Advance #75: A Royal Wedding For The Ages

The editors of this educational weblog would like to extend their heartiest of congratulations to Darvin Royal, formerly of Mission Viejo, California, and his comely Slavic bride, Dasha Misonova, on their recent nuptials in the lush and mysterious Pacific Ocean nation of Hawai'i.

Your New Bad Habit has officially designated Monday, May 2, 2011--exactly 46 days after the lovebirds first met online--as "Conception Day" for the young couple.

Blushing,
Denny DelVecchio

Take The Wheel, Health Club Jack-Off Guy

Eds. Note: This is the 14th installment of our ongoing series of guest appearances by cultural heavyweights.

Huh. Well, this is a touch off-putting. You most definitely are looking directly at me right now.

Awkward.

Okay, I know what you must be thinking: "that handsome debauchee in Zubaz over there ducking behind the climbing wall has his erect penis out and appears to be vigorously shimmying his hand(s) in a rhythmic manner while shamelessly leering at me doing mile three on my elliptical."

Sure, I suppose that's one incurious way to look at what is happening. Touche, my elegantly perspiring Dame. Touche.

But Brad? (Note: I'm Brad.) He prefers to cast it as a tender exercise session founded on unilateral respect and adoration between one or more consenting adults likely ending in copious ejaculation.

Or perhaps a polite, well executed spank off extravaganza steeped in enthusiastic artistic appreciation?

How about a venerable, learned creator achieving Bacchanalian gratification while unleashing his hungry eyes upon a lycra-clad, camel-toed muse?

Or even a self-pleasuring impresario locked deep in Man-friction's sacred, warming embrace?

Semantics aside,  I was simply tending to nature's sweet itch just as a less lonely and sociopathic gentleman might woo and romance a real lover.

Alright, I'll concede that I could have approached things differently, such as buying a membership to this gym, and wearing shorts over my engorged genitals while engaging in an actual workout near you on the chance that we could meet and then court in a more traditional manner.

But there's very little chance it would have allowed me the freedom to guiltlessly masturbate to your erstwhile blissfully unaware female form.

Oh, okay. You seem to be off somewhere in a bit of a hurry. I should probably be going, myself.  Need to hit the grocery store on the way home.
 
But if it's all the same to you, would you mind leaving that sweaty towel behind?  Thanks a load.

Best,
Brad

From the Bag of Tricks: The Most Awesomest Thing You've Ever Seen Ever (Advance #59)

Over the course of my carnally-fruitful decades on this beautiful, silky-hipped Latin He-Ball the Sun most definitely revolves around, I have gained a well-deserved reputation for being a quick-witted, easy on the eyes pleasure serpent.

So Denny Dance knows that his opinions on the ebbs and flows of our cultural bellwethers are almost always spot on.

This humble video masterpiece is living, breathing, shitting proof. Watching it made me emotionally turgid. Hopefully it will do the same for you.

If it doesn't, you're not reading this sentence right now, anyway.

Saddle Up,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance #74: DelVecchio--A Ready Friend To Turn To

You and Denny have always been 2gether.

When you sought an empathetic, non-judgmental lover to tend to your piss fetish, Denny was there.

When you required a curvy, fully shaved figure model for your bi-weekly nude drawing club, Denny was there.

When you needed bus fare home from DelVecchio Ranch during that F-4 tornado last July, Denny was there.

And when you cried out for someone to join you at the Owl City concert at the Phoenix Rodeo back in 2010, Denny was there.

So it should come as no surprise that Wednesdays will, from here until the end of recorded history and/or until Gibralto the Destroyer ascends to claim his Earthly throne, be dedicated to answering your most vexing and spasmatic laughter-inducing queries of the heart.  

If you want your life to be a little better, drop Denny an email with your question by Monday nights and he will do his best to sift through the tens of them and get to yours.  Especially if it has a vagina shot with it.

Said email: dennydelvecchio@gmail.com

Saving humanity from itself yet again,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag Of Tricks: Denny's Not Well

If you had ever suffered from a clinical case of Genital Retraction Syndrome, perhaps you could better understand why walking--let alone posting hysterical, family-friendly bites of comic platinum--is nearly impossible for me right now.

