Loungin' Around With Tony Spunk

Live And Kicking

2011-03-20T22:12:00.004-06:00

March 20th 2011

I promise that contrary to rumor, I have not been in jail.

Not this month. Heh. Sorry about being the shittiest updater ever but sometimes I'm just up to my tits in life, good and bad and I never seem to have time. Either that or I forget to pay the cable bill again and you know. That's a pain in the ass when you log onto your blog at 3am, hammered on Jager and full of stories about hookers who might look a lot like a lady until your finger's caressing an Adam's Apple the size of a baseball. It can happen to anyone, guys.

What have you guys been doing in good old 2011? I hope you've gotten some kicking poontang, be you a lady or a dude. I mean nothing calms the soul like some genital harmony with a fox of the opposite gender, right? Or the same gender if that's what floats your yacht. Tony has no problems with the dudes who like to party in a sausage fest or ladies who do a little clam diving, you dig? It's all good. You all go on with your good funky selves.

As y'all know I'm all about the ladies, despite the fact I might look like a sexy, shiny bastard who can rock pink and knows too much about the life of Liberace. I don't get through a week without some drunken dude deciding I have a Barbra Streisand collection (and I do!) which obviously suggests to them I like to lick dude's taints and I'm okay with that assumption. I'm secure in my manliness.

Anyways, Pedro and I got a hectic spring gig schedule going down the next month or so. There's hardly going to be time to dry clean my satin suits between engagements and I've just spent an entire weekend drinking forties and polishing my organ in readiness. Now I just need a lady to polish my other organ and I'll be golden. Vegas is expecting a new slew of ladies to come in to town to drink some margaritas and encounter a sexy, shiny bastard with a glint in his eye and a zucchini in his pants.

Hope y'all are good?

A New Year A New Set of Trouble

2011-01-13T22:45:00.004-07:00

Hey happy new year you funky assholes!

Another long gap huh. I can't be trusted, sincerely. I need to be monitored at all times for reliability, preferably by a buxom lady with a giant ass, brandishing a whip. Lately all the buxom ladies I meet have a giant ass, but usually he's her husband.

Ho ho.

So how are y'all? Is 2011 shaping up for ya yet? For me it seems optimistic. I have a couple of ladies interested in taking me to heaven and we're all on the same page regarding commitment or lack of it. No strings ladies. My type of girls. Both are lovely, curvy specimens of ladyhood and although I don't party with both at the same time, as I'm getting kind of long in the tooth for those types of shenanigans, both are delightfully ripe in their own sweet ways. I have no earthly idea what either of them see in a broken down old fucker like me, but thank God for whatever the hell it is.

Probably it's my cock. My cock is my best feature I feel, by far. I don't mean to boast or anything, lord knows I'm a weird looking dude and not all smooth and handsome like some guys, but my cock has magic powers even I don't understand. He brings out the best in a lady. He's a touch on the cumbersome side when trying to squeeze him into tight stage pants, but I hear he's a plus with the gals, although there have been a couple of fine ladies who claimed he was a little much to digest, as it were.

Check me out sitting here boasting about having a big wang, like I was fourteen. It's the only reason I can see that the ladies keep coming back. No pun intended. Like I said, my face looks like it's been rode hard and put away wet and I have the chest of a gorilla unless I go see my little Asian ladyfriend with a waxing kit, but my cock is just the shiny, velvetty pink mayor of Poundsville.

Plus, you know, I dig all ladies and that helps. Ladies like attention paid to their good attributes and they appreciate it. Here's a special secret for y'all, dudes like the same attention. It's an ego boost. So it's a win win situation really. A few well meaning compliments and you ladies can just unbutton my pants here and now and do what you please.

I'm going to start 2011 by confessing something in the name of honesty. On new year's eve, I was in downtown Vegas doing who knows what (I sure can't recall) but the one thing I do remember was some lady who was even drunker than I was, trying to seduce me in the parking lot. She kept bending suggestively over the hood of her car, sticking her big, round patoot practically in my mustache. Luckily I was so tanked I couldn't decide which of the three asses I was looking at was actually hers. Just as well. Turns out her husband is a cop. No one needs a dude of the law chasing him for weeks with a firearm because some fancy drunk guy rear ended his lady. So I staggered off quickly before a felony occurred, but as soon as I fell through my doorway, I retrieved my industrial sized tub of Nivea and recreated the entire thing in my mind.

Turns out there is such a thing as premature ejaculation and those pants will never be the same again. Dumb Martinis.

Was that TMI? Ah fuck it!

Thanks for the Memories

2010-11-24T13:56:00.005-07:00

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

2010-11-08T20:17:00.004-07:00

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

2010-08-26T15:25:00.004-06:00

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

2010-06-30T12:20:00.004-06:00

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

2010-06-09T13:50:00.005-06:00

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

2010-04-30T15:12:00.002-06:00

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

2010-04-01T21:19:00.002-06:00

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

2010-03-08T15:17:00.002-07:00

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?

2010-02-28T23:21:00.008-07:00

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

2010-01-31T23:14:00.005-07:00

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

2010-01-28T12:13:00.009-07:00

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

2010-01-26T00:10:00.006-07:00

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

2010-01-18T14:46:00.003-07:00

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...

2010-01-04T14:42:00.007-07:00

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)

2010-01-01T14:30:00.008-07:00

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.

Alberto

2009-12-29T21:57:00.008-07:00

I've got this cousin Alberto (Bert) who's a little bit simple. He's about two years older than me, fat as a butterball and when we were kids my uncle Dick used to bring Bert to our house while he and my dad were out carousing and expect me to look out for him.

You know how kids are. They spot a weakness and they will exploit the living shit out of it for their own amusement, so old Bert had a pretty rough ride of it at times. He still wanted to come back though so either he was more simple than we thought or he just liked punishment. He was a pretty nice kid and I teased him mercilessly but we got along great for the most part.

One hot, dry summer day my ma was at work at Caesar's and Bert, who was inexpliqably wearing a tennis headband and some atrocity made of velour, and I were hanging out at my aunt Lola's ranch. I was probably ten at the time and Bert was about twelve.

So we're in the barn and we find this big wooden box. A chest. And so we open it up and there is all sorts of stuff in there. How can I put this delicately? Lady things. Lady things that ladies like to use to feel good. And pink fluffy handcuffs. And some things I couldn't even hazard a guess at. Bear in mind Lola was a genuine whore by trade.

There was an alarmingly huge black vibrator called "the Violator" that was big and wrinkled and rubbery and looked exactly like a gigantic cock, so I knew it was something dirty. It even had batteries in it.

Anyway, we were pretty bored so I got this idea to tell Bert that this big black cock was a weapon. A really cool weapon like a light saber that only cool kids had. Of course Bert wanted that big black abominable cock like it was a freaking milk shake. By the time I handed the Violator over to him he was virtually peeing his pants with excitement. I'd persuaded him to play a game called "Save the ranch from the enemies" and that "the enemies" were the horses in the nearby field. Bert must've chased those poor horses around that field for an hour while making swishing light saber noises with that big buzzing penis.

That was so successful I persuaded him to run inside and pretend to attack Lola with his "light saber", which he dutifully did, just as she was serving dessert to four of her girls and their clients, who included a local politician. Let me say nothing can really prepare you for a twelve year old fatty in a tennis headband, brandishing a giant black cock and screaming about taking prisoners. The looks on the faces of those people will live with me forever.

God bless you Bert you old dog.

The Crazyness That Is Man

2009-12-21T14:52:00.001-07:00

I really sort of dig reading the search queries that bring people by this here hole in the wall blog. Sadly they’re not going to win prizes for variety although I wonder how much a guy who searches for “I want you to spunk on my boots” gets out of his visit? To my knowledge I haven’t covered the topic of spunking on footwear. You can’t go wasting your seed on boots, man. Save it for boobies.

To the person who wanted to know “where can I spank some midgets” I have no idea, truly and I’m sorry you must have been seriously disappointed.

The guy (I assume it can only be a guy, right?) who wanted, “martini whores Mexican bull assfuck” – what the fuck buddy? Although if you find what you’re looking for, drop me a line, okay? Wink.

My favorite of all was “dick rash spunk overload” which sounds like an underground thrash band only more alarming. I hope you got that sorted out man, before things got ugly. Uglier. And if spunk overload gave your dick a rash, I’d be living in the ER by now.

I will end by telling the lady (please let it be a lady) who searched for “lounge honey”, I am available.

A real update soon. I have been busy as a fucking fuck.

Pelvic Thrusting Into The Holidays

2009-12-20T00:04:00.002-07:00

Well hey lazy people's of Blogland. Ok well I realize I'm the lazy fucker not you guys but honestly, I haven't been so much lazy as busy and incapacitated. Lots of work and lots of play. I thought about you all the time though. You guys are my everything. You guys and Martini on the rocks.

Also, I just moved my whole thing over here to Blogger from Wordpress. I wasn't feeling WP what with the lack of artistic freedom in the looks department and all. Plus all my buds are here, you dig? So hi Blogger! Sorry you guys that I couldn't actually export the damn thing as a whole therefore, I lost all your great comments. Goddamn technology shit.

Know what I've been doing? The ladies! Yeah. Some things never change right? Admit it, you don't want them to. Plus it's almost Christmas and the ladies flock to the city of lights looking for some holiday fun and that's practically my last name. I consider it a service to humanity. Those guys at the tourist board ought to take it into consideration. Maybe put me in a brochure or something. They could stand me next to say, the Stratosphere, in a symbolic display of phallic glory, while pointing out my adequate gigolo tendencies and how I'm basically a man-whore, except I don't charge a cent. I do it for the pure, undiluted love of it, ladies. You have a vagina? Tony can fill it. Let's leave it at that.

I've been kind of half seeing a lady named Mercedes. She's one of those chicks that tie her hair back and wear tiny little skinny reading glasses but you know that given the right encouragement, and maybe a few daiquiris, would totally undo a few more buttons on her blouse and be dancing on that table before you could get your pecker out. Plus, let's be realistic here, Mercedes is totally a stripper name, no? I've learned not to mention that however, as last time I ended up wearing a Cosmopolitan on my funky new satin shirt. It's a bastard getting cocktail stains out of your frills, man. And the stripper thing was totally a compliment too.

Plus Mercedes has a gigantic flat ass that belongs in a high-waist pencil skirt so the world can appreciate it. Either that or it should be gyrating on my manroot, either choice is fine.

She's a touch shy though. Likes to be wined and dined a few times before I can warm my hands in her love furnace. That's ok. I don't mind the chase. It's sort of exciting really. And it ensures I bathe regularly, in case the moment arrives unexpectedly. You don't want to have sweaty coconuts when you intend grazing a lady's chin with them, right?

For the record, I like to give them a light going over with a razor, then some Nivea, then I might spritz on a little bit of Giorgio Armani cologne. Really I have the best kept balls this side of the Continental Divide. Besides, if a lady has to have a balls-on-chin experience, it might as well be a pleasant smelling one. I'm pretty thoughtful like that.

I'm just putting it out there in case any of you ladies are ever in my zip code. You will never have a sweaty balls emergency with Tony Spunk! Wink.

It Lives

2009-09-23T19:34:00.001-06:00

Hey there buddies. You all still there? All like, three of you? I’d forgive you if you’re off getting drunk at some other sexy blog stud’s place, after all I’ve been a slacker lately of epic proportions and I can only apologize for neglecting you.

Know what else has epic proportions? My cock! Drumcrash.

No really ladies. My cock is colossal.

Talking of… sorry to the lady who sent me the rather vocal email about my last post regarding my cock and some lady’s ass-crack. Seems that was a little blue below the belt. The Bible Belt that is. Oh fuck it, no I’m not sorry. Even Jesus laughed at that line.

I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to shit lately. The past month or so has been crazy town around these parts. I’ve played more shows in the past three weeks than I have in the past six months. Some of those shows were in Memphis, Louisville, Little Rock and Corpus Christie. Corpus was a badass town. Pretty to look at, ocean right there and lots of sexy senoritas pouting all over the place. You can’t get better than that. Except maybe a blowjob from Adriana Lima. Maybe.

Pedro accompanied me on all dates, that’s the musical sort not the romantic sort, I’m not a sick fucker or anything. Although I’m sure he’d enjoy watching. That voyeuristic little Mexican fuck. Me, I haven’t even spent time with many ladies the past few weeks I’ve been working so hard. The Captain’s cried real tears of sorrow over this. Okay, he’s cried real tears of sperm. I mean the Nivea pot’s almost empty. Fuck me, I need to get laid by a real pussy soon.

And by “real pussy” I’m not talking about that dude with the fake face that used to be in Poison.

One lady I did dally with was in Louisville. Her name was Stella and she was a waitress at a burger joint. Maybe 35, plump in all the right places, ass like a hippopotamus. Tony likes asses like hippos. More cushion for the pushin’ and all that cliched shit. Stella was a good ole country gal with rosy cheeks, on both ends after I’d done with her. She enjoyed a bit of the old paddling. I’m not much one for bondage but hell, if a lady wants her ass scorched I can oblige, know what I’m saying? If it’s ass related it’s for me.

I also had an “incident” in Memphis with a tourist lady who’d come to town to see Graceland. She kept yelling out “Do Elvis! Do Elvis!” prompting a colorful remark from me about necrophilia. Hell, I thought it was hilarious. Her, not so much. She launched a highball glass at me like she was pitching a fuckin’ fastball. I had to get stitches and everything. Elvis has some ferocious fans. You can probably slander their mothers but don’t talk about fucking Elvis’s cold, dead body unless you want a trip to the ER.

Anyway, this is getting lengthy (that’s what HE said) so I’ll leave it there. Hope y’all are doing well. I’m gonna start doing more commenting, I’m a lame fucking blog friend for sure.

Peace out guys.

The Old Guy's Still Got It

2009-08-12T07:13:00.001-06:00

Hey there! It’s been a while. I have no excuses so I won’t give you any.

Guess what I did the other day? Two chicks on the same day! Really. I do have standards even if they’re on the low end of the scale much of the time, but usually I have a break between chicks unless it’s a threesome. Although, honestly I’m getting kind of long in the tooth for two chicks at once, you dig? Anyway the two chicks the other day were room-mates. For real, neither knew about the other so I hope nothing occurred later when they figured it out. I didn’t see any homicides on the news so I think I got away with it.

One of the chicks – let’s call her Amanda (It’s not her real name, her real name’s Debra) was stacked like Walmart at Christmas time. Sweater meat out to here. The girl could hold up a condo with the contents of her bra. And y’all know me, I’m not averse to a little boob jiggle action. I motorboated that girl till I almost asphixiated. But what a way to go, right fellas? She wasn’t much use in the sack old Amanda, but she had it going on in the northern continent so I let her off.

Her room mate though, let’s call her June as that really was her name, she was flat as a pancake in the chestular department but had an ass like a well-bred Mexican donkey. I mean that as a compliment in case you were wondering. She had a great big thundering ass you wanted to pound till next Tuesday. Every time I flipped her over however, she’d flip right back with a disgruntled sigh. The most I got to do in that region was slide the Captain along her ass crack a couple of times. She was not up for any doggy action which made the Captain sad.

Am I getting too graphic for y’all? Good.

Anyway, two chicks on one day wore me out and made me realize that I am officially fucking old. In fact, it’s my birthday next week. Not that numbers really bother me and a guy’s like a fine wine – he gets more fantastic with a few grays in his sideboards. That’s what I tell myself anyway. I did check south of the border and I’m still all man, all black haired awesome down there, so no worries about getting a mouthful of gray ladies.

This entry sort of turned me on, I have to go open a new jar of Nivea and whack it to Kim Kardashian’s ass till my hand cramps.

Hope y’all are well. I love you guys. All three of ya.

A Senior Moment

2009-07-27T14:18:00.001-06:00

Hi there compadres. Once again, apologies for the big lapse in posting but I’ve been busy as shit. I’ve had shows almost every damn night and only a handful were for the seniors, before you go suggesting it. Sure, none of them are exactly big time but they pay the rent you dig? And they’re usually a ton of fun. Even the seniors. In fact I’d say the seniors know how to appreciate a dude in cerise satin. I mean have you seen the shit they wear? They sport the polyester like it’s going out of style. The static shock you get from entering a room full of old people could knock an elephant on its ass. But man, watch out for those old ladies, they’re killer. If I had a dollar for every old dear who’s gotten her withered old pincers into my hiney, I could retire already. Some nights entering an old folks hall is like watching outtakes for “Night of the Living Dead”. I'm not talking sprightly sixty somethings here, I'm talking 80 years plus zombified oldies.

Not that I’m being deliberately mean to the oldies. Hell, I’m not too proud to admit I had me a time, a couple years back, with an older gal. Judith, her name was and she was 67 years old and spunky as all hell. She was like Bea Arthur if Bea Arthur didn’t have a penis. Tall, sassy, deep husky voice. I can’t vouch for Bea but Judith could do things with a vagina that could make a man cry. Or bruise. For an old bird she sure had some kegel strength. And so maybe I was drunk at the time, clouding my judgment a little, I’d still have done her sober, the saucy old minx.

