Thanks for the Memories

Posted on 1:56 PM by Tony Spunk

November 24th 2010

It's that time of year again, folks, where we stop pushing our dirty appendages into warm orifices and start thanking people for stuff. Stuff other than warm orifices in which to stick our mansticks I mean. I'd say 'God' instead of 'people', but I'm not totally sure I believe there's some old dude with a beard sitting on a cloud somewhere creating stuff willy nilly. I mean I'm not entirely sure what the hell made us and everything else but I tend to side with the scientific theories; either it was a giant combustion of chemicals or Oprah had something to do with it. Either way, we're here and I'm thankful.

When I was a kid, Thanksgiving was a weird affair. My ma's of Italian stock and my dad was Mexican American so no one seemed too sure about what the hell we were celebrating. However, it did involve troughs of great eatings and enough booze to fill the inside of Sarah Palin's empty skull, therefore, what's not to like when you think about it?

My favorite Thanksgiving was in 1976 when I was ten years old. My folks were on rocky ground at the time due to my dad's predilection for sticking his cock into a wide array of unsavory fare he'd find on the seedy end of the Vegas Strip. My aunt Lola was on probation for running a house of ill repute out in the desert after she was caught accepting $500 to spank the ass of some dude from the Sheriff's department, with a ping pong bat. My uncle Dick was living with two women at the same time in the same house, sorta like a polygamist only without the actual marriage or Bill Paxton looking over his shoulder. We had a weird family to be sure, but for some reason, everyone seemed reasonably happy.

Anyway, we were all there that Thanksgiving, out at my ma's place, eating cornbread and beans instead of turkey and drinking fucking grain alcohol from a barrel. At least my dad and uncle Dick were doing that, mainly because years of playing the southern states with a mariachi band had made their stomachs like asbestos. My dad gave me a bottle of Budweiser to celebrate with. To my dad Budweiser was a soft drink. It was like handing me a Coke. "Here son." he said. "These are your training wheels. When you grow up you can move on to real alcohol because only pee wees and pussies drink that shit!"

My dad wasn't the most eloquent guy, to tell you the truth. He'd have birthed a cow if he knew I grew up to dig Martinis, pointy shoes, pink shirts and the works of Tony Bennett. The fact I've bedded many luscious, lovely, willing ladies wouldn't have swayed his opinion at all that I was possibly more gay than Liberace swinging into town, swishing a silver sequined cape and riding a pink unicorn. He was a manly man. If there wasn't chewing tobacco in your giant manly mustache, you were a fag.

Sorry to my homo buddies for using that word. I don't normally dig it or anything, it's just something he'd have said. I mean he was my dad but he was sure an asshole sometimes. The funniest thing I ever saw was my dad, about forty three sheets to the wind, trying to proposition a tranny in some dive bar, that he was totally convinced was a woman despite her Adam's Apple and a voice an octave lower than a foghorn. I don't know if he got anywhere. He never mentioned it again.

Anyway, I hope y'all have a wonderful Thanksgiving and don't wind up in jail or something. You non Americans can have a groovy time too.

Lovin' ya and leavin' ya.


I'm Perhaps Mildly Smashed Right Now

Posted on 8:17 PM by Tony Spunk

November 8th 2010

Hey you! Someone needs to seriously think about kicking my ass. Someone other than some old gal's husband who thinks I'm getting fruity with his lady, I mean. I got plenty of those fuckers. I was thinking more along the lines of someone jolting me back to blog land because I'm quite clearly the laziest shit that ever lived lately when it comes to updating.

It's not that I don't want to. I love you guys. I love talking about my stupid life and the fact I dig the ladies and sport a big, hairy, sexy as all fuck, Tom Selleck mustache (apparently).

I actually shaved the stash off for a few weeks there. It was a mixed blessing to be honest. It was kinda refreshing to see me look about ten years younger with only five minutes of work and it was hellova cool thing to wander around my local dives in Vegas with people looking at me quizzically like "I sorta recognize that dude, but I'm not sure...." instead of "Hey there's that super sexy Tom Selleck mustache guy who makes satin look manly, I wonder how long it'll be before he's impaling a lady on his wang!"

Ha, I'm totally kidding. Usually they're all like "Dude, your suit's so fuckin' shiny you'll start a fire if you rub against yourself!" and "Hey dude, you're a homo!"

