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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.