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 #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

Regress #24: Hide Thine Eyes

Let me first state unequivocally that I have been bros with Japan Prime Minister Yukio Hatoyama since we first did New York City's No Pants Subway Ride together back in 2007. 

And truth be told, I thought that a studded leather codpiece that fateful morning was a bold stroke for Yuki, to say the least.  It certainly put my Señor Elephante number to shame.

But having shared so many laughs and loves with another person--even if he's the boss of a leading Asian democracy--does not forbid Denny from playing the honesty card.

And I'm pained to say that Peter Lord, as he's known in some Phoenix hipster circles, has lost his way in the fashion woods, and I don't see any bread crumbs, love.

Yukio, Bubby, you need to start thinking of those you're hurting. Repent, my son, by humbly laying your hideous apocalypse of a garment on the bare ground and engulfing it in a welcome conflagration of atonement.

Domo Arigato,
Denny DelVecchio