Still, the old people I perform for ain’t often like Judith. Usually they’re totally crazy, half inebriated, tubby, wrinkly little demons of pure evil, dressed in nylon that would make the seventies cry and sporting stupendous pastel colored hair. And that’s just the guys! Heh.

You ain’t seen nothing till you’ve seen a room full of 70 year olds letting it all hang out to a Stones cover, while their bat-wing under arms flap around in the wind and their decrepit old pelvises gyrate and creak like an old gate till inevitably someone puts their back out and has to be stretchered to hospital. You’re delighted by the free bar at these events let me tell you. A few martinis dulls the torture of seeing 80 year old Elsie lifting her skirt and flashing a nylon hose-covered ass to the room. An ass that starts at her knees and winds up at her underarms. Try erasing that image from your brain.

So yeah that about sums it up for my life lately. I’m hoping for a break soon. Mainly because all this gigging is tiring me out and leaving me too bushed to appropriately tend to the ladies. The Captain’s not talking to me because he hasn’t pierced a vagina in about nine days. It’s time to get my life back!

Update From A Lazy Shit

2009-06-23T00:00:00.000-06:00

Hey guys, I’ve been enjoying some good old fun in the sun. And yes, by “fun” I absolutely mean dealing the salami to some ladies in the open air. There’s nothing quite like hitting some grade A, prime lady fillet in the fresh air. You see summer turns a man’s fancy to the ladies and those of you now thinking “only summer, are you sure?”, fuck you guys.

Heh, I’m kidding. Although I don’t know, would you be up for it? I’m kinda horny.

No, you see summer is all sunny and lazy and the ladies let their guards down a bit, as well as their panties, so all is well with the world. I mean who doesn’t love a half naked lady with the sun shining on her naked ass? Who doesn’t love to look up at those bouncing Alps glistening in the sun as she’s demonstrating her rodeo skills?

Oh look, there goes the Captain again. Down boy!

What was I saying? Oh yes, I’ve been staying at my ma’s place out in the desert while she’s visiting her aunt and uncle in Bumsfuck, Arkansas. It’s the same house I grew up in – the house that used to be filled with music, laughter, drinking, wild parties and mariachi music and occasionally the poignant musical tones of my aunt Lola fucking some undesirable in the basement when she was supposed to be getting ice – the house where my uncle Dick Spunk used to slip me cigarettes and give me advice on how to entice the ladies. Uncle Dick knew a thing or two about the ladies, the drunk old bastard. He used to bed more ladies than Warren Beatty back in the day and he was only a tenth as handsome. The way he tells it though, he might be a tenth as handsome but he has a cock the size of a baseball bat and he can outperform a jackhammer and Warren Beatty can just suck it (both literally and figuratively). You remember those lame porno pens with the lady inside and when you pressed the button her clothes fell off? Well for my seventh birthday, my uncle Dick gave me a similar pen, only when you pressed the button on this pen, the lady got fucked by a donkey. He got it in Mexico, naturally, those depraved fuckers.

So yeah I’m out at the farm and the old place is creaking up a storm. It’s been here since 1947 when my grandparents built it, and now it’s getting a little much for my ma I think. I’ve been keeping it warm while she’s gone by entertaining a host of delectable female types with my expert Martini making skills and my Magnum mustache. A killer combo if I do say so myself.

Tonight’s a night off though, to go over some stuff with Pedro. Music stuff. Plus I’m sort of shagged out as the Limeys say. I was short of a date last night so I resorted to one of my crazy stalkers, Oral Olive. Before you all go getting excited, she doesn’t provide the oral you understand – not without some persuasion and strawberry yogurt at least, she just demands it. My fuckin’ tongue feels like it got caught all up in a blender. But the good thing about Olive is she’s not all that smart – I know this is mean but really, she’s dumb as packet of ice – so it’s easy to persuade her to do stuff, especially after a tongue lashing. So if you want some serious hip-thrusting, doggy-style action over a garden fence say, you just have to tell her that you heard she’s way more fun than other women and she’s all eager to prove it.

I know, I’m a dirty fucking dog, I admit it.

But come on, you all missed me.

Lola, Part 72

2009-06-03T17:19:00.000-06:00

To the person who came here looking for a “spunk receptacle” I sure hope you found what you were looking for. You know, elsewhere.

Talking of spunk receptacles, I had lunch with my aunt Lola today. Aw don’t look at me like that, Lola’s a whore, you know it and I know it. And she sure knows it.

I got back from L.A. last night (more about that another day – it’s worth waiting for I promise) and Lola practically begged me to buy her lunch so I knew something was amiss. I’m the only family member she can talk to about anything. See I’m a man of the world. For some reason this makes her blurt out the most ridiculously nauseating stuff that makes me want to bleach my memory afterwards. I could feel it coming.

“It’s my flower.” she whispered, as we waited to be seated in the busy “Pig & Whistle”. “Damn thing’s infected!”

Now that right there should have been a clue that I should have had a “previous engagement” I’d forgotten about suddenly come to light and hot tailed it out of there, pronto. Because “flower” is the word Lola uses for her lady parts. Her pussy. Flower’s sort of an ironically delicate word for it in my opinion because Lola’s pussy’s seen more action than Arnold Schwarzenegger.

I was kind of worried what was coming. Luckily I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“Son,” she said when we’d sat down and were awaiting our order. “Son, I found crabs in my flower and I panicked and doused ‘em with Windex.” Lola said.

Allow me to let that sink in for a minute. Lola found crabs in her lady region and sprayed the fuckers with Windex.

“Windex?” I finally said weakly. “What the shit, Lola? You need to blast those fuckers out, not shine the shit out of them.”

“Well the fuckin’ Febreeze didn’t do nothin’” she growled. “Windex was all else I had.”

I tried desperately to erase the mental image of my aunt Febreezing the hell out of her muff.

“Did it work?” I asked, already afraid of the answer.

“Did it sweet shittin’ Jesus!” she said angrily. “Made me itch like a motherfucker. I’m red raw from scratching that dang thing. Feel like my crotch got pounded by fire ants!”

I sort of lost my appetite.

“I partied with an entire varsity football team one time” Lola said later, while picking at some English style fish and chips. “And even after that I could walk better than I can today.”

So welcome to my family. We exude classy.

Greetings From The Left Coast

2009-05-27T22:50:00.000-06:00

Mis hermanos!

And ladies, I don’t wish to discriminate none. Hope y’all are having a dandy ole Memorial Day week – Tony always extends holidays to an entire week of celebratory fun because I am all about the fun. Especially when the fun = the ladies.

Hey guess what? I’m in Los freaking Angeles. Man, you never saw a city more full of deviants than good old L.A. I’m not kidding, for every one normal person in L.A. there are about eighteen freaking deviants or perverts. What a fucking excellent place! I wouldn’t want to live here full time or nothing because I’d like to keep what’s left of my soul intact in case I’m wrong and there is a heaven after all. But the city of angels is trying its best to lure it out of me.

Firstly its good points are as follows; lots of babes not wearing much in the clothing department. This is always a good development even when they’re of the ridiculous variety like a lot of the chicas here. Big everything. Big hair, big racks, big tans, big egos. Crazy.

I’m a little more picky (no really I am). I like a little junk in the trunk. These skinny ladies with the xylophone ribs don’t do it for me. No one wants to bounce around on a bony chick, man, a dude might as well get it on with a railroad track. A lady needs some round bits. Some nice soft curves. Am I right? Damn right I am. L.A. chicks are just into eating celery and sucking their cheek bones in. It’s scary. Not that I wouldn’t hit that if desperate you understand. All you need to do is tell these chicks you’re a producer or something and their clothes practically fall off right there. No tequila necessary, gracias. Desperation kinda turns me off to be honest. I like to work for it. Those ladies have the look of a wolf circling a lamb. It’s off putting.

Tomorrow I’m hanging with my bud Donny Ono. He’s the guy I told y’all about before, Japanese Elvis impersonator. He’s more comedy than bona fide impersonator though. I’m not sure he means to be but either way, he’s a funny fuck. I once saw him, drunk off his ass in Vegas being fellated by a 600 lb lady porn model – no kidding! He likes the big ladies but that was like seeing a hot air balloon sucking off a toothpick. Kind of obscene but kind of fascinating.

Okay, I’m off to a Mexican calypso bar for some good times. I’m bringing hand sanitizer and a good time in my pants. Stay classy y’all.

Taking It Coastal

2009-05-21T09:57:00.000-06:00

Hey there amigos!

Yeah I know, I’m a lazy sonofabitch when it comes to updating this thing lately. I’d like to say I’m busy but I ain’t that busy. Played some shows, low key stuff, no biggie. Pays the rent. Dallied with the virtue of a couple of ladies, but nothing too exciting. Had some “me” time. By that I don’t mean I played with the Captain and some Nivea. Well okay, I did some of that too. I mean the world ain’t ending or nothing.

Time to snap out of it though. Starting to sound like a goddamn lady myself. Me time. Next it’ll be manicures and the Women’s Network. I just looked down my Fruit of the Looms to check the Captain was still there. You’ll be happy to know ladies, that yes, he is and he’s looking magnificent like a shiny pink log of love.

Spring time. Makes a dude think of poon. Actually any time makes Tony think of poon. Hey oh. There is nothing more beautiful than a juicy pink vagina.

Next week I’m kind of excited as I’m going to LA. That’s Los Angeles to you bums, not Louisiana. Who the fuck’d go to Louisiana of their own free will? Jesus. Actually Jesus probably would. He’s respected in Lousiana. True story. My friend Delmar, who’s a kick ass pianist, once played a show in Baton Rouge. When he comes out on to the stage in this little church hall type place, he’s confronted by six dudes in white pointy head gear. Delmar almost shit in his pants. At first he thought it was a costume party and some dudes were dressed like sperms but turns out they were the real KKK. For real yo! They weren’t too happy at some black dude singing to their ladies. So Delmarr excused himself for a moment then hoofed it out the back way and out of town.

Anyways, yeah. Los Angeles. I’m playing a show out there with some other guys in my field and also some Elvis impersonators have a competition going down same time, so I get to hang with my good Japanese buddy Donny Ono, who believe it or not is a Japanese Elvis. Go check out his blog. He just started it and his English is for shit but dude’s a good onion. He promised to get me bombed on Saki and introduce me to this little half Japanese chick named Kiki who can shoot quarters out of her hoo ha. What’s not to like?

Hope you guys are all groovy?

Thinking Out Loud

2009-05-05T01:26:00.002-06:00

I was checking out my dashboard here on WordPress and I swore it said something about me having 7 midgets. Y’all know Tony, I get excited at new people, especially tiny, chunky people who might be stalking me, because that’s kind of perverted and I ain’t one to shirk a little perversion, you dig? I had these visions of all these little, tiny, undersexed ladies spying on me while not wearing panties (them, not me) and it made my trouser-place feel all warm and tingly in a good way (as opposed to an itchy way).

I Googled "midgets" and got this. I don't know what's going on in this picture but I'm fascinated. It could lose the tiny dudes however and the ladies could lose their tops but hey. Midgets.

Then I noticed it actually said WIDGETS and well…that’s a whole lot less fucking sexy, no? This is what happens when a guy is still up and active at 6 in the ay em. And still a little bit drunk.

And is it just me or does ‘widget’ make you think of hobbits? Or am I confusing it with midgets again? I don’t know and frankly I’m too tired to give a hot damn. I just know a widget sounds like some hairy ass creature who’d chase you round the forest at dusk then attempt to steal your berries.

Talking of midgets, at least sort of connected to that chain of thought, I once dated this gorgeous giant gal, name of Petra. Petra was about eight feet tall. Well okay, maybe closer to six feet four or something, but she was one tall chick. Great for motorboating. It’s okay though, she didn’t mind or nothing in fact she encouraged it. Or maybe I encouraged it, I forget now. I’d totally forgotten old Petra till right now. Laugh like a dock worker, boobs like a Penthouse Pet. Quite the combination.

Anyways, I’m thinking out loud here. I should probably go to bed. I got these knock off satin sheets for my boudoir at a sale in some little store in some no good little town. They look like satin but fuck, in practice they’re more like Satan. Little fuckers give you wicked static when you slide on them – makes my pubes stand on end and gives the occasional static blast of electricity to The Captain, which he does not approve of. I have to calm him down with a nice Nivea massage.

Peace out homies. Only four more days till the weekend.

Illegal Characters

2009-04-27T02:21:00.000-06:00

“Lola fucked bugs” and “spunk pig” are two charming terms that brought people here to Spunksville this past week. What the hay, people? Sometimes when I’m thinking I might be a touch on the deviant side, I see the stuff other people look for and suddenly I’m Polly-fucking-Anna.

So it’s been a while, compadres. This is due to a bout of severe laziness on my part although truthfully, I’ve been sort of busy as shit too. Played a lot of shows and not all for the older members of society, either. No, I did one at a women’s correctional facility (scary and oddly arousing) and one at a swimming pool gala party (lots of swimwear and giant thighs). I ain’t proud, so long as there’s ladies in swim wear and I get paid, I’ll be there, you dig?

Back to the ladies correctional facility thing. It was low security and full of chicks who shoplift or don’t pay their parking fines or whatever. Nothing too dangerous, but just dangerous enough to be enticing. And they’re allowed a certain amount of leeway to party, which in a place like that involves dancing sexily while wearing army green overalls and too much cheap lipstick, while another lady in a nazi-like get-up parades around sternly, frowning at them and adjusting her cap. I wasn’t sure what turned me on the most actually, all these caged ladies (illegal characters?) with debauchery on their minds or the trussed up guard-like ladies with their batons and tight, frumpy uniforms. Yowza! Cuz if you know anything about old Tony, he digs a lady in uniform and has trouble concentrating because he’s too damn busy picturing himself tearing those brass buttons off in a fit of passion and ravaging them on the cold, stone floor.

The ladies I mean, not the buttons. Give me some credit.

Oh there goes the Captain again!

Eh..what was I saying?

Oh yeah. The ladies. Doesn’t matter the way they come, I likes them. And come they will. Numerous times.

Naturally, I couldn’t do anything naughty and tasty with the ladies at the facility (they have rules for that sorta thing) but I did accept some digits of two soon to be released little bombshells, so we’ll see what happens there I guess.

Talking of sexy little bombshells, I found this lady through one of my good, sexy, blog buddies’ posts and she says hella nice things about me, so now my head’s the size of a melon. And not the one on my shoulders, ladies, dig? Wink. I tried to leave that fine lady a comment but the old “Blogger” wouldn’t let me do it, as apparently my URL has “illegal characters”. What the shit, man? Don’t worry though, y’all can say SPUNK as often as you want over here.

Stay sexy Blogland.

The One Where Tony Almost Took Over The World

2009-04-13T11:54:00.000-06:00

Hey there amigos!

Well I done gone had me a week, didn’t I? Firstly old Tony thought he’d gone and impregnated a lady with his super-sperm. Truthfully, in all these years I never got a lady up the spout, at least that I know about and I sorta intended to keep it that way. I figure a fellow should at least be involved with a lady before he infects her organs with new life, you dig? And this lady, Sandra, she was a one night deal. When she showed up at my door I didn’t even remember her, which sounds pretty terrible but when you meet ladies at shows, you tend to be a touch inebriated and their faces all kind of merge together in one terrible flashback.

I asked Sandra how come she thought I was the supposed father, since, I don’t mean to be rude and all but any chick who’ll get it on with me generally isn’t the virginal, one-man-woman, type of gal. I just figured she made a habit of taking strange, ruggedly attractive dudes home and jumping on their pork swords, I never thought I was the only one in a long drought or anything.

Anyway, she put the chair down and calmed down and we got one of those home preggo kits where a lady whizzes on a stick and it tells her if she has a bun in the oven or if she’s just paranoid. And it came back paranoid. Phew! Close call. She called me two days later to announce that her lady dragon time had arrived and all was well and did I want to bend her over her kitchen table when she stopped bleeding and eff the living daylights out of her. Because having a scare like that makes that girl want to fuck like a pig, apparently.

I made my excuses. I mean, once bitten and all that. I had visions of my man seed racing up her Nascar track trying to make Spunk sextuplets and it was all a little off-putting.

Still, it did make me think. If I did get a lady in the family way, I might not marry her or anything drastic but I’d sure be supportive and I got a tear in my old eye thinking about teaching a young Tony or Antonia how to play the organ and appreciate Dean Martin.

Then I snapped out of it and got loaded with Pedro.

Still Swinging

2009-04-01T09:32:00.000-06:00

Hey there compadres! I’m out of my funk now, y’all can come out from behind the furniture. Truthfully I wasn’t even really in a funk so much as doing some soul searching. My ma’s giving me a hard time about not having a wife and kids and an office job and that kind of stuff. Seems I’m too old to be living like a teen, but I disagree that that’s what I do. I mean I’m fairly responsible in most matters, I work a lot and I pay my bills. And I gave up crack when I was 21 because that shit will mess you up. And let’s face it, Martinis are way more enjoyable.

