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.