The Spunk is no homo as y'all know. Not that there's anything wrong with it. As you know some of my nearest and dearest are lovers of the back entrance and the pork. I don't judge. A dude has to choose his own path, you dig? It's just that mine is a complicated path. I dress like a friend of Judy but I have the genes of Casanova. I can't help it. I love ladies. If you're a lady, and you have a pulse I love ya. Regardless of age, size, color, ginormous feet, innies or outies, fried eggs or melons, Tony loves you. My only stipulation is you don't smell like old cheese. That's offputting for a guy. 'The Captain' doesn't respond to stankiness.

Of course if you have a giant amount of junk in the trunk it's possible I'll be able to home in on you from three miles away, with an erection like a fucking log and even the stench of death wouldn't quash my desire. Not that I mean I'd ever do a corpse, no way man. I mean not usually. I don't know, is she a hot corpse? Ha, kidding. That's just wrong. I like my ladies breathing and willing and bouncy.

So yeah what was I saying? Oh right, the stash was on leave. I felt the breeze on my upper lip for the first time in forever and it was all just peachy. Then some lady said I looked like a young Tony Orlando and well, fuck lady! I just lost my wood.

So here I am back in blogland and I've already written a whole entry about nada and still haven't updated you about anything worthwhile. That's how I roll, ladies and genitals. But know this. I love you guys.

Later.


Sally and Cecilia

Posted on 3:25 PM by Tony Spunk

August 26 2010

Hey little dudes!

Back again after a leisurely few weeks of doing not a whole lot but doing it well. It'll surprise practically none of you to know I am no longer dallying with the lovely Sally. Sadly, she got real serious real fast and while that didn't bother me too much, her rather excessive psychotic tendencies sort of warned me off just a little. Like wanting to know where I was every second of the day and texting me 200 times before lunch. If I didn't respond in a minute, like say I was off taking a gigantic pasta induced dump, she freaked out on my ass. It was scary. It's kind of sad, I really dug that girl while it lasted. But if there's anything a person needs to know about me, it's this. Neediness terrifies me even more than the idea of Sarah Palin becoming the Prez. And y'all know that shrivels my gooseberries faster than a photo of Regis Philbin giving it to a sheep.

Not that I'm suggesting for a second there's any photos out there like that. Photoshop is an evil tool, what can I say?

So that's what's up with that. I still see Sally on occasion, usually when I haven't scoped out a place properly before entering, but I've pulled right back and made it clear there ain't no future in it until she gets some serious meds.

The one good thing to come of it is I get to schtoomp other ladies again. I was actually doing pretty good with the whole monogamy thing but lately my mind's been wandering. And my pecker of course. The Captain was threatening to leave town with all the one woman thing. He's a little dude who likes variety in the vaginas he frequents.

I celebrated last week by bedding the lovely Cecilia from Oklahoma. In town for a short vacation, her girlfriend went and hooked up with a dude who looks like Siegfried of Siegfried & Roy fame's even gayer twin, leaving Cecilia at a bit of a disposition. Until old Tony comes along of course and makes everything better with his sweet manroot of love.

Yeah I said that.

It was also my birthday a week ago and that was my birthday present to myself. Some carnal participation with a hot redhead. Cecilia, it should be noted, was a beautiful person inside and out. And believe me, I've been inside! Heh. She was also pretty misleading, a case of the book definitely not matching the cover. Outside she was all high class society girl type, in expensive dresses and perfume. Like the goody two shoes chick on "Sex and the City".

After a few daiquiris though she turned into a flexible Louisiana whore, which is more than fine by me. Old Cecilia taught me a few things, you dig? That girl can fuck, Jesus Christ, yes. And she might be double jointed. I'm just saying. Either that or she was once an acrobat.

So things are normal again I guess. I'm still a questionably strange looking, lecherous, old fuck and inexplicably hot ladies are still flocking to me. I don't pretend to understand this shit. But thank the Lord I got it.

And that "it" isn't syphilis.

El Spunkarino out.

This Could Be Bad

Posted on 12:20 PM by Tony Spunk

What a weird assed few weeks my good buddies of blogville. I'm going to tell you something now that might cause severe disbelief and maybe even anxiety. And perhaps a tear of grief if you're a lady, hah. Don't worry ladies, I still love each and every luscious one of you. However, it appears I may have an actual girlfriend.

