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.


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.