I dig my life. I like that I work at night, I meet a lot of people, good and bad and that I get in a position where I meet a lot of tipsy ladies with bad judgment. I like tipsy ladies with bad judgment. They’re my whole social life. So I decided I’m okay with being the way I am.

And my pad’s looking funky. I got some new furniture from an estate sale in rural Nevada. I say “new” furniture but it’s new to me at least. And I previously had things like cardboard boxes as tables and a sofa with a dip in the middle that’s been that way since I went through a deviant phase where 400lb Maria and I used to bump uglies on it in 1988. She was a workout for any sort of spring suspension. Now I got me some prime vintage gear. A cocktail shaker, a table that looks like it’s from the 1960s’ Starship Enterprise and a more modern orange Ikea sofa, long enough to pass out on if necessary or get freaky with a lady.

It’s all good.

Talking of ladies, I’ve been dallying with a lady named Collette. Not a long term thing, naturally, but she’s in town for a week and so we’ve been drinking Vegas dry and doing the wild thang like it’s illegal. I broke one of my own laws too, regarding my organ. It’s normally polished to a high, electric-blue shine, but one night too much booze and lack of discretion meant Collette and I got a little funky on it and fractured the backplate. Seems to be okay however. It also has a pleasing impression of sweaty butt cheeks on top. (not mine)

Oh yeah, if you know how to get suspicious stains out of an orange sofa, be sure to let me know.

Chillax good buddies.

Spunky Introspective

2009-03-27T21:38:00.000-06:00

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.

Lola, And How Some Things Never Change

2009-03-25T18:28:00.000-06:00

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.

Ding Dong

2009-03-23T17:47:00.000-06:00

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.

Just Proving I'm Still Alive

2009-03-12T01:12:00.000-06:00

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.

The Deflowering Of Tony Spunk

2009-03-05T23:48:00.000-07:00

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.

Quickie

2009-03-03T01:12:00.000-07:00

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?

Hokey Pokey

2009-03-02T10:35:00.000-07:00

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.

A Gay Old Time

2009-02-24T21:45:00.000-07:00

The Mexican and I hosted our very own little Oscar party at the weekend. I mean we’re not even gay or anything, but we condone anyone who wants a little glitz in their life. Plus we like any excuse to invite over some half wasted ladies in cocktail dresses. So we dressed up, conjured up some hors d’oevres and had a fun night of drunken gaiety and eating olives out of ladies’ cleavages.

It was kind of fun watching all the fine, fine Hollywood ladies (with the emphasis firmly on “wood”) in their sparkly gowns. I got sort of a kick out of it, to be truthful. There ain’t no shame in it. My ma always used to tell me there was a gay man inside me trying to get out, which I always found a little alarming, especially since I had a bowel problem at the time and was having trouble sitting down comfortably. There ain’t nothing wrong with being a ‘mo, you dig, I have some ‘mo friends who’re really fricking awesome dudes and not once has one of them tried to touch my fleshy pipe!

Well except that one time. And I had over-indulged in the Beefeater gin sours and in the dim light I thought he totally was a lady. It can happen to anyone. I, the Spunk, am 100 percent lady-lovin’ hetero. So I have a Liberace album or three. So what if I have a splendid mustache? I am secure in my manliness. I can embrace my feminine side.

Anyway, the Captain got a little rigid when he saw that Sarah Jessica Parker chick. This is the first time that’s happened and truthfully, I was a little concerned because that chick truly looks like a horse. Then I noticed the reason for the Captain’s excitement. That chick was only one small stumble on her high heels away from liberating the mamorial twins from their bustier. The Captain can sense these things you know.

So yeah, hope y’all had a fine weekend with lots of sexy times. Y’all stay fabulous now.

Playing Catch Up Again

2009-02-18T00:34:00.000-07:00

Y'all will be happy to hear I've decided to become a priest! A really sparkly, entertaining priest! A priest who really, really likes ladies with no clothes on. A priest who has zero interest in little boys. Or religion.

No, really I just abstained from schtoomping any ladies this past five days or so because I have been tired and busy as holy fuck and really, it's about time I had a vacation or something. When the Spunk's too beat to interfere with the ladies, he needs some time to chillax, dig?

When I say I didn't schtoomp any ladies the past few days I meant none of my bodily parts entered anyone else's bodily parts. I didn't say I had no lady contact at all. I mean I was too busy to do much of anything but I had me a hot phone date with a lady called Cynthia who was visiting Vegas for a few days. I met her at a show but things being the way they were, ruffling around in her underwear was out of the question. By "the way they were" I totally mean, her husband was with her and he was very large and looked like he very much enjoyed hitting things. He might have had something to say about my hands on his wife's fine, round buttocks.

It didn't stop her phoning me the next night when he'd gone to the casino, and telling me in graphic detail what she wanted to do to me with her succulent venus fly trap. I might have even blushed. Nah, I didn't blush. It was impossible - all my blood was in my cock! That reminds me, I've gotta get some Lysol to get that stain off the wall before my ma comes round tomorrow...

So yeah, busy busy busy. It will end Friday night however and then I have the weekend off to just go out and hang with the ladies (shag till my willie falls off, as the Limeys say), so all is well. I just thought I'd check in with you fine folks. I know you worry about me. You are all goddamn peaches.

Tony Spunk Is Busy

2009-02-11T08:19:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty damn busy people. Honestly, I don't remember the last time I was this busy. Usually I like to fall out of bed at noon, smoke a cigar and play with my organ for a few hours before starting my day. This past week I've been up at 9am and doing things that involve my brain. Like working new material and stuff. Yeah really! I've had bookings for new shows up the wazoo. My theory is, the worse the economy gets, the more people want some glitter. And you don't get better glitter than Tony Spunk my fine peeps, no siree.

I've been pretty quiet on the lady front too. No new ladies to tell you about. I did see that Josephine chick again a couple of times and she was no less scarily active both those days than she was in the car that first time. Girl might have a bona fide sex addiction problem I'm thinking. Heh. I have a boner fide one.

Okay I'll stop now, before it gets out of hand.

She came around my place at the weekend and effed my brains out. They're still somewhere on the bedroom floor. You know what else was on the bedroom floor (besides my leopard print g-string, all-man sexiness)? Some puke! Sadly Josephine got a little sick on my waterbed. Motion sickness is a bitch, no? At least she waited till after the proceedings ended. I mean I don't want to sound insensitive or nothin' but no one wants to kiss a chick who just blew chunks, you dig?

All in all, a good week but Jesus Harold Christ I need some rest. Hope you guys are all your groovy, fabulous selves.

Tranquility

2009-02-02T11:07:00.000-07:00

On Saturday Pedro and myself graced some hole-in-the-wall dive club with our sparkly wit and presence. We were showcasing some new numbers we've been working on. By "showcasing" I mean trying them out on some elderly and possibly demented drunks who can't afford to go see someone more famous. But man, those people got a show. You ain't seen nothing till you've seen a guy with an electric blue, glittery, throbbing organ, in action. My jaw ached from grinning so hard.

Things went down pretty well. Some old dear with one of those distracting blue tooth things sticking out of her ear, kept lifting her skirt and flashing her giant, puce-colored, hose-clad ass at me from the dance floor and blowing kisses. She was 75 if she was a day. To be truthful, at first I thought she might have escaped from a seniors' home or something because she sort of had a cross-eyed, pinched expression and when she lifted her skirt I thought she was about to take a steaming dump on the floor, until I realized her face just always looked like that and she was being "sexy". Lord preserve us. Tony will hit most female specimens, folks, but even he has a line that shall not be crossed. That lady was about 50 miles over it and halfway to hell.

No hotties at all in the place which was a disappointment. Even Pedro was starting to look good to me.

Hah not really. Jesus Christ.

I did a short interview into a tape recorder for some old geezer who remembers the heady days of Sinatra and Martin and who's planning a radio show at the retirement community he lives in. He wanted old Tony here to be the face of the new young brat pack or something. Well I guess 40 is young to HIM at least. He was there for the Declaration of Independence, for fuck's sake.

No other action though. A peaceful weekend. I gave the Captain a night or two off and now he's all hyperactive and jumping around like a chick on a trampoline. Tonight might have to be interesting meaning the Captain might have to get up close and personal with some ladyparts.

Laters my fine amigos.

A New Spunk For A New Era

2009-01-30T13:06:00.000-07:00

You're probably wondering if I'm still schtoomping the lovely Josephine, huh?

Okay, you've probably got better things to do than wonder a goddamn thing about old Tony Spunk but humor me here.

Answer is: Sorta. I haven't seen her since that night but we've talked on the phone and we'll probably hook up next week sometime. We're easy on the subject. She's not a gal for getting serious and that suits me just fine. Plus you know, I have a date tonight with Stephanie from the Goldmine Club.

I'm surprised about it to be perfectly honest. She and I always got along. We're buddies you dig? Old pals. We've shared many a laugh over a beer and a game of pool after hours. We haven't shared any bodily fluids, however, thanks for thinking it.

It's not like I haven't pursued that line of interest, mind. I have because Stephanie is one hot tamale.

But old Stephanie is a smart gal. She doesn't want to get all involved with a guy who plays the field and I respect that. I tried telling her she didn't need to get involved at all, but a quick roll in the hay wouldn't be involvement, just a hobby. She didn't bite though, sadly. The date tonight is more of a dinner and pool type of thing, because she likes hanging with me. Naturally, I'll encourage her to drink some moonshine strength bourbon and equally naturally I'll attempt to see how friendly she'll allow me to get with her person, which will be "not very" and I'll go home happy to have spent time with her but desperate to begin pleasuring myself with the first lubricating substance I can get my hands on. Because she's frustrating, old Stephanie. Ass like a firm mattress and I don't even get to grind against it. Life is a bitch sometimes. Thank God I have a strong right hand.

Anyway, I've decided to take it easy for 2009. Stop going at the ladies like a bull in a herd full of cows and chill out a bit. Have a few dates here and there, relax in between and stop trying to sperminate the world.

Hell, I don't want to run out of ladies to polish my organ.

Josephine

2009-01-26T23:42:00.000-07:00

So my hot date with Josephine. I was fully prepared to come on here and write you fine people a little something about that today, then I woke up and thought, "Meh, maybe tomorrow.", rolled over and went right back to sleep. I'm fucked, what can I tell you? I feel like a guy who just ran a marathon with his pecker.

Josephine was a girl with a lot of energy. I know I'd been away from the ladies for a whole week and all but really...she was unusually energetic. Like sort of scarily energetic.

We met at this quiet little bar for drinks at midnight and I dutifully sat there with her for an hour drinking White Russians and feeling my ass chafing in that damn leopard g-string I bought for the date, while she told me politely about her job as a dental hygenist. I couldn't concentrate on that for the g-string business. Never again, seriously. My ass was raw, man! It was like having a barbed wire wedgie or something. Not cool.

The alcohol took my mind off it a little bit, plus the fact I was sitting opposite THE most bodacious set of gazungas God ever placed on this green Earth, helped a ton too. Also old Josephine laughs really easy. She likes jokes - even MY jokes - and she laughs heartily, which is awesome because the harder she laughs the harder her stupendous bosom jiggles. Lord have mercy!

I was just starting to wonder how to go about moving things on to the next stage as my pants were unfeasibly tight suddenly and the Captain was jumping around like a Mexican jumping bean in there, when she moved round my side of the table and stuck her tongue right down my throat without warning. Man, I think I broke some kind of record for departing the premises. I'd dragged her out and into the car in about two seconds. I knew we weren't making it back to my pad so I pulled into the "excess flow" parking lot at the back and we went for it there and then.

That girl has no scruples at all. For real, her hands were everywhere. She was like the female ME. One minute my hand's on her ass and my tongue's in her mouth and the next my pants are round my ankles and she's bare-assed naked on my lap. Holy shit. She was going like crazy too. "OH OH OH SHIT!" she yelled after a minute or so of bouncing around.

"Yeah baby!" I said, "You're almost there! You go girl!"

"No..." she said, "I just slammed my head off the ceiling and it fucking hurt!"

So yeah that sort of dampened things for a second but it took even less than that for her to get back to it. I kindly lowered the seats a little. I like my ladies conscious although you know, any port in a storm. I'm kidding. Anyway, I wasn't even doing anything by this time just letting her use me like a human dildo or something.

Afterwards we drove to her place and instead of saying goodnight, she dragged me inside and goddamn if she didn't expect me to do it all again. The Captain groaned and it's not often that happens. I still managed to plough her field though - The Spunk still got the magic, y'all. I didn't let you down.

I wouldn't swear or anything but when I was driving home afterwards I'm sure I saw smoke coming out of my fly. Probably the Captain smoking a cigarette. Dude earned it!

It's Raining Ladies

2009-01-23T13:32:00.000-07:00

Hola you bitchin' people.

Tony has been busy, yes indeedy. And by "busy" I completely mean "having sex with the ladies" so y'all can just indulge me for a minute.

So I won the bet although kudos to the Mexican for shadowing me right up till the midnight hour to make sure I didn't cheat on it. Distrusting little fucker. I used the fifty bucks to get some pussy - heh, I'm totally kidding, Tony doesn't pay for it, it just lands in his lap!

No, I used the fifty bucks to buy some of these babies for my hot date with Josephine. I didn't buy them from the UK or nothin' like that link, I found some right here on the Strip if you can believe it. I know right, Vegas has sex shops, you totally didn't expect that little bombshell did you?

Actually, I was kind of surprised to find that link up there was a store in the UK because I totally thought limeys were too busy drinking tea and saluting the Queen to be thinking about schtoomping the ladies. My good limey blog buddy The Imaginary Reviewer is probably gonna kick my ass for that comment, but he's an exception to the rule. I have a feeling that dude's a deviant like the rest of us so it's okay.

They had some fucked up shit in that store though let me tell you. I felt kind of innocent in comparison. I didn't know what half that stuff is actually used for. I mean odd shaped objects that vibrate and pulsate and have multi pronged ends. What the shit?

I'm an old fashioned kinda guy. I use my pecker and my tongue, and my hands know their way around a lady's contours okay, but some of those gadgets in there looked more like something you'd find at Guantanemo Bay. I got me an education I'll tell ya. Have you heard of the We-Vibe? I'm totally getting that for some lucky lady.

Another funny story - when I was about nine or ten I'd hang at my aunt Lola's house a lot. Aunt Lola is the family black sheep and for a while nobody talked about her a whole lot. Here's an old entry about her in case you're bored and want the background on that. Let's just say she ran a special house for ladies who liked to entertain gentlemen and leave it at that.

Anyway, when I was a kid I was round there hanging with Lola and to make a long, embarrassing story shorter, I once tried to beat scrambled eggs with a huge white vibrator. It was a mistake anyone could make. It was in a drawer and I thought it was one of them new fangled mixer things. Yeah. That was awkward.

I still ate the eggs though.

I saw Lola last Christmas at a big family dinner in Henderson - she's almost 60 now, a touch on the alcoholic side and still dirty as hell, and she slapped me on the back in the middle of the main course and yelled "Bothered any eggs with your vibrating penis lately son?"

So yeah this is getting lengthy (that's what SHE said!) so I'll tell you about the actual date with Josephine tomorrow. Believe me, it's worth waiting for, which is what I told HER on the night!

One Sentence Update

2009-01-21T15:10:00.000-07:00

El Spunkarino's wanger feels like it's been beaten with a salted whip by a fat lady with a grudge.

It's On

2009-01-19T23:04:00.000-07:00

Y'all know what tomorrow is, right? Sure it's old Barry Obama's inauguration, absolutely, but you know what else? It's day seven of the 'Spunk Shuns Sex' event right here in my pants and it can't come a minute too soon.

I hope ya'll excuse THAT pun.

I'm at the stage now where, whenever I so much as hear a lady's voice, an oak tree blooms in my pants. Even if that lady's the chick at the DMV who resembles Gene Wilder.

I just survived a weekend of being up to my neck in the ladies and not being able to do a damn thing about it. It's a cruel world, I just live in it. It's all about harmony you see. Tony and the ladies go together like crackers and cheese. Or Sonny and Cher. Or Jeremy Piven and an asshole convention. It's just the way the world is and I am powerless to change it.

So tomorrow night at midnight I got me lined up with a fine lady named Josephine. Josephine and I are meeting up for cocktails and some laughs, but not a single appendage of my own will touch her fine wobbling flesh till that clock strikes midnight, you can be sure of that. Then all bets are off. Just like I'm hoping her pants will be. (You might notice I've quit being subtle, y'all, because this is an emergency.)

I met Josephine on Friday night at my show. She was propping up the bar all on her lonesome, in some pastel pink slacks, like my mom used to wear in 1973, and a lilac blouse. I noticed her because her ensemble matched my fuchsia shirt.

Well that and the fact her fine pumpkins were making that blouse work hard at keeping the buttons on.

She actually wasn't that interested at first. Seems she found my lines 'corny'. What the shit, lady?

I told her, 'Sweetie, you must be hormonal or something because those lines are tried and tested nuggets of pure genius that have gained me some fine, premium ass in the past!'. She replied, 'Tony, you are as insignificant as the head of a mouse's dick.' which confirmed she wanted me and didn't want me to know. I talked her around though. I always do in the end.