I know, right? Me, El Spunkarino, dating a lady, with roses and wine and goddamn romance, instead of just peeling off her slacks and banging her in my waterbed before sending her on her merry way. What's up with that, shit?

You know my philosophy, there are a lot of ladies out there to meet, greet and possibly bone and I enjoy getting to know as many of them as will let me. I'm an average looking guy, so I'm always delighted that the ladies allow me access to their private love chambers. I know I sound like an over cocky shit, but honestly, I'm grateful.

I've always been straight up about my intentions though. The ladies I dally with are just like me. They're not looking for a husband or a long-term deal, they're looking for fun, cocktails and a nice, hard eight inches they can ride to heaven and then we all go happily on our merry ways. Plus Vegas is a small town when you live here. You're going to run into the local gals again, it's good to be on good terms. Anyways, they know my intentions and I know theirs and all is hunky dory. It's like having a dozen friends with benefits, the benefits being you don't have to get all up in each other's business when you're not around each other.

But then I met Sally and she just sort of snuck up on me. I mean, I'm not ready to marry the gal or let her meet my ma or anything serious, but we've been out five times in all now and that's sort of a record for a commitmentaphobe like old Tony. Five times.

I admit, the first couple times were sheer unadulterated lust. Old Sally has an ass like a fine ripe tomato and I did ask her permission to tell you that. She's proud of her best ass-et. Her ass does things to me in a pencil skirt that make my knees give out. Every night I can't wait to get my hands on it amongst other things. And she has plenty up front too. I don't know what's happening to me, I'm in a constant danger of busting the zipper on my pants when she's around, if you get my meaning. You dirty dogs, of course you do. My Nivea pot's been sitting on the vanity unloved for two weeks.

So yeah I'm not sure "girlfriend" is what Sally is just yet, but I sure like being around her so we'll see how far it goes I guess. I haven't even lusted after another lady since I've been seeing her. I mean I've looked, sure, I'm not freaking Mother Theresa or anything, but no moves have been made. I just compare all the ladies to Sally. All I can think about is that round, ripe ass and her come hither eyes and zing, I've popped another button.

It might be more "in lust" who can tell? I just know that if a girl's eager to bang your scrawny drunk ass on the hood of your car in the parking lot, you must be doing something right.

Tony Needs Some Punani

Posted on 1:50 PM by Tony Spunk

You know, one day I'm going to wake up all lively and inclined and type something here that makes sense and is entertaining. I have faith that it will happen sooner or later. My blogging mojo is still nursing itself back to health, but it still has the cough of death about it. It needs some tender lovin' ladies, how about it?

So I hope you're all well? I've been engaged in the same old shenanigans. Gigging, sleeping, scratching my balls, buying Nivea, baiting The Mexican, banging the ladies, buying shiny shirts. The usual. I'm an old dog, you can't teach me new tricks. Although if you're a lady with a badonkadonk behind, I'm willing to try. I'm eager to please.

Just mentioning ladies' asses made the Captain start to perform a polka in my pants. I guess that means I need to get laid bad. Because although I have been banging the ladies technically, by my standards I've been in a severe lady drought. Mainly, I haven't been going out much except to play shows and I guess my pants mojo hasn't been all there either. I was getting a little worried, because me not thinking about doing unmentionably dirty things to ladies' asses, must mean I'm suffering from some life-threatening condition and that would kinda suck, don't you think?

But then last night I was watching an episode of "Sex and the City" (hey it ain't just for the ladies, dudes, you guys should get in touch with your feminine side and check it out, plus there's naked boobies all over the place, you dig?) and a naked shot of Kim Catrall's ass made the Captain suddenly get rigor mortis. I can't help it, truly, I dig Kim Catrall, that sexy, dirty cougar. I imagine dipping the Captain in Kim would be a bit like boning a pack of Pilsbury dough. All warm and soft and...will you excuse me for a minute, there is something urgent I must take care of in the bathroom.

That's better. What was I saying? Yeah, I need to get laid. Hope all of you are doing better?

Me Speechless? It Can Be Done

Posted on 3:12 PM by Tony Spunk

Hey there my little blogolas! Long time no see. This is because I’m still in the throws of being a lazy ass and because I’ve been far too busy dallying with lovely ladies to be writing here for the likes of you reprobates and delinquents. I’m joking. Y’all are beautiful people. We both know it. Your beauty knows no boundaries. But still, dallying with the ladies is mucho importanto.