Pray for your boy Denny.  If you think it will help me in any way, offer to ritually sacrifice something of value to you in order to more quickly allow me to heal.

In lieu of flowers or gifts, please make a cash donation in your name to morbidly obese fuckwad Jonah Hill.

Low,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance #73: Spielberg Announces Film Version of Katy Perry's "I Kissed A Girl"

Apparently growing weary of the stifling expectations of massive-budget action and science fiction films, mega producer Steven Spielberg announced his plans Wednesday to make a feature-length epic based on pop-siren Katy Perry's once Buzzworthy I Kissed a Girl music video.

With the story's deft, confident beats, bold female protagonist and timely message of making out super hard with another chick in front of your boyfriend while not even remotely being a lesbian, the Amblin helmsman may be plunging towards another Academy Award with this cheeky, melt in your mouth re-imagining of Fuse TV's #11 video of 2008.

"My lovely (and significantly less talented) wife Kate has been tugging at me to do an E.T. reboot for years, but I see that's not necessary anymore, so I looked at the sexless gomers that live and breathe prostrate at the feet of my science fiction library and thought to myself, 'forget those fucktards. Papa Spiels is doing what feels right.' And this feels so right."

Variety is reporting that talks are underway with Boys Don't Cry's Kimberly Peirce to direct the Larry McMurtry-tomed script.  Said a source "Steven is searching for the right voice to bring this elegant but fragile same-sex chef-d'oeuvre to life, and he thinks Kimberly's unique eye for muff would be ideal."

For her part, Perry seems to be on board. "If anybody can take my artistic vision for that haunting and elegant coming of age anthem that I wrote on a killer ski trip Junior year to the screen, it's George Lucas."

Executive Producer,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag of Tricks: My Imaginary, Illustrated French Family (Advance #34)

I'm so glad that I can finally introduce you to my cool, hastily-drawn French family.

Meet Henri, Sophie, Jean-Luc and Thérèse DelVecchio. They're the greatest.

What?  Hiding them from you?

Au contraire, mon ami. Denny just needed to wait until the right time to tell you.

I had to make sure that you'd be truly happy for us--without a hint of the cankered jealousy that you unfurled upon learning of the white hot groin-vacation I enjoyed with your sister-in-law at the 2005 North Mesa Clogger's Retreat.

Anyway, I'm off to engorge myself in Sophie's trademark grenouille aubergine, followed by a spongebath from the beguiling Thérèse, who, by the way, just finished her first year at Sarbonne.  (That's Denny's college girl!)

Merci Beaucoup,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance #72: Springing Forth Soon From Denny Dance's Uterus

Me, too!!

Although Denny fully understands that his breathy legions of DelVecchians could suckle for untold weeks off of the ample teet of his past literary conquests, the munificent 4% of him demands that he give you even more.

Coming soon to your favorite show horse-breeding website: 

Akron man fashions makeshift "vagina" out of hand--innovator or pervert?

New Dana Delaney series poised to be best new Dana Delaney series this season.

Michele Bachmann: You'd probably still bang her.

James Taylor promises even more "pimps and hoes" on upcoming album.

Incontinent six month old has new mother at wit's end.

Kentucky Tea Party official furtively wondering if labiaplasty is covered by Obamacare.

Peta gleefully welcomes fast food titan's new McHumanburger.  

DelVecchio: Cocksure dreamer or lonesome clown?

Stay tuned,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance #71: Denny + The Straight Leg=Otherworldly Magic

Try this on for size, DelVecchians. (In case any nuclear power plant engineers are reading, by "try this on for size" I mean click the link.)

Denny sells out hard. Take his hairy paw in your own and do the same.

Journeyman,
Denny DelVecchio

Regress #57-67: Holy Fuck No

I have no inkling what humankind has done to so enrage Melmoor The Lesser the supreme being of your choice, but I'm at my last wit trying to ascertain exactly why He would have intentionally foisted this sugary death-dirge upon our frail bodies and souls.

I've heard doper beats in a motherfucking Perkins bathroom at 3:00 am.

Speechless,
Denny DelVecchio

From the Bag of Tricks: Spoiler Alert #4 (Jaws)

You're the salty but kindhearted lawman of an idyllic Long Island resort town in the mid-70s.

