Wednesday, March 31, 2010

The Birth Of Our Bastard Son Was A Day Of My Life

When I found out last year that you were with child I reacted the way you'd expect a first time father who had carelessly impregnated a happily-married, interior decorator wife and mother would--I celebrated with a night of mangy strippers, $2 highballs and mid-grade recreational Angel Dust with a few former frat brothers and a too-eager-to-please second alternate from my racquetball league named Sanjay.

And, I must admit, not getting to know my son has been a magnificent, intensely impersonal experience.  A watershed, coming of age crossroads for a life that had theretofore been all too consumed with pomade, dwarf-smut, rhinestones and emotional ships in bottles.

When I don't hold him close, I wonder aloud what kind of a man that calls himself his father he has. And whether my boy is getting the same special brand of love and adoration that I have no business or predisposition to provide him with. My mind swims.

Will he find his way in life without a role model such as I to teach him the proper manner to spring the Popcorn Trick on a lucky, yet unsuspecting, young lass?

Is it likely that he will understand that raging kleptomania is a sacred right of passage into the elite, secret society that is adulthood?

Will he one day realize the complete and utter sense of relief that I feel each time I look in my spare bedroom and see a pair of curvy 19 year old Danish Au Pairs lounging where his sweet crib might have been?

The answer is surely nay to all questions.  But I still want him to know someday that his father loves him so very much, and has endured the sad smorgasbord of emotional tribulation that comes with a cowardly denial of paternity, followed by a 12 week Sex Tour of Mazatlan.

And to his sweet, virtuous Mother I simply say thank you--for raising Denny's boy exactly the way that you've wanted to, devoid of even a modicum of parental influence from me above my chromosomal donation that resulted from a borderline anonymous, six minute rut-fest in your Buick after an Uncle Cracker show.

I just hope that I can live up to the lofty filial standards that you have surely set for me.  Time will tell.

I love you, Ben.

Oh.  I mean Bryan.

Denny DelVecchio

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

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.

Denny DelVecchio

Monday, March 29, 2010

O Caritas!

Some Sundays are better than others. Such was the case for moi last eve, as I galloped into the forbidden regions of the night with sisters Lea and Valerie [family name withheld] of the Tuscon [family name withheld].

Let's just say that the pic to your left was just north of 9:30 and just south of a loving gaggle of sibling nudity that soon engulfed me in a passionate DelVecchiwich.

I said "church choir."  You laughed.  I said "ice cream social." You snickered.  I said "ultra control top hosiery." You scoffed.  Well who's laughing/snickering/scoffing now?

But just because you had a double date with a sixer of Keystone Light and three hour block of Time Warner quasi-smut doesn't mean that your night wasn't the equal of mine. In fact, without your grim celibacy, this post would not exist. And my dogs would have gone hungry.

Bless you, you. Your special brand of sexlessness inspires me in ways you cannot possibly fathom.

Say hello to your parents,
Denny DelVecchio

Sunday, March 28, 2010

March Madness!

It's that magical time of year again: the beginning of the NCAA basketball tournament.

And although I earn my way on this earth keeping the fairer sex cravenly satisfied, I've also been told by kings, poets and socialites alike that I have a penchant for collegiate basketball forecasting.

Such has been in the DelVecchio lineage ever since Papa Vecchs correctly picked the Final Four of the 1984 N.I.T. (Hail to the Victors, indeed!)

I didn't ask for this gift. But I feel compelled to use it. Just like Ghandi or Ted Danson would have.

Now that the field of 65 has been named, I'm going to skip over the tedious early round rib ticklers and pirouette right to my sacred Final Four--and into your basketball pool's pants.

Now take your brackets out, DelVecchians. And get ready to get paid!

The Midwest: Denny's Pick is Michigan State

All I ever hear anymore is "Kansas this," "Kansas that" and "I want Kansas to make love to my wife while I watch from the corner rocker with nipple clamps and leather bustier on." And it makes me want to vomit. Kansas, while the prohibitive prom queen of this ball, lacks the basketball I.Q. to get out of the second round.  And they're pregnant. That's right. They got knocked up by the Quarterback.  Oops.