Especially since, in all honesty folks, I’d been slipping a little lately in the lady department. Like my mojo packed its bags and took off for sunnier climes without me.

The Captain was also in mourning due to the lack of serious punani coming his way. I thought he might shrivel up and drop off from lack of use, so I had to practically buy stakes in Nivea for a while there to keep him in good working order, you dig? Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. We all do it. It’s good for one’s health. Or something.

Anyway, I’m back on the lady wagon, thanks to a hectic few weeks with a lady named Amber. I can’t quite decide if “Amber” is like, a porn name or the name of an innocent chick who works at the library. However I’m going to go with the former, because my Amber sure has some moves in the sack. She even kind of shocked me and well, that never happens. A guy has to draw the line someplace though, and someplace for me turned out not to be Brownsville, Texas, as I’d always assumed, but a lady who likes to take complete control in bed. Who’d have thunk that would derail old Spunky huh? Anyways, complete control to this chick means she down and out proposed an evening of switching roles. You know, in that way…

I was lost for words for a whole 20 seconds people. I mean this chick wanted to pound me. She hinted at having one of those strap-on contraptions that lesbian chicks apparently dig, and she wanted to try it out on my ass. Literally as it happens. Thing looked like one of Muhammed Ali’s legs! Hell no. I’m all for experimentation and all, but truthfully my chocolate starfish puckered up like a toothless geriatric sucking on a lemon just thinking about it. Tony’s posterior has a strictly ‘exit only’ policy. No foreign objects allowed.

I think she was kind of disappointed but what can you do? As that Meatloaf dude once famously said, “I will do anything for love, but I won’t do that.” Now I know what he meant!

Peace out guys.

I Am Actually Still Alive

Posted on 9:19 PM by Tony Spunk

Holy hell, here I am again being all delinquent with my updating. There was a time I was a whore for this blogging deal and I'd like to be again only I've been suffering a somewhat dry period. For writing I mean, not for the ladies. I mean there ain't no flying porcine beasts outside, right? No, the ladies are still flowing like a good, chilled wine.

I do realize I sound like a misogynistic asshole sometimes and well, I am. I don't mean to be, honest, it's just that my appreciation for the fine ladies of the Earth is so overwhelming I get carried away and say things that could be construed as vulgar. And actually are. But I mean well, I truly do. See it's all about the appreciation. I appreciate every single day the fact that fair, curvy, spicy ladies of all ethnicities and ripeness like to ride my fleshy pony. I'm thankful to whatever God might be up there that they let a weather beaten old fucker like me touch their smooth ivory (or ebony!) flesh. And if there is a God I bet she's a lady too. A fine lady with an ass like a well filled water balloon.

Is that blasphemous? It's a compliment.

I should point out that Satan is probably also a lady. Namely Sarah Palin.

So yes, stuff's been going on personally and professionally and I do have stories but this here writer's block's been kicking my ass like a basketball player in a bar fight and I can't seem to shake it. The block I mean, not my ass. I can shake that bad boy like Michael J. Fox at a Parkinson's Convention.

That was tasteless huh? Sorry Mikey man. Peace to you, bro. And no hot drinks, okay?

So yeah, Uncle Tony's back and checking you all out. Hi to you new guys following, I am going to stalk you all till the restraining order arrives.

Love.

What a Dude's Gotta Do

Posted on 3:17 PM by Tony Spunk

Howdy good buddies.

Last night was the Oscars and any of you who know my usual M.O. know that uncle Tony always hosts a little Oscar night soiree at chez Spunk. To be perfectly honest, I don't give a shit about the Oscars as a whole, but I do like me a chance to ogle some fine ladies in tight, low cut gowns and it's my experience that the ladies also enjoy a few cocktails and a chance to spurt forth their views on the gowns too, therefore, party time.

Sure you might think it's a whole lot gay for a dude to be throwing Oscar parties and you'd probably be right except for one thing. You forgot the point. Throwing an Oscar party means inviting a ton of ladies to attend in cocktail dresses and getting shitfaced drunk in your pad and of course, they leave their men at home because dudes would rather watch football or wrestling or like...paint drying, than watch a bunch of Hollywood assholes yelling a bunch of names while fingering a golden dude and picturing their bank accounts.

