Denny's Back And Full Of Excuses

Look, I'm not prone to being overly contrite, unless I accidentally bump pinktips while engaging in a spirited Chattanooga Elephant Walk in the basement of a frat house. But I still think I might owe you a bit of an apology.

When I went away in 2012, I left you with both triplets and a galloping case of Morning Drip never to so much as page you again until today. And I'll come clean--I met the other love of my life (I thought) at a truck stop outside of Racine one day and never looked back for a week. But I'm still filled with deep regret, as well as the emotional scars of being left for dead in a Gathering of the Juggalos outhouse dressed only in a velvet codpiece and pink New Kids on the Block deep-V tank top. From the fucking Step by Step tour.

But that's all behind me now. I'm sorry, and I want to make it up to you by living for us. Living for now. Like we used to before I knocked you up and fled like a common coward who should be ashamed to take a breath even six years later.

So part of this totally one-way healing process to erase my well-earned guilt is me updating you on where Denny has been and is now. Cards on the table, we’re both showing hearts. Risking it all, though it’s hard. 'Cause all of me loves all of you. Love your curves and all your edges. All your perfect imperfections.

Anyway, enough of my original poetry, here goes Denny...

*I shaved every square inch of hair off of myself like a goddamn marsupial baby, then replaced it all in rainbow glitter No. 7 from Joanne Fabrics. You should see me during Pride Week

*I made love to several Fig Newtons and they quickly reciprocated

*I finally earned my 7th grade G.E.D. in 2015, then threw an absolute fucking rager. Also banged my teacher

*I voted for Jill Stein in 2016, accounting for all 82,000 votes Hillary lost Wisconsin by

*I self-published a sequel to Eat. Pray. Love. called Pooped. Got New Trans-Am. Came.

*I shacked up with a family of raccoons for 5 months and have never eaten better or felt more loved

*I stopped smoking crack and have settled into a much healthier canine amphetamine habit

*I never stopped missing or loving you, so take me back, baby

More to "come"--

Denny DelVecchio





 

I promise I didn't cheat on you tonight . . . anally

Denny circa August 2013

Well, hello there, baby. Denny’s home.

Aww, I know it’s late, and I’m really sorry, but a few of us were hanging out at Mikey’s watching the game.  I must have nodded off after my second, and last, beer.

Whoa.  Hold on there, no need to get all up in my grill.  This is Denny you’re talking to.  Your lover. Confidant. Nurturer. Soulmate.  Do I not hit that juicy rack so good?  Exactly.

What? Cheat on you?  Why, because I smell like Britney Perfume and undercooked Tilapia?  How like you.  How so very like you.  And here Denny thought the Salem Witch trials were over back in the 1960s.  Guess I was wrong.

Oh, so Mikey stopped by looking for me tonight?  What does that prove other than Mikey’s so fucking goat-stupid that he didn’t realize I was sitting across from him watching the Brewers game?  (BTW…Brewers won in 10.)

And someone named Sylvia called and said I forgot my ball-gag at her trailer?  Sylvia who?  I must know 200 people named Sylvia.  You’ll have to be a little more specific, because I definitely don’t remember hitting anyone named Sylvia doggy style two or three times tonight in the flatbed of my El Camino over in Jeffers Park.

Look, let’s just get this all out there, okay?  I’m ready to swear something to you.  On the lives of our beautiful, yet to be conceived out of wedlock children: Denny did not cheat on you tonight . . . anally.

So there it is.  As the lord Jehovah as my witness, I promise to you that at no time this evening when I was away did I insert my penis into another’s rectum--man, woman or beast.

Did you not hear me? I’m laid bare at your feet now--but a man--and pledging my scared word that I did not engage in placing my eager, erect horsecock into another’s yawning, chocolate balloon knot.

I’m not sure what else I can do to ease your mind about my unwavering fidelity but to say once more that I refrained from greedily sodomizing another from the time that I left your side this morning until right this very instant. 

Now, is Denny forgiven? Because I promised my old buddy from high school that I’d stop by after midnight to help him fix his car.  He even said that I could crash there.

But my heart will be right here . . . with you, woman.

Yours in love,
Denny

Advance #82: I Can't Keep This Inside

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

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 around.  At 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

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

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

From The Bag Of Tricks: Own A Pony (Denny's Bucket List #1)

Over the next 30-40 years, I'll be showcasing for you some of the mountains (and comely ladies) I want to climb before the lease on my Earthly vessel expires and I'm lovingly hoisted up to my dazzling astral estate.