KU's going down early. And tears will flow in . . . any cities that actually exist in Kansas

Ohio State could make some noise, as may the remaining, non-incarcerated Tennessee Volunteers, but the net cutters are going to be dressed in green and be from the third most beautiful land grant university north of Ohio, east of Wisconsin and west of New York: Michigan State. (Extra kudos to MSU's athletic braintrust for handing a kindly Italian dwarf the coaching reins after Jud Heathcote was lost in the Andes and forced into unthinkable acts of cannibalism--and humanity.)

The West: Denny's Pick is Butler

I simply don't see a squad that my East Camden Community College intramural division "C" team from 1989 couldn't beat by at least 20. (Much love to Off in the Shower. I miss you guys!!) So I'll just go in alphabetical order.

Butler it is. 

The South: Denny's Pick is Duke

My heart says St. Mary's is going to make a run.  My descending colon reminds me that Duke is not only the best team in this region, but also the most unabashedly punchable. That's a tough combination.

My sentimental pick is Waco's very own Baylor Bears--a team returning to Division I hoops play after a 96 year hiatus. A lot of pluck but, in the end, probably a tad too much suck.  Props for the whole David Koresh thing, though. Gave me a sexy Halloween costume for the better part of the 90s. (A proud litter of early August-born DelVecchians out there thank them, too.)

The East: Denny's Pick is West Virginia

Although there's a 35% chance that Bob Huggins ingests his point guard before the Sweet Sixteen, I like the Mountaineers.

If he were still the Wildcats' coach, Louisville's Rick Pitino would more than likely have lost his penis somewhere in New Orleans. Whether his previous employer's hyper talented, freshman-laden squad can outperform their ex-skipper's rapacious sexual appetite is an open question.

Who else do I think could make a nice run?  How about Cornell? They play an all-girl music academy and the JV team from the Wisconsin School for the Blind en route to the Sweet 16.

In the closest vote in the last several paragraphs, I'll take West Virginia.

So there you have it: Michigan State, Butler, Duke and West Virginia.

Use the picks wisely, and try and stay away from ultra high stakes bets lest a wayward rodent alter history, leaving you on the bathroom floor of a grimy ski lodge shitroom about to perform an act of immeasurable intimacy on a lifelong friend in front of dozens of Rumple Minzed-up dipsomaniacs. 

My finals picks will be up soon. Stay tuned.

Friends Forever,
Denny DelVecchio

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Denny Cares About Your Family's Health!

I'm both proud and humbled to announce that, from today forward, Your New Bad Habit is discontinuing the use of high fructose corn syrup.

You spoke and Denny listened. So only pure, healthful table sugar will be used.

It's just another step in my tireless, lifelong quest to make this site as nutritionally beneficial for you and your beautiful young family as possible.

Bottoms Up,
Denny DelVecchio

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Regress #10: Jesse's Girl

I can understand the blissful vibes and warm puppy dogs kisses we want to bestow upon Sandra Bullock at all hours of the day. I really can.

She's like one of the 5 or 6 hottest girls in your class, yet she's still friends with everyone (including the Fucktards, Dicklords, and Spazzmoids), shotguns brews in the school parking lot, isn't afraid to "party" sans los pantalones or take mammoth future NFL lineman into her home (and boudoir) to save them from the mean streets of whatever stereotypical hellhole they happen to have been living in.

She's a saint. And I love her body, mind, soul and lovely lady lumps.

But none of that compares to the total Libertine perfection of one Jesse "The Senator" James. 

This classically handsome, unabashedly cerebral and physically-imposing carnal profligate is the solid, liquid and gas form of asskicking, and I would not stand in the way for even a moment if he wanted to do the horizontal love thump with any of-age female in my lineage. (Mom, like you weren't already three steps ahead of me with your pleasure-beam eyes.)