So it's a win win situation. And even if I don't receive any fine lady action myself, I do get to admire their fine physiques in appreciation and while watching the ceremony on TV, think things like "what would happen if Hilary Swank jumped up and down a couple times in that dress?" making The Captain tremble in pleasure and meaning I have to go excuse myself while I look at a photo of Meryl Streep naked till he's shocked back into serenity. I don't know what it is about Meryl Streep man. I truly don't. Lady's an acting dynasty all of her own but she makes me think of a wicked witch. The Captain shrivels up like last week's lettuce when he hears her name. I swear to God that woman has a venus fly trap for a vagina. I ain't getting close enough to find out though.

So the party went pretty well. I got a few digits of friends of friends. One was a pretty cool and simultaneously smoking hot lady, name of Christine, who was in town from the east coast and had an ass that looked like she was smuggling a whole hot air balloon in her slacks. I couldn't take my eyes off that giant fleshy globe all night, even when Queen Latifah took the stage. I think I've told you about my QL fetish? She looks like a lady who'd like to beat your ass during sex. I'm not really into that kinda thing but I like a lady with big curves and a big, bad attitude, so somehow she yanks all my chains. Too bad she prefers oysters to sausages.

I think I'll leave it there.

Team U.S. Eh?

Posted on 11:21 PM by Tony Spunk

Hola buddies.

Sorry I've been away so long, I just know y'all have been crying tears of salty bereavement over it, but lament no more for I am back.

"Where have you been Tony?" do I hear you ask? Well I'm telling you anyways. I've been to the Olympics. Not even the porno Olympics either, the real deal up in Canada.

Technically I was there to visit an old buddy of mine now residing on Vancouver Island but naturally who'd go all the way up there and not check out some Olympic action right? Admittedly, my Olympic action consisted mainly of getting blasted in various bars in downtown Vancouver and waking up with my face in a puddle on the water front wearing a Team Canada hockey jersey and a pair of frilly ladies underpanties on my head, with no recollection of how either event occurred. I mean I'm all out, 100% American beef, ladies and gents. I don't know where the jersey came from but I imagine somewhere out there, there's some confused, intoxicated, hairy Canadian wearing a red and pink bowling shirt and some martini glass cufflinks. Anyway, that hockey jersey saved me from getting my ass kicked as it was the same day the U.S. creamed Canada in the hockey, you know, way before the Canucks kicked our ass yesterday. It was by the grace of that jersey I made it to my hotel in one piece.


Don't think I didn't check out some fine athletic ladies while I was there. My johnson gets a little zing whenever it sees a lady in a speed skating body suit. It's like when I was a kid and used to get a splendid boner every time I saw Jane Fonda in "Barbarella" on an old Betamax tape of my dad's, he used to keep at the bottom of his closet.

Dudes don't need to wear those speed skating outfits though. It doesn't do a dude any favors at all unless his wanger is the size of a fireman's hose and thick as a tree stump. No one needs to see your Olympic torches fellas. Sheesh!


So how are youse guys?

The Ladies Both Male & Female

Posted on 11:14 PM by Tony Spunk

Some of y'all might notice that we've just had the Miss America pageant here in Funky Town. Who knew that crap still went on in this day and age? People still watch Miss America? Didn't that die out in the 70s with disco balls and sausages on cocktail sticks?

Anyway, I swear I'm still seeing black spots from being temporarily blinded by the eye melting glare from the sheen on Mario Lopez's hair as he drove down the Strip looking like a cross between a Hispanic gang member and a boy who spends his downtime salivating over other oiled up pretty boys doing abs exercises. I have a friend Jaime, who also prefers the sweaty touch of a gent over a sweet lady's caress and Jaime reliably informs me that Mario might not know he's a friend of Judy, but it's just a matter of time, that they all come round in the end. Jaime knows about these things. Gay dudes just have that sense where they can sniff a guy with an unsual spring in his step from a whole state away. Jaime practically had one of those never-ending boners they warn you about in Viagra commercials, for the last week because that tall flaming fellow from "What Not To Wear" was going to be there.

Anyway yeah, Miss America. Lots of half anorexic chicks with spray tans and big white gnashers parading around in swimwear and answering questions in a highly entertaining manner, like:

Host: Are you looking forward to the International Pageant Ball in Helsinki this summer?
Miss X: (clapping) Oh yes! I just love Sweden!