She's pretty fine. Mid-thirties, pear shaped ass that fills a chair when she sits down and those fine twins up top I mentioned earlier. Y'all know I'm more an ass man, but a guy notices all a lady's glories, yes Sir. Plus she wants me bad seeing as how I refrained from putting out both Friday and Saturday and she totally thinks I'm playing hard to get.

I told her, 'Doll, my buddy and I have a bet going but YOU can bet your fine ass that the second the bet is over, I'll have you bent over the hood of my car in the parking lot screaming for Jesus.'

What can I say, I'm an old charmer. Also I'm horny, unable to act on the horny and therefore completely unable to be gentlemanly about it.

I guess we'll see tomorrow night, 12:00am Mountain Time, oh yeah.

If you'll excuse me, I have to go polish something.

These Things Are Sent To Try Us

2009-01-16T14:38:00.000-07:00

Last night Pedro and I did a short set downtown at Leslie Von Snoot's bar. Leslie called me up, panties all in a knot about some band letting him down and asked if we could fill in.

Filling in is Pedro and I's specialty (after the ladies, you understand) so we were down there in an instant, like flies on a shit pie.

Fortunately, it was a rockin' good night, full of good peeps, good beverages and good times but unfortunately it was crammed full to the brim with ladies of supreme quality.

Now I don't know if it's just that I'm on day four of a lady-drought - because seriously, all the ladies start to look like Barbarella after a while - or if they really were just grade A. top notch ladybeef, but whoa nellie! There were some fine lookers. It was making The Little Captain cry real tears of sorrow and making me wonder if fifty bucks was really worth giving up this caliber of awesome.

However a bet is a bet and Tony's too proud to renege on such a thing so I had to make do with flirting heavily and pocketing a few phone numbers. For later. Because that wasn't in the rules or nothin'. I didn't touch though. Not a single, soft, voluptuous breast puckered under my fingertips. Of course my pecker hurts like a losing boxer this morning after an enthusiastic session with the Nivea when I got home and thought about all those fine female specimens.

It was hard though. It reminded me of back when I was dating this chick, Teresa who was insanely jealous. Like Lorena Bobbit jealous. If I so much as suggested a lady polish my organ, old Teresa had a cow and turned into Freddy Krueger.

This one night I was heading to the men's room after a set and this crazy lady cornered me out of nowhere. Quite a fine lady too, big, child bearing hips and that four boob effect that the ladies get when their undergarments don't fit right. She wanted a piece of me for sure. She had me against the wall in a nano second. She also had more arms than that Goddess chick the Hindus dig. They were in my hair, in my pants, in my shirt. It was like being inside a washing machine full of hands. I mean what could I do, right? Plus that chick was just plain dirty in a good way. And a tad scary. So scary I didn't try to stop her! It was for my safety, y'all.

Still for some reason old Teresa wasn't thrilled when she ran out to look for me and found me, back against the wall with some big, doughy whirlwind of a woman rubbing the Captain with her nipples. I mean the chick was crazy, what could I do?

Anyway, what was I talking about again? Yeah, resisting the ladies. It ain't easy, it's all I'm saying.

Still Surviving The Drought

2009-01-15T15:00:00.000-07:00

Last night I took my sister and my nephew for dinner at this little Italian bistro I usually reserve for my sexy ladies. The staff know me and everything. They joke about putting a giant photo of me in a smoking jacket, on the wall there. Those guys!

Nathan is seven now and boy, he ain't shy. He wanted to go to Hooters but Tony is not that crass. I wouldn't take a seven year old to Hooters because as soon as that kid's old enough to be dreaming about boobies, I'll take him someplace QUALITY where he can get an eyeful of prime, fleshy merchandise that he stands a fair chance of getting up close and personal with. Not a fast food chain full of spring break chicks who're addicted to peroxide and spray tans. Although, Tony would tap that if desperate, in case there was any doubt.

Georgette's looking fine. I mean really fine. I couldn't help but notice, it's not creepy or anything. She's a sweetheart. She and I always got along great. Even my mom and Georgette get along awesomely. My mom always wanted a daughter I think. Instead she got a hirsute son who can belch the Star Spangled Banner and who likes loud tuxedos. Those guys are spending the day at my mom's today as a matter of fact. I don't know what the hell they talk about. Periods, cooking, Brad Pitt and how my dad was a philandering bastard, I guess.

Day three without the poontang, people. By day seven I'll be motoring into the nearest bar to snort coke off a hooker's belly, washed down with tequila while hitting on every lady in the place. It will be an orgy at chez Spunk.

At least I expect to squeeze a plump little senorita's castanets.

Family Matters

2009-01-14T03:52:00.000-07:00

Hey peeps, guess what? My sister, Georgette is in town from Arizona with my nephew and I'm kinda excited. I don't get to see much of them except weddings and funerals and plus it'll take my mind off schtoomping the ladies for a while, I'm thinking. Well maybe not entirely off it. But it will help.

Georgette isn't my true sister or nothing, she's technically my half sister. She's eight years younger than me and we have the same father - one Antonio Spunk II. My dad, to be perfectly truthful, got around a lot in his younger days. He and my uncle Dick used to play their instruments - in all senses of the word - in their mariachi band, all over the south and southwest in the sixties and seventies, so really I should be grateful he only spawned one secret sibling (that I'm aware of anyways).

I didn't know a damn thing about Georgette (or she about me) until I was 19 and she was still a kid. My old man's liver finally quit and he went to the great mariachi band in the sky and in his will (scribbled on a beer mat if you can believe THAT shit!) he left everything to my mom, me and to Georgette, who was news to both me AND my mom. There were also two letters, one addressed to me and one for Georgette, explaining the whole thing. Well I say "explain" - mine actually said, "Hey Bozo, guess who's got a kid sister? YOU! You take care of her, you big homo!" He had a way with words the old, drunk bastard.

I was kinda excited finding out I had a sister, but my mom was understandably less enthusiastic. She was all for digging up my father, castrating him with rusty scissors and putting his head on a pole in the yard as a reminder. But later, after she chilled out a touch, she encouraged me to contact my sister and we've been in touch ever since.

She's pretty cute too, you know in a perfectly brotherly affectionate way, you dig? I didn't even notice her bodacious ta tas or JLO ass because she's my SISTER y'all. My nephew is a trip too. A real little livewire. Likes tinkling on my organ a whole lot, so I guess some of my old man rubbed off on him too.

I just reread that sentence and saw "FBI" written all over it but I'm too tired to change it.

So yeah. Two days, zero punani. I am so proud of me.

Spunk Enters The Priesthood

2009-01-13T14:14:00.000-07:00

Last night Pedro and I hammered out some new numbers for a show we have this weekend. Somehow, during rehearsal, he managed to place bet on me being able to stay away from the ladies for a whole week and I agreed. Yes my fine friends, if I don't partake in any lady action for seven whole days, he has to give me fifty bucks. I don't really need fifty bucks, it's more the principle of the thing, you dig? I want to smirk in the guy's little, brown face as I take that note from his grubby little hand and head for the nearest titty bar.

Still it's going to be hard (in all senses!). I mean there's a weekend in there and a weekend where I have to play two shows, meaning I will be surrounded by the ladies and their fine, fragrant, curvy beauty and won't be able to do a darn thing about it. I am determined though. I will be firm about this. I will be a goddamn priest for a week. Apart from the touching little boys' bottoms in the name of Jesus, that is.

The Mexican thinks I can't do it. He says I'll fail first time I leave the house, because the ladies are my specialty and I have a sort of subconscious homing beacon in my pants that leads me right to them, no matter where I am. I say he can blow me. Let's face it, no lady can. At least for seven more days.

Tony Spunk is up for a week of celebacy, yes indeedy. I mean how hard can it be?

Bring It, Bublé

2009-01-12T13:28:00.000-07:00

Hola Mis Peepos!!

You know who's a great big, prancing lady? Michael Bublé. I know I should probably embrace the guy, given my line of work and all and given the fact I often don a suit in pastel shades and listen to Liberace, therefore, calling anyone else a 'big, prancing lady' probably made y'all splutter into your coffee in indignant wonder, but seriously folks. Michael Bublé? He's a giant, Canadian cupcake. With pink frosting. He probably drinks Courvoisier and plucks his eyebrows while swaggering in front of the mirror. Don't be fooled ladies, the only person Bublé loves is Bublé.

Of course I ain't jealous or anything. Apart from of his name. Having both "Boob" and "Lay" in your name should, by default, make you fuckin' badass, right? No. It makes you look like a * giant lady's front bottom.

Of course you may argue that having "Spunk" in your name isn't exactly exuding class and it would be hard to debate that.

Spunk isn't my real name, you dig? It's short for Spuncero and my granddad, for some reason, decided to shorten it when he arrived in the U.S. back in the day from Ancuna, Mexico where he'd spent countless decades riding around in cars with three doors, playing mariachi music and planning an escape to the States where he believed people shat gold and wiped their asses with Benjamin Franklin. He probably thought 'Spunk' seemed less Mexican, and goddamn, he got that right, although honestly, the dude was five foot four with creased brown skin, two teeth and a nose that spanned two states width wise, so it wasn't necessarily a great cloaking tactic. Neither was shortening it to something that got my ass kicked approximately seven hundred times as a kid, until I grew up to look like a 'younger, pointier, more glittery Tom Selleck' and they laid off a bit. Only because it was more fun to pick on my stupendous mustache instead. Fuckers.

Anyway yeah, Michael Bublé. What's up with that guy? He's a false idol, ladies, not like yours truly who will bring you love, glamor and possibly a sneaky little rash (but I've heard that clears up in a day or two with the right ointment).

* I apologize, ladies, for likening your wonderful, juicy ladybits to a steaming asstard like Bublé, I will repent immediately. Then again later and at two hour intervals after. With my cock.

GULP!

2009-01-09T13:50:00.000-07:00

My cleaning lady, Consuela, was here earlier. She drops in every second Friday because although I'm fairly responsible and can manage stuff like feeding myself, defecating regularly and dropping off my dry cleaning, I'm like most guys - I can't seem to get the hang of a mop or a duster and can think of a trillion reasons not to shove my arm down a toilet in the name of cleanliness. I've known Consuela since I was a kid when she worked with my mom at Caesar's before she started her cleaning business so she gives me a discount and everything.

Every now and then, like today, she brings her granddaughter, Eva, with her when she cleans. I've known Eva a couple of years now and she's a little shithead. Not many nine year olds are experts in extortion and blackmail, but Eva has it down pat.

Today, Consuela ran out to get some supplies and Eva stayed with me. She wanted to watch Springer. Should a nine year old be watching that shit, I don't know? Should ANYONE be watching that crap? However, arguing with the little shit is futile so I let her switch it on.

And then we had the most frightening conversation ever in the history of conversations.

Eva: I'm learning French this year after school.
Tony: What? Oh. That's nice.
Eva: I'm really good at it. Tracy Laponte is in my French class.
Tony: That's nice. Is Tracy a friend of yours?
Eva: No, she's FOURTEEN! She's got extensions like Britney and she works at Dairy Queen. Everyone likes her because she's good at drawing and blowjobs.
Tony: She...wait...what did you say?
Eva: Tanya (Eva's best friend) told me. Everyone says Tracy's good at drawing and blowjobs and that's why everyone likes her.
Tony: !!!!!
Eva: Uncle Tony...what's a blowjob?
Tony: Oh Jesus Christ...um...are you hungry? Can I make you a snack or something?
Eva: I had lunch already. What's a blowjob?
Tony: ...I have no idea, I think it's a girl thing, did you ask your mom? You should ask your mom.
Eva: SHE said it was something you got at the hair salon when they dry your hair.
Tony: Your mom is 100% correct.
Eva: If you don't tell me? I'll ask my grandma. And I'll say that you taught me it. And I'll tell her about those magazines with the naked ladies in your hallway closet.
Tony: For the love of God, kid.
Eva: So what is a blowjob?
Tony: You're too young to be asking about such things.
Eva: Is it something dirty? You have to tell me. Tanya says it's when a girl puts a boy's pee pee in her mouth but that's just GROSS. I mean who wants to do THAT?
Tony: No one. I can't think of one person who'd want to do something that gross.
Eva: Boys are gross. They smell like frogs.
Tony: Yes they do. You should stay away from boys till they smell better. Oh look your grandma's back!

Honest to God, what the fuck is up with kids nowadays? This is why people drink before noon.

Yo Quiero Taco Bell

2009-01-09T01:50:00.000-07:00

Here's a short story about Pedro almost getting bitchslapped by some lady at Taco Bell.

Before you say it, I know, I know...what's a real, genuine Mexican doing at Taco Bell, right? Don't even ask.

Anyway, we had just finished a show and decided to catch a bite. So we're standing there, half drunk, eating burritos filled with supposed refried beans that looked like baby poop, when Pedro sneezed violently.

Now, normally a sneeze is no big deal, but in this case he sneezed so hard he squeezed his burrito a little too enthusiastically (not a euphemism for once) and it flew right out of his fist and I swear to God, smacked into this lady's cleavage with the approximate velocity of a heat seeking missile, spilling hot bean lava all down her chest (sadly, also not a euphemism).

This was a large lady (imagine if Jabba the Hutt swallowed Michael Moore whole then went to an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet) and I could tell you she wasn't as amused as I was at this cleavage aiming development, but that would be a grave understatement. She was ball-busting, head-spinning, hissyfit furious.

Next thing I know, she's making a sound like I imagine a warthog shot by an arrow might make and heading right for Pedro. For a lady the size of a hot air balloon she sure could motor. I was kind of impressed if you want to know the truth. Her fists were like giant hams.

I never saw that Mexican move so fast in my life. He was out the door and probably across the state line in under a minute. Luckily the lady was out of steam before she reached the door so catastrophe was avoided. I momentarily thought about distracting her with some sweet talking, as is my specialty, but just looking at her made my penis cry and it's not often a lady has that effect on the Captain.

It sure was funny but on retrospect, you kinda had to be there.

Meet Bonnie

2009-01-07T01:00:00.001-07:00

Let's start with a recent event, shall we? Right after Carmen booted my ass, Pedro and I went out to commiserate with a few light beverages and a pleasant snack at a titty bar downtown. I’m sorry ladies, I realize this is crass but tits and beer go together like Sonny and Cher or Donny and Marie, there’s nothing I can do about this equation, it just is.

Anyway, while there I got friendly with an attractive little piece named Bonnie. She’s a waitress there, not a pole dancer or anything, not that I’m at all perturbed by ladies who like to dance around poles (or on them especially, wink!) but Bonnie was a knock out herself and definitely worthy of being on the stage instead of skirting it with a tray.

Odd thing though, things didn’t start out perfectly because I mentioned that very subject to her (“Sweetie, you’re so hot you could be stripping and doing coke in the dressing room backstage!”) but I soon smoothed things over. Bonnie’s a grad student making some extra cash and that extra cash doesn’t come from removing clothing, thank you very much.

So anyway, she got off around midnight (work that is, get your minds out of that gutter – that stuff comes later!) and we had a few cocktails and Pedro slunk off home all pissed off because I preferred some lady time to a great, big, unshaved, glowering Mexican.

Bonnie was the one who suggested going back to her place, I was sure she was a good girl type who’d slip me her phone number shyly, then we’d go on seventeen dinner dates to tourist trap type places with overpriced, watered-down cocktails, then she’d let me touch her boob through her blouse in the front seat of her Civic, but seems she’s more game than that. She lives in a nice area in a tiny apartment with a huge bed, all great ingredients for a good night of flesh bumping. The nice area is important because if I had a cent for every freaking junkie who’s busted through the wrong door while I’m peri coitus, spraying vomit all over everything, looking for some hooker he insists lives there, I’d have nearly a dollar by now.

And the big bed – well, that’s just a bonus for my sly moves. So cutting to the chase, Bonnie and I start getting heavy and ended up in a highly unclothed state on that bed and there’s no way to put this delicately, but, she was riding me like a 13 year old schoolgirl at a fucking pony show, when something really bizarre and sort of mind meltingly surreal happened. I closed my eyes for a moment of ecstasy and when I opened them I was being pumped hard by Vin Diesel!

Turns out Bonnie wears a wig! Who knew? It looked pretty real to me. What am I saying, like I even noticed her hair with that rack. Anyway, her wig got caught somehow and went flying across the room like Chewbacca with a hand grenade up his ass and old Bonnie was bald as a bowling ball. “It’s alopecia!” she said anxiously, looking a little red-faced. She saw my horrified expression and burst into tears. It was a little misunderstanding though – I don’t give a shit if she’s bare-assed bald, it’s just that when she said she had alopecia…I mean, fuck, I thought that was a breed of hedgehog so I was understandably aghast.

And a little fucking confused. After that it sort of turned me on if you want the honest truth. It’s sort of like you’re having dirty, nasty alien sex if you close your eyes and concentrate. OK that wasn’t a great story, sure, but hey. It’s sure memorable.

