Tuesday, December 28, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: Hey Asshole, Why Didn't You Play My Request? (Regress #37)


Let me get back to Friday night.

After my second shower of the week, followed by an Aqua Velva baptism, I squeezed Señor Manaconda into my favorite pair of black, snug-front Bugle Boys and embarked upon a sacred quest:

A mission to ensnare a pair of morally fallacious half-sisters from Scottsdale who would love me more for my checkbook than my heartbook?

A plan to awkwardly enfleshen a prim, virginal booksmith from stacks of the Greater Phoenix Metro Library System's Chandler branch?

Perhaps even a confused attempt to win back the erstwhile love of my life using a brazen scheme to harvest a kidney from a panhandler in order to save a young boy in Bulgaria?

If you answered anything but None of the Above you failed.

Because my simple quest was to have DJ Ricky Rise at Club Levitation play a certain slow jam especially for a special young lady who had caught my fancy through her entrancing, sirenic manner--one that sent so much wayward blood to my party regions even BP tipped its oily hat.

Denny simply wanted her to know how he felt.  And now our love-starved world may never realize what could have been.

Have you ever been in love, Mr. D.J. Rise?

Denny thought not.

Achingly,
Denny DelVecchio

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Advance # 63: Coming Soon From Denny

Denny's unseemly hiatus is quickly drawing to a close, so he's already feverishly working on getting laid and shitfaced a number of brave, envelope-pushing stories to satisfy his patient, loyal DelVecchians across the Globe.

Stay tuned for these stories and much more . . .

Benched Pee Wee football QB feels "disrespected."

Look Who's Talking prequel now casting semen.

Your Mom calmly denies fucking your drunk, insulting friend last night.

Miley Cyrus cancels pending South Korean dates in show of solidarity with the North.

Stitch in time quickly yields to goddamn gaping hole.

YNBH Exclusive: Julian Assagne's private anagram Hades.

Groundbreaking Gay Unicorn character now slated for Glee.

Jailed Bernie Madoff's rectum loses track of new investors' deposits.

Potential Bachmann-Palin ticket forces Christ to accelerate Earthly return.

Betty White: "Just watch me out-blowjob Ke$ha in 2011."

Almost home,
Denny DelVecchio

Saturday, December 18, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: I Was Almost A New Bohemian (Regress # 32)




It was 1996.

I was at a crossroads in my feral young life, loving like a 70s stag film flesh magistrate and always at the ready for the night's next big thrill.

And then I met "Edie" in the baked goods aisle at Cousins supermarket.  And nothing was ever the same again.

She was in town playing a free show for the Camden Tulip Fest, and had a "bit of the grumbles" which could only be satiated by a marbled pecan bear claw.  As the sweet dews of fate would have it, I already had the last one lovingly cradled in my musky paw.

We shared that nectarous pastry, I called her a Poor Man's Natalie Merchant, and 16 minutes later I was freaking her.

The Winds of the Gods continued to blow forcefully that day, as New Bohemian bassist John Bradley Houser had to undergo an emergency uvula excision. And Edie was suddenly missing half of her rhythm section.

That night I made sweet passion to the crowd--even going off the set list to play an aching, atmospheric solo cover of Peter Cetera's timeless The Glory of Love.

After the lights went down, she asked me to give it all up to become a New Bohemian--to leave the comfortable life I knew behind and venture into tomorrow hand in hand with her.

But, as you might imagine, I was simply getting way too much top notch Camden Community College tail to go that direction.

Hard Rain's Gonna Fall,
Denny DelVecchio

Friday, December 10, 2010

From The Bag of Tricks: Denny Was Just Accepted To College! (Advance #29)

Although I secured my G.E.D. almost 15 years ago (and have had my Ph.D. in The Genital Arts for over a decade), I have always longed to be a college man like the father of some guy I knew back in Jersey who completed almost two full semesters at Rutgers-Camden Extension back in the late 70s.

Well I am both humbled and totally stoked to announce that I have just been accepted to, as they say in Europe, University.

I have long wanted to be an artist, and Mr. Marzetti once told me in junior high that I painted "just like a retarded Van Gough." I  have kept that amazing compliment close to my heart ever since.

This is the drawing that got me in.

In truth I thought Terrapin Sexplosion was a tad broad as I have always considered myself a stylistic disciple of pre-Expressionist Fauves like Matisse and Rouault.  My brash and aggressive use of colors and textures would seem to bear that out. 

Amazingly, I already start school in 10 days at the Glendale branch of the world-renowned Art Instruction Schools. I have to be sure to ask the Registrar about my dorm, and can't wait to get a healthy peek at the co-eds in their apple bottom jeans and boots with the fur.

It's gonna be a great year.

Pomp and Circumstance,
Denny DelVecchio

Saturday, December 4, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: Severing Diplomatic Relations (Advance #27)


In a fiery display of solidarity with this site's longtime allies in Seoul, Your New Bad Habit today formally cut all diplomatic ties with Pyongyang, catapulting its often percussive relationship with the cloistered state into icy new territory.

Besides my preternatural disdain for pygmy despots hell-bent on feasting on the loins of power at any cost, that lock-step marching video they always play on Fox and Friends creeps Denny the fuck out.

The truth is that I'm willing to settle this whole thing right now in the same manner by which hundreds of generations of rivals have: erotic jello wrestling.

The ball's in your court now, 'Lil Kim.

With Much Pride,
Denny DelVecchio

Monday, November 29, 2010

Take The Wheel, Brian Dunkleman

Eds. Note: This is the 13th installment of our ongoing series of guest appearances by cultural heavyweights. 


Hello, bitches and bitchettes. Dunkleman here checking in with my peoples all across the world who are, byes the ways, the best goddamn fans in all said world. Much love from BD1.

