage, know what I'm saying? If a gal's hip bones stick out like tent poles that ain't a chick, that's a dude. And if I wanted to feel up a dude I'd just slide into the bathroom, jettison the polyester pants and reach for the Nivea. A gal should have a little oh la la about her in her tooshie area. Tony Spunk likes to grab a couple handfuls of goodies you dig, he ain't so keen on bruising his knuckles on some underfed pelvis.

So come on ladies, quit looking at the skeletal hat stands on magazine covers and reaching for the grapefruit and start showing the world that french fries can do wonders for a woman's culito. Tony would tap each and every one of your 'culitos grandes' anyday.

Somebody asked me last night in my local bar, "Hey Tony, what would your ideal woman look like?" Obviously, I have had my fair share of lovin' from the ladies, but his question made me stop and contemplate.

Now I've dealt my salami to a fair variety of ladies of different colors, shapes, sizes and questionable hygiene standards, so I think I'm qualified to comment here. I even got jiggy with one who turned out to not be a lady at all, which was a big fuckin' surprise at the time but we all make mistakes and well, that's a story for another time. What can I say, tequila makes you do fuckin' weird shit. All these luscious ladies have their different plusses and minuses.

For example, I don't like to see a lady's ribs. First, they're not comfortable for slidin' around on and they snap like twigs and secondly, seeing all those ribs makes a dude hungry. Plus I like a little bit of somethin' to grab onto, you dig?

I'm also an ass man. Nothing pops my cork quite like a pretty lady with a giant, overflowing badonkadonk ass, filling out her dress. The more it wobbles when she moves, the better my johnson dances. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate a big old pair of double Ds as much as the next man and I've spent many a happy hour with my face inspecting some stacked lady's cleavage, but the ass is where it's at. Basically if you put Angelina Jolie's head on Jessica Simpson's honkin' huge titties and Jennifer Lopez's continent sized ass, that would be my perfect woman right there. Quite frankly, it wouldn't matter if she had no limbs, a speech impediment and a mustache, with that rack.

Having said this, the little B cup gals, they have their moments too. They look best dressed as Euro school chicks and chewing gum, but my manager says really it's probably best not to tap too much of that ass. He's probably right. Dude has to be right about something, he sure ain't right about his choice in suits or my fricking career.

I really love all the ladies. There hasn't been a lady invented whose ass Tony wouldn't hit. Even Bea Arthur has her moments.

Hangovers are a bitch. I don't mean no disrespect to you ladies by using a derogatory lady term to describe what's going on in my head, mind, it's just that whoa nellie! I think my brain moved out and a giant, toxic lump of radioactive jello moved in.

And I am not talking about Paris Hilton. Although put a paper bag over her head and stop her from talking and maybe we'll discuss it, know what I'm saying?

I haven't been to bed yet and it's almost seven in the AM already. Pedro and I just got back from a little unexpected, last minute show we were asked to give in a little place off the strip when their regular guy was a no show and it just so happens this little show comes with a rider of free cocktails that would choke a donkey. I mean what sort of guy would I be if I didn't take advantage of such a deal, huh? No man at all, right?

I managed to knock back six daiquiris before I even played a note, and alcohol tends to make me a little bit smiley and amorous, so it's fair to say that by the time we started to rock, there was already a big, happy party brewing in Tony's pants.

We rocked some ABBA (I always dug the blonde chick with the bodacious eye shadow and tight jumpsuit) and some sixties melodies since it was that kind of crowd. Honestly, you ain't lived till you seen a seventy year old chick grinding her synthetic hip on some toothless old geezer to the Stones "Satisfaction" and after seeing that miracle I admit, I did kind of wish I was dead. The free drinks kept on coming however, so I barely remember the last half of the set except there was something with a woman in a leotard and some creme brulee that's probably best forgotten.

The only live body I came home with however, is Pedro, who demolished so many White Russians he thought he was in Moscow. Since he was in danger of also driving like a crazy Russian, I threw him in the back of my pick up (it's temporary until I can afford the vintage Thunderbird convertible that I've been jonesing after) and now the dumb Mexican's snoring on my shag pile rug.