Spunky Stories

2009-01-06T23:28:00.000-07:00

So my good buds of the blogworld - all like...three of you - I have stories from the past few months I've been too lazy to print. Tony always has stories. They ain't always classy stories or even interesting ones but no one really reads this shit anyway so I figure what the hay, I'll tell you a few. Not all at once, mind, I don't want y'all accusing me of boring the pants off of you, although if you're a lady, feel free to drop 'em regardless, okay? I won't say nothing.

Some of my stories are about Mexico - remember that? Yeah! Some wild debauched stories about wildness. And debauchery.

Then there was this chick I was seeing (Miranda - I think I briefly mentioned her) while I was still dealing the salami to old Carmen. That didn't go down too well in retrospect but it provided another story.

Then of course there's Pedro. I have a disturbing and aromatic story about the crazy little Mexican fucker after a bad night eating chili. I know you can't wait for that!

Hey. Did you see that, up there? Put those chicks' names together and you get Carmen Miranda. That chick from the old days who walked around in tight garb with giant fruits on her head! Wicked!

Oh, and talking of giant fruits I got a story about these Siegfried and Roy impersonators I met in Reno that will knock your socks off.

Tomorrow though I'm going to tell you about a recent escapade I had with an alien named Bonnie. Can you stand the suspense?

Right now I have to go meet Carmen to take her some stuff she left at my place. She finally broke up with me the other week for good. I'll never understand the ladies, quite frankly. I mean, first I cheated on her (kinda sorta - I will explain in a later story) and she didn't break up with me and then the other day I'm being all understanding and kind and other metrosexual bullshit like that and she goes and tosses my ass out! She was being a bitch that day too, all I did was show a little concern for her health and she hit the damn roof. She was whining about headaches and bitching about how a dude never wants to put his socks in the hamper for laundry and going on and on and on and I swear to God, all I said was, "Aw honey, are you on your period again?"

I mean WTF?

Another Year, Another Beer

2009-01-05T01:40:00.000-07:00

Holy macaroni, buddies! I guess I've been pretty lazy on the whole blog thing lately and my only real excuse for this is my hectic, crazy life as the Hef of Las Vegas (either that or laziness, I'll let you decide). Anyway, I have been kind of busy with shows and the like and I will update about that pretty soon. Because I have tales, ladies and genitals!

That's "tales" not "tails" in case you were worried, although I do have one pretty spectacular tail as it happens. It's on my front and it's quite substantial, ladies! Line up over here.

Tales later compadres! 'Feliz Nuevo Ano', which might actually mean 'Happy new anus' in which case, forget I said anything.

The Ladies Dig The Spunk

2008-12-04T07:53:00.000-07:00

I've been up all night talking to the porcelain god after a few too many Mojitos. I was booked to play a wedding party that turned out to be the marriage of two obviously dangerous alcoholic folks who liked to insist everyone drink with them till they fell over in a pile of their own vomit. Tony ain't one to turn down a proposal like that, so count me in, baby.

The problem with such events is, once you've finished your stint, you've usually managed to wow a few folks with your suave tunes and debonair mustache, usually folks who've had several too many glasses of champagne.

And it's never the nubile bridesmaids either. It's more like the bride's mom. The bride's mom loved the shit out of me. She also had about fourteen hands judging by the bruises on my ass right now. Pincers might be more accurate. She couldn't keep her mitts off my hiney. It was like trying to dodge a large, mechanical octopus. She was also reminiscent of a hippopotamus squeezed into a pink polyester two piece and horn-rimmed glasses.

As y'all know by now, Tony is a fan of all the ladies regardless of size and physical abnormality but this chick was just a test of my faith in womanhood. She probably hosted every damn weird defect known to the human race and a few previously undiscovered ones too. I mean even the seventeen cocktails I'd consumed didn't Madonna-ize her or anything.

I gave her the slip by telling her I was heading to the buffet table to get her some crabs then hoofed it out the back way and hailed a cab home. I called Pedro from the cab to tell him to take care of my organ.

I'm getting too old for this shit, seriously.

Midgets Are Just Awesome

2008-11-12T01:51:00.000-07:00

Honestly folks, you have to love Vegas. And by "love" I totally mean "be baffled as holy fuck" by it. It's a city filled with debauchery and deviants at every turn. Every vice is here, man. If you want to stick your twadger in a dead pig while a French tart dressed as Hitler sings "Frere Jacques" and stirs a cauldron filled with the amputated toes from Pygmies, Vegas will house someone who provides that service. For a price, you understand.

Therefore, it wasn't a huge surprise when Pedro's cousin, Arsenio, managed to hire twin Japanese midget plate jugglers for his bachelor party last night.

The twins were kind of cute actually. You might remember old Tony Spunk dated a midget a few months back. Sorry, a vertically challenged lady. She was vertically challenged when I dated her, that's for damn sure! She was horizontal 90% of the time (the other 10% she was bringing me a beer or washing my scants). She was a goer, that gal. I was amazed by her aptitude and gymnastability in the sack. She was insatiable.

So naturally this was all going through my head when the midget twins appeared in their tiny sparkly bikinis, juggling their plates in the air, which ensured I had to remain seated throughout the whole act or else knock over the buffet table with my stupendous boner.

I don't know but sometimes I think I'm wired all wrong.

Anyway, the little Japanese chicks did their thing and ended by whipping off their g-strings and doing something with grapes I've never witnessed before and will no doubt have a confusing combination of (wet) dreams and nightmares about for the next six months.

Arsenio was about twenty sheets to the wind by this stage and missed the big finale but seriously, if I hadn't been meeting Carmen right after the show, I'd have used my charm and juggled those two little firecrackers in a most pleasing manner. And by that I mean right on my cock.

As you can see, I go to some weird events but as always, I stay classy.

Everyone Digs The Spunk

2008-11-10T10:24:00.000-07:00

Man, what a weekend. I mean they're all fairly insane lately but this one was just looney tunes from beginning to end.

Firstly, this chick Carmen that I've been seeing on and off. She had her "Ladies time" and was therefore in bitchville the whole time. Sorry ladies, I know it's biological and natural and everything but whoa nellie! Carmen turns into Charles Manson during her crimson tide. I mean I had to hide my kitchenware in case I woke up with a cheese knife buried in my family jewels.

She kept on asking me did her ass look huge in those pants and I kept on reassuring her that yes, her ass looked like two elephants having a territorial war inside a polyester sack, as it wobbled around like an underset jello. I mean it was a compliment! Everyone knows there's nothing Tony likes more than some colossal ass-flesh busting out at the seams. She got all homicidal though because apparently she thought it was an insult and punched me in the eye.

I don't get the ladies sometimes, truly.

Also I had a show Saturday night on the strip. Not a headlining gig or anything but it was opening for some homo dude who does juggling tricks with pies while wearing a body suit. I don't get it, personally, but any excuse to perform for me is groovy. The audience was a little lispy. For real, I never saw so many friends of Judy in one place before. They're pretty good dudes too, this one guy in leather pants bought me three cocktails and everything!

There was this one alarming dude in the front row wearing a tight pink crop top and I swear he was eyeing up my mustache with some nasty intent. I mean I don't swing that way (not that there's anything wrong with it) but I appreciate my loveliness extends to the fellas as well. I mean I'm a sexual being!

Just to reaffirm my heterosexuality I went home and boned the living shit out of Carmen. Cuz you know, I'm totally straight.

Tony Salutes The President, Erect

2008-11-05T12:55:00.000-07:00

So we had an election here in the good ole U. S. of A. yesterday, you guys might have seen it? That Barack dude won, which pleased all the Mexicans I know so much that my local liquor store ran out of tequila.

And who can blame them? The last guy wanted to send them all back to Mexico or shoot off their danglies or whatever. Maybe the new guy will be more friendly towards our little brown friends?

I'm not a political type of guy, my politics mainly extend to the ladies and how to get the ladies into my waterbed, you dig? I don't toe the party line or anything due to my general distrust of politician types, although the day a candidate campaigns in a pink tuxedo I might vote for that guy due to his enormous, globe-encompassing balls. But I'm sort of hopeful this Obama guy will do something good for the country and quit the Bush favorite pastime of executing people with one leg and pardoning murders and stuff like that.

Plus, let's be honest here, Obama's wife has a fine badonkadonk on her that old Tony wouldn't mind slapping with a rubber glove. If you're going to vote a dude to be President, make sure he has a nice looking wife. I mean y'all voted for Clinton once and look what happened there. Y'all didn't look at Hilary did you? Plus you can say what you want about old Bush (and I often do after a few martinis) but his wife's a looker. Not bad for an old broad at all. Although you have to wonder what mental deficiency she's hiding that convinced her to marry that old dingbat, right?

So here's to a new America, or at least the old one with some enthusiasm. I'm going to go see if Pedro's come out of his tequila coma yet so we can work on some new numbers. Take it easy compadres.

Playing Catch Up With Ma Peeps

2008-10-23T13:12:00.000-06:00

So, putting Mexico aside for a second, if that’s possible, let me tell you a little of what old Tony’s been up to the last few weeks. It’ll blow your mind, baby. Or at least give you a tiny tremor (hopefully in your pants).

Firstly, I was asked to contribute a couple of songs to a musical. A real musical too, the sort you see on a stage in a theater where people clap their hands and grin like something out of a toothpaste commercial. The musical’s about the 1920s gangster scene so why they wanted Tony Spunk’s fine organ is a mystery, but I’m always up for some adventure, so I got out a couple of my best home compositions, dusted them off, changed the lewd bits and presented them to Jaime (he’s the dude writing the musical), who said he’d be happy to insert them. I assume he meant the song, otherwise, whoa Nellie. I don’t play them in the play or anything, some actor dude does that stuff, I just wrote them. They’re for some background music in a shoot out scene or something. Musicals ain’t really my style, you dig? If I wanted to declare my homosexuality to the world, I’d wear a pink satin suit and develop a lisp. What am I saying, I own a pink, satin suit anyways. My suit is 100% testosterone though. The ladies dig it and if the ladies dig it, it’s all man, baby.

And this Jaime dude paid me. Real money! Usually when some dude with blue hair and holes in his t-shirt says he’ll pay you he’s talking about a few beers or a blow job in the parking lot (I’m told) so this is all above board, real work shit, peeps.

What else? Oh yeah, while working with this Jaime dude, I met a new lady. Name of Miranda. Legs up to here. Smile like Venus herself. Not too bright but seriously, who cares when she has bazoombas like ripe watermelons? If I wanted to spend my evenings debating the world's problems I’d date old Sarah Palin for God’s sake.

That Palin woman makes my manly bits shrivel up and try to hide inside my body. She’s a scary witch. Sure, she’s easy on the eye and I’d be lying if a pleasing image of her with a riding crop in her hand, re-enacting the Kentucky Derby on my one-eyed pony didn’t cross my mind every now and then, but the woman is frightening. If you ask me she needs to get some serious man-meat wedged in her hallway then maybe she’d chill out.

Anyway, this is getting lengthy (and I don’t mean my womb tickler, ladies - it's already colossal!) so I’ll leave it there. More later. Y’all take care now, you hear?

Life Goes On (And On)

2008-10-21T16:52:00.000-06:00

The last three weeks have been a blur, my fine amigos. Not through any drunken "lost weekend" type of thing or anything cool like that, just because since I got back from that depraved country south of the border, I've been inundated with crap to do. Gigs, guest spots, doing a job for Siegfried & Roy (please, don't ask, you'll have nightmares) and basically trying to recover from the debauched time in Mexico.

That fuckin' country is full of depravity. I mean for a land full of statues of the little Baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary and people with the word "Concepcion" in their name, it's certainly full of immoral psychos with debauchery on their minds. Not that I'm complaining, I'm not averse to a little deviant behavior myself when the occasion arises. The "occasion" usually is in my pants. Hah hah. It's just that the time there can be summed up in a few words: sex, tequila, music, refried beans, vomit, donkeys, fondling. Let your imagination have at it.

Anyway, more on Mexico in other entries, this one is just to say I'm busy, I'm horny and I'm diddling a new lady. Stay tuned. I'm now going to rearrange my pants.

Mexican Shenanigans Part One: Cozumel

2008-09-30T13:35:00.000-06:00

Well hola mis amigos, Tony Spunk is back in the land of warm apple pie after a ten day stint of total debauchery south of the border. And I don’t mean that lame theme park place in South Carolina either (Sorry SC but really… Noho on the theme parko.)

I actually only performed six shows during those ten days but seriously folks, thank the lord Fuckery it worked out that way because I was bombed like London during the blitz during most of that period and any more would surely have killed me stone cold. Mexico is one seriously depraved place if you know what you’re doing. And especially if you have no clue.

Where to start? Let’s start at my first location in Cozumel for today, shall we? Let’s just say it can be described in five short words: Spring Break hell on Earth. That place is pretty but stacked to the gills at all times with possibly underage, steaming assholes trying to get as much Jose Cuervo in their guts as at all possible without puncturing a membrane or something. Idiots who, after a few slammers, think they can sing like an angel and let everyone within a five mile radius know it by screaming atrocious Kenny Chesney hits at the top of their voices in a key only dogs can hear.

Don’t get me wrong, about 50% of this drunken tomfoolery came from the ladies (and you know Tony loves the ladies) and the ladies when rubberized, even though they make even less sense than usual, are a little more charming than the boys. At least they do amusingly drunken things before they vomit on your suede creepers, like lift up their tank tops and shake their jubblies in your face, whereas the guys just punch your shoulder, turn purple and spew a fountain of cranberry shots into your lap, your face and your dignity.

Naturally, the resort I was scheduled to rock was a seniors’ retreat. Lots of old dears held together by pins, trying to gyrate to Perry Como numbers and drinking copious amounts of Melonballs. Not really the Mexican lost weekend I had in mind, you dig? Those wacky old spinsters would creak on by silently after my set, then grab my ass when I was bending over the bar pointing to the cerveza I wanted. And boy, those bony old hands can squeeze hard, let me tell you. I have bruises, man. Bruises.

There was this one young waitress there called Marlena. Marlena was half Mexican but grew up in Atlanta. She had all the exotic appearance of a Latina goddess – big round ass, equally impressive bazoombas, beautiful smile, shiny, long, black hair – and all the uncouth charm of a cussing Tennessee hillbilly. Hilarious.

She also put out, which I approve of heartily, especially when the recipient is yours truly. Boy she was a handful. Several handfuls if you want to know the truth. Didn’t matter where you grabbed you got yourself a fistful of awesome. After my set was over and I’d placated 70 octogenarians determined to detain me for the rest of my natural life for their immoral pleasures, Marlena would finish her shift and smuggle me out the back door like a freaking rock star, when we’d shuffle on over to this other bar on the “quiet” side of town and party till dawn. On my second and last night there, we partied behind the bar when the place closed down. On the floor. All together, we had a smoking good time those couple days for sure.

As Marlena subtledly summed it up while puffing on a cigar, “The past few days are like a gold-dripping c*nt!”

They’re fucked up those Southerners.

Just Checkin' In

2008-09-26T14:33:00.000-06:00

Jesus Christos. Mexico is fucking insane, you guys. If I make it back alive I'll tell you about it. You know, once I get out of rehab and the Clap clinic.

Laters.

When The Ladies Ain't Kosher

2008-09-09T15:15:00.000-06:00

Hola Esses!

What the hay, it’s been a few days since Senor Spunk saturated you with his supreme wisdom and sparkly life highlights, huh! I have a good excuse though. I just plum didn’t feel like it.

Don’t get me wrong though I’ve been working hard. You don’t know hard till you’ve whored yourself out to an entire sorority house, singing Backstreet Boys and Nsync numbers for $200. And let's not forget the awesome opportunity to observe 20 something females drunk off their asses on cheap tequila. But hey, if anyone’s up to romancin’ the college chicks, Tony’s your guy.

At least that’s what I was thinking when I agreed to do the gig. It’s not my usual forum certainly, but it’s one I was agreeable to in the vain hope there’d be some sort of “Girls Gone Wild”, chicks-making-out type celebration taking place with much gratuitous flashing of firm fleshy mounds and drunk-assed, inhibition-free blondes asking to sit on my organ. And I was sort of half right.

The sorority was part of a local college that specializes in providing education for ex-prisoners and kids who came through the reform system. They were all full-on pleased to be at the party but man some of those gals were rode hard and put away wet in a big way. A couple of them I’ve seen off the Strip wearing not much more than a shiny belt and lipstick, if you get my drift. Some of those party gals kind of make you want to hand over your hard-earned bucks if they’d just agree to keep their tops ON, dig? One of those chicks was deformed. She insisted on dancing to every song. I couldn’t take my peepers off her strapless top. Imagine two hippopotamuses having a fist fight in a mail sack and you’re sort of halfway there.

Anyway, yeah the show was ok. I felt a little overdressed in my purple satin tux and bow tie (stylin’ is my middle name y’all) when most of the guests were wearing handkerchiefs for dresses and no panties, but you know, I like to be professional and all. Besides I got out alive and virtually unscathed although I needed to bleach my eyeballs after some of those more doughy ladies attempted some naked somersaults.

That’s all I got. Deal with it guys.

