Saturday, February 27, 2010

Advance #6: Male Bonding

To your left is exactly where one ends up when an untimely flat tire, four cases of low grade fermented liquids, a bootleg Barenaked Ladies disc (live in Montreal, BTW), a Friday booty-night romp canceled at the 11th hour and an ungodly alliance of severely compromised metabolic systems are fused together to create an unusual, but surprisingly pleasant, weekend evening.

Sometimes my sacred nights that I have offered up to the Gods of Flesh don't yield a supple, willing mistress for me. But that doesn't mean that I can't still have a go of things. Did you know, for example, that Cher was the original Auto-Tune Pimp?  (What What, Mr. Pain?)  After a sweaty and unchaperoned dabble in the Karaoke Arts, I certainly did.

Much love to Tiny J, M.C. Bubbles and Eugene "Tank" Tankarowski for a memorable night, and most curious sauna experience that I won't soon forget. (The water tasted exactly like week-old minestrone and barley soup.)

Until later,
Denny DelVecchio

Monday, February 22, 2010

Spoiler Alert #1: The Crying Game

The pretty lady has some junk . . . in her shiny Volkswagen trunk.

I'm in Miami Bitch,
Denny DelVecchio

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Regress #7: Faux Contrition

It could be because Denny Dance keeps it so very real.  It could be because I'm half man, half Minotaur and half 16th Century Spanish nobleman.  Or, perchance, it's because they try and copy my swagger.

But one thing I never have had to do is say I'm sorry.

However, in a nightmarish parallel universe where I had to apologize, I can assure you--my starstruck young underling--that I would damn well mean it.  I would mean it so hard. That's why watching young Eldrick yesterday cast my biliary system into full revolt.

Le Tigre apologized to everyone but my mother, and that's with Vega$ listing the long-hitting sex commando having had a carnal friendship with her at 3:2. I threw down $500 (sorry Mom).

I get it--you're sad about losing love, respect, millions in pitchman bucks and the adoration of young mothers in the Midwest.  But, let's face it, Tiger--you were living the Denny DelVecchio Lifestyle (with a couple of pups and Swedish model wife tossed in). The only thing that you needed to make amends for is sowing the sweet oats that your maker blessed you with. Look in the mirror and you'll see me staring back at you. Feels good, doesn't it?

Now get back up there and apologize--for apologizing.

Denny DelVecchio

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Reasons Why God Definitely Exists #1

You know LV's important to Denny Dance when he cancels his pectoral implant surgery to watch her gorgeous run into History's Arms.

I'm turgid with pride right now.

Turgid with pride right now,
Denny DelVecchio

Monday, February 15, 2010

Regress #6: Damn Hippies

Despite my bigger than life, Lucifer-may-care ways, I'm the kind of fellow who loathes hippies. I truly can't stomach the rancid little Earth Goblins.

Sorry, but I must confess that I have no stock options in Patchouli Enterprises. I don't think Phish was the second coming of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. I wouldn't even feign to spell Bobbaganoosh, let alone introduce its organic evils into my sacrosanct digestive tract.

I also can't believe that Frisbee golf is any more a sport than catching The Clap is. And I don't like hanging around humanoids who smell like the business end of my taint-neighbor after a spirited game of racquetball.

Yes, I understand that popping rainbow dust opens the catacombs of one's mind.  But it also is a gateway drug to being less desirable to all of the Ladybox Life Support Units out there.

And Double D don't play that.

Denny DelVecchio

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Here's To You, Mrs. Sanderson!


To: Craig Sanderson's Mother
From: Denny DelVecchio
Date: February 14, Every Year
Re: Robbing My Fragile Flower in the Passenger Seat of a 1983 Volkswagen Rabbit
For the 22nd consecutive Valentine's Day--Thank you!

Yours in Love,
Denny DelVecchio

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Advance #5: Vonn Damn!

You've no doubt heard them all:

Saucy, impetuous Daughter of Thor.

Shimmering, ample-chested Tigress of the Mountains.

Everyone's Favorite Jutting Female Rump.

Hella-fine, dimpled Enchantress of the Downhill.

America's Most Attractive Athlete With a Vagina.

Mrs. Denny DelVecchio.

It really doesn't matter what people call you. You're simply destined to be America's Sweetheart. Like Mary Lou Retton, only beddable. And, yes, this virile Italian Sex-Yeti wants to dance with you in a most forbidden manner.  Not illegal.  Just forbidden.

Injury? Ha. Double D will mend your rebelling, impetuous fibula with my sweet Sorcerer's touch--a sultry lightning bolt of healing from your favorite freaky plaything.

Forget the box, you're the Wheaties.  And I'm the 2%.

Stay Gold Lindsey.

Your first love,
Denny DelVecchio

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Super Sunday!

The only Super Bowl that Denny Dance cares about right now is the Super Bowl of Savings going on today only at the East McDowell Road Safeway. Go long, bargain seekers!

A special shout out this fine AM to Miss Ella Rubio, my 7th grade language arts teacher, who I fortuitously ran into yesterday at the bitchin' hot tub superstore that I've been known to frequent. Think Dame Judi Dench melded lovingly with your mother. Rubio apparently retired to Arizona three years ago. What are the chances? (Hint: Apparently 100% when Denny's involved.)

I don't want to speak out of turn, but I'm fairly certain our tender and introspective 35 minutes spent at the Phoenix Metro North Super 8 finally earned me that long-awaited A+.

Denny DelVecchio

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Advance #4: Truth in Advertising

I submit for you my favorite Tucson-area carne depot: Dickman's Meat.

Your boy Sam might not work there, but I'm all but sure that the proprietor is equally handy on the butcher block...or in the bedroom.

All my best,
Denny DelVecchio

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Regress #5: This Guy

Calling all wispy, rat-faced pitchmen for couriers that parade fully grown men around in ballet dancer-snug brown sac chokers.

If that meets your description, and it most certainly does, take that simian shock of mangy Blind Melon hair and those sinister Ewokian eyes and gallop forthwith back to helming your local community college figure drawing class.

I'd sooner walk my package (please note: double entendre) across the Yucca Flats in size 5 tap shoes and crotchless lederhosen than watch your smug pucker-face for one more nanosecond.

I'll punch you.

Die, you devil-eyed, soulless monstrosity.  You genocidal, saw-fanged Dingo From Beyond.  Die.

Sweet, merciful Lord, I'd joyfully take a reanimated Billy Mays over this drooling man-jackel.  Make it so my sweet Prince of Peace.

Unless, of course, he has a bead on a gig for me. Then please forward him my carphone # so he can give me the specs.

Most urgently,
Denny DelVecchio