Posted on 1:35 PM by Tony Spunk
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.