The Ladies

July 31, 2008

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

July 30, 2008

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

July 29, 2008

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 You

July 29, 2008

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 Feelin’ A Little Horny

July 28, 2008

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

July 28, 2008

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

July 27, 2008

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.