Tony Feels The Love

2008-09-04T15:08:00.000-06:00

Last night was a rare night where I had no place to be. I’ve been playing a lot of shows lately and playing a lot of shows generally means drinking a lot of drinks and that usually means my liver packing its bags and going to cry in a corner.

So instead of an update on my crazy, sparkly life, I thought I'd show you some of my fan mail. Today's letter is from a little chick (a teenager if you can believe that shit!) named Trixie. The ladies dig me, truly they do. I'm a magnet of sheer sexifullness.

[caption id="attachment_171" align="aligncenter" width="450" caption="She ain't the sharpest knife in the drawer but probably hawt"][/caption]

I found out she's 18 so it's perfectly ok to be lewd. I mean she's probably dim as a 3 year old bulb but sometimes those gals are little livewires. And Tony digs the livewires. Plus she can't spell worth a damn but I figure so long as she can spell "put" and "out" all's good. I'm a dirty old man, what can I say?

I totally made that image myself from what I could make out of her letter because you couldn't read her actual letter properly due to the stains all over it from tacos and desperation. Y'all pretend it's the real letter though, okay?

Tony Spunk Is A Sex God

2008-09-02T14:06:00.000-06:00

Saturday night something extremely weird happened. Something unexpected but that had to happen eventually, judging by the business I'm in and the law of averages. Yes my people, Antonio Spunk III had a threesome, with two lovely ladies from Nebraska. A guy gets lonely, what can I tell you and when opportunity lands in your lap it would be cruel to turn it down, no?

I know what you're thinking; that's an oxymoron of sorts, "lovely ladies" and "Nebraska" but you'd be wrong. These gals were quite the hotties. Well if you squinted a bit and made sure you were toasted. I mean they looked kinda like something The Hef discarded in the '70s, their bodies were still top notch, grade A bazoomba but the faces were a little on the "mood lighting" setting.

One of them, Marina, was a little odd looking facially. Like she'd been stretched sideways and stapled. Just her face though, nothing important. Her boobs were like exercise balls. Definitely silicon, but still fun to de-stress with and she had a tiny ass, which normally ain't the Spunk's thing but it was given a pass due to the stylish beach balls she kept up top. It just amazed me she managed to walk upright most of the time. Fascinating.

The other gal was called Irene and she was younger but no less "worn-in" - maybe mid-thirties or thereabouts. She was a "supersized lady" let's call her, and I ain't averse to supersizing, no sir. She was kind of like the Michelin man only with bigger honkers and Spanx. Her ass was like a huge, rippled balloon after you let some of the air out and it goes kinda wrinkly and droopy. Hours of fun can be had with that ass although enormous and firm is really the ideal. Hell, Tony Spunk is not Adonis so I don't really give two shits if a lady ain't a perfect ten.

Marina quit early, she wasn't all that into it really, once the Martini wore off, when she suddenly remembered something she had to do and left without her panty hose. But honestly, that was the best part. Because that Irene, let me tell you. I'd love to see that gal on a mechanical bull because I have a feeling she could go the distance. There was plenty to get hold of I assure you and all was splendid apart from a small mishap where I mistook a fatty fold of flesh for...well we won't get into it, but it could happen to anyone.

It's Not Unusual

2008-08-28T11:28:00.000-06:00

Played a weird show yesterday afternoon my fellow journal guys. Private birthday party for some business geezer's wife at a dingy little lounge just outside the city, surrounded by nothing but desert and drunks in stetsons.

You know, playing Tom Jones classics at four thirty in the afternoon is just plain wrong, even by Vegas standards. There's something inherently sad about it. Gin-soaked cat ladies with mustaches who never got a husband and old, leathery, crinkled guys lamenting the good old days where you could get a horse, a steak and some punani for a hundred bucks and still have change left over for a fifth of Jack Daniels.

This was a party however, but it's still wrong if you ask me. It's like drinking daiquiris from a highball glass, you just can't do it without cringing at the magnitude of wrong that suggests.

It all went ok though, despite that fuckin', deadbeat Pedro letting me down last minute with a hangover sent from el Diablo himself. He broke up with his dancing chica and was self medicating his way back to normality. I had to recruit my old buddy Perry DiSopo on bass and occasional guitar, since it was a full band effect this show needed and he's a full-on kinda guy.

Perry and I have jammed a number of times over the years and despite his being somewhat advanced in age he can still shake it with the best of 'em, so it wasn't as uncomfortable a job as you might expect. Think a shriveled, more orange Tony Bennett with Parkinson's and high on amphetamines and you'll have a decent idea of what that entails. Happily his legendary hip didn't give out - last time he did a guest stint he swiveled it a little too far. People were hugely impressed till they realized the dude had dislocated the fucker and his sexy 'come hither baby' look was actually saying 'holy shit I'm dying get a fucking paramedic you c**ts!'

Also the guy's not at all pleasant to look at and I'm sure he wouldn't mind me saying so. The years (and the liquor) haven't been all that kind. He kinda looks like someone superimposed an elephant's ass on his cheekbones. More contours than a map of New Mexico. Cool guy though. Straight up fella. His blood is 100% gin at this point in time, the crazy old fucker.

The lady having the birthday was delighted. She drank, clapped and jiggled around like a 14 year old Latina at a Menudo concert, only in a much less aesthetically pleasing fashion. There are parts that really should not wobble that just took on a life of their own. But the old gal had a damn good day and I think my version of "It's Not Unusual" sung with her sitting on my lap, made her whole fuckin' week. Wish I could say the same for my leg, I feel like I've been kneecapped by Al Capone. Plus the chick kept licking my neck, what the dilly is that all about, y'all? That ain't kosher.

Still, a couple C notes isn't too bad for a little leg discomfort and a soggy neck, know what I mean compadres? Rock out.

Last Night She Said...

2008-08-27T12:25:00.000-06:00

Yeah so last night was the Skybar show. The one I promised would be full of crappy Michael Bolton numbers and guys who wanted to kill Tony Spunk for the honor of their ladies. Well the night did not disappoint, ladies and gentlebums.

Firstly, I couldn’t get the truck from Ronny, he’s the dude I normally borrow from for a small fee, so I couldn’t take my Yamaha Electric Grand Piano to the show. This sucked for a variety of reasons, most of which involve showing off its shiny, sparkly, electric blue goodness to the ladies who naturally want to caress it lovingly. The thing’s just too damn clumsy without a truck however, so I took along a more portable organ instead. No biggie, I still fingered it lovingly and stroked some fine tunes out of it. Well, fine tunes and Douchebag Bolton. If it’s any consolation to y’all I think it’s the last time I’ll be doing his numbers. Sure the ladies might dig it but I felt dirty. Like seriously, just ‘fucked Paris Hilton in the glory hole’ dirty.

It was pretty funny though. There was this one chick who was blasted. I mean like rubberized. Chick could barely stand on her own two feet. The second she heard the first few bars of the first Bolton number she was on her feet, bobbing around like a half-anesthetized kangaroo, waving her lighter around. I mean like that isn’t hilarious enough, who waves their lighter at Douchebag Bolton numbers? I mean how is that possible? Does he get that a lot? Unless you're trying to set his hair on fire, in which case, go with God, little drunk chica.

So anyway, this dude who wanted to kick my nut-sack into next Thursday? He showed up and he was steamed. I mean his little, fat, unshaven face was red as a Halloween apple. He wanted a piece of old Tony, bad. Luckily he was also as round as a Halloween apple so his movements were a little on the side of an elephant practicing ballet so he was fairly easy to dodge. Plus I had my Mexican guard and all so you know, no damage was done. I even rubbed salt into his wounds by serenading him with “Isn’t She Lovely?” (you know, the old Stevie Wonder song?) as he was being escorted out by his suspenders, by the management. Man, he looked like he was about to pop like an over inflated balloon. Good times.

Anyway yeah, no more Douchebag Bolton. I don’t mind compromise but I ain’t willing to sell my soul to El Diablo. Here's today's thought though. You never see Michael Bolton and Fabio in the same room do ya?

Tonight, Tonight

2008-08-26T14:36:00.000-06:00

So cabrons, (Heh the spell check keeps changing that to 'carbons'! Hi carbons!) I have me a show down at the Skybar later tonight and it’s come to my attention that some dude with a bad attitude is planning on attending the show just to fuck with Tony Spunk. I know right? Surely not! It's not just any dude either, it's some fella with an extra Y chromosome and probably a penis like a breeding stallion. Some dude who wants to kick my shiny, satin ass and those were his words. Yeah really! Can you imagine? I am peeing in my silk monogrammed pants. OK not really.

I think this dude is a little, teensy bit touchy because I might have squeezed his wife’s booty or something at a show or let her stroke my organ, but to be honest the whole thing’s a bit cloudy. That describes most nights at my shows, let’s be frank here. Then dudes get all sensitive about these matters although seriously, I didn’t force his old lady to touch my organ she did it all on her lonesome. I ain’t going to stop a lady from showing her love for my organ, you dig? She even commented on its fine luster. I guess her old man thinks that’s grounds for a beatin’. He probably imagines he’ll look hot to the ladies, socking some guy in a sparkly suit with a nicely coiffed mustache. I bet he thinks bloodying up a Senor with a dazzling repertoire of musical genius and shiny apparel will make him seem all kickass ninja.

Well you’re wrong, guy because I have a little surprise for you. My “bodyguard” is coming to the show tonight. So you better watch your badass, testosteroned up, macho self.

OK, he’s not really my bodyguard, more of a Mexican friend of Pedro’s who weighs about the same as a combine harvester and has fists like two giant hams, but he says for a few beers and a beef burrito he’ll take care of me so I think I’m good. So bring it, angry wife-possessing dude.

It should be a good night as I’m debuting some new material I’ve been practicing, like some Michael Bolton (I know, I know, the guy’s a colossal douche who sings music for douches, but the ladies are always requesting his douchebag songs so I broke down, got drunk and downloaded a few of his douchey tracks to learn. It was torture but I ain’t proud. I am however broke and I’ll sacrifice anything, including my dignity to woo the ladies, so Douchebag Bolton it is) and also some Elvis. Normally I don’t touch Elvis. No one can touch Elvis and people get pretty steamed if you even try, he’s that close to God. I’m not even an Elvis fan myself but hey, there’s no denying the popularity for the dead dude. Besides I give those songs a distinctively Spunky feel complete with a Wurlitzer sound so I should be ok. I like a challenge.

Hell, Elvis only wishes he had a Wurlitzer.

The Boys Are Back In Town

2008-08-25T20:25:00.000-06:00

Well hola my babies, Tony Spunk is back in da house, did ya miss me?

I had a touch of the influenza this weekend. The '24 hour zap your energy and leave you crying for your mama' type of thing. It was like breathing in a Louisiana swamp all in one sitting. I was a little delirious for a while there and momentarily forgot to unleash my great fabulousness on the world but I'm recovered now so I think it's safe to say I'm good to go.

Or come, if you prefer, ladies.

I went for a little body waxing today. Don't laugh, a guy must maintain some standard of grooming if I'm to believe those dickwads at 'Maxim'. Of course the chest hair remains (Rowr!) but the back hair had to go. Tony is a dark, devilish guy covered in dark, devilish hairs and one needs to control this hirsute manliness somehow. A lady doesn't want lots of dark curlies under her nicely manicured fingernails, am I correctamundo, gals? I think so.

Talking of, what's with those little decals the ladies are wearing on their nails these days? Little rhinestones and shit? Not that El Spunkarino is complaining or anything, it's just kinda wacky. Especially when the lady scratching those babies down your back has little decals of Mickey Mouse on her digits. That ain't right, truly. That's some perverted shit right there.

So after a weekend without playing any shows I actually feel kinda revived and ready to party. I dusted off my leopard skin pants and polished my medallion and once I've given my organ a good rub down I'll be at the Skybar tomorrow night. Be there or be absent, ladies. Wink.

Viva El Spunko

2008-08-21T21:33:00.000-06:00

I just found out last night that I may be zipping down south of the border to do a short stint this Fall for a chain of casinos run by tequila-swilling bandits. This would be totally north of awesome since everyone knows Mexico is a den of vice, spice and possibly lice. The drinks are cheap, the ladies are cheaper and basically, to put it in perspective for ya - those people who envisage Hell as a big, hot, sweaty place full of hard liquor, scantily clad dancing ladies and horny beings torturing people, they're really imagining Mexico.

I actually embarked on a ten day Mexican tour in 2004 which took me all over the damn place, dodging banditos and raunchy senoritas. Admittedly, I tried harder to avoid one of those groups than the other.

It was pretty awesome at least what I can remember of it which admittedly, isn't a whole lot. I mean it's a country full of hallucinogens and cheap liquor, so if you come back remembering anything and wearing more than one shoe you did it wrong.

Anyway, that trip was basically ten days of ladies waving their fajitas in Uncle Spunkarino's tired old face. Ten days of debauchery with the craziest people on Earth. Ten days of having various dark skinned minxes taste my burrito of leurve.

Naturally, by "burrito of leurve" I mean my ginormous cock. And not the fighting type either.

I think we crossed back over the border at Yuma, Arizona with a gallon of home brewed tequila, a straw donkey and a hat so big it wouldn't fit in the El Camino. My companion, Rossi del Muncho, had to cart it back in the truck we toted the equipment in, the next morning and explain it to customs who thought he might be smuggling entire Mexican families in it.

The only grievance on that tour was we were minus a bass player, since Pedro couldn't come seeing as how he spent two years trying to escape that godforsaken country by less than legal means and now he's in the U.S. well, let's just put it this way, leaving the country again would be a bad move. I did call him from the Baja to give him a quick report on the state of Mexican affairs, the size of the chicas castanets and to call his mama a "puta". Good times.

Anyway, yeah, here's to another couple weeks of bad livin', bad wimmen and bad breath.

The Secret To Being Awesome

2008-08-21T17:25:00.000-06:00

The esteemed blogmeister and all round crazy guy, Dr. Zibbs, from That Blue Yak (why won't this shitty thing accept Tony's html linking skills?) requested that I give a little summary of my sense of cool. I'm not entirely sure my cool can be conveyed by mere words but I'm going to have a valiant stab at it, in the hope I can make the world a little more groovy with my knowledge. Don't try this at home though kids. It takes years of practice to reach this level of perfection, you dig?

Firstly, the Doc wanted to know about the "toe tapping and finger snapping" stuff that cool guys like myself employ from time to time to say, "Hey, we might be happening and sparkly but we're really just regular guys like you, with shinier suits!"

Here's a little breakdown for you:

UNO: The step forward on one foot, wink and point movement. This little move lets a lady know, "Hey, I'm looking at YOU, Sweetcheeks, and may I say you are lookin' foxy this evening?" Don't forget to swing your lead shoulder around sexily as you go into the point. If you can raise one eyebrow simultaneously, even better. This gives a sense of confidence in your own foxability. And whatever you do, don't forget to practice this in the mirror to make sure that wink and pout are smoldering. There's a fine line between smoldering and "Wow, I need to take a dump the size of Oklahoma!" This is important.

DOS: The lip curl. The lip curl was perfected by that big, old, dead swinging pelvis from the fifties, Elvis. The thing most folks don't realize is that the King didn't do that shit to be sexy, he did it because he had a twitch whenever he smelled cheese, which, if you're Elvis, is a lot. Same with that pelvis shaking business. He had Restless Legs Syndrome and had to move them all the time or he'd seize up and have a spasm on the floor or something.

The lip curl is either something you got or you don't. Tony Spunk has it and can growl menacingly while using it to mesmerize the ladies. Don't feel inferior if you can't pull it off though, it's really not essential. Sure, you'll never be as awesome as me, but you can still get by, ok, so long as you're rich as shit.

TRES: Toe Tapping: This technique is all about rhythm. Having rhythm is sexy but again, you have to do it right. Firstly, the song has to be mid-tempo and smooth otherwise you start tappin' to a fast, paced little number and you look like you're having some kind of seizure. And seizures ain't sexy. The song is too slow and it looks like you're just plain riding the short bus.

Secondly, tappin' alone won't cut it with the ladies. The ladies aren't dumbasses, they need a little more than a tappin' toe to dampen their gussets. The tapping must be accompanied by a little wink or nod or sly smile. Just a flash mind, nothing full on that shows the dazzlin' chompers. Those smiles are reserved for the old, drunk, rich people who look like they're half senile and tip crazy well . Just a little quick smile to suggest, "Hey. You and me could make beautiful music, baby!" is enough for the regular gals. Even if the lady looks like something a dog chewed-up under the Christmas tree, it helps to massage the lady's ego and let her think she's special. Plus her old man probably gave her some Benjamins to spend which she will dutifully use to tip you afterwards or buy you cocktails.

I would go into more detail, but a guy doesn't want to give away all his secrets in one go. Plus, you can't just jump into awesome, you have to let it come to you.

It's All Balls To Me

2008-08-20T09:35:00.000-06:00

OK, first of all? Any of you folks here in Nevada who saw the article in the Sun the other day from my Caesar's gig? That was not my naked ass. Sure, it looked maybe a touch like my ass but, as most of the ladies in Vegas will attest, my ass is much less hairy than that guy, a lot less flabby and I prefer my mustache on my face, thanks all the same. I did call the Sun to protest and they assured me that it was hard to get me in the photo as that dude's caboose was taking up the entire shot. Dude was every freaking where the camera man went. He was sort of like my own personal "Soy Bomb".