When I'm not totally being ogled on the street by well-wishers and hoes that want to get all up on my jock, I'm keeping busy with TONS of new projects, including a spec romantic dramedy I'm shopping for a Lifetime Movie based upon my last season on Celebrity Fit Club. Makes Precious look like Yo Gabba Gabba.

We're just looking for the right director now. Don't want to drop any names *Ahem, Brett Ratner* but let's just say I wouldn't go and cancel that subscription to Variety yet just 'cause Papa Dunks hasn't been in there for a spell.  Trust a brother on that.

What? Ryan Seacrest? That cum-guzzling roadwhore couldn't drink the warmed over Keystone streaming down my ass crack on any given Sunday night in the back room of Baker's Brewpub in Studio City. Not as long as B-Dunks is running the open mic night.

I wouldn't trade places with that cocksmoking he-goblin if I were offered $100 and three hits of street-grade Angel Dust. No way. Especially not unless you have some on you right now.

While Skeletor's sexting with 9th runners up from Season 6 of Idol, I have my pick of the litter in the line outside of the 8 pm Groundlings show--after I tell them I hoste(ed) American Idol and then flash them my vocational driver's license and one additional form of I.D., perhaps a Sam's Club card. Or maybe I blow their mind with my Swiss Colony Yodeler of Savings creds.  Either way, they'll usually let me bounce in and kick it with them most of the night. Welcome to the O.C., bitch.

Oh, you still think I regret leaving Idol? N-word, please. Did you get a third read for the part of Cabin Boy #2 in the BBC remake of Moby Dick? How about serving as the understudy to Geoff the Pizza Jerker in the 2006 reboot of Black Chicks White Dicks? Or secure a callback as Pleasant-Looking Guy in Bathtub Next To Moderately Attractive Wife in the new Cialis masterstroke? No?  Really? Then I guess you also didn't get the part of guy who gave a sweaty tugjob behind a Culver City Carl's Jr. for meth money last week.

Didn't think so. Because you're name isn't Brian Dunkleman.

But this guy's is. And he's about to blow it all up, yet again.

Out,
Brian Dunkleman

Monday, November 22, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: Train In Vain (Regress #13)


I care not what grim personal or emotional depths you are currently plumbing.

It doesn't matter how soul-crushingly bleak your already rawboned lovemaking prospects have become.

It's of no moment that you find yourself shamefully devoid of skill in your chosen vocation as an erotic mime.

And I won't judge you simply because you spend most of your free hours in the musty crawlspace above your ex-girlfriend's apartment bedroom.

Because despite all of these lamentable human conditions, you're George Timothy Fucking Clooney compared to the bastard love child of Sandy Cohen and Dylan McDermott-looking, cleanse my ears with sulfuric acid sounding, Dark Angel Lucifer-spawned, mortal sin against humanity and all things sacred and holy better known as Train.

Feeling better now?

With Perfect Empathy,
Denny DelVecchio

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: My Favorite Fan (Advance #30)


Surely you must know by now that you're my favorite fan.

Don't be coy--embrace it.

You have the body of a young, female Eric Nies, and a beguiling way that hasn't been seen since Drew Barrymore led our hearts and libidos astray back in 1992.

And you understand me.  I won't soon forget that. Some wouldn't make much of your two visits to this site totaling 7 minutes over a four week period, but to me you're a shimmering angel of light.

Your lover said they'd leave if you didn't stop worshiping prostrate at my feet.  You swung open the door for them to exit your life forever. That's Denny's brave girl.

Your parents told you that you were no child of theirs. You smiled and cheerfully revealed to Grant and Renee that Your New Bad Habit was nothing compared to how you had made Def Leppardian love to Shaun DiLoretto three times in 37 minutes last year--in their marital bed.  You left them, mouths agape, and moved into the efficiency apartment of your dreams.

The South Dakota State University women's hockey team abandoned you. Did my special princess frown? Not that little fighter. She drove her Zamboni of Pride away from the rink without looking back. And her old squad lost the next night to Mankato State 12-2. In your face, ice harpies!

I will never forget you, favorite fan. A Your New Bad Habit hoodie (see above) and Season 1 of The Ropers on DVD have already been dispatched.

Yours In Love,
Denny DelVecchio

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Advance #62: Wisconsin's A Little Something Like This...

Love to you all from Denny Dance, somewhere in this Godforsaken Dairyphile land, where football teams score 83 points and Denny scores even more.

Your favorite and mine, too,
Denny DelVecchio

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Regress #52: Good Bye For Now (Denny's Been Transferred to Wisconsin)

It is with a touch of sadness, my virulent DelVecchians, that Denny Dance must now share with you some unsettling news.

That fussy little ladyboy that calls himself my boss, Easy Ed Verhowski, has transferred me to a new position in Kenosha, Wisconsin, effective immediately.

While I remain skeptical that Kenosha is a real city and Wisconsin is a real state, I must abide by the rotund dicklord's orders.

Now the real problem--complete relocation and new digs that may or may not have what some people are calling "the internet."

So I will bid a humble good-bye to you all.  Not forever, but for now. I hope to be back online and deep into your panties by Christmas. I'll try to check in on Facebook when I can and, yes, I will continue to reply to all fanmail and tit-shots at my personal email address, dennydelvecchio@gmail.com.

Denny would still lovingly impregnate you all at a moment's notice. Let that fact keep you warm when the cold winds blow.

Much love,
Denny DelVecchio

Sunday, November 7, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks, Fucked Up Election Edition: Missing Your Demographic (Regress #12)



Although sure to make you drop and do the booty wop, this jam is the harmonic equivalent of assigning Your New Bad Habit as required reading for the Hutterian Brethren.

It certainly would have been insightful to have been a fly on the wall at the Mensa convention where this political masterstroke was conceived.

