When ole Tony gets drunk he gets a little maudlin. And third persony. Like now.

Sometimes people ask me about the ladies and how many I’ve done the deed with. Like I have a freaking clue. However, despite what y’all might think, I’m not as proud of this as you might expect. I’ve had hundreds of fine ladies and they were almost all quick flings with a lot of action and low expectation, but hardly any of them were long-term deals.

Now I’m a pretty easy-going guy and I’m friendly, you dig? I’m just too friendly. I love the ladies and I love to love the ladies. I’m a terrible boyfriend. I’m not faithful or loyal, sexually, so I try not to pretend to be by getting involved. I let ladies know the score so no one gets hurt, yet sometimes it still happens. I usually go for ladies who’re similar to me for exactly that reason – they won’t expect anything more from me and everyone is happy. I can’t commit to one lady and one lady only. I know this and I accept this and I figure if the right lady comes along then it’s meant to be and I’ll quit all the other ladies and settle down and buy a cardigan or whatever people do when they’re content.

I’m no prize or anything. I’m average looking, a little rough round the edges and I sing lame middle of the road crapola for a living, so believe me, even I have no idea why the ladies give me the time of day, they just do. I’m baffled by it, but grateful for it and I think the reason is just simply that I’m relaxed around the ladies and I know my limitations and I’m okay with them.

A lot of guys I know are pretty damn jealous but you know what? Those guys know shit about shit. Those guys have girlfriends and wives they hang with and watch TV with and buy groceries with – wives who nag them and make them pick up their damn socks and cook them dinner and laugh at their jokes and rub their backs when they’ve had a shitty day at the office and you know what? At the end of the day I come home to a 1980s TV, a framed photo of Liberace and an industrial sized tub of Nivea (don’t go thinking those last two are connected). So some guys don’t know what they’ve got.

Holy shit, I think I just found my feminine side. Tomorrow I’ll be starting my period. Peace out folks.

Fun times last night with my aunt Lola. Okay, maybe “fun” isn’t the right word for it, “trying” that might be the right word.

See Lola’s been in AA and she’s possibly even more fucked up sober than she is wasted, if that’s possible. Although “sober” might be not entirely the correct term to use either, since she’s convinced that beer doesn’t count as alcohol. According to Lola, beer is what people drink when they’re too young or too big a pussy to handle liquor or when their liver needs a vacation.

So naturally, as we were in a local dive bar, she got wasted. On beer. And face planted on the knee high karaoke stage while taking a short cut to the ladies’ room, laying there looking puzzled with her dress around her neck. Which I’m sure isn’t an entirely foreign situation for Lola.

It reminded me of one time when I was probably sixteen or seventeen where she almost got my ma to disown me (and her) when she got involved in a barroom bet (while feeding me Cosmopolitans no less) which resulted in her dancing around the lounge, topless wearing her bra on her head like a fucking Victorian bonnet.

When I was a little kid however, I thought Lola was the coolest woman on the planet. She was drop dead gorgeous and had a husky voice (imagine Lindsay Lohan if Lindsay Lohan were less deformed and had the Herp in her throat and was a shitload less whorish, which is ironic since Lola was a whore by trade).

She always made life exciting and didn’t bullshit you if you asked her a question, even that time, when I was seven or eight, where I busted in to her room all excited and caught her reenacting the rodeo, butt-naked, with the local sheriff, while wearing only a stetson and cowboy boots. “Honey, sometimes a lady likes to take off her clothes and have a man put his pee pee inside her noonie and wiggle.” I believe were her actual words, to which I shrugged, contemplated it for a moment and said “okay” and continued catching bugs in the yard.

Sometimes I think my family are slightly fucked.

Have you guys ever been abandoned, naked on a street corner, chained to a lamp post with a bell tied round your junk? Welcome to my Saturday night.

It was all going pretty well till some dude and his huge, hairy, bromance friends showed up and tricked me into going outside (See…I actually KNOW a chick named Selma so I totally believed she was out in the parking lot waiting for me). Naturally she wasn’t. But they were. Seemingly I boned some guy’s ex girlfriend who he still had a bit of a psycho crush on and he wasn’t happy to find out. She apparently told the cops if they hurt me she’d go down there to the cop shop and tell them who did it, so instead, he and his lame assed friends thought chaining me to a lamp post, naked, was a good alternative.

The joke’s on him however, as he had to totally get friendly with ‘The Captain’ to get that bell on there. I bet that dude got a boner from handling such an awesome, prime piece of meat. Then immediately went home and put a gun in his mouth, knowing it can never be his.

