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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.