Thursday, January 28, 2010

Reasons Why God Might Not Exist #1

Sometimes something needs no embellishment, so Denny will sit in his swanky box seat and let this video apocalypse wash over you.

Tell Someone That You Love Them,
Denny DelVecchio

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Monday, January 25, 2010

Regress #4: "My Kid Is Funny" Posts on Facebook

Not everyone gets to lead the edgy, devil-may-care lifestyle that I do, so Double D has come to accept that Facebook is likely to remain a glistening, hell-spawned pustule on humankind's hindquarters for at least the next 6-8 months.

So, if you want to tell the world about the cloven hoof that you're growing,  fire away. Or if you feel compelled to update the Eastern Seaboard on the fact that Bobby Accento (pictured here on the right) shoved his girthy tounge down your windpipe after bartime in a stuffy, poorly lit back hallway at The Argonaut, rock on.

But what I cannot will not accept as a brainy, cocksure artist with a pitch-perfect gangsta swagger are updates about your younglings. Your progeny. Your spawn. It simply won't be tolerated.

So that tiny "baby-you" in the high-chair just gurgled three consonant-less utterings in a row without throwing up all over themselves? Sorry, Moms, they just didn't draft the Magna Carta. They didn't perfect cold fusion. They didn't manage to get a bipartisan healthcare overhaul sewed up.

And please don't tell me how funny your wee one is. 95% of what they do is "gouge my eyes out" unfunny. The other 5% involves bodily functions, which can be funny, but probably isn't in their case (unless it has coated you in some way).

Parents, here's the scale you need to use for your kids and Facebook:

(1) "I think my Dora is the funniest baby in human history" really means "The fact that my Dora jammed three fluid ounces of strained apricots into her nasal cavity is, for most people, mildly amusing and worthy of a tiny pity-snicker."

(2) "Our little Ben is a hilarious baby boy" really means "My cross-eyed scamp once birthed a brown submarine the size of Long Island while bathing, but usually cries 13 hours a day until I "quarter dose" them with Robitussin. Yeah, he's a real giggle machine."

(3) "Davie, my sweet little charmer, made this adorable video for Youtube last week when he pretended to be while dancing in Daddy's cowboy boots" really means "I should never have procreated with Country Jerry."

(4) "My little babycakes Kylie is such a serious little snookie, but she can sometimes be Momma's silly boo boo" really means "My Kylie is a joyless little troll who has roughly 74 sad, wanting years left until she departs this Earth friendless and alone."

Now you know.  And don't you feel a bit ashamed looking back?  If not, I'll feel appropriately ashamed for you.

Glad tidings,
Denny DelVecchio

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Well Hungover

I woke 10 minutes ago, and I suppose I should be heartened that:

a) I have my dignity chiclets intact.

b) The cheeky Gilf I was chumming with last night at the Martini Ranch either never took me up on my offer of "a night of gentle, nuanced lovemaking followed by a Greek-themed breakfast in bed" or slipped out of my flesh lair under cover of darkness.  My current cosmopolitan fog makes recalling which nearly impossible. If you're reading this my sweet, trusting Estelle, I'm simply not ready to start a family yet. And I meant what I said about the ice cubes. Please think it over.

c) The womens' Australian Open quarters are nigh. Nothing like a green, symmetrical henhouse bursting with 6'2'' Amazon Priestesses who can hit balls 110 mph to get one's pelvic blood circulating.

d) You're still supporting me after that check bounced. I'm sorry but when a Botox Party beckons, I must heed that wicked Siren. I am but a man. 

As for this evening? It's shaping up to finish something like this. Can I have a ride?

Peace Out,
Denny DelVecchio

Friday, January 15, 2010

Regress #3: Jersey Shore

Girls and boys, we have a Situation.

What does one call something that so transcends all things doucherelli that even yours truly-- everyone's favorite toothy wordsmith--is rendered nearly mute? 

Are they an oily abomination?  A Paisanic crime against nature? The beginning of the end of Jersey Chic? One of these Godless Hellspawn?

I submit that they're all of them and none of them. They're everywhere and nowhere. They're born of man but not of this realm. They have the same external carapace as you and I, but are devoid of anything approaching a human soul. They are the second incarnation of the Dog Brothers.  Beggin'.  Beggin'.