Those chicks are pretty and all but there's just nothing to get a hold of. You try bending one of those the wrong way and it'll break like a big old pretzel! Only with a tiny vagina somewhere in the middle. Plus how much stamina can a lady who only eats a carrot and a yogurt a day, have? Eat ladies. Eat!

So yeah, I pretty much stayed away from downtown the past few days to avoid the entourage of poseurs who inevitably show up around these events, yuppifying everything and saying things to me like, "Yeah, can you get me a chocolate Martini in a chilled glass, thanks." because they're too dumb to know I'm not a waiter, I'm a sparkly entertaining guy in a sixty dollar bow tie who was trying to have a quiet Martini and instead is now going to steal their drinks and seduce their wives, with my Tom Selleck eyebrow-limbo-dance, for revenge.

In other words, nothing much to report this week, except is it normal to get a hair on your nipple? I mean I'm a pretty hirsute guy but this lady I know, Alice, may or may not have this problem. Come to think of it, she sort of has an Adam's Apple too. And huge feet.

Fuck.


Iron Maiden

Posted on 12:13 PM by Tony Spunk

Well hey there you sweet little blog buddies. I'm pretty much peeing my big boy pants at the excitement that anyone's actually following me. I mean seven of you. And you're not even convicts or anything I don't think. Even though that following business sounds way creepy, like y'all might chloroform me while I'm walking home some dark night in my best satin stage shirt and tight pants, because you can no longer resist my impressive mustache.

Talking of which, last night Pedro and I played the weirdest show of my career so far and believe me when I tell you, I've played some doozies. This gig was at a hospital, actually taking place in a physical therapy unit and the show was to commemorate a new hospital wing. It was kind of creepy actually seeing my giant blue organ standing proudly erect among all that medical equipment and stuff.

The place was all done up in blue and silver and featured lots of people in collar braces, slings and plaster casts. It was heaving with gimpy action. Lots of staggering and swaying and people falling over with alarmed looks on their faces. It would've been rude to laugh though so I just pretended I was having a coughing jag. I'm pretty polite like that.

They wouldn't let those people have booze either which sucks, because if there's ever a group of people who deserve to get righteously plastered, it's them. As it was, the only plastering going on was on broken legs.

I met a hot sassy lady at this shindig. Jean was her name. Probably still is. Jean was a looker, at least I think so. It was hard to tell because she was in an iron lung. I ain't fussy though. She had a pretty face. Unless she's harboring the body of Godzilla under that thing, I'd say she's a cutie. I got her number. Once she can breathe again I might offer to shake her maracas for her. I think she was a little surprised and confused when I asked for her number, because the first time I asked she said, "My aunt ran over me with her Buick."

Of course she could be a little brain damaged. That's ok though, it's not like I've never dated a crazy before. Even loonies need love, you dig?

Testing Testing One Two Three

Posted on 12:10 AM by Tony Spunk

I'm a little bit puzzled about those new pregnancy test commercials on TV where some lady says the test can now inform you the exact moment conception takes place. I mean surely that could put a guy off his stride? I mean what does it do? Does it yell "Bingo!" when the dude blasts off a load? You're lying there with a saucy senorita, smoking a post coupling cigarette when some alarm bell starts clanging inside the lady's vagenie like a mutant church bell?

Also, it can apparently take several days for your little swimmers to actually penetrate that egg. The lady could be standing there taking notes on corporate finance from her boss, three days after you gave her sweet, sweet lovin', while wearing a tight pencil skirt, horn rimmed spectacles and a tight, tight blouse (sorry, I got sidetracked for a minute there) when suddenly this voice from deep inside her love canal yells, "ALERT! YOUR UTERUS HAS A SQUATTER!" It could be embarrassing, that's all I'm saying.

What's next, a pre-sex test that tells a woman if a guy is "the one"? Maybe it scans his credit report and tax returns and if he's on any sex registers before it will allow a lady to part her knees?

I'll tell you what sort of test I could use. One that warns me that a lady has a particular odor before I get her in a compromising position of no return. Maybe a little discreet text message that says "Smells like delicious strawberries" or "Stench like Danny De Vito's boob sweat" would be useful, to enable me whether to play hard to get or not.

You ladies could get a little test that predicts how long old Tony can last in the sack. The result will be in direct ratio to the size of your sweet badonkadonk. The larger your big, round ass, the less resistance I have, I warn you now. If your booty is tiny it takes me a little longer to get motivated.

