Last night Pedro and I hammered out some new numbers for a show we have this weekend. Somehow, during rehearsal, he managed to place bet on me being able to stay away from the ladies for a whole week and I agreed. Yes my fine friends, if I don't partake in any lady action for seven whole days, he has to give me fifty bucks. I don't really need fifty bucks, it's more the principle of the thing, you dig? I want to smirk in the guy's little, brown face as I take that note from his grubby little hand and head for the nearest titty bar.

Still it's going to be hard (in all senses!). I mean there's a weekend in there and a weekend where I have to play two shows, meaning I will be surrounded by the ladies and their fine, fragrant, curvy beauty and won't be able to do a darn thing about it. I am determined though. I will be firm about this. I will be a goddamn priest for a week. Apart from the touching little boys' bottoms in the name of Jesus, that is.

The Mexican thinks I can't do it. He says I'll fail first time I leave the house, because the ladies are my specialty and I have a sort of subconscious homing beacon in my pants that leads me right to them, no matter where I am. I say he can blow me. Let's face it, no lady can. At least for seven more days.

Tony Spunk is up for a week of celebacy, yes indeedy. I mean how hard can it be?