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.