More Than a Feeling is blaring from AM radios. The summer tourist crush is unfolding. Main Street is satiated, and waves of jaunty visitors are having the times of their lives.

Then the bodies start piling up. 

It could be a horrifying, gender-confused psychopath. Or a gang of motorcycle riding, machete-wielding toughs. Or even a creature from beyond, hell bent on making planet Earth its own wanton reproductive playground.

What's your next move, Chief Brody? 

You want Denny's advice? Take a quick peek under the water. And I don't mean at the coquettish bikinis painted on the ample-bosomed enchantresses frequenting Amity's beaches.

I'm talking about a whole new brand of dorsal-finned horror.

Something that scientists in 2010 are now calling a "Shark."

Godspeed,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag of Tricks: O Caritas!

Some Sundays Tuesdays are better than others. Such was the case for moi last eve, as I galloped into the forbidden regions of the night with sisters Lea and Valerie [family name withheld] of the Tuscon Waukesha [family name withheld].

Let's just say that the pic to your left was just north of 9:30 and just south of a loving gaggle of sibling nudity that soon engulfed me in a passionate DelVecchiwich.

I said "church choir."  You laughed.  I said "ice cream social." You snickered.  I said "ultra control top hosiery." You scoffed.  Well who's laughing/snickering/scoffing now?

But just because you had a double date with a sixer of Keystone Light and three hour block of Time Warner quasi-smut doesn't mean that your night wasn't the equal of mine. In fact, without your grim celibacy, this post would not exist. And my dogs would have gone hungry.

Bless you, you. Your special brand of sexlessness inspires me in ways you cannot possibly fathom.

Say hello to your parents,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance #70/Regress #56: Gumb Being Gumb

Rubbing lotion on skin,
Denny DelVecchio

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

Regress # 54: Imhotep Implores Mubarak To Resign

After staying entombed in the Saharan hinterlands for almost 5,000 years, musty Egyptian oligarch Imhotep has suddenly thrown his hat in the geo-political ring, boldly suggesting today that President Hosni Mubarak should step down as Egypt's leader, possibly allowing the erstwhile high priest of the Sun God Ra to slowly shuffle back to his well worn seat at the right hand of the Pharaoh.

"Many of us on the Cairo political sidelines are hoping against hope that our leader will yield to both the polity and Babi, the Baboon God of Death and Virility, by abdicating his high station and. . . well, whatever the hell comes next. I'm not exactly motherfucking Hemsut, am I?  But I'd heed the people's call if need be," said the still decomposing, power-famished Cannibal of the Sands.

Although Imhotep had privately suggested to opposition leaders that a forced embalming and fire-fueled burnt offering to Anubus--the jackal deity of death and the underworld--might fit the bill, the bandage-addled Carapace of the Dead has toned down his rhetoric to a place where a simple Mubarak resignation on a half-pension would be sufficient to satiate the undead beast's preternatural bloodlust.

Brendan Fraser, believed to be on the set of his new Sanford & Son reboot, was unable to be reached for a comment as of press time.

Hard Hitting,
Denny DelVecchio

Regress #53: Where Has My Sweet Gone?

You go to bed one early morning after a corpulent night of boxed wine, gouda and genital darts with the Kenosha County Junior College Drill Team thinking you'll have forever to tell those closest to you how they make you sweat.  How you've sized them up to potentially fill the sacred role of baby mama #2. How they move your bowels (in a good way).

And then, suddenly, you realize it was but a wild, wet, gorgeous filament of your vivid, NC-17 imagination.

Denny wants you back. Denny wants you back right the fuck now.

And I will hold my breath.

Reddening,
Denny DelVecchio

Winner, Winner Braised Prime Rib And New Potatoes Dinner: An Upset!

A meaty man-thanks to all of you who tried your hand at fashioning Denny Dance a once-in-a-lifetime carnal calling card. It was humbling, to say the least. Actually, I don't know what humility feels like. I'm just saying it because Aaron Rodgers muttered something about it after the Bears game.

To feel certain that I made a fair ruling, I posted each of your offerings to the online dating section of the Kenosha News (except one, due to tardiness...but I still rubbed one out to it so prodigiously that Moses would have been proud) and assessed the results objectively--in terms of responses.

After a weekend each, the tops was none other than Just Ask Rod's cocksure "blow me now, ho" maelstrom of crotch-thumping goodness.