Such an endeavor is simply too important to leave in the hands of amateurs. Had I been in charge, I would have leaned toward a significantly more old school joint

In Confidence,
Denny DelVecchio

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Regress #51: His Gateway Drug to Abject Human Failure

This gay subtext-drenched lovely started grandpops DelVecchio down his sodden, failed marriage-pocked, skank-ridden luge run to nowhere.

But, from time to time, I still managed to shake a couple loose for Denny when the old man was passed out.

Reminiscing,
Denny DelVecchio

Monday, November 1, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks : Tell Them The Truth, Progressive Flo (Regress #19)

There are actually human beings--or very close--who choose to believe that you're an auto insurance huckster rather than a Lucifer-spawned Emissary of Perdition.

And putting that small detail aside for a moment, I can still think of several entertainment industry namesakes who have comfortably exceeded your level of "Flo" realness.

Hurts doesn't it?

Your Revlon Lot Lizard Luscious lip paint and Rocky Horror Transvestite eye shadow only further suggest your true identity as one of the Beast's earth-stationed minions. I half expect a 1-900 number to start crawling across the screen offering your carnal services to the sad and lovelorn roaming the Church of Satan.

What's crystal clear is that you're going to fail in your lurid quest for our souls. You can take that to the bank.

Denny intends to stop the legions of misinformed, cartoonish disciples from believing that you're something you're not.  And make no mistake, you cloven-hoofed shill--they will learn the truth.

Without irony,
Denny DelVecchio

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Take The Wheel, Douchebag

 
Eds. Note: This is the 12th installment of our ongoing series of guest appearances by cultural heavyweights. 

What the holy fuck did I do to make this world hate me so?

My sole purpose on this planet is to gently cleanse the tender vaginal canals of female human beings across the industrialized world and, if at all possible, fill said female with a heightened sense of confidence and self worth should another human happen upon said woman's vaginal canal.

I promise nothing more. I deliver nothing less.

Well, on second thought, I might even serve to occasionally foster a greater degree of communication between the various generations of human families, as a mother may see fit to regale her daughter or daughters with cheerful tales of yore, such as when her own douching helped her snare her future husband's eye the University of Dayton fall formal back in 1982.

I cleanse. I smile. I die.

Yes, that's right.  After I labor as a reservoir for an otherworldly combination of harsh chemicals, acids, bases and vinegar, I am hurriedly cast asunder much like my recreational cousin, the condom.

How do you think that makes me feel?

Empowered, that's how. Just like a latter-day Geisha at the $10 tug-stand or servile, doe eyed concubine.

But you know what does rile me up?  When humans take my name in vain by affixing the noble moniker to those deemed the most socially befuddled and monstrously undesirable amongst them.

Would you like it if I called you a Dane Cook?

Or a Stan Gable?

Or a The Situation?

Or even the a the late Johnny Olson?

Exactly, you stanky landlord of hell-quim.

Now open up those meaty gargoyles you call thighs and let me get about my business in peace.

-Eve Unit #231,712

Monday, October 25, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: Nick Lachey Will Heal Our Broken World (Advance #24)


The global economy is in virtual free fall, two apocalyptic environmental disasters are cravenly mocking us in unison, and mud-slinging and paranoia are sinking our political discourse to new, unmined depths.

And the cruel troika of poverty, war and disease are plowing forward with sinister new traction.

Some are whispering that there's no hope for our future.

Well I say there sure the fuck is as long as the the Alabaster Groinasaurus is still dropping his silky smooth jams.

That's right--we need you more than ever, Nicky Dreams.

Step up, suggestively grind your svelte, percussive hips and coolly transform this broken world into your own personal pleasuredome.

Then impregnate our souls with your Miles Davis-esque Southern Ohio funk.

A Believer,
Denny DelVecchio

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Advance #60: Introducing "DelVecchio, The Fragrance"


Coming Winter 2011 at all finer Costco Wholesale Clubs and Kaufhaus Des Westens across the United States and Bavaria.

You will have sexual intercourse, perhaps even with another, within 11 hours of drenching your doughy torso in this oily hump serum, or up to 50% of your purchase price will be cheerfully refunded.

The line forms to Denny's left.

Ballin',
Denny DelVecchio

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Regress #50: Mr. Cunningham Felled

Although I once shamelessly foisted a yeoman's bounty of carnal aspirations at your supple, copper-domed better half week after merciless week, I never actually wished that you were dead.

And now you are.

Yet, still, I'm not one iota closer to sexing the erstwhile Mrs. Cunningham now than I was as a musky, besotted rodeo clown of avarice back in 1983. And there's nothing that Spike Jonze can do about it now.

Is that what a loving God would allow?
 
Sad But Not Really Meaningfully Grieving,
Denny DelVecchio

Sunday, October 17, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: Our Generation's Cary Grant (Advance #17)

Cary Grant. Sir Laurence Olivier. Paul Newman. Gregory Peck. Clark Gable.

These Pharaohs of Old Hollywood all possessed unrivaled acting chops, sculpted jawlines and animal magnetism in spades. And we'll never forget them.

Whether a role required a slow burn or a bright conflagration of thespianic ardor, they stood at the ready to transform themselves. And, perhaps, us a little as well.

Many have debated what nuanced player of our generation will one day proudly stand arm and arm with these Titans of the Celluloid.

Will it be Clooney? Depp? Washington? Seymour Hoffman?

I say none of the above.

Let me be the first to lay my hard earned money down on a multi-faceted son of a Michigan auto mechanic, who worked his way through the acting ranks with razor-like aplomb, never losing sight of his dream to be the very best at his craft.

I'm talking about you, Dax Shepard.  Please get up and take a bow.