Thankfully Pedro came out looking for me and lent me his coat till he could bust me free. And no, there are no photos.

Viva las Vegas.

My favorite search term that brought some poor deviant to my blog today: “spunk in all my holes”. It’s okay dude, it’ll come out in the wash, I guess. And doesn’t that make your nostrils uncomfortable?

Pedro and I had a kickass little show at the Windemere Seniors Center last night. I know, shut up, a dude needs these kind of gigs in this town just to make everyday bread and butter money. The old geezers are pretty damn grateful too and some are even a little fruity, especially if you throw in a Tom Jones number. I don’t know why it is, when a lady becomes about 80, she suddenly gets all horny all over again. Grinding against the old dudes like they’re grating cheese. It’s disturbing. And there’s seldom any alcohol at these shindigs, which is a sort of ironic since, if there’s one place you probably want to be toasted all to hell, it’s probably any place where octogenarians are getting their groove on. All that thick, tan panty hose gyrating. It can ruin a man’s mind in a bad way.

I’d like to give a shout out to Delores-May – that’s an old dear with attitude (and fingers like pincers). Hey there Dee, you were wrong, I can sit down today.

Apparently someone found my little slice of blogosphere by searching for, “should I ask my cleaning lady for a blowjob” to which I have to say, why the hell not? What’s the worst she can do, shove her mop up your ass? On second thoughts maybe you should test the waters first by giving her a raise or something, since she obviously gives you one.

On to more pressing matters. My totally depraved Limey blog buddy, The Imaginary Reviewer mentioned wanting to know some more stuff about my infamous Aunt Lola and regardless if he was serious or not, I’m going to tell you guys some stories now and then on that very subject. Because I have hundreds of them.

This one isn’t about Lola per se, although it takes place at her ranch. It’s also the sweet story of the losing of Tony Spunk’s virginity. Yes, I wasn’t born the hirsute stud you see before you, I was once an innocent.

As y’all might remember, Lola is my ma’s younger sister and a huge whore. I say that affectionately, I’m not being mean or anything. She’s a prostitute. Or she was, because nowadays I think she just fucks dudes for the hell of it and anyways she’s 60 now, the pickings are kind of slim, you dig? She once offered to blow me for a pack of Marlboro’s but she was a raging drunk by that point so I only considered it for about three seconds.

I’m KIDDING.

Back in the day however, she was a professional madam and she had a nice stable of girls working for her. When I lost my cherry, it was back before I even knew that all those scantily clad ladies that hung out at Lola’s, were whores. I was fourteen and I just thought she had a lot of hot girlfriends who liked to walk around in their underwear. It was the late seventies, people were fucking insane in those days. There was a guy in Henderson used to dress as a chicken!

Believe it or not, old Tony was pretty naive for fourteen. I hadn’t seen a naked lady ever, so a bunch of chicks in lingerie and garters meant I pretty much had an impressive pipe in my pants for most of the day. I’d have to go home at night and whack it to pictures of “Charlie’s Angels” so I could get some sleep!

Then one day, while I was working at Lola’s ranch, I met Ana. I was doing some summer work out there and Ana was one of Lola’s girls. She was 19 and all Latina bravado and attitude – she kind of looked like that Penelope Cruz chick but without the substantial honker and crazy eyes – and she used to mess up my hair and slap my ass whenever she passed by. When you’re 14 this gives you a tremendous boner. Come to think of it, when you’re 14 pretty much anything gives you a tremendous boner. I’m kind of surprised the Captain survived that phase of my life.

Anyway, Ana cornered me in the barn one day and kissed me in a most unchaste way and next thing I know she’s got my pants off. I was powerless. OK, I didn’t struggle that much, granted. Or at all. In fact, I might have helped her get them off. Next thing I know we’re down in the hay and she’s on top of me and my hands are mysteriously on her bouncy lady bumps. It happened pretty fast – one minute I’m an innocent school kid and the next I’m the Mayor of Fuckville. For a whole ten seconds! The best ten seconds of that girl’s life! I remember trying to think about football because I hated football and thought it might, you know, slow me down some, but I couldn’t think about football because all I could think about was “there’s a real, live lady-pussy on my penis”, which doesn’t help at all in the slowing down department.

So Ana was my first time. She was a horny bitch, that girl. I mean it’s the perfect profession for a horny bitch, working for Lola at the ranch. Not that she worked there long, since when Lola found out about our exploits, she ripped Ana a new one and sent her packing. I doubt she ever worked again. It’s hard to hook with two assholes. Or maybe it’s an asset, I don’t know.