Turning now toward my first entry on this grand list, I fully intend to secure a radiant, well-muscled young horse who will serve as the loyal, non-judgmental friend and confidant that I so richly deserve.

Although it seems like the stuff of science fiction right now, the sands of time may render me a joyless shell of the wanton, husky-shouldered bon vivant that you see before you today.

And who will be there for Denny? My toy-thoroughbred Muggsy, that's who.

With her pristine yellow bows, buoyant leg-bells and empathetic smile that always says "I'll love you no matter what, Papa" we'll be fast friends--the kind who can tell each other anything.

My pony will be a pint-sized, spiritually regal creature that never judges. A humble beast who can provide love, warmth and, in the event of a prolonged famine, a ready source of protein.

So the countdown has officially begun.  I'm coming for you, Muggsy Malone.

Your Future Daddy,
Denny DelVecchio

No Worries, DelVecchians

Abiding,
Denny DelVecchio

Denny's Latest Foray Into Self-Indulgent Journalism

Please go and make sweet love to my new column, tentatively entitled "Holy shit, you can totally whack off to Wikipedia."

As you were.  Especially if you're engorged and with another person.

Spanked,
Denny DelVecchio

Taylor Lautner Jacks Off Robustly To Taylor Lautner

Actually not tonight, honeypants.  He was too busy reading this column over at The Impersonals.

Join us there, won't you?

With Godly love,
Denny DelVecchio

Come Check Out Denny's New Gig, Sizzle Pants

Eyeball Denny Dance's debut single over at The Impersonals.  Now free for download to DelVecchians only.

Yes, it just may be about you.

Emotionally Bespectacled,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag of Tricks: Time For You To Pick Denny's Ink

Although Denny Dance has got what some like to refer to as "it going on," he still plans to ink it up this weekend courtesy of my boss "Easy" Ed Verhowski's by-the-hour mistress, Destinee, who was recently bequeathed a probationary online certification from the acclaimed Squaw of the Sun Dermis and Genital Modification Institute of Antigua.

Rather than gluttonously imposing my will on such a lofty, cumbrous decision, I'm going to allow my glorious hoard of DelVecchians to make the call for me.

So put down the bottle of Malibu, turn off the dwarf smut, and gather around your Dark Lord of Flesh, Denny, in what will certainly be the most important thing you have done thus far in your adult life.

Inkalicious,
Denny DelVecchio



Here are the candidates:

An Obious Choice

Has It All

Instant Street Cred

Also Instant Street Cred

Chicks Will Dig

Because I'm A Lyrical Poet

And Rod Roddy On the Left

Advance #81: Project Mindfuck

Denny's trouser-bag is full but his mailbag is empty. Time to remedy this with a dip into the fetid well of upcoming YNBH featurettes--because filling a news hole isn't nearly as easy as they make it look in stag films.

Anti-Incumbency tidal wave claims Baltimore's Dog Warden.

Marcus Bachmann: "Village People's homosexuality was a hot, wet, delicious choice."

Goddard College student's toilet stall graffiti-themed folklore thesis garnering early Pulitzer buzz.

Franz Ferdinand now struggling to outsell actual Franz Ferdinand.

Medical Mystery: Everybody from 1896 either dead or missing.

Study: Lazy urban youth now engaging in The Half Dozens.

Labyrinth holding steady as Tom Cruise's 23rd best movie.

Self-Immolation Nation may go a touch too far, concede Fox Reality execs.

The Green Lantern reportedly not as good as that stupid whore Ella said it was. 

I'm in like with you,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag of Tricks: Waldenbooks Kicks Barnes & Noble's Pissy Little Ass (Advance #38)

So, I hear you're out talking shit again--saying you prefer literary cyborg Barnes & Noble over dignified gentleman of refinement Waldenbooks.

Oh, okay, so Denny thinks he understands.

You're the joyless vulgarian who prefers Burlington Coat Factory to Rue St. Denis.

The shameless cuckold who would co-habitate with the Cloverdale Monster over Godzilla.

The friendless cur who favors the company of a Fleshlight to a good old-fashioned hot shower with a Loofah, bottle of Aussie Mega Rainforest Mist Conditioner and 20 good minutes to kill.