Cordially,
Denny DelVecchio

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Take The Wheel, Single Girlie


Eds. Note: This is the 11th installment of our ongoing series of guest appearances by cultural heavyweights. 

To say that Denny yearns to make sweaty blog-love to her is like saying that Johnny Depp is a hundredaire.  Check out her boner-inducing site right now. But she's mine, bitch.

Well, hi there! Cultural heavyweight singlegirlie inna house. Welcome to my boyfriend’s website.

Who is this brazen tart, you ask? I, my friends, am the girlfriend. The chosen one. In case you missed it, Denny made the official announcement a short time ago on the smash-hit sensation Love in the Dumps web forum. And of course, I declared my love for Den-Den some time ago.

While I’m not here to piss on my tree or threaten violence, it has come to my attention that certain individuals have been – how you say? – jockin’ my man.

This is hardly a surprise. It’s classic Hollywood, really. Boy gets gorgeous, smart, upscale, morally questionable girlfriend and suddenly every ‘gina in town is on his crotch. It’s just like Can’t Buy Me Love, except Denny’s way hotter than Dempsey, and he didn’t pay me. No, seriously.

Now, I am not so naïve to expect a man like Denny to settle on just one human. Nor am I so selfish to deny others of the good doctor’s many sexual gifts. In fact, I believe every man, woman and hermaphrodite alive should at least once experience the rapture that is Denny.

What can I say? I’m a humanitarian.

But as I learned from The Joy Luck Club, there can only be one Number One Wife, and that bitch is ME. The rest of you are the hoes and bros Denny may penetrate while I am menstruating.

Yes, I’m talking to you, Katy Perry. And you too, M.C. Bubbles. As for the remainder of you schmoes, well, you know who you are.

So have at it, y’all, just remember your place. You are all number two, and in more ways than one. Oh, and be sure to wear protection. I’ve been around.

xoxo Single Girlie xoxo

Monday, October 11, 2010

Advance #59: The Most Awesomest Thing You've Ever Seen Ever


Over the course of my carnally-fruitful decades on this beautiful, silky-hipped Latin He-Ball the Sun most definitely revolves around, I have gained a well-deserved reputation for being a quick-witted, easy on the eyes pleasure serpent.

So Denny Dance knows that his opinions on the ebbs and flows of our cultural bellwethers are almost always spot on.

This humble video masterpiece is living, breathing, shitting proof. Watching it made me emotionally turgid. Hopefully it will do the same for you.

If it doesn't, you're not reading this sentence right now, anyway.

Saddle Up,
Denny DelVecchio

Sunday, October 10, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: My Supple New Queen? (Advance #19)



If any loyal DelVecchians out there know this statuesque enchantress' digits, please quickly (but discreetly) fire them my way via our pre-arranged method.

I'll make it worth your while like only Denny can.

With Some Urgency,
Denny DelVecchio

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Advance #58: Denny's First Term Paper


It was in a tender, breezy Fall in a better time and place when a scholarly young lad turned his eyes skyward in askance, wondering aloud who he should select as the subject of his very first term paper. 

Would it be Ghandi? JFK? Joe Montana? Conrad Bain?

As Denny spun the names over in his head like so many fateful lottery balls, one number kept getting sucked through the pneumatic of my mind, revealed by a perky, eager to please young spokesmodel with a hooker's morals but a concubine's heart.

And what did that beautiful white ball reveal?

Read on . . .

October 7, 1986



Hello. My name is Denny DelVeciho which meaens Denny of the Vecchio in Italan (do I get extra credit for that Miss DiLazio?)and I picked out a super awsome guy for the person on Earth that I most admire the most of any person on Earth.

My father.

Just kidding. I haven't seen my dad in six years. The last I hurd he was selling his penis down by the warehouse dictrict for $10 and a menthol cigarette.

But anyway the person I most admire in the universe is Johnny Lawrence from the Karatie Kid. He's handsome and can kick ass so bad and he should have swept the leg and also kicked that little chinees dudes face in and then totally had sex with the blond girl, maybe in the locker room or could be in his car. And maybe they could have done it twice or even three times. He probably drived a kick butt car like an ElCamino that Denny is saving up his money for now. I have $17.80.

Any way those are the resons I really like Johnny Lawrence. I want to meet him someday and then when I do meet him Ill tell him that hes my hero and that we should go have a lot of sex together. Like with hot chicks. Maybe ones in Philly. That's a big city near Camden.

I saw a real boob last week by the way it was my counsin Dahlia's and I went into the bathroom to bust a grumpy and i saw her get out of the shower and their were boobs. She's 19 so they were xtra big. 

I also think Jesus Christ is cool (Tony G. told me to say that just in case Jesus reads my paper or some shit).

Anyway to sum up my term paper, my favorite person in the world is the blone guy from Karate kid, I saw my counsints boobs and if Jesus is reading this what I was doing last week in the closet was a science experment.

Sincerly,
Denny DelVeciho

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Upcoming Your New Bad Habit Headlines



Denny has been called a cocktease, and he's earning the sweet moniker now by giving what some have referred to as a "sneak preview" of upcoming Your New Bad Habit stories.

Let the hype begin, DelVecchians.

Chimpanzees: Amoral, lice-ridden psychopaths aren't really so much like us after all

Otherwise average Boise man has freakish 7 inch clitoris

Mick Jagger: "I'd still fuck Mick Jagger"

Man of Asian descent ascends

Impoverished rapper reconsiders "wrecking the mic."

Des Moines couple agrees auto-erotic asphyxiation looked hotter on CSI: Miami

100% pure cane sugar still 100% rots the shit out of your kids' teeth

Building The Drama,
Denny DelVecchio

Sunday, October 3, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: 8:45 AM on Interstate 17

I was awakened this morning by the thunderous hum of a passing 18-wheeler. As my eyes opened from their shallow, troubled rest, I slowly took an inventory of my curious state.

