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?