What can I say, Tony's sweet lovin' is about quality not quantity.






Martha Stewart and Earthquakes

Posted on 2:46 PM by Tony Spunk

Howdy pardners!


Happy MLK day America. MLK was the bodacious gentleman who had a dream that all the races of the world could live together in perfect harmony. Or was that Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson, I get confused? Anyway, we're all pink underneath guys, let's get along for Mr. King.

So what have I been up to this past week? Well earthquakes have featured heavily in my life for two reasons. One, my old buddy Henri was in Haiti visiting family when the quake struck. He's okay and his family are fine apart from his uncle Jesus who lost a finger and his pants (he was on the toilet when the shit went down taking his walls with it). According to Henri, Jesus is convinced the quake was caused by some dude called Papa Loumau whom he stole a dog from in 1976 and who likes to mess with voodoo.

I don't ask questions, I just walk away.

The second reason quakes are a part of my life this week is Pedro and I took part in a Haiti benefit show with a host of other local sparkly acts. The benefit made a shitload of cash and pulled in half-wasted tourists and gamblers from all over the place who were happy to pay $20 for a daiquiri if it helped some homeless Haitian get a meal for his family. So thanks to those guys for their generosity. And to the dude in the pink crop top and high waist flares who admired my organ, I meant it man, "Shannon" is a lovely name for a dude and I'm sure you're totally straight and only accidentally grazed my butt cheeks with the palm of your hand..

And thanks also to Jennifer, the lovely lady from Salt Lake City who gave some charity to old Tony in the form of letting The Captain get acquainted with her Pink Princess in the cloakroom behind the dancefloor. She was a pretty loud lady, old Jennifer. She sounded like Martha Stewart impersonating a ghost.

I have a bit of a lust thing for Martha Stewart I don't care who knows it. I'd like to make that woman scream my name in the worst possible way and make her forget all about matching bedroom sets. Sure she's old and crotchety but man the thought of her bouncing around on my lap makes me grow a third leg.

Peace out guys.


Hair Today...

Posted on 2:42 PM by Tony Spunk

It's a funny thing, fashion. I was reading the other day about mustaches and how nowadays they're pretty much the domain of donut munching bad cops, porno guys who like other guys' butts and dudes who frisk little kids' pants. At least until a dude gets to retirement age, then they're acceptable no matter what, because fuck, you've earned it buddy.

It's perplexing to me. I've had a mustache for years and I've always kinda had a notion they were passe and all that, but they suit me and they seem to fit with my retro cheese loungey lifestyle, you dig? I mean they never hurt Tom Selleck's luck with the ladies, right? They never hurt mine either. In fact, I have it on authority that it tickles in all the right places! The few times I've shaved mine off I felt naked and exposed, like Paris Hilton's glory hole only less dirty.

Hair's a weird thing altogether when you really stop and think about it. I mean hair styles that are cool as shit one year are just out of touch and square the next. Yet it's just stuff that grows out of all of us. Thing is we can't just let it be, can we? We have to cut it and coif it and gel it and comb it and shave it and tease it and dye it and curl it and straighten it, all in the name of cool. Well that and not looking like Animal from the Muppets, I guess. Or like...Kris Kristofferson.

Even ladies' va'genies are expected to conform to fads. In the 1970s it was normal to see a lady with a colossal tangled frizzy bush. Entire tribes of gypsies could have lived in a lady's bush in the 70s. I know this because when I was a kid, my uncle Dick had an astonishing collection of porn that I accidentally found in his attic while looking for a kite. It was horribly fascinating. There were all these beautiful hippy chicks, all shiny long hair and pert breasts and come hither smiles and they all had a big fucking Sasquatch sticking out the top of their panties. The ones that wore panties that is. The others were too traumatizing to think about. There was basically no need for bikini bottoms in the 70s because you couldn't see shit through that undergrowth. I was scared of vaginas until I was 31! OK, maybe 14.

Then suddenly it was all about the "landing strip" or a well presented, trimmed and landscaped triangle, not enough to cause your dentures dismay but quite enough to remind you that you weren't pounding a ten year old.