I was shirtless and sporting a handsome satin Kimono. I had a fresh Team Jacob tattoo on my right upper thigh, and some Team Edward ink on my left. On my abdomen was thematically-unifying third leg to the triad.

I reeked of a several hours old Sambuca shot. No, make that two. I had been relieved of my eyebrow, and (as I later learned) painted in its place were thick, arched, Brooke Shieldsian facsimiles. A handsome pair of what looked to be hand-cut Dutch clogs adorned my feet. My socks were apparently long gone, as were any traces of my undergarments.

On the ground next to me was a small JanSport fanny pack. In it, on a ripped off portion of a carton of Pall Mall cigarettes, was this cryptic message. Also inside was a $25.00 check to me from someone named Miles Odenkirk with Shit Yeah, Bro written in the memo line, a Cantonese (?) dental dam, a half-eaten Nutter Butter, a classic Hardcore Rap CD and the phone number to a prominent Phoenix-area urologist.  And, perhaps most importantly, a disposable camera that included the photo to the upper left. I don't recall ever having met any of those people, but I have a distinct feeling that I know them fairly well at this point.

I can't say for sure, but I'm 80-85% convinced that I just had the best night of my life.  And probably the best night of any of your lives as well.

Glad tidings,
Denny DelVecchio 

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Take The Wheel, Karaoke Activity Partner

Eds. Note: This is the 10th installment of our ongoing series of guest appearances by cultural heavyweights. 

This just happens to be one Denny would very much like to have sex with right now. Denny commands you to visit the nimble minx's site forthwith.

The first time I made love to a real man happened in a bathroom, in a night club, in New Jersey in 1988.  I still feel the fever from that night of knockin' da boots, riding the wild stallion, "picking the lice off my primate lover" - all while trying not to let my panties fall onto the urine soaked floor.

There I was in Camden, New Jersey, dressed up in my leopard print bustier, hot pink stretch pants, crotchless purple lace panties, sequins, headband twisted inside my perm, and 4" aqua Candies pumps.  I was feeling sexy, glamorous, and horny.  I was snorting pharmaceutical grade cocaine up my left nostril, and pure cane sugar up my right. I was sipping a Zima and pushing my chest out so the whole room could see my double D's.

Just then, one of my favorite songs came over the boom box, and it was then my eyes fell upon this sexy stallion from across the room, and I couldn't take my eyes off him.

"Damn," I thought as I slowly was pulled towards him by the magnetic force otherwise known as Denny's Titanic Sized Love Stick (or it could have been the mustache), "everyone is gonna see my dampness for this man.  Why did I wear the crotchless ones this evening?"

There were no words, just moves, as we started to grind together to an electrifying beat. Then, this hot hunk whispered in my ear, softly... "Hey Athena, you mind if I call you that, you look like a goddess to me.  I am Denny DelVecchio.  Let's go see if I can get you pregnant while you're bent over the urinal."  All I could do was groan in ecstasy knowing that I was his chosen one for that quarter hour and I would now be able to list "dipping my toes into the pool called DelVecchio" on my list of greatest achievements.

There were no words, just screams and random animal like noises that eventually had caught the attention of the security staff.  When they banged on the door, my Denny did the right thing... he accepted $20 each in cold, hard cash in order for them to watch the greatest show on Earth.  When it was all done, Denny had pocketed $140 dollars and I asked him to buy me a drink, to which he promptly told me, "No 'ho, go buy your own damn drink."

I'll never forget that man, the sex, or the son we conceived that night that now lives with his Native American grandma in Colorado.

Yours,

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Regress #49: Ryan Murphy, I Wish You Were Never Born

How could you so callously rob mankind of Glee's soulful Chocolate Tornado?

Are you too love-stoned on the bevy of hefty-breasted doxies that you surely engorge yourself on each day to see the man behind the dance?

Retribution is nigh.  Denny-style.

Plotting,
Denny DelVecchio

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Regress #48: No Chance Of Succeeding

 

I just stumbled across this distended eyesore and his gruesome music video, and have two immediate reactions:

1. Why am I watching this when I could be lustily cyber-gazing upon an ample-bosomed Paphian servicing an entire bachelor party in the back room of a bedraggled Rotterdam discotheque?

2. This video will never gain any sort of popularity.  In fact, Denny suspects that he's one of perhaps a dozen or so unfortunate souls who have singed their eyes to it.  If all of you watch, the number could be upped to two dozen.

Eyesore,
Denny DelVecchio

Friday, September 24, 2010

Advance #57: Denny's Finally Getting A "Cellular" Telephone



Denny fought the good fight as long as he could, but apparently my Fem-rotic Armies are demanding that I be more accessible than what a beeper, pay phone and car phone have rendered me.

So I am now a proud "Cellular" telephone owner.

A certain hirsute Smooth Operator is standing by.

Reach Out And Touch Me,
Denny DelVecchio

Thursday, September 23, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: Spoiler Alert #3 (The Empire Strikes Back)

Despite the fact that they look nothing alike and had different last names, I was amazed to discover, as a grimy 11 year old huffer nestled in the back row of Camden Westpointe Mall Theater #7, that Darth Benjamin Eric Vader had sired our very own Luke (middle name unknown) Skywalker.

I later learned, as an irresistible 33 year old grifter, that the younger Jedi had sprung from Natalie Portman's fertile uterus (screen shot of birth scene here) after she had been lovingly pollinated by a youthful, chiseled James Earl Jones. You think the Terminator time-space continuum issues were troubling? This was a true Jedi Mindfuck!

Either way, I wept like a professional athlete at this emotionally penetrating moment in film history. And surely you will, too.