Let's face it, Ro-ark: He's young. He's rich. He's unyieldingly virile. And he needs to get his freakiddy freak on wherever and whenever he can.

And yet, Ms. Bullock, you still dare to judge him? You didn't even take his name, child.

While his lovable debauchee is out at all hours playing tongue-Jai Alai  or knee hockey with scores of lofty-cheekboned thespians and crooners, is Double J supposed to chastely sit home and watch the Hallmark Hall of Fame movie?  Bake quiche? Refuse to spread his ample, libidinous seed around to scores of skeezalicious, inked-up stag film starlets?

Stand by your man, girlfriend!

He forgave you for The Lake House. Now it's your turn.

With Candor,
Denny DelVecchio

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Under The Knife

Since I'm pretty sure I got awarded new health insurance today, I'm going to be out until Thursday undergoing some cosmetic prostate surgery.

Please don't worry, DelVecchians. I'll be back and more beautiful than ever.

Denny DelVecchio

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Take the Wheel, Annoying As Shit Cornell Alum

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

That's right, baby. The Big Red is all up in that motherfucker--as in the Sweet Sixteen. And to be brutally honest I haven't felt this alive since I played No Hands Tug of War during Alpha Zeta Upsilon Hell Week 1997.

Good times.

And to the teeming masses of bucktoothed Heartlanders huddling in front of space heaters in their doublewides utterly alack at what they just saw on the hardwood--I say suck it! Suck it deep, partner.

I get it. With your morose, Scandinavian-esque Midwestern winters and slim procreational pickings, your collegiate roundball has come to represent honey-tinged manna for your otherwise hopeless Jayhawk, Badger and Gopher souls. A brief yet hollow respite from your she-whiskered goblin of a wife. A safe, ready hiding place from your 30 plus years of hand-washing tillers for $6.00 an hour at the South Madison Farm & Fleet.

Whatever we want to call it, it's utterly devoid of the kind of brainy, cannabis-fueled existentialist debates that I engaged in nightly from1997-2001 with Jake, Peter, Dave, Colin and the Callahan Twins. Intellectual sparring that comes in quite handy for me each day as a partner track mergers and acquisitions attorney at a New York law firm so powerful it could have you killed tomorrow.

But then you didn't go to Cornell, did you?  The new "it" address for all things basketball and/or intellectual and/or sexual. Just say it, mortal--you want a big heaping slab of The 607.  Well I think not.

"But Wisconsin is a Public Ivy," you say.  Sweet, innocent child.  That's like saying something is a "penis vagina."  Silly, isn't it? Of course it is.

What? Before tonight you've never heard me say one solitary thing about Cornell athletics in my 30 odd years on earth? Please. I was just keeping it uptown. Cornell Men don't paint chests. We don't jump around. We don't make out with our sisters when our football team scores a goal. Or when our baseball squad wins in overtime. So you're sniffing up the wrong pant-leg here, Oliver Stone.

But what I did do tonight is stick my broad, Brooks Brothers-suited, Anglo-Saxon chest out a bit more than usual as the Dale and Whittman show (Pre-Med and genetics majors, respectively, average GPA 3.94)  excreted hardwood excellence all over Hughes and Bohannon (communication arts majors, average GPA 3.09). I'm even going to take the lads from work out for an evening of Cosmo-gasms at some point in the future when this goddamn case settles. And when I do I'm going to rock your body, baby. I'm going to rock it so right!

I'll leave the tears in beers for our Grizzly Adams-loving neighbors hailing from where the fuck is that shithole (not that I fucking care)?, USA.  Drink up, hosers.

Now, I need to get back to this motion I'm working on for the Delessandro case. If things break right I should be out of here in 45 minutes so I can hit a late "dinner" at Madame Tashihara's to celebrate this triumphant evening properly.

Go Big Red!

