Friday, May 11, 2012

Advance #82: I Can't Keep This Inside

Denny Dance
I'd Hit That

You're insecure, don't know what for. You're turning heads when you walk through the door.

Don't need make-up to cover up. Being the way that you are is enough. Everyone else in the room can see it. Everyone else but you.

Baby, you light up my world like nobody else. The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed.

But when you smile at the ground, it ain't hard to tell. You don't know, oh, oh, you don't know you're beautiful. If only you saw what I can see. You'll understand why I want you so desperately. Right now I'm looking at you and I can't believe.

You don't know, oh, oh, you don't know you're beautiful. Oh, oh, that's what makes you beautiful

So c-come on, you got it wrong.

To prove I'm right I put it in a song. I don't know why you're being shy. And turn away when I look into your eye, eye, eyes. Everyone else in the room can see it. Everyone else but you. Baby, you light up my world like nobody else.The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed.

But when you smile at the ground, it ain't hard to tell. You don't know, oh, oh, you don't know you're beautiful.

If only you saw what I can see. You'll understand why I want you so desperately. Right now I'm looking at you and I can't believe. You don't know, oh, oh, you don't know you're beautiful. Oh, oh, that's what makes you beautiful.

Baby, you light up my world like nobody else.

The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed.

But when you smile at the ground, it ain't hard to tell. You don't know, oh, oh. You don't know you're beautiful. Baby, you light up my world like nobody else. The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed. But when you smile at the ground, it ain't hard to tell. You don't know, oh, oh, you don't know you're beautiful. If only you saw what I can see. You'll understand why I want you so desperately.

Right now I'm looking at you and I can't believe. You don't know, oh, oh, you don't know you're beautiful. Oh, oh, you don't know you're beautiful. Oh, oh, that's what makes you beautiful.

Can we do it now?

In your eyes and in your thighs,
Denny DelVecchio

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Take The Wheel, The Marc Anthony Collection

Eds. Note: Denny's sorry that he has been gone for so long. And, of course, he has chosen his first new post in almost a year to be from the POV of a low-to-mid grade gentlemens' clothing line hailing from a Wisconsin-based department store. But the She-juice slicked truth is, he has missed you something terrible.  And by "he" he means "I".

Greetings, men and boys 80-155 pounds with abnormally dainty frames and avian wrists that an infant could fit their hand aroundAt you I cast a loving men-brace, because I have been put on this beautiful realm (via a subhuman, 102 degree Haitian textile sweatshop that would make Ron Paul weep) to envelop your wispy, emaciated bag of sticks in the stylish accoutrements demanded by your dangerous, devil-may-care self-perception...but on a sensible budget befitting your actual staid, sexless, middle-management shell of an existence.

I am The Marc Anthony Collection. 

Whether you're cursed with a concave chest, 7 inch biceps or a lineage traced down from generations of circus dwarfs, there's something in The Marc Anthony Collection for you. Why? Because I was started as a Panamanian tax shelter of questionable repute, then morphed into a more palatable way to hide my namesake's marital assets from an ample-bottomed, Puerto Rican courtesan that calls herself Lopez.  That good enough for you? 

Having an online video chat later with the 325 pound she-beast from Upper Michigan you met on ChristanMingle.com? 

Trying to glad-hand your manager so you can finally get the closing shift off this weekend at Dress Barn?

Or gathering up the force of will to ask your adult education teacher out for a post-class Danish? 

Well take my proverbial hand, partner, close your eyes and let me walk you down the aisle of clothing delight as you morph from a rail-thin, guileless zero whose daily highpoint is masturbating vigorously to the last three minutes of The Good Wife, into a a rail-thin, guileless zero whose daily highpoint is masturbating vigorously to the last three minutes of The Good Wife in a Faustian, 70% silk evening jacket and matching ultra-slim fit velour Poet Slacks.  

Throw a rib-hugging Grecian Bomber Jacket and braided 29" Cuban-leather belt in your cart and you're 2/3 of the way to Sweet Snatch Hollow--and all for under $37.96 (with in-store coupon)! 

Still here, aren't you, playboy? 

That's what The Marc Anthony Collection thought. 

Now put away that May expense report, shut down your Compaq Presario, hop in your 2006 Toyota Camry LE, and get your pre-skeletal fucking ass down to Kohl's, before Chuck in legal asks Wendy out and diddles her on his sailboat as you lament not heeding The Marc Anthony Collection's simple advice. 

And make no mistake--Chuck will hit that shit.  Doggy style. 

It's your move. 

Might I humbly suggest The Marc Anthony Collection? 

Good. Because I just did. 

Yours,
The Marc Anthony Collection


Sunday, March 18, 2012

From The Bag Of Tricks: 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

Friday, February 3, 2012

From the Bag of Tricks: 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 host(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