Lola tried to blackmail me the rest of that summer, into doing odd jobs for her for free, or else she’d tell my ma and get me sent to military school. I imagine military school’s pretty hard for a guy with no balls, which inevitably would be me, when my ma found out I’d been hanging out at the ranch being a hooker’s plaything.

Lola’s ok though. The last time I saw her, she demonstrated her ability to burp “Yellow Rose of Texas”. That’s what I call a dame.

Thanks a lot to all of you who dropped me a line about the jail thing. Okay, the one of you, but who’s counting? I was only in the cell for the night then they let us all go, no charges filed. In the morning, when we were all sober, the lady’s dude said it wasn’t the first time his lady had gotten a little over-friendly with some other fella and that until he saw my paws on her ass he assumed I was a friend of Dorothy. I wasn’t offended or nothing, I got nothing against the ‘mos. Then the other dude – the one who had the piggy wife – he piped up with, “He ain’t gay, no self respecting homo’d be seen dead in that fuckin’ shirt!” which I let slide because I am secure in the knowledge that my style is AWESOME and the fact that I could change my shirt any time but he was stuck with that face. I refrained from telling him this, however, since it could never end well.

So yeah. Anti-climax, huh?

I haven’t boned a lady in almost a week and I’m okay with that. I’m having some ‘me’ time.

In other news, Pedro has a new lady, name of Imelda. What kind of fucked up name is that? Anyway, he’s started wearing cologne which is a bad sign. To be fair, Imelda is sort of hot if you squint a bit. If you’ve just consumed a quart of vodka, that would help too. She’s a touch on the skinny side for me, but hey, each to their own. She does have unfeasibly huge ta tas for a skinny chick. She must have a deal with the God of gravity because she can walk upright and everything.

Okay, time to get back to work. I have to have a set of Brat Pack numbers ready to go for Thursday or risk death by dismemberment by a roomful of grouchy seniors.

Don’t you wish you were me?

Hola fine people of blogworld!

Tony Spunk’s been in jail! No kidding! Well okay, maybe kidding a bit. It was a cell at the local po-po but next best thing, right?

It was an accident though, I am totally innocent of all charges. There was a bit of a misunderstanding and a bit of a ruckus and some punches were thrown and next thing I’m behind bars. It can happen to anyone.

There was this lady you see. You knew a lady had to be involved, right? Well you are correct, but if I can just say in my defense, this lady had an ass like a watermelon and it was bound to happen sooner or later.

She and I were talking, having a pleasant discussion about some mundane bullcrap, while she stroked my satin shirt in a way that made my nipples salute and really, when a lady’s doing that shit you sort of assume the ass gate has been opened and you’re free to peruse the goods, as it were. And she truthfully didn’t seem to mind me squeezing the lobes of love and I certainly didn’t mind doing it, so what could possibly go wrong?

Well her boyfriend for one. He appeared from nowhere and he was the size of a Sumo wrestler only substantially less charming. He was a whole lot less happy about the ass grabbing and let it be known by hoisting me off my barstool and throwing me through a table. Which some other large dude was seated at with what looked to be a giant pig in a pant suit, but later I found out was his wife.

Let me tell you, being thrown through a table ain’t like it looks in the movies. It fucking hurts! My shirt got torn and I got doused in Scotch. And everyone knows Scotch ain’t the Spunk’s beverage of choice, you dig?

So this dude’s all pissy at me getting acquainted with his chick’s buttocks and now this other dude is pissed because his drinks are now on the wall and the piggy chick’s pantsuit is all stained and there’s a really virile, sexy dude in a slinky satin shirt slipping around on the floor on what’s left of his table.

And so it sort of went downhill from there and we all ended up in the pokey. Separate cells thankfully. I had to share with some biker dude named Manny, who spent an hour telling me in graphic detail about how when ladies weren’t seducable (presumably when the roofies don’t work) he liked to vent his aggression by, how can I put this delicately…yes…by fucking seven shades of shit out of fruit. That about says it all. He’d drill holes in pumpkins and melons and you know…put on some Marvin Gaye and voila. Naturally, I stayed firmly seated during that conversation. I ain’t no fruit! (not that there’s anything wrong with it!)

But you sure learn a lot in jail. Like when a giant, bearded, biker who smells like socks wants to demonstrate the correct method for inserting one’s little man into a large fruit, you let him and you just thank God he’s not demonstrating with your asshole.