Advance #69: Denny Does New York

Some More Cristal?

Denny has just peeled himself off of his urine-splattered motorcoach back to fucking Hoth.

"How are you feeling, Denny," you ask?

Well, that's very kind of you. Let me see.

I smell like a six week old urinal cake from a hockey locker room.

I'm boner-weary.

I'm down almost $5,000.

And I likely have upward of 17 new species of bacteria swimming around wantonly somewhere in the well-oiled love missile that some call my "body."

Yes, it was the greatest weekend of my young life.

As a public service, Denny Dance is listing a few of the things that I did to others/had done to me/did to myself, with a few fake ones tossed in as a meager dose of plausible deniability for the more legally defunct and morally decrepit amongst them.

Hopefully living through me will somehow brighten your cheerless existence as an elderly, third shift Sam's Club door greeter. I know living through me brightens mine.

Denny.....

Promenaded for several rapturous city blocks with new Knick Carmelo Anthony's oversized paws buried deep in my rear jeans' pockets.

Lost myself in a relaxing Calgon bubble bath--while swilling generous amounts of Sambuca--with a full length rabbit coat-adorned Karaoke Activity Partner and (for 16 minutes) Love in the Dumps. Sorry, MB, the water wasn't cold.

Took fifth place (robbed) in the Trick Out With Your Prick Out Night at The Hairy Bear nightclub. (Apparently Captain Eduardo's Rasputinian mane didn't carry the day for Denny.)

Greedily devoured a generous portion of a live Norway rat to win a wager with that creepy-eyebrowed ghoul from Saturday Night Live.

Totally did it, like, 73 times in three days with over 200 women.

Turned a tidy Manhattan charmer into a clothing optional, anything goes meth den in less than 14 hours--and still got my security deposit back the next day.

Re-impregnated Natalie Portman just minutes before her flight to the Oscars.

Transformed a staid Bachelorette party into grimy pleasure-fest using only my ample moustache, a bottle of 5 Hour Energy, an Oster air popper and the 26th Psalm.

Made sweet love to you.

Catch you next time,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance #68: Denny's New York Sojourn

Denny's about to leave Cairo West, aka Wisconsin, for the concrete jungle where dreams are made of (sic), brazenly casting Carmelo Anthony's homecoming to page whogivesafuck in the local dailies.

That aside, even having grown up in relatively nearby Camden--where a declining student to crackpipe ratio is a source of civic pride--I've never been to this moldering crevice of illicit drugs, broken dreams, sectarian violence, and this diminutive low calorie Lothario. (Can I still crash on your floor, Brand?)

Uncertain that New York can adequately raise its ample lovemound to meet Denny's touristy thrusts, I'm calling upon any DelVecchian who has experienced this "Windy City" firsthand to post any advice that might help me navigate my way through the rotting, wicked undead reputedly pocking the burg's avenues.

Gracias,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag Of Tricks: 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.

Vicariously,
Denny DelVecchio

YNBH Grammy Edition Coming This Week

Clap your hands everybody and everybody clap your hands...

As he has every year since this year, Denny will be putting out a Grammy Recap, complete with all of the hard hitting investigative journalism called for by the thimble deep Bieberian sycopant-orgy, including:


Gaga Defecates on Stage: Finally Out Of Madonna's Shadow?

Stirring, A-Capella Lee Greenwood Cover Wins Cee-Lo Sizable New Cadre Of Fans.

Usher, Bieber Reprise Wormser/Latrell Revenge of Nerds Crowd Pleaser.

Asian-American Influence in Country Music Hits Historic Low.

Jacking Off to Taylor Swift Mysteriously Down 16% Since 2010.

Blonde Skank With Nice Rack Probably Won Something or Other.

Cirque du Soleil, Ninja Dojo, Anthropomorphic Dildo Crash Muse Performance.

Toledo Grandmother Thinks Bruno Mars Is "Handsome Black Fellow."

Russell Brand Absent, Confirming Americans' Faith In Deity of Choice.

Stunned Color Me Badd Shut Out Again.

And much, much more.

Ear-sick,
Denny DelVecchio

Regress #55: The End Of Love

You, sir, are an ugly Justin Long

Denny Dance has never claimed to be the Dr. Zhivago to your affairs of the heart.

He won't become your fawning, eyelash-batting Scott Baio.

Sweet nothings to him may well involve a coyly placed digit in your Rusty Sheriff's Badge.

And his idea of a committed relationship is giving you bus fare home after a mangy, poorly-lit session of Dirty Heimlich.

But when he sees passion's sizzling embers squelched out prematurely, it makes his human side ache horrifically about what could have been.

Denny's having such a moment right now.

Pete and Ashlee are no more.

And Denny just died a little inside. And vomited a bit, too.

Now, he's off to try and find her carphone number. Need to pounce when the iron's hot.

Rebounding Like Kevin Love,
Denny DelVecchio  

Denny's "Super" Pick

Lehigh 66
American University 59

You're welcome, DelVecchians.

Send panties.

Not Greek,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag Of Tricks: Ke$ha (Regress #16)

A secretive, longstanding debt at last repaid to a childhood friend?

The bile-twinged fruits of an ignoble pact with the Prince of Lies himself?

The product of a morally-defunct skin video that has fallen in sinister, blackmailing hands?

Any of the above could explain how a certain hell-spawned record deal came to fruition.

And the barefaced lack of talent, charisma or basic human grooming demonstrated by the pasty witch that answers to Ke$ha--and makes Rihanna sound like an in her prime Aretha Franklin--demands a contrite confession. The time for such an accounting is nigh.

The blood dripping from our collective eardrums is on your hands, Dr. Luke.  Make this right before your craven blonde Succubus maims again.

Indignant,
Denny DelVecchio