Behold:

Yo girls, what’s good? Prepare yourselves for the inspiration of perspiration. Denny’s ready to commit. For one or, more realistically, several lucky lady(ies) I am prepared to bestow upon you all that is me and make your world shine like the 1 and a half carot cubic zirconia you so richly deserve. I’m a modest man of intrigue, blessed with a vibrant mane in which to entwine your fingers and a robust stache that screams, Ride Me. While I hate to put limits on my love I must insist you possess the following qualities. 

1. You are possessed with stunning ovaries, milky thighs, angel eyes and a body made taut from years of Jazzercize.
2. You have a healthy love and adoration of Whitesnake. (No exceptions)
3. You are practiced in the art of Honduran Prostate Massage. ( I can talk you through it)
4. The heady scent of Aqua Velva and the sight of a man in Bugle Boys makes your front naughty moist.
5. You don’t mind going half on a pack of Kools.
If you think you measure up, hit my pager. I’ll pick you up in my whip and we’ll drink a bottle of Goldschlager behind the burned out Shoney’s and I’ll thoroughly service your saucebox with my porksword. In the morning I’ll crap you a Promise Ring to make our union official.
No, that isn’t a sock in my pants and yes, I am happy to see you.

Why did he win? No idea, because he would be relegated to the caboose in the Denny Meat Train right after Matt Brand if things ever got orgified between all of you who submitted entries. But five lucky ladies, one couple in their 60s and a cross-dressing dental hygienist all seemed to fancy it.

A sincere DelVecchian word up to all who entered. Some of the best shit ever posted here.

Rod, forward me a P.O. Box and I'll send you something that will help effortlessly gain the lurid attentions of the fairer sex--just like Denny does.

Flattered and Satiated,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance #67: My Sweet Ice Princes

Late last week as I scanned the outer reaches of my 10% of a neighbor's spliced Comcast (thanks, Shep!), I was treated for the very first time to the brutal, yet surprisingly sensual, game of what Wisconsin locals are apparently calling "Ice Hockey."

Yes, up around Channel 6000, in between a telenovella and racy Brazillian threesome sat a most curious offering: the Columbus Blue Jackets "hockey" squad tangling with something called the Florida Panthers.

At first, I was awestruck by the sheer complexity of following a small black orb around a spacious ice surface in what strongly resembled a broken loop from the watershed, ahead-of-its-time Chris Klein/JJ Cool J masterpiece Rollerball.

But as I looked closer, I saw a regal, majestic bloodsport of the highest order--one that made MMA look like a tea party. (No, the more cerebral kind.)

I witnessed testosterone-fueled duels featuring odd curved fiberlass mallets in place of swords. I gazed upon figure skaters in bulky blue and red separates plowing each other as if possessed by the Prince of Lies himself. And I was treated to comely 20 year old college students in clingy spandex shoveling white residue away once every 10 minutes. Which, coincidentally, factors in some manner into fully 1/3 of my conscious thoughts.

Where has this game been all of my life?

In the end, the Blue Jackets triumphed when a kid who looked a lot like my paperboy back in Phoenix flicked the black rubber into a netting. It was beautiful, and inspired me to resolve to watch all future Columbus Blue Jackets games. A quick scan assures me that they'll be on at least two more times before 2014. I'll even try and catch one live if I ever get down to Georgia.

And if I do Denny will be there, standing proudly alongside the most awesome mascot in the history of American sport.

#1 Fan,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance #66: A Chance For You To "Give Back" By Writing Denny A Sweet, Tender Personal Ad

I know

For too many DelVecchians, it's been all "Me, Me, Me" lately as we become humiliatingly self-absorbent in our "I may not be Denny but I still think I'm awesome" lives. We forget sometimes that this is really still all about Denny.

Well, that said, Denny Dance is offering a unique opportunity to make you feel as good about yourself as you did the morning Dylan Vanderwessens awkwardly gobbled up your virginity in a darkened band room after 3rd period Calculus late in your senior year--just as his father had with your mother 23 years earlier.

I want you to write me a personal ad to end all other personal ads. Literally. I want all other men to see mine and give up.

Why, Denny?, you ask.

