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.

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.