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

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

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

Advance #37: Team Mr. Molina

Scores of mindless coquettes pledge their hearts to Edward.

Multitudes of unthinking dilettantes offer their souls to Jacob.

Some selfish folk even want it both ways.

But I call bullshit on anyone who earmarks their loins for either of these vacuous cultural fucktards. 

For Denny's Twilight Bucks, Mr. Molina and his gently tousled salt and pepper locks, perfect shoulder to hip ratio and Darwinesque understanding of our natural world make his libertine educator the easy choice for most sexually captivating luminary of Forks, Washington.

The Truth Hurts,
Denny DelVecchio