Perhaps I've grown weary of fecklessly sleeping my way through Kenosha County's modest reserves of sexable females.

Maybe I'm tired of waking up next to three or four different women each morn, especially when roughly half of them are on the run from a local prison/group home.

Perchance I've had enough of casting my magical, viscous seed into the Southern Wisconsin wind. Especially with the wind chills as they are.

Or it could simply be that I can no longer chance that I'll be juggling vagina-support vessels from two different generations of the same family.

Said another way--Denny wants to settle down with the Wisconsinite of his Dreams, and is relying on you to make it happen. You're the pimp that's going to score me my hooker, but instead of a hooker she's going to be a non-hooker.

So, in the comment space provided below, write your holy one a personal advertisement befitting his out of this world looks and sky-high lovemaking standards. Or simply send it to rockmetonite72@gmail.com.

The winner will win a real prize, but I don't want to commit to anything of value until I confirm that I'm not losing my job for offering free bikini waxing in the womens' bathroom last week (with nary a drop of wax in sight).

Most Thankful,
Denny DelVecchio

Correction #2

Just some shirtless actors from web search

The editors marginally regret that last month's Your New Bad Habit expose on the thriving, underground Huntsville, Alabama gay bathhouse scene had a few modest inaccuracies, including that it amounted to something besides a totally straight and faithful husband and father of three taking a 15 minute Epsom Salt dip in his own apartment's bathtub to ease his bunion pain, that the editors of this website had anything but seething contempt for the truth or even the most rawboned journalistic mores and, finally, the piece's suggestion that you're actually allowed to be gay in Alabama.

Besides that, the story was 100% accurate and Your New Bad Habit stands fully behind the balance of its allegations.

Eds.

From The Bag Of Tricks: Outlive You (Denny's Bucket List #2)

As I continue with my periodic list of things that I must do before I leave this illuminant, earthlike planet, I can't help but turn a bit competitive.

Because perhaps the most important thing for me to accomplish before I die is dying after you.

That's right, I must insist that you feed from the bitter trough of mortality before I do.

Surely you concede that Denny has an abundance of grand schemes just aching to come to fruition while your modest aspirations--likely to include some combination of taking a commercial airline flight, learning to whistle the love theme from Saw II and finally getting to second base with Maria Lavacelli--suggest a future far less lustrous than my own.

Don't get me wrong, friend: I'm in no hurry to witness your demise, and have no present plans to accelerate it in any fashion, be it a duel, a drizzle of Polonium 210 in your lemonade or unleashing a bloodthirsty she-jackal into your sleeping quarters.

In fact, since I plan to live to the healthy age of 112, you can yet witness several decades worth of glorious sunrises while still managing to return to humble dust well before Denny Dance does.

Fair enough?  Good.

It's settled then.

All Smiles,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance #65: The Best Thing In The History Of The Internet

Denny will simply step aside and let the magic happen.

Heat and Intensity in my Penis,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance #64: My New Bad Resolutions

Greetings, my panting DelVecchians. Your favorite party crasher/panty snatcher is back in full effect.

I felt your collective, preternatural yearning across the broad expanse spanning wherever you are and my South Kenosha Garden Efficiency of Carnaility, and felt that I owed it to your trusty loins to put some pants on for the first time in roughly 72 hours and toss a knowing witticism or two your way.

You're welcome.

So, at risk of plowing original ground in any way shape or form, Denny Dance will settle in and man-hump the blog-tested meme of New Year's resolutions. I'm stunned that Mr. Brand hasn't already unleashed his own wispy set of these centering on effetely swilling cherry-lime cosmos and/or tennis-themed self-gratification and/or hatching a plan to woo an unwitting young lass by borrowing his neighbor Les' three legged pygmy German Shepherd for a couple of hours. (Hint: not the dog kind.)

Although my initial, vain instinct would be to leave my quasi-perfection alone, along my ex-wife would waddle and spoil that man-tasy. So I'll come correct.

Denny can better himself. There, I said it. (Put our gentle, resplendent lovemaking sessions of 2010 out of your mind so the list doesn't strain all bounds of believability.)

Here's how I'll do it:

1. Begin working an actual Shake Weight for my seven daily Shake Weight sessions.
2. Start using real names when on the prowl for tocus. Retiring "Bennie DelVecchio" for good