Gavin Baker Allandale, III
Cornell Class of 2001

Saturday, March 20, 2010

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.

One 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, March 18, 2010

Regress #9: Funny Ordie

Who the hell is Ordie anyway?

Doesn't really matter because with the exception of a lone Farrell offering, I regret to inform them that Ordie is not funny at all. Not one bit.

All my best,
Denny DelVecchio

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Take the Wheel, Delilah

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

My name is Delilah, and Holy Mary mother of all that is sacred, I don't think I can do this anymore.

Yes, I understand that I make enough green cheese at my gig to build your sickly mother that guest suite on the back of your house that she so badly needs. But it's not enough anymore.  Not even close. And it's all your fault.

If you could feel the white-hot bile rising in my trachea each time you lay your selfish, vapid excuse for a life at my silken feet, surely you'd understand.

You tell me that your Cocker Spaniel got run over.  I slap in My Heart Will Go On, as I laugh wickedly at your misfortune into my engineer's earpiece. I just hope that the smelly little piece of pound-trash suffered.  Just like I do here. Each night.  Because of you.  Fucker.

Oh, poor, sweet Danielle. What? You went back to your husband after he bumped uglies for the forty-sixth time with your gruesomely hairlipped sister Melinda?  You know what? I'm glad. In fact, the non-Reptilian side of me is quivering with glee. Because it got him away from your dry chicken, exposed roots and glacier-cold, methodical lovemaking. Godspeed, Garrett!  And if you want to step out with a classy temptress of the dark airwaves, drop my producer Elliot a text and he'll make sure I'm there to sex you right.

What? I'm a bitch? No, 2.4 million American women in the 35-49 demographic that make my very existence a tortuous Hades on Earth, you're the bitch. And I'll cut each of your hearts out with my festering indifference. That's right. You heard Delilah.

Oh, hold on, let me take a call from Molly in Alabama, who really wants to get back into contact with the baby she gave up as an 18 year old Lot Lizard. News flash, Mols, your baby's gone now and never wants to see you again, you know--being a well-adjusted college biology major at Clemson with Pantene hair,  a gorgeous boyfriend and the kind of self-confidence that you only see in PG-13 movies.

But here's a cliche-ridden, tear duct draining pile of shit from Richard Marx that should validate all of the pent up sadness that you're dragging around each day, Molly. You're welcome.

Oh dear, sweet Lord, if you're out there please make me a downsizing casualty. Or a soon to be dead member of a doomsday cult. Or the amnesiac victim of a car accident--I'd remember my life as night shift produce-jockey at Kroger's and I would never be happier. In fact, I'd embrace anything that whisks me away from this hellish life.  Please.  I'll do anything.  Anything.

Hold on a sec.

Hello, it's Delilah. What's on your mind tonight?

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Advance #9: Of Weiners, Dogs And Sweet Music

I care not if I ever see another conceptually unorthodox music video and/or Dachshund greedily lapping up peanut butter on an obscure musical instrument.

My life has been beautifully enriched for having seen this. And there's a 60% (or 100%) chance yours will be as well.

Denny DelVecchio

Monday, March 15, 2010

My NCAA Hoops Pick: The University of Phoenix

I'm not sure whether the Selection Committee gave them a cherished #1 seed or a yeomanlike #9, but either way it's high time for the Ballin' Eagles from the Desert Southwest to bring home their first NCAA hoops title.

Yes, I believe.

Simply stated, it has been far too long since an almost exclusively web-based learning institution has sipped from the gem-encrusted grail of basketball immortality.

Sharpen those scissors boys, because in exactly three weeks THE University of Phoenix will be cutting down the nets in Indy.

A Proud Father,
Denny DelVecchio

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Saturday Night Undercover #1

As many of my concubines devotees are already aware of, I am wan to deeply and unapologetically drink in the nightlife. In fact, I once left the birth of my half-sister Aria's seventh child to hit the last 20 minutes of the Mardi Gras of Appletinis at Cap'n Cat Clams. No regrets from this end. (I'm quite certain one Lindy Morgan Azzuri of Ocean City wholeheartedly concurs.) 

