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

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