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.