Are you feeling like the trend-sniffing troglodyte that you are?  That's right. Denny thinks so, too.

For my money, I want a bookstore where I can freely peruse racks full of 50% off 2010 Cats in Hats calendars, bury my nose in any one of 16 different magazines that I must buy if I read, or get lost in the Suzanne Somers Jazz Dancing Guidebook knowing that only one employee is on duty to shoo me homeward.

I also enjoy being asked three different times upon checkout if I'm totally sure I don't want to "join the Waldenbooks President's Club of Values because I can totally save 5% right now and up to 25% on future purchases... oh man can you please help me...this branch is closing in September and I just can't go back to giving $20 tugjobs in the bathroom of Carl's Jr.  just so I don't have to move back in with Randy, that three timing uteromaniac who's probably back with that skanky trull from "Thighs On You"over by the airport...wait...wait... You forgot your receipt."

But you probably already knew that.

I love you, Waldenbooks. You can move in above my garage anytime if the worst comes to pass.

Boldly,
Denny DelVecchio

From the Bag of Tricks: The American Revolution (Spoiler Alert #7)

The Stamp Act of 1765.

The Boston Massacre of 1770.

The Tea Act of 1773.

The Intolerable Acts of 1774.

A lot of really bad shit was going down back in the day and, although there was no Denny DelVecchio around to single-handedly rally a weary and increasingly oppressed conglomeration of colonies into action with both sex appeal and swagger to burn, armed conflict and shouts of Freedom, Motherfuckers permeated the thick New England air.

And, several war-weary years later, just when things looked the bleakest, one or more of the homeboys on our money kicked their shit into overdrive and rallied for a series of stunning military conquests which paved the way for an incendiary victory party featuring Cher and a large phallic battleship--on, yes, the 4th of July.

Denny hates to give away the ending, but it was the Americans who were on that Bacchanalian pleasure cruise.

Happy Independence Day, American DelVecchians! (Your New Bad Habit also hopes that all of our friends in Europe, South America, Africa, Australia and Asia have kick ass 4th of July celebrations of their own today.)

Engorged With Patriotism,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance #80: Hot Summer Spanktacular

The Banana Hammock is snugly in place. Gunther Loverman is spitting and/or swallowing fat beats anew from my cassette tape player. And your staid, sexless existence is about to be magnificently betrayed by the Empresario of Girth.

Welcome to DelVecchonia, your new home planet. I hope that you stay awhile.


Pour Some Out: Dr. Dre quietly passes 1,000th simile mark.

Ample-bosomed pop starlet in retainer robustly jacked off to.

Report: Stock you bought last year fails to beat 10 Year Lipper Average.

Source: "Crazy" Waukesha Dad realizes boyhood dream of sticking head out of limo sunroof.

Cocaine vehemently denies abusing celebrity.

Straight actor finally marries beard.

Exclusive: Tommy John becomes Billionaire on back of pitchers' ruined elbows. 

My Giant: Director's Cut Redbox's first 75 cent movie.

Finger-wagging Lance Armstrong to Federal investigators: "I DIDN'T USE STEROIDS . . . . today."

It's not just my large penis anymore,
Denny DelVecchio

Classic Denny Dance: Father's Day Redux

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

Advance #79: What You Missed This Week

I pertain to one or more of these

. . . besides Denny's sleek, hairless gams and winning smile, that is. May you have a wonderful time at your gay grandfather's farm this weekend.

In the meantime, a winsome look back at the week that was:

Life Begins at Thought About Pussy Bill fails by three votes in South Carolina Assembly.

Toledo screenwriter surges to 317,000 on E!'s 2011 Hollywood Power List.

Tom Cruise straight rumors dismissed through rep as "Ridiculous."

Portly man you've never met wants high five.

Patient teen explains difference between Akon and T.I. to Danish grandfather.

Weiner scandal gives temporary reprieve to 8,000 marginal stand up comedians. 

Source: 27 Bruins got to first base with Stanley Cup last night.

Porn Lothario  Evan Stone denies he's man in video not having sex.

Judicial election loser reflects on first 100 days on park bench.

All of me,
Denny DelVecchio

Regress #69: Insert Weiner Joke Here

Denny thinks he just did.

Turgid and blurry,
Denny DelVecchio