Blessed,
Denny DelVecchio

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

VINCENT JACKSON TRADED

FOR IMMEDIATE PUBLICATION:

To confirm recent internet rumors, cocksure superblog Your New Bad Habit has secured the services of suspended Pro-Bowl Wide Receiver Vincent Jackson from the San Diego Chargers for cash considerations and prominent West Coast hellcat Single Girlie's I-Phone number, beating out the Minnesota Vikings and St. Louis Rams just hours before Jackson's suspension was set to jump three additional games. 

Said YNBH CEO Denny DelVecchio: "Brett Favre is the crusty, detestable bastard love baby of Yoda and Rachel Berry. That is all."

Jackson is expected to play Wingman for DelVecchio, although he could occasionally run the Wildcat.

                                                                   -30-

Monday, September 20, 2010

Take The Wheel, Pacey Witter





Eds. Note: This is the ninth installment of our ongoing series of guest appearances by cultural heavyweights. 


Oh, well, well well, what have we here? 

It looks like Dawson Leery--the oldest American teenager since Ralph Macchio's 37 year old twig-dick was waxing Dame Elizabeth Shue on and off back in 1984. 

And Pacey has one thing to say to you:

Get your manicured hands, gingivitis hairline, Suvari-esque forehead and "ahh shucks Mr. Potter, I'd never ask for a sloppy handjob from your only daughter in the passenger seat of a '94 Honda Civic after studying late for our AP European History class" away from the girl.  

And step your bitch ass to Pacey Witter. Because it's time for your $5 Footlong of pain, friend.

It's just not enough for you to be the smartest, most sensitive human without a vagina (allegedly) in Capeside. You apparently also feel the need to biblically recline with the only non-blonde I've ever loved. And by love, I mean shamelessly masturbated to while listening to side two of ELO's Eldorado, A Symphony with my booze-wrecked cop father and four sibs watching Ally McBeal in the next room. 

Now that's love.

And that's what you're messing with, homeboy.

I'll cut you.

Oh, wait, I get to take the sensitive blonde chipmunk instead? Well thanks a fucking million, partner. That's like offering me a goddamn Necco while you suck down a bag of Skittles Crazy Cores right in front of me.

You and Joey are Soulmates?  Please. That $2 sperm sponge will mount the first multimillionaire, bat-shit crazy Scientologist movie star that holds a door for her.  Mark Pacey's word. 

This is really all about Miss Jacobs robbing my fragile flower Freshman year, right? 

Well you know what, you can have her. Just send me over my true heart. My one and only. My Joey "Holy Dick Don't Confuse Me With Monica, Harry or Colonel " Potter.

And then I can get you a three episode turn on Fringe and/or Diane Kruger.

Ball's in your court, Dawson. 

And I don't want to wait. 

Signed,
Pacey


Friday, September 17, 2010

Advance #56: My Favorite Vampire

If Denny Dance were a vampire, he's pretty sure that he'd be this one.

What vampire would you be, DelVecchian Nation?

Already Taken: Blacula (Matt Brand)

Undead,
Denny DelVecchio

Thursday, September 16, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: Gaga (Regress #8)

Stop it.  Just. Stop. It.

I won't call her Lady since a fair-of-face young gent such as myself might rightfully surmise that her dirty places have seen more pounding than a trans-continental railroad project manned by meth junkies.

But, seriously, she's trying to combine Red Lobster facewear with Fifth Element-chic, topping it off with a ghoulish Romanian Death Mask--and that was just for a late night carb-gallop to Shoney's.

Gaga me with a spoon!

I'm sure having two fully functioning sets of genitalia must be as mesmerizing as a Kardashian at a womens dogsledding convention, but it can't be a free pass for everything from freebasing caviar to wearing a diamelle-encrusted leather codpiece to a Today Show interview. 

So, kind Sir/Mistress, please, for Denny, go back to your wayward hipster days, where the greatest offenses you committed involved breaking 129 pound club-boys' hearts.

If you look closely at the photo to the northwest, you can see a winsome tear forming above her left fore-antennae. That says it all.

Ex post facto,
Denny DelVecchio

MY FIRST POST!!!



Whether your idea of manic rhythmic delight involves dance hall, techno, hip hop, Afro-Cuban funk, pre-group fisting industrial, clogging, Dirty South or good old fashioned jump, jive and wailing, you'll want to strap on your favorite pair of dancing shoes, grab your best girl (or boy!), and shimmy on over to Denny's Dancing Delights--the Internet's newest destination for everything related to Satan's Palsy aka Getting One's Funk On aka THE DANCE!!!

Each week, Denny's Dancing Delights will feature a different genre of dance, and we'll have monthly video contests for the C-C-C-CRAZIEST dance in the world.  Submitted by none other than YOU.

Who wants to be famous?

YOU do!

This week's dance is The Boot Scoot, famous from Texas to Toldeo.  From Maine to Modesto. From your eyes to my dancing shoes.

So limber up, drink your Red Bull, and join me here every Thursday and Monday for a celebration of LIFE better known as DENNY'S DANCING DELIGHTS!!!

Your Dance Partner,
Denny Dance

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Welcome Home to "Ye Comfy Kitchen"

Wait...what's that smell?

Mmmm, that's right...it's a delicious, homemade apple pie baking in your very own oven. And it will be ready to serve up, hot and fresh, to your family tonight, courtesy of Ye Comfy Kitchen--the web's newest and best destination for good cooking, good friends and good times.

So let your hair down, put your apron on, and get ready to whip up some fantastic, fresh, easy and nutritious culinary delights for your family's enjoyment.

Spend a few minutes with us a day and we promise to make you the home cooking guru that you always knew you could be, whether it's a steaming hot pie, delicious country chicken, savory mashed potatoes, or appetizers to put a smile on your loved ones' faces!

The Editor and Chef-in-Residence hopes that you'll return soon!