Look, I'm originally a Jersey boy myself (shout out to Cam-Den), and if I ever run across a Chachi like this at the car wash where they work, I'll manhandle them until they call me Horatio Dandypants with a saggy, apoplectic jellyface. And then I'll firmly but lovingly turn it into a teaching moment, while making sure that they don't leave any streaks this time when they dry Bello Mona. My first love always deserves a good handcloth finish.

Now, I must run. I have to go watch a good show about wasted youth.

Very Truly Yours,
Denny DelVecchio

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Regress #2: Global "Warming"

I woke up early this afternoon (big shout out to for another very special, very late Friday evening) to find that two of my metatarsals were frozen together (no big shout out to APS Energy Services).

After managing to separate them via a tin of Sterno Canned Heat, I quickly turned my anger on those witless trolls who still think that our planet is getting warmer. Warmer?  Really? That's like saying that Kanye West didn't deserve to have been bequeathed few reflective moments of his own from that pudgy, scene-hogging tart. Are we in a world gone mad? Maybe.  But we're most definitely in a world gone cold.

To show you why, I have three points:

Point #1: every year it gets colder around September. Yes, colder.  Any rebuttal, Mr. Global Cooling Denier? Or are you too busy taking your massive, gas-hogging limo to your climate summit while snorting a line of pleasure powder off of the inner thigh of your paid escort--I mean research associate. Ahh, silence. Beautiful silence.

Point #2: it was bone-rattling in my beloved Arizona this morning.  The 30s.  More than froid enough to temporarily weld one's phalanges together. Regina George cold. If the globe is truly warming, it wouldn't get all Iditeroddy in the same place that even the Dark Prince Lucifer shies away from for months at a time. A convenient truth, if you ask me.

I don't really have a 3rd point, but I think points #1 and #2 got it done for me.

You've heard the whispers.  Now they're a shout.  Global Warming is Dead.  Good riddance, you old bat.

Your shiver-bro,
Denny DelVecchio

Saturday, January 2, 2010

Regress #1: Rock Me Tonite

Unlike his Hammerian counterpart, Billy Squier was at the apex of his artistic game when he rolled out the hateful abomination (and cruel jab at the human condition) that was Rock Me Tonite.

To say that it was bad is like saying that Hammer's speedo, below, was a touch bulgy.  Like saying that my eyebrows are just a bit unified. Like saying that Jessie Spano was only slightly excited.

No, this video was a full, unabashed assault on our collective eyes, ears and Super-ego barriers on garishness and poor taste.  It makes a 1980s Jason Alexander-fronted McDonald's ad seem like a back room Yeah Yeah Yeahs show.

In a sad afterword, Mr. Squier now lives penniless and alone in a Venice Beach camper van, while working gratis as a special assistant creative consultant on Katy Perry's new project, now tentatively entitled Russell Brand is F-ing Me (and my career).

Your best bud,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance #1: Pumps and a Bump

If you were alive in 1993, then you were around to witness one of the most important, poignant artistic transformations in music history--one Stanley Kirk Burrell morphing from a fast-tapping, double jointed rubberman with scant artistic integrity to a smoldering sex-loaf who smuggled small Peruvian villages in his speedo, while making our collective knees buckle.  Proper.

Here he is in all of his glory.

Oddly enough, this character never made an appearance on Hammerman.  But he did get top billing in America's hearts--and never left.  That's what happens when you're rocking more meat than Hillshire Farms.

(Ladies, please just remember that this man is a bit deformed.  All men aren't like me and Hammer.)

Catch you on the other side,
Denny DelVecchio

Friday, January 1, 2010

Good-Bye You Haggard Old Witch (aka 2009)

I hope everyone brushed at least twice last evening.

While I didn't dabble much in the oral hygiene arts on New Year's Eve, I did get to shake my love canoe at a little soiree tossed by one Brandi Marie Longsdorff aka Miss September 1987. Mujer Boner Alert!

Don't hate me because I had the privilege of resting my peepers upon the types of Amazonian dolls that you had tucked between your box spring and mattress for the better part of the sad, gimp years better known as your teens twenties.

Don't hate me because I was able to throw down four burgundy mojitos before you had the top off of your first Natty Light.

And definitely don't hate me because I did it all dressed in nothing more than my party jockstrap, Ralph Lauren leather funkpants and powder blue velour oxford unbuttoned to within a hairsbreadth of my musky badlands.

Hate me because I did it all with your Mom on my arm.

Oh, it's Unbelievable!!!

Your Daddy,
Denny DelVecchio