Besides rewarding me with carnal knowledge of  scores of blowzy night-wenches, these lusty evenings have also bestowed upon me deep scholarly insight into the trenchant ways of our nation's youth.

Should I keep these all for myself? Probably.  But I feel a deep obligation to bestow it upon you on the off chance that you leave your parents' side one of these fine Saturday nights to waddle awkwardly into your neighborhood trattoria in a leaden quest for some form of human companionship to healthily supplant your 11 World of Warcraft Chatrooms and 2006 Lands End Swimsuit Issue.

So here is some of the verbal intercourse that I've overheard at various Phoenix Metroplex hotspots over the last few weeks.  Use wisely.

1. "I realize that it may seem a touch unusual to have a Siamese twin who isn't actually, you know, attached, but fortunately he's a maestro with the video camera.  Now let's go make that piquant little indie documentary I told you about...and maybe a little bit of history, too."

2. "I'd like you to come over to see my pet horse. He's hung like a Ryan." (Editor's note: I think the guy's name was "Ryan.")

3. "Look, I'm Jeremy Motherfucking Renner. The star of The Hurt Locker. You know... mines? Oscars? Chick director? "
"Never heard of it."
"Okay, you want the truth? Fine. I can do that. I was Asshole Skier #2 in Hot Tub Time Machine. There. I said it."
"My apartment is three blocks away. Let's get the hell out of here."

4. "I want you in the bathtub right next to mine."

5. "I'm totally in on the afterparty at Sal's, but I have to text my babysitter to let her know I'm leaving. I think I saw her over by the bar doing shots a few minutes ago."

6. "Have you ever seen a cataract this ulcerated?"

Fantastic Then,
Denny DelVecchio

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Your Little Secret No Longer

Yesterday saw some all time record traffic on this precocious man-child of a website. And for that, I have random happenstance to thank. (And, perchance, you as well.)

But I still don't want the kids to have to be sent off to the orphanage.  You can stop that from happening by showing Denny DelVecchio some love (no pictures, just visits to this site).

If you're moderately amused by my little experiment in prepotency, tell a friend.  Or two. Or, if by some act of God you're fortunate enough to have more than two, tell them all.

My fragile, teetering ego could use the boost. 

Feels so good, doesn't it?

Much Obliged,
Denny DelVecchio

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Good Night, Sweet Corey Feldman

A little piece of America just died.  And I don't feel okay about it.

First it was your father Marty. And now you?  

I drank my first Lowenbrau to The Goonies.

I touched my debutante breast after tossing this verbal bouquet.

I chopped up Jason Voorhees into hundreds of little masked psychopaths with you at Camp Crystal Lake. And awkwardly worshipped Lark Voorheis from afar-just like you did.

And I played the dope show alongside you for the better part of my wan, benumbed twenties. 

And now you're sailing your gilded yacht up somewhere in the Great Beyond, gazing down upon mankind with a ready twinkle in your eye and smile on your beautiful face--knowing we'll all one day leave our earthly vessels and fly up there to dance with you yet again.

Denny DelVecchio

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Advance #8: This Kid

Don't get me wrong, Chachi.

As I've clearly articulated to the thousands  nine of you whose corrosive dorsal acne, crippling Oppositional Defiant Disorder and ghoulish clubfoots have landed them in my seductive house of assignation--wee ones aren't very funny.

In fact, they're about as jocose as contracting a galloping case of Leprosy on a first date with that ethereal beauty you waited five months and 13 days to finally mount like an epileptic quill-pig. (It's just a simile. Go home.)

But Denny Dance will give credit where credit's due if one of these sad midgets does something to crease my cheeks with mirth. Like this.

And the ballsy little half-dult referred to in the detention ticket to the left hit the mark with murderous aplomb. I'm standing and clapping.  First slowly.  Then faster once everyone else rises and joins me, nodding to each other affirmatively.