Then came the Brazilian, which, call me old fashioned, sort of dismays me a little bit. I mean that can't be easy for a lady for starters. All that hot wax on your hoobashaka can't be nice. Not to mention some sadistic she-whore ripping if off with the intensity of a kamikaze pilot. Then I'm pretty sure the stubble thing can't be all that comfortable when it grows back.

In fact I know it, because I admit, during a somewhat lost weekend in 1992, I shaved my entire johnson region bare as a baby's bottom. For real. Naked. Even my hairy peas. And let me tell you, shaving your balls isn't as simple as you might imagine. Even though I was hammered I remember thinking "This isn't the most sensible thing you've ever done, Spunk." Another tip for you gents who choose this road to insanity, just because you shaved something does not mean you need aftershave. Take me at my word on this. Do not spritz the naked scrotal area with anything containing alcohol. My eyes watered just mentioning it. I couldn't sit down for two fucking days.

It does make your pecker look colossal as the Eiffel Tower however.

Recently I've encountered a lady with a bush shaped like a pear and another with a lightning bolt shaved into it. All very lovely. Seriously though, I'm all for ladies just taming the wild beast, no need for bare, no need for art, no need for expression, just a nicely trimmed poon that doesn't look like it might escape and eat your dog.

Starting the Year With a Bang (possibly)

Posted on 2:30 PM by Tony Spunk

Happy New Year blogland!


It seems like only yesterday it was that brand new Millennium thing and I was running down The Strip in only my scants singing a salty song about a whore and a donkey. The less said about that palaver the better. Hard to believe it was ten whole years ago however. Time sure flies when you're fabulous. And old.

Last night the Mexican and I had a show at a little private soiree in downtown Las Vegas. There was some big TV event going down starring that dude Fergie and his Black Eyed Peas, so all these idiots had hogged all the parking in town. They sure are keen to see a tranny hosting huh? I like that about Vegas. Everyone fits in.

So anyway this meant we had to pay Leslie Van Snoot's bouncer "Bones" to pick us up with our stuff and drop us off at the venue. Bones always needs the cash, plus he gets to stay for the party and scope out some hotties. Admittedly, he needs a pretty game (i.e., hammered) hottie as Bones is about the size of a hippopotamus and only a quarter as sprightly so she'd have to be up for searching for his dink under all that blubber and preferably have jelly bones. Anyway look at me getting all sidetracked with that visual.

The venue was heaving. I never saw a place that size cram in so many people before but I guess Vegas is a town stuffed to the point of puking, with overstuffed tourists and lithe young nymphets all needing to party their collective ass off without their tops, therefore everywhere seemed to be jumping.

Our opening acts were a little on the side of "WTF?". First was a guy with a peg leg juggling kitchen knives (one wants to know how the fuck he lost that leg in the first place and should we be concerned?) and the second act was a pretty smokin' little midget girl named "Monica" who had an unfeasibly gigantic rack for such a tiny person. In fact, I can't vouch that she even had legs. It was almost impossible to drag your eyes away from it as it lead her around the stage like a parent leading a child. I think Monica's specialty was some sort of belly dancing but I can't be sure since I was mesmerized by those jiggling majoombas. You can't blame me. Ask anyone in that room last night what that little midget lady did and I guarantee they'd go "She was a midget? I really don't remember, all I remember is she looked like she was smuggling Telly Savalas and Yul Brynner in her bra."

By the time we hit the stage at 11:30pm, everyone, including Pedro and myself and our session drummer Barney Miller (that's his real name) were wasted to the extent that Pedro played the entire show in his Superman underpants and I was too wasted to care. People danced, people went crazy, people yelled out requests which we honored for the most part, apart from that one chick (who looked uncannily like Mandy Patinkin) that Barney kept calling "fella" and who kept screaming out for "Long Haired Lover From Liverpool".

What the hay, lady? "I don't do Jimmy Osmond, fool!" I yelled back, although remember I was wasted so I followed it with, "But if he was here wearing a dress and willing I'd consider it!"

At midnight we stopped briefly to refill our glasses and suck the faces off of some trashed ladies from Wisconsin then the party continued.

I'd tell you all more but I can't remember a goddamn thing after that. I just know that I woke up in my own bed this morning wearing nothing but my shiny stage shirt, one sock and a condom (empty I believe) so make of that what you will. No one was there apart from me.

My cat sure looked nervous though.

Anyway, here's wishing all you great shiny peeps a fantastic 2010 and come see me sometime, ok? Kisses.