On second glance I sort of recognize that ass. I'm sure I've seen that huge, hairy mole bobbing up and down at that party we did a set at last summer. Bobbing up and down on top of a senator's daughter I seem to recall. She was either asleep or completely wasted at the time. Either that or I'm thinking of Enrique Iglesias' face. A guy's memory gets cloudy after so much martini...uh...time.

The show, a fundraiser for a local animal shelter, went pretty darn well. We raised over $3,000 and the roof. Hah. It will be a long time before those guys forget Pedro in a bowtie and nothing else doing a Russian dance on top of the Mayor's table, his wind section swinging free in the breeze. I guess if that didn't persuade folks to neuter their animals I don't know what will.

Tony Spunk Is Your Robot Of Love

2008-08-19T09:14:00.000-06:00

I know what you're thinking, you're thinking "What the hay is Tony Spunk doing up before noon?" Well I have a good reason people. I haven't actually been to bed yet. Not to sleep anyway, heh.

That was my way of saying "I tapped some badonkadonk last night." And again this morning if you want to be specific. That little Vanessa is a livewire.

It's also my birthday. I'm officially older than dirt (and just as filthy). Happy birthday to me. I got a great card from my mom who still thinks I'm 12. She also sent some "Old Spice" and this thing...well I'm not exactly sure what the thing is, but it looks like some kind of torture implement from Roman times. I'm sure I'll figure it out sometime. Let's face matters, if an object of unknown origin doesn't relate to eating or the wiener, I'm kinda stumped.

The other great gift I got, besides the roll in the hay, was a remote control cocktail robot courtesy of the Mexican. It's a little mechanical dude who can carry you a cocktail clean across the room from the bar. Or kitchen sink if you don't have a bar. Sort of like me. Problem is, he doesn't know how to make a darn cocktail so it sort of voids the whole convenience issue. I have to make my own drink, give it to the robot and he brings it to me on the couch. I mean does that sound like a sensible idea to anyone? Still he impresses the ladies and scares the neighbor's dog so all is well, I'm thinking. He also has a super scary mechanical voice. Sounds like a big, metal German dude. "Vee hef vays of making you cocktails."

A Short One

2008-08-18T23:15:00.000-06:00

I know you've all missed the shit out of old Tony Spunk the past two days. Don't deny it. You've been sobbing like a chick at "Titanic".

I might as well just come right out and say it. I've been doing a midget. And by "doing" I mean inserting parts of my anatomy into her various exits and entrances with gay abandon. Don't knock it till you've tried it fellas. The little girls are fighters. Just make sure you get one with some curves otherwise it's like bouncing around with a ten year old and that ain't cool.

Her name's Vanessa and she doesn't appreciate the term "midget" I'm reliably told. "Little person" seems to be a preference of hers although that really puts a guy off his stroke because I don't know about you guys, but that term makes me think of Keebler Elves or like leprechauns or something. That ain't good for a guy's karma at crucial moments, you dig?

Then one night she choked on a piece of salmon and her face for a moment was alarmingly red. She got really pissed off at me, even though I performed the Heimlich Maneuver perfectly. I mean all I said was for a moment she looked exactly like an Oompa Loompa. I mean she truly did.

Then last night she left me sitting in the Golden Queen in the middle of my dim sung just because I mentioned that she couldn't finish dinner because her organs were smaller due to her being "pocket sized". It was a compliment, dammit! I guess I still have a lot to learn about the ladies. Especially the miniature variety.

Quick One For The Road

2008-08-15T12:38:00.000-06:00

My ma came round yesterday and rearranged chez Spunk. So screw you guys who thought I lived in my ma's basement. She left a lasagna in my freezer and a mason jar of iced tea in the fridge so I guess all's ok with the world. And every guy knows, no woman will ever love them like their ma.

And I don't mean that in a dirty sense, you filthy heathens.

Plus you need to see my shitter, honestly. You could eat dinner off that thing. It's like a toothpaste commercial full of sparkle. One thing moms are good for is providing your ass a clean receptacle to drop a deuce into.

But talking of eating, as we were briefly up there, my ma brought me some table set thing. You know, plates, cups, those little plates you put a tea cup on, the whole shebang. She was displeased with my old kitchen apparatus. My old plates I'd had since 1989. I got them from a Mexican restaurant that was closed down by the health department. They're made of some plastic compound with cacti around the rim and had gotten a little warped and bumpy over the years. It was like eating pizza off of Gwen Stefani's ribs. No more though. Thanks ma.

In other news, Pedro is dating a flamenco dancer. It's serious lust. One shake of her castanets and he's jello. Plus the last time I saw that dude gel his mustache, the Pope was in town hanging with Tony Bennett.

Burn, Burn, Burn

2008-08-14T09:12:00.000-06:00

It hasn't been my month frankly. First the wanger bending, then the ball zipping, now today I'm suffering a little from what Johnny Cash referred to as "Ring of Fire" due to some deadly-hot Indian chow last night. I was up half of the night blasting the porcelain altar with the remnants of indescribable vegetables. My toilet looked like that shitter in "Trainspotting". Remember that thing? I loved the movie but didn't understand a fucking word those people were saying. Thank God for subtitles.

Anyway, yeah that was my boudoir last night. In all honesty, my anus hasn't been this inflamed since I was seven and Tommy Bardelli tried to convince me that doing Evel Knievel stunts on a bike with a missing seat was a good idea. Thanks a fuckin' bunch, Tommy. Took me a month to walk like I hadn't just been pounded by a horse. Dude's in jail now, hopefully receiving a little anal inflammation of his own.

Played an emergency show at the Bellagio last night, suckers. That's big time y'all know. I was helping a bro out however, not headlining or anything tres cool like that. I was playing piano for Big Bobby Flatbush who is a 450lb African dude who has hair straight from a 1976 roller disco and a voice like Marvin Gaye. He also hosts the most alarming suits seen on a dude since that cool, black pimp dude on Starsky & Hutch. Good time was had by all and there was an all night free buffet. That's a Boofay not like...Jimmy Buffet. Though come on, really, the guy should just call himself Jimmy Boofay and add some comedy to the world because his songs sure aren't helping much, unless you're in need of an insomnia cure or a need to kill.

Now I gotta go grab some sleep before my eyelids go on strike. I'm getting too old for this staying up all night, shit.

Balls Aflame

2008-08-13T11:29:00.000-06:00

Just when my wanger had regained a shred of dignity after the "bent" incident, I go and catch my balls in my zipper and have to go to the E.R. to get them "unzipped". That's what happens when you have a late show at night and get up too early next morning. I'm telling you, you know shit about indignity till you've had some 600lb lady named Helga, approaching your fishing tackle with pliers. Jeebus!

Not to mention the pain, although I will mention it anyway, because IT FUCKING HURT! Looking down at my Little Hasselhoff, it was like it was being eaten by some angry little silver teeth. Goddamn, there's pain then there's getting your chalupas stuck in a zipper.

What else? It's hard to think with swollen red cajones and everything. Oh yeah, work. We have done some shows sparodically over the past couple of months, myself, Pedro and Alfonso Del Bautista Maria Concepcion. That's his real name, y'all he's not being an ass or nothing. He even has his name stenciled on the rear window of his Chevy, in case there's any doubt. For real. Takes up two fuckin' lines. Anyway, Alfonso is one of those dudes who can get a tune out of a milk bottle and a fart if you ask him to. So he's plenty useful for a set of lounge classics. He plays regular guitar, slide guitar, bass, piano, all sorts of stuff that you blow. Dude's like a one man show and the drunker his ass gets the more saucy his tunes. He can make grown women weep with his trumpet. Even El Spunkarino is a little in awe.

Anyway the shows (six in all) were all in the same little club, the last one being last night and we had to arrange the band around the strippers' pole which was tricky but we managed. Last night as a finale we knocked out a kickass version of that Barbra Streisand/Kenny Rogers number "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" with Alfonso doing the girl's part to my Kenny. I admit fully we were beyond blasted at this stage of the proceedings and it wasn't a real kiss, my mouth stayed shut.

Happy Birthday Dick Spunk

2008-08-12T21:55:00.000-06:00

Back in the summer of 1973, when I was nine years old, my dad, Antonio Spunk II and his brother Ricardo "Dick" Spunk, used to have a kind of faux mariachi act on the Vegas strip. They had sombreros with shiny bits on, they had Spanish guitars and they had shirts that would make a baby cry. They played all kinds of dives and basements and occasionally they'd get to debut at some glittery gala at Caesar's, on like a Tuesday night, opening for some old lush in a sparkly dress (and sometimes the occasional woman too!).

My dad was a mediocre musician, more into gambling and martinis and fast women than actually playing his instrument although you could argue he played his instrument plenty if you get my meaning. Plus he had an unusually small head which caused a whole bucket full of problems keeping that damn sombrero upright. Some nights, mid song, his giant sombrero would slip down over his eyes and the audience, who'd spent three hours downing cheap Scotch, would spend ten minutes wondering why they were watching a giant hat play a guitar.

My uncle Dick though, he was a genius. A man's man. A guy so comfortable in his own testosterone he didn't think twice about wearing pink ruffles on his shirt or sewing sequins on his matador pants. It was Dick Spunk who taught me to play piano when I was eleven. He taught me to read music by a complicated procedure where he compared various music notes to a woman's anatomy. I never quite got the hang of that philosophy (he did drink a fuck of a lot) but even now, when I get close enough to a lady to twiddle her crochets, I still expect to hear a B#.

So this pina colada I'm holding in my hand right now? It's for my uncle Dick Spunk. Still a player after all these years. Happy birthday Dick.

Fun With The Po Po

2008-08-12T13:29:00.000-06:00

Arriba! Forgive old Spunko won't you guys, I am a little bit toasted from drinking some potent little fuckers called "Bombarderos". Basically it's a highball glass with a shot each of the following: Scotch, vodka, tequila, gin and some kind of weird foreign bitters, filled to the brim with ice, lemon juice and Sprite. After a couple of those you are so bombed you would find your own mom attractive if she bent over in a denim mini skirt.

Not to mention the lady cop who stops your wasted ass on the way home. She was hawt stuff folks. Well she was hot after four bombarderos, at least. Something about a lady who's packing and stacking that gets the juices flowing. She had a giant ass you could bounce tennis balls off. Or any kind of balls you wish, to be brutally honest. I can think of some balls I'd like to bounce off that badonkadonk.

Oddly enough, asking if she wished to finger my gun got me cuffed. Well the joke's on you lady cuz I don't have a freaking gun, I was referencing my cock.

I wasn't driving during any of this, I hasten to add. The Mexican was in charge of that chore. He's under doctor's orders to lay off the booze while he's taking some antibiotics. This is fine with me. I get to charm the ladies and drink the refreshing beverages all on my lonesome, while he drives me home and puts me to bed.

Damn assladycop gave us a ticket for a busted headlight. I refrained from any more jokes regarding her own headlights, which, let me tell you, were shining pretty bright, if you get my meaning.

Ain't it sweet.

(Hey, has my gibberish alien code disappeared yet?)

Lost Weekend With Los Gorditos

2008-08-11T11:08:00.000-06:00

I had a couple buddies in town from Texas this past couple of days, playing a mariachi festival up in the Reno area. They figured while in Nevada, look up the Spunk for a good time. Not that kinda good time, I'm not that kind of boy.

We had a blast just drinkin' and hangin' and boasting about who had the biggest penis, that kind of deal. You know what those Tejanos are like after a few bottles of Tecate. Everything's a fuckin' competition. I'll tell you one thing. Mexicans might not be the Amazons of modern man but they sure have disproportionately large dongers. Not that I looked. Well I might have peeked. A guy's gotta know what he's up against. Again, not literally. Tony Spunk doesn't swing that way. Not that there's anything wrong with it.

The second night the guys joined me on stage at the Pink Flamingo for a little Mexican themed hoedown, complete with sombreros and full bolero jacketed goodness. One thing. Who here knew a sombrero brim could hold a sixpack? My grandfather on my father's side was from Ancuna, Mexico. He used to tell me a sombrero could be used for anything from potty training to berry picking to holding a giant margarita. He was a little fucked from too much tequila however, so I took that with a grain of salt. Margarita salt naturally.

Anyway those guys leave today (vibes to Tito, El Lobo and Esteban!) and my fridge is full of Tex Mex, so I'm gonna go, eat a load, dump a load and get ready for tonight's show. Incidentally, my wanger's doing better now, thanks for your concern. Peace out!

Can You Help Me I'm Bent?

2008-08-08T11:46:00.000-06:00

Hey good people of Spunkville!

I think I broke my wanger. I'm not even kidding here, I did a job on it really good. Or bad as the case may be. I think it's a sprain because it's hanging sorta, I don't know, bent, I guess is one way to put it.

Before anyone thinks El Spunko had a particularly energetic week with the ladies, it was nothing like that unfortunately. Not that there's any shortage of punani in my life you dig, it's just that this particular week I was in a "resting" phase. Giving old Dick Johnson a short vacation in the jungle. I know you know what I'm saying. Even the best of us require a little relaxation time.

Anyway, yeah. My wanger's in little bit of pain. It's sort of embarrassing even bringing this up but as I'm a real man I think I can handle it. You know those commercials that say if you sport a boner for more than four hours you should probably get some dude to look at it (in a medical sense, you understand, not for kicks or nothing)? Well I didn't have any four-hour-boners, but I did have a four-ton-boner, or it felt like it. It was like toting a huge concrete pipe in my pants for an hour. I think that while in this concrete state I maybe sprinted a little too fast to my car or something because next thing I know I'm doubled up on the ground clutching my hairy peas and inventing cuss words, with a wanger like a boomerang. My doctor's a lady and I'm hesitant to go put it in her hands, if you savor that image for a second. Before you get too carried away, she's about 60 with chins in triple digits. In fact, next time I get aroused at an inconvenient time I plan on picturing my doctor in her panties and that should take care of matters.

So. I guess if you have advice on unbending a wanger, feel free to drop in and tell me.

Oldies But Goldies

2008-08-06T22:55:00.000-06:00

Hey there darlins. Busy week for El Spunkareeno.

I had a show last night that was the equivalent of a circus extravaganza. I really had no idea when I showed up that we were playing in a big fuckin' tent.

Now Vegas is crammed with joints. Suave joints, divey joints, glamorous joints, smoky joints, joints full of glitzy elderly women with blue hair, a glint in their eye and evil intent, joints full of mean looking poker players, joints where you can smell the mold on the walls, joints where the chandeliers twinkle along with the piano, joints straight out of a film noir, joints full of fornicating frat boys and joints that haven't changed since 1922. But tents? Not so much.

This was a big old marquee tent outside some dude's mansion. The occasion? His parents' golden wedding anniversary and who better to get those geriatric feet a boogying than the barnstorming Tony Spunk?

Pedro and I set up early. Actually the whole show was early since it was full of elderly people on the verge of expiring who need to be in bed by like nine in the pee em.

The inside of the marquee looked like it had been decorated by Barbie during an aneurism. Fuchsia trim goddamn everywhere and matching pink flowers poking out of every surface imaginable. If the guests of honor had emerged with a big, honking, fuchsia rose protruding from their assholes I wouldn't have been all that surprised. (They didn't. Calm down.)

Then there was all this goddamn lace stuff hanging from the walls and the piece de resistance, some nasty little table centerpieces featuring a little plastic couple grinning from a mini cake. I'm not sure who the couple was - it sure wasn't the celebrating couple as one of them were in a wheel chair and the other had some miraculous pants which reached almost to his chin (what's up with the gigantor pants old guys?) but I guess those sort of authentic figures are difficult to find.

The guests were a mix of the son's friends, their family and a bunch of people recruited from the local nursing home by the looks of things. Seldom have I seen a room more populated by people walking at a 90 degree angle to the floor than in that tent.

I urged Pedro that we should go for some smooth, slower crooner numbers because the mere idea of some of those old dears doing anything involving actual limb movement was a kinda scary one to behold. Besides, there ain't enough paramedics in Vegas to deal with that projected scenario.

It all went down ok though. The old geezers giggled and cooed and stroked Pedro's sombrero lovingly. Pedro was looking pretty damn dapper in a royal blue tux with bow tie and his gold tooth polished to perfection. It's that accent man. Gets them every time.

Upside? Gig paid enough to pay this month's rent which is always a plus.

Downside? I woke up this morning with some old gal's number in my wallet. If you read this Geraldine, I was loaded ok? Unless you're hot then gimme a call, 'k sweetie?

Fight For The Right To Party

2008-08-05T14:00:00.000-06:00

Instead of enjoying a quick, oily hand of five finger shuffle under my velvet deluxe sheets, Tony Spunk spent most of last night in the E.R. with that reprobate Pedro, freshly returned from Californ-aye-ai, after he socked some guy in a bad tux who called him a "Wetback pickle dick" causing world war 3 to break out during cocktail hour, at which time this same assbandit kicked Pedro in the castanets.