Homeboy can run in my clique every other Thursday as long as he brings brew money, some industrial grade Whip-its and his Mom's cell number.

With Many Thanks,
Denny DelVecchio

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Take The Wheel, Geico Money

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

I'm the Geico Money and I hate my miserable, one-note piece of shit of a life.  

"What?" you say. "You're so cute. You're so amazing. You must score so much sick tail that you're reduced to dragging your monetary nether-regions around behind you each morning after the previous night's carnal imbroglios."  

But that's just a manicured, well-cultivated image. And, if the truth be known, it's more than a bit of an albatross.

I didn't languish for four long years (and fiddle away $150k of Daddy's money) at Juilliard to have my best days in the rearview at 21 after being savagely typecast as a pile of currency with eyes that somehow causes a phantom Rockwell cover to be obtrusively piped into whatever hyper-contrived situation I happen to find myself in.

Yes, the nightlife can be pretty amazing.  It's always dope to raise a Hennessy with Jay-Z at 40/40.  A brother can't lie about that. And throwing out the first pitch at the Mets opener last spring was fine, too (although, truth be known, David Wright is an overpaid, manicured ladyboy and Omar Minaya would probably drop the ball on a Big Mac order, let alone a $100 Million contract negotiation). 

And, I suppose, my guest turn on SNL was interesting enough, although I was in utter awe of the show's comic titans like Keenan Thompson and Jenny Slate. But really, not even a tryout to become a cast regular? (Eat my pooper, Lorne Michaels.  For breakfast, lunch, dinner and a midnight snack, you pretentious cocksmoker.)

My agent just called last night, and guess what? I have three pending offers--all of them involving me reprising my turn as a bug-eyed pile of greenbacks. I don't care if it's Allstate. I don't care if it's a bidding war. I don't care if I'd be replacing President Palmer. I want to do Othello.  There, I said it.  I was born to play a murderous Moor in the Venetian Army. Deal.

I do confess the vices of my blood, so justly to your grave ears I'll present. How I did thrive in this fair lady's love. And she in mine. 

Haunting, I know. It's the role I was printed, cooled, bound and glued to play. And one day it will come to pass.  If you're a little off-Broadway rep theatre, don't bother. You can't put this sexy genie back in his cash drawer. Not anymore.

Consider yourself on notice, world: I am more than a hollow, witless change of pace from a lizard. I am more than a stack of green and a pair of elephantian eyes (who is, by the way, hung deceptively well).  

I have a soul. I have a mind. I have a destiny. 

Maybe I need to give him a call.

-Richard Bates McChesney, II (aka Geico Money)

Friday, March 5, 2010

Advance #7: Michael Landon

It's pretty simple, homie.

He bravely blazed the trail for the proud legions of lycanthropic adolescent He-Wolves to come.

So you fuck with Landon and you fuck with Denny.

That is all.

Denny DelVecchio

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Spoiler Alert #2: An Eddie Norton Double Double

Nonpareil in sheer punchability, Edward Norton's smug, high-pitched everyman generally hovers well below the other Edwards (see Anthony Edwards, John Edwards, Edward Furlong) of the planet in screen likability.

Not surprisingly, with Fight Club and Primal Fear, E. Nort achieves a rare, DVD box-tossing exacta: mercilessly loathsome sad sacks twice revealed at 11:59 to be mercilessly loathsome antagonists that we suddenly wish had died two acts earlier in (1) a Meat Loafian cannibalistic rampage, and (2) a psychosexual jailhouse shiv attack, respectively.

To think--he once had biblical knowledge of Queen Salma Hayek, the bewitching feminine emissary of so many of my furtive workplace fantasies.  I'm ashamed that my otherwise spot-on cock-blocking skills let that macabre sexual alliance come to fruition.

Denny DelVecchio

Monday, March 1, 2010

Regress #8: Gaga

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