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.