Oh, and here's Chef DelVecchio's "secret" recipe for his world-famous "Fall Harvest Apple Pie."

Ingredients:

Pastry for a 10 inch two Crust Pie
1 cup Sugar
1/4 cup Flour
2 tablespoons of your Favorite Ejaculate
3/4 teaspoon Ground Cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon Ground Nutmeg
dash of Salt
8 cups thinly sliced pared Tart Cooking Apples
4 tablespoons Whipping Cream
Preparation:

1. Prepare pie crusts.
2. Heat oven to 425 F.
3. Add sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt in large bowl. Stir in apples.
4. Place bottom pie dough into deep-dish pie plate. Spoon filling into pie shell.
5. Drizzle with 3 tablespoons whipping cream.
6. Cover with top crust. Trim, seal and flute edges. Cut slits into crust to allow steam to escape.
7. Brush top crust with remaining whipping cream.
8. Bake 40-45 minutes or until crust is brown and juice begins to bubble and ENJOY!!

Love in Food,
Dennis W. DelVecchio
Editor and Chef-in-Residence

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Advance #55: Daniel Craig

Denny's secure enough to have this mouthwatering, seam-bursting fountain of masculine spermwater and his unbridled virility featured on this sacred page.

How about you?

Normal Heart Rate,
Denny DelVecchio

Saturday, September 11, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: This Is Going To Be A Hit

A old friend from the Dirty South just forwarded this new jam to me, and I strongly suspect that it's going to blow up bigtime once word gets out.

Denny Dance implores you to call or fax your local D.J. to let them know about it.

Whoomp,
Denny DelVecchio

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Shhhh...Denny's Being Interviewed Tonight



Although traditional heavy hitters like GQ, Details and Bloodhorse Magazine have all recently come a-knocking on Denny's Triple-Wide, I have decided to grant my first official interview to my favorite dating-woe pimp, Love in the Dumps.

Although lofty-cheekboned Himbo Matt Brand floated the idea of a Hip Hop-themed nude pictorial, my better, more modest angels commanded me to take a subdued, Wallacian approach.

Be sure to check out LITD this Saturday for the sweet, sultry carnage.

Yours In Love,
Denny DelVecchio

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Advance #54: Search Terms For This Site Still Kick Rump

Last month, I took my servile DelVecchians (better known as you) with me on a desperate voyage through the dark recesses of the innterwobs.

Well, I'm pumping that sweet, moaning wellspring yet again, as I've noticed the searches have grown more urgent, more craven, more scatological, more anatomical.

More Denny.

Here are some from the last few weeks:

-Hairy Mens Underwears
-Orgasm Contractions
-Soiled Granny Panties
-Gaping Greasy Bumholes
-Train Lead Singer Camel Toe
-Real Childbirth Videos
-His Bad Fisting Habits
-Princess Leia Handjob
-Facesitting Bad Habit
-Rod Stewart Spermwich Tube London
-Delvecchio Huge Penis

My mother would be so proud--rest her very much alive soul.

Hairy Underwears,
Denny DelVecchio

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: Have You Seen My Beeper?

It could have been the half-dozen or so double-blackberry mojitos I steadied myself with while dancing the night away at a club I have lovingly dubbed Ass By 11:00.

Or the fact that I gorged on a heavenly trifecta of double-battered swordfish, Georgia prawns and Absinthe.

Or perhaps it was even because I got lost in the angel eyes of a no-nonsense substitute teacher/Jazzercise! instructor from Glendale with grind-appeal rivaling only the 50 year old Lisa Rinna we fell in love with in the late 90s.

But all Denny Dance knows right now is that he's down one topaz Model D-23 Unication pager, and the lights of the Greater Phoenix Metroplex's social scene have gone dark right along with it.

Please bring Bonita home,
Denny DelVecchio

Monday, September 6, 2010

Why?

Because Denny says so, that's why.

Fully In Control,
Denny DelVecchio

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Happy Labor Day From Denny Dance

Niche Smut
Denny wants to take this opportunity to wish his loyal DelVecchians a most joyous Labor Day irrespective of whether or not you or someone you love will be expelling a miniature human out of your/their vagina.

Not Pregnant,
Denny DelVecchio

Saturday, September 4, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: Take the Wheel, Biggs Darklighter

Eds. Note: This is the fourth installment of our ongoing series of guest appearances by cultural heavyweights.

"He had that smirk, the one he'd give you when he'd done something you couldn't."―Gavin Darklighter

Daddy died six hours later.  But he did so knowing that his eldest son, Yours Truly, had been one of the top 30 or 40 rebel starfighters who had no choice but to bravely fought the Empire in the Battle of Yavin. And the old man was right--I did have "that smirk." At least until my X-Wing was engulfed by ion cannon hellfire above Death Star Infusion Dock 213 A-21. More than a few Stormtroopers celebrated (for a couple carefree moments). Who's laughing now?

Anyway, my quest toward the grail of becoming a credited rebel fighter on IMDB started when I was on the business end of a Category 5 tugjob from Leia Organa the night of the Aldera West Sadie Hawkins Mixer. She was a somewhat aloof "Diplomat Brat," with a curvy figure and morals to match. I was a brash young flight trainee on the prowl for galactic rear. It was a match made in Doaba Guerfel.

Fast forward two years. Le-Le's been kidnapped by that angry, domed, fallen angel, and guess who gets the call to lead the mission to restore her womanly honor/blow up some crazy shit? Biggs Darklighter, that's who. The one who made the Kessel Run in less than 11 parsecs.

Oh, wait. It wasn't me, was it? And who, you ask, got the call? How about some whiny little farmboy from Tatooine who was all into his twin sis' junk. Creepy if you ask me. Rumor has it the Jedis are all castrated at birth anyway. Pretty tough to make the kind of sweaty, Wampa-love that my girl so craved if you're a space eunuch. What?  No, in fact my name is not Captain Obvious.