One of my favorite dudes to cover in my set, is Barry Manilow. The ladies dig some Manilow and that guarantees they also dig me, dig? Now, I can't fathom the attraction of some shriveled, orange dude with a substantial honker, personally, but the geezer did pen some great songs and I aim to use them to my best advantage. Here's a little excerpt from the Las Vegas Sun, regarding one of my performances last month at "Chuckies":

Tony Spunk, not ashamed or encumbered by his bright fuchsia shirt , his quite Sonny Bonoesque mustache or unabashedly glitzy sequined pants, delivered a show full of zaniness, sincerity and Barry Manilow covers that would cause Barry himself to consider hanging up his dancing shoes in defeat. To hear Tony croon the heart-wrenching lament of "Mandy" (she came and she gave without taking) or watch him pound his organ while his feet get artsy to "Copacabana", a person might understandably forget their taxes, their rent, life's little inconveniences, for just an hour as they are transported to a glittering heaven filled with flamenco dancers, champagne flutes and cheap tequila through Tony Spunk's original brand of lounge lizard smoothness.

I think they like me.

How about you, ladies? Do you like me?

Tony Spunk was a fairly innocent kid. When I was twelve my aunt Lola let me hang out in the summers at her big, old house, outside Henderson. She was a real nice lady and very friendly. Super friendly in fact. I mean the woman always had at least 20 of her girlfriends in her house at any given moment. I could never figure it out because my aunt had stellar air conditioning yet all these women still insisted on sitting around in their underwear all the damn time.

I used to do odd jobs around the place for pocket change. I'm surprised there were any jobs left, since there were men in and out of that place every five minutes. "Work men" Lola called them. If they worked so damn hard, how come there was always stuff for me to do? They came in, they disappeared, the reappeared with lipstick on their faces and they left.

I was 19 before I figured it all out. By then I was involved with my organ and owned my first, slightly shiny suit with lapels you could sail to Cuba on. I didn't fret about aunt Lola's house. I mean, with a suit like that, I was soon going to be landing all the tail a man could handle.

Still, life's kinda funny ain't it?

I play low key shows fairly frequently around Vegas. You can find me in various guises depending on the occasion or the venue, but generally it's just me, as me, fiddling with my huge organ and sweating a lot into my polyester suits. Sometimes though, if I get a booking someplace fancy, I go all out and hire my friend Pedro to accompany me on bass. This fills the sound out a bit and gives the impression of a band as opposed to just one sexy dude in a tux singing the bossa nova to some foxy ladies.

Pedro is one of my oldest friends. He's Mexican. Straight up Mexican too, not one of those types who were born in the US and have a social security number. He floated across the Rio Grande to Laredo in a tractor tire or something, so the story goes. He fitted right inside the rim seeing as how most Mexicans aren't known for their expansive size. So yeah, on these occasions, Pedro and I will do a rip roaring set of Bacharach covers and lively Tom Jones numbers for an audience of seven mean drunks and a whore. They don't pay any more than usual gigs, but I get around it by a neat little trick. Just as the dude running the show is getting out his wallet to pay us, I say, "Wow, that dude from the INS is sure hogging the bar tonight, huh?" and before you know it there's a sound like the Road Runner and suddenly there's only one of us awaiting payment.

You do what you gotta do.

Evening ladies and genitals. This is the first post from the sparkly Tony Spunk, pleased to make your acquaintance. I am a singer, based in Las Vegas, the city of light, casino chips, good Cubans and baaaaaaaaad ladies. I've been trying to make my living singing in lounges since I was knee high to a hooker. I started on the club circuit around Northern Nevada. Spent some time in Reno, a little cocksucker of a town that has some flea ridden cesspits that pay pretty well. Don't touch the ladies however, phoooeee. Not unless you wanna spend the next three weeks in a government quarantine bay. Shiver.

I aim to be the best lounge singer Vegas ever saw. Course I'm a long way from touchin' this fella.



Ok when I say "touchin'" I don't mean like physically. I ain't no homo or nothing. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just that this kielbasa prefers a dip in the mustard, get my drift? Still I don't think I'm exaggerating by saying Lib is the Man. The King. Not bad for a big, old, dead, shiny queer. I love the guy. Just not in a touching each other's pee-pee type of way.