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.

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.

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?

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.

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.