So, anyway, prissy and his midget droid took the lead at Yavin, leaving stud fly-boys like Wedge Antilles and me to clean up his mess and let him swoop in to steal the money shot.

And the majestic victory ceremony?  "Ohh, ohh, Luke, you're sooooo brave. Mmmmm Han Solo, look how hot you are. Wow, Chewbacca, you get angry and give the most intimidating pant-hoots. How very charming.  Here's a great big medal and sexy wink from everyone's fave Princess." I wasn't even honored in memoriam. Tacky shit, homie.

Biggs Darklighter should have kissed the girl. Biggs Darklighter should have been the Jedi Messiah of the Galaxy. Biggs Darklighter should have procreated with Leia. What beautiful space babies I'd have sired. But fate is a cruel Sarlacc.

Leia Solo? Really? Sounds like a Hweg Shul prostitute.

And two words about Han: Size Queen.

By the way, Luke, be sure to give your old man my best. Tell him how much I enjoyed the Fire Sweater of Death he bought me that special night. Things have been just dandy ever since.

-Biggs D.


Thursday, September 2, 2010

Regress #47: Thanks A Lot, Assface



It's apparently not enough for you to be nearly as handsome, athletic, clever and genitally-fortified as Denny Dance.

No, you had to go and make the worst song to happen to the male species since Marvin Gaye plowed crooned his way through God's bountiful green earth full of buxom nymphets.

Lately, the icy questions come at me fast and angry:

"Denny, why don't you ever say those perfect things to me like Bruno Mars does in his song?

"Denny, you don't ever tell me that my eyes, my eyes make the stars look like they're not shining."

"Denny, have you ever said there's not a thing that you would change when you see my face?"

"Denny, how come you haven't said to me that when I smile the whole world stops and stares for awhile?"

And what is Denny Dance supposed to say? That nary a single one applies to them in even the remotest sense? I think all that would get Denny is a swift knee to the Jimmy--and not in a good way. 

The sad truth is, I could sit in Monk-like isolation with a quill pen and writing pad for 17 fucking years and not come up with even a syllable toward something as panty-droppingly perfect as the sweet tome for our time that you--the Morris Day of 2010--have bequeathed to an undeserving human race.

Even I'm starting to shout your name while in the throes of passion's elegant thunder--and sometimes even when I'm with another person.

So, if you'd be so kind as to stop what you're doing, The Danceman--and every other male not named you--would be most grateful.

Don't make us order the code red.

Thinly Veiled,
Denny DelVecchio

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Advance #53: Oh Yes, Denny's Staying In Tonight



Denny's body is bathed. His weary bones are lounging. His spirits are up. And the cares of the day have melted away.

Time for a sojourn to the Black Tie District to drink in the nightlife?

Not tonight.  Denny has something else planned.

It's time to fire up the Whackatron 3000 and settle back for some quality he-time with my first love, Angela Lansbury, for what promises to be an evening of sizzling, bi-generational epicurean delights.

2:59 is where my pause button typically gets a little bit of, as they say in Boston, a workout.

Celebrating Her Love,
Denny DelVecchio

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

From The Bag Of Tricks: A Very Special Boy (Advance #13)

How a culture treats its most vulnerable speaks volumes about it.

In ancient Rome, the mentally befeebled were made the unwilling subjects of cruel, humiliating bloodsport.

In the early days of our nation, these ersatz citizens were forced to endure isolated lives in dank, sexless institutions.

And not until the1970s were our schools and workplaces beginning to meaningfully accommodate the "less unchallenged" among us.

So imagine the pride I felt when I learned that a plucky little moppet---one who might have, in a darker time, served as a shoeless oarsman working for 11 cents a week and nourished on a diet of wild dewberries and rainwater--had become a bona fide pop sensation.

There was once a day when bumping John Forsythe's death from a featured position on the cover of People would have been unthinkable.  That day has passed. 

And somewhere, another special someone is smiling.

Very Truly Yours,
Denny DelVecchio

Monday, August 30, 2010

Regress #46: Wow, This Is Awkward



Hello there. Steve, right? From purchasing?  How the hell have you been, bro?

That's fantastic! I hadn't heard that you were promoted to Region 6.2 team leader. That's really great, man.  Really great. And, I'm sure, well-deserved.

Wow . . . okay, this, uh, is appreciably more awkward than it was when I rehearsed it a few minutes ago in the bathroom mirror.

You probably just want me to cut to the chase, huh? Fair enough. You deserve that much.

The truth is that I'm in a bit of a pickle here and I'm wondering if you might be able to, you know, help a brother out.

Okay, so Denny was holding rhythmic court under the electric stars of Club Labyrinth last night when I saw a curvy, well-lubed night-minx prowling her way across the room in search of a little company.

My DelVecchian coyness was no match for her milky thighs, pouty breasts, well-seasoned femininity and azure, Come Here Now, Bitch! eyes. In a heartbeat we were in the V.I.P, twin slaves to a bottomless decanter of Patron and our newly-fused lust for the hunt.

By midnight, a graffiti-scarred bus shelter was all that stood between an urgent, tangled embrace of mutually-yearning flesh and the feral Phoenix night.

After I set her up with a kiss and bus fare (including J-line transfer) home, I quickly realized that I had forgotten to secure my tender Lioness' phone number.

I was resigned to chalking it up as another sad, temporal, ghost of a relationship until I passed your desk this morning and saw my vision--my Edith--smiling from a photo of your graduation from what appeared to be Maricopa County Community College.

So I'm wondering if you'd be so kind as to shoot me your Mom's digits today when you get a second.

Son.

Pops Veccs,
Denny DelVecchio