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?