Hell you can't blame a guy for taking offense to that shit. Besides I've seen that Mexican's wanger and a pickle it ain't. Not unless you know where to grow a pickle the size of a baby's arm. Still, shiny tux guy wound up with a custom snake skin boot penetrating his back exit so all wasn't lost, except the shine on my boots and one of Pedro's front teeth which took a punch meant for tux guy when he started to insult my midi. Guy had serious attitude. For a guy dressed like a dime store pimp he sure was ballsy about other dudes' stuff. My organ ain't offended however.

So anyway, sleep was at a minimum and the Mexican got to go home only two hundred bucks and one tooth poorer but with his voice an octave higher. He'll live.

The Ladies And The Muzak

2008-08-04T17:05:00.000-06:00

I know what you're all thinking, "What the frank is Tony Spunk doing up at 8am on a Monday morning?" Well people, I haven't been to bed yet so, hey ho.

Seems Veronica and I hit a little bump in the road, my good buddies. She was a live wire for sure, but hey, a guy isn't a robot, am I correct? After a few days of bending over my armchair on demand she started holding out for some monetary rewards, like a diamond tennis bracelet or some French perfume. Tony Spunk ain't made of benjamins, girl! So finally I decided it was probably best to bail.

Ok, technically, I think she sort of made the decision herself when she ran off and fucked Bald Bob the magician inside his magic tent. The guy truly is a magician if he managed to satisfy that little spitfire. Still, he's fairly loaded in the financial department, if not the hair department, so they should be ok.

Me, I think it's time to move on and concentrate on some new tunes. I've been pumping my organ big time since Thursday so I'm quite exhausted. Managed to squeeze out a few though. Tunes I mean. Some Perry Como and Bing Crosby I was learning for the old coots I entertain on Wednesdays. They like the old style oldies best. Most of them still think 'Chicago' are punk rock and if I tried to sneak a little loungeified Ricky Martin onto my organ, some old dear would have a coronary for sure.

Anyways, not much changes in this neon town.

Another post later when I've caught up on some zzzs and am sober again. I know. You just can't wait.

The Ladies

2008-07-31T17:27:00.000-06:00

It's kind of a slow day here in Neonsville. I think old Tony Spunk has developed a touch of the lurgee. I am not sure where this dastardly pestilence came from but it is making all my orifices weep simultaneously and this is not a good look for any guy or gal. I blame that little Veronica for keeping me up all hours when a guy should be catching zzzzzs.

No shows till the weekend, so some time to recover at least. Plus, I thought I needed a break to perform some necessary organ maintenance and some precious downtime after too many Martinis in seedy bars over a short period. Detoxing is not so fun but pretty required in my job unless you want to wake up one day look in the mirror and see Liza Minnelli staring back at you. That could put a dude off his Cornflakes.

Plus the ladies do not dig the washed out, baggy-eyed look. And the general consensus is, Tony Spunk loves the ladies and wants them to appreciate him at his full, shiny glory.

Y'all know it's true gals.

Talking of the ladies, a little story for you. Pedro played a set with a pop piano quartet just before he left for California. The place he played was a little family bar near Henderson, which, despite the piano quartet thing, wasn't really as classy as it sounds. Sadly, it's also an establishment he can never visit again, after he referred repeatedly to the owner's wife as, "Senor" and attempted to bust a wrestling move on her in the bar. He really thought that lady was a dude.

Upon questioning from me later (naturally, after the cops were done with him, "No hablo Ingles! No hablo Ingles!") he was still in shock at his mistake.

"...pero el bigote...." he kept muttering, incredulously, under his breath.

That guy. He's gonna get in real trouble some day.

Reminiscing

2008-07-30T17:38:00.000-06:00

A little too much Chardonnay has Tony Spunk's head thinking a Mexican drug lord is living in it. It's the fault of the clubs I'm thinking. My whole working life revolves around piano bars where ladies take their clothes off and seedy lounges on the strip. Most of them have seen better days, frankly, with threadbare velvet benches and that kind of corny old-style decor that's a cross between bordello and an Elvis impersonator's arm pit. A guy can only stroke so much fantasy out of his organ you dig? I can take those slightly over-the-hill patrons away from their every day monotony with a tune and a tinkle, maybe a wink here and there at a well-endowed older lady who dresses like it's still the seventies. It makes the old dears' night quite honestly and if their portly husbands demand an explanation with their fists afterwards I can always claim a twitch from too many Mojitos.

The tips are ok for the most part. The more of a sob story you can spin, the better people tip. I guess feeling sorry for the poor guy in the polyester suit and suave mustache makes them feel better about themselves or something. Not everyone who comes to Vegas can afford Celine Dion. Those people get Tony Spunk. And what a fuckin' fantastic show they get too.

Case in point: Last November Pedro and I gave an infrequent show down in the asshole of all border towns, Brownsville, Texas (don't ask, it's best left alone). At least I think it was November - my brain's a little fried by the amount of Martinis consumed that night and the smoking of something I acquired from a shifty, little, sombrero-sporting motherfucker known only as "El Tipo" that I wasn't altogether convinced wasn't that stuff you get in those toilet bowl hangers, that turn your piss blue. Anyway, whatever that shit was, it rocked the bollocks, as our English compadres say. I was tripping so hard I thought my organ was Jane Fonda. From her "Barbarella" days, you dig, not now or anything. That'd be like fantasizing over your granny. Although I don't know, is your granny hot? Have her call me. Heh, I used to call that chick "Jane Fondle" so you can get the idea of what I thought of her in her Barbarella gear.

All I know is we rocked so hard and so long and so excellently that I have no idea what happened after our closing Bacharach medley, but we woke up in some chick's front parlor on the floor, stinking of cigars and piss. Pedro's head was in the kitty litter tray. He woke up and thought he'd been shipped back to Juarez. Dude almost had a panic attack till he figured out he only had a cat turd in his ear, and he was still in the U.S. of A.

I'm not getting the point of this entry, but welcome to my world.

Bread And Butter

2008-07-29T20:08:00.000-06:00

I just got back from a lunchtime gig at some English style pub outside town. It was a little rowdy but I think they dug me ok.

It was touch and go at first. Some young out of town dudes hogging the bar and drinking slammers, you know the kinda thing? Not really fans of "The Girl From Ipanema" and other such classics. But I think I won them over with my sparkling stage presence and all encompassing stage charisma. OK maybe the red, shiny, rhinestone suit hypnotized them into submission or something, I don't know. All I know is by song number five (Do You Know The Way to San Jose?) they were singing along and giving me directions.

"Take the I15!" they were yelling. Fuck you too, guys.

The best thing about the show was all the little chickadees admiring my organ. It is quite spectacular I guess. I put a lot of money into my organ. It's always polished to a high shine and in full working order. Sometimes I'll let a lady stroke it. It makes her feel good, dig?

Pedro is visiting family in California. I got a post card today of a cartoon donkey carting a 300lb lady to the beach. Under the picture Pedro had scrawled the words "Your Mama".

Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You

2008-07-29T15:28:00.000-06:00

Last night I joined my good buddy Leslie Von Snoot and his band on stage at the Bellagio for a couple of numbers. He needed an organ and the general consensus is Tony Spunk has the biggest organ on the strip.

So we jammed. We threw down some Martinis, we crooned some tunes, we schmoozed with the ladies, we held court at the bar. We were like freaking Siegfried and Roy or something. Only without the tigers. Or the gay. Not that you could tell from Leslie's shirt.

Also, I met a foxy lady myself last night. Her name's Veronica and she's a little pistol. Smart, sassy and stacked. Enormous uncontainable jugs and an ass you could park a Hummer on. You'd need a map to navigate those contours. It's a rack straight from heaven.

Of course, her face is gonna take some getting used to but you know. One thing at a time.

Veronica and me did some slow dancing, some bossa nova and the electricity was flying, and not just the static from her massive beach balls rubbin' against my polyester suit either, I know you're thinking it.

Anyway, I'm a gentleman so I'm not gonna get into what happened after we left the venue but you all have imaginations so knock yourselves out.

Tony's Feeling A Little Horny

2008-07-28T23:02:00.000-06:00

You know who's a Tony Spunk kinda gal? That chick from "Dream Girls". Not Beyotchy or whatever the hell her name is, but that other chick, with the enormous 'come-hither-to-Tony' rack. The rack that tremors like an enormous jello with every step. Jennifer Hudson is it? Chickadee who won the Oscar? I'd give that chick an Oscar. An Oscar Mayer. Some grade A prime meat!

And by 'meat' I totally mean my penis!

Sometimes a chick can just carry off that little extra baggage, know what I'm saying? If a gal's hip bones stick out like tent poles that ain't a chick, that's a dude. And if I wanted to feel up a dude I'd just slide into the bathroom, jettison the polyester pants and reach for the Nivea. A gal should have a little oh la la about her in her tooshie area. Tony Spunk likes to grab a couple handfuls of goodies you dig, he ain't so keen on bruising his knuckles on some underfed pelvis.

So come on ladies, quit looking at the skeletal hat stands on magazine covers and reaching for the grapefruit and start showing the world that french fries can do wonders for a woman's culito. Tony would tap each and every one of your 'culitos grandes' anyday.

The Ideal Lady

2008-07-28T18:28:00.000-06:00

Somebody asked me last night in my local bar, "Hey Tony, what would your ideal woman look like?" Obviously, I have had my fair share of lovin' from the ladies, but his question made me stop and contemplate.

Now I've dealt my salami to a fair variety of ladies of different colors, shapes, sizes and questionable hygiene standards, so I think I'm qualified to comment here. I even got jiggy with one who turned out to not be a lady at all, which was a big fuckin' surprise at the time but we all make mistakes and well, that's a story for another time. What can I say, tequila makes you do fuckin' weird shit. All these luscious ladies have their different plusses and minuses.

For example, I don't like to see a lady's ribs. First, they're not comfortable for slidin' around on and they snap like twigs and secondly, seeing all those ribs makes a dude hungry. Plus I like a little bit of somethin' to grab onto, you dig?

I'm also an ass man. Nothing pops my cork quite like a pretty lady with a giant, overflowing badonkadonk ass, filling out her dress. The more it wobbles when she moves, the better my johnson dances. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate a big old pair of double Ds as much as the next man and I've spent many a happy hour with my face inspecting some stacked lady's cleavage, but the ass is where it's at. Basically if you put Angelina Jolie's head on Jessica Simpson's honkin' huge titties and Jennifer Lopez's continent sized ass, that would be my perfect woman right there. Quite frankly, it wouldn't matter if she had no limbs, a speech impediment and a mustache, with that rack.

Having said this, the little B cup gals, they have their moments too. They look best dressed as Euro school chicks and chewing gum, but my manager says really it's probably best not to tap too much of that ass. He's probably right. Dude has to be right about something, he sure ain't right about his choice in suits or my fricking career.

I really love all the ladies. There hasn't been a lady invented whose ass Tony wouldn't hit. Even Bea Arthur has her moments.

There Was Something In The Air That Night, The Stars Were Bright, Fernando

2008-07-27T19:01:00.001-06:00

Hangovers are a bitch. I don't mean no disrespect to you ladies by using a derogatory lady term to describe what's going on in my head, mind, it's just that whoa nellie! I think my brain moved out and a giant, toxic lump of radioactive jello moved in.

And I am not talking about Paris Hilton. Although put a paper bag over her head and stop her from talking and maybe we'll discuss it, know what I'm saying?

I haven't been to bed yet and it's almost seven in the AM already. Pedro and I just got back from a little unexpected, last minute show we were asked to give in a little place off the strip when their regular guy was a no show and it just so happens this little show comes with a rider of free cocktails that would choke a donkey. I mean what sort of guy would I be if I didn't take advantage of such a deal, huh? No man at all, right?

I managed to knock back six daiquiris before I even played a note, and alcohol tends to make me a little bit smiley and amorous, so it's fair to say that by the time we started to rock, there was already a big, happy party brewing in Tony's pants.

We rocked some ABBA (I always dug the blonde chick with the bodacious eye shadow and tight jumpsuit) and some sixties melodies since it was that kind of crowd. Honestly, you ain't lived till you seen a seventy year old chick grinding her synthetic hip on some toothless old geezer to the Stones "Satisfaction" and after seeing that miracle I admit, I did kind of wish I was dead. The free drinks kept on coming however, so I barely remember the last half of the set except there was something with a woman in a leotard and some creme brulee that's probably best forgotten.

The only live body I came home with however, is Pedro, who demolished so many White Russians he thought he was in Moscow. Since he was in danger of also driving like a crazy Russian, I threw him in the back of my pick up (it's temporary until I can afford the vintage Thunderbird convertible that I've been jonesing after) and now the dumb Mexican's snoring on my shag pile rug.

Let's Hear It For The Man(ilow)

2008-07-25T22:43:00.000-06:00

One of my favorite dudes to cover in my set, is Barry Manilow. The ladies dig some Manilow and that guarantees they also dig me, dig? Now, I can't fathom the attraction of some shriveled, orange dude with a substantial honker, personally, but the geezer did pen some great songs and I aim to use them to my best advantage. Here's a little excerpt from the Las Vegas Sun, regarding one of my performances last month at "Chuckies":

Tony Spunk, not ashamed or encumbered by his bright fuchsia shirt , his quite Sonny Bonoesque mustache or unabashedly glitzy sequined pants, delivered a show full of zaniness, sincerity and Barry Manilow covers that would cause Barry himself to consider hanging up his dancing shoes in defeat. To hear Tony croon the heart-wrenching lament of "Mandy" (she came and she gave without taking) or watch him pound his organ while his feet get artsy to "Copacabana", a person might understandably forget their taxes, their rent, life's little inconveniences, for just an hour as they are transported to a glittering heaven filled with flamenco dancers, champagne flutes and cheap tequila through Tony Spunk's original brand of lounge lizard smoothness.

I think they like me.

How about you, ladies? Do you like me?

Her Name Was Lola, She Was a Whore

2008-07-23T16:09:00.000-06:00

Tony Spunk was a fairly innocent kid. When I was twelve my aunt Lola let me hang out in the summers at her big, old house, outside Henderson. She was a real nice lady and very friendly. Super friendly in fact. I mean the woman always had at least 20 of her girlfriends in her house at any given moment. I could never figure it out because my aunt had stellar air conditioning yet all these women still insisted on sitting around in their underwear all the damn time.

I used to do odd jobs around the place for pocket change. I'm surprised there were any jobs left, since there were men in and out of that place every five minutes. "Work men" Lola called them. If they worked so damn hard, how come there was always stuff for me to do? They came in, they disappeared, the reappeared with lipstick on their faces and they left.

I was 19 before I figured it all out. By then I was involved with my organ and owned my first, slightly shiny suit with lapels you could sail to Cuba on. I didn't fret about aunt Lola's house. I mean, with a suit like that, I was soon going to be landing all the tail a man could handle.

Still, life's kinda funny ain't it?

Introducing Pedro

2008-07-20T13:24:00.000-06:00

I play low key shows fairly frequently around Vegas. You can find me in various guises depending on the occasion or the venue, but generally it's just me, as me, fiddling with my huge organ and sweating a lot into my polyester suits. Sometimes though, if I get a booking someplace fancy, I go all out and hire my friend Pedro to accompany me on bass. This fills the sound out a bit and gives the impression of a band as opposed to just one sexy dude in a tux singing the bossa nova to some foxy ladies.

Pedro is one of my oldest friends. He's Mexican. Straight up Mexican too, not one of those types who were born in the US and have a social security number. He floated across the Rio Grande to Laredo in a tractor tire or something, so the story goes. He fitted right inside the rim seeing as how most Mexicans aren't known for their expansive size. So yeah, on these occasions, Pedro and I will do a rip roaring set of Bacharach covers and lively Tom Jones numbers for an audience of seven mean drunks and a whore. They don't pay any more than usual gigs, but I get around it by a neat little trick. Just as the dude running the show is getting out his wallet to pay us, I say, "Wow, that dude from the INS is sure hogging the bar tonight, huh?" and before you know it there's a sound like the Road Runner and suddenly there's only one of us awaiting payment.

You do what you gotta do.

Introductions

2008-07-19T22:52:00.000-06:00

Evening ladies and genitals. This is the first post from the sparkly Tony Spunk, pleased to make your acquaintance. I am a singer, based in Las Vegas, the city of light, casino chips, good Cubans and baaaaaaaaad ladies. I've been trying to make my living singing in lounges since I was knee high to a hooker. I started on the club circuit around Northern Nevada. Spent some time in Reno, a little cocksucker of a town that has some flea ridden cesspits that pay pretty well. Don't touch the ladies however, phoooeee. Not unless you wanna spend the next three weeks in a government quarantine bay. Shiver.

I aim to be the best lounge singer Vegas ever saw. Course I'm a long way from touchin' this fella.

Ok when I say "touchin'" I don't mean like physically. I ain't no homo or nothing. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just that this kielbasa prefers a dip in the mustard, get my drift? Still I don't think I'm exaggerating by saying Lib is the Man. The King. Not bad for a big, old, dead, shiny queer. I love the guy. Just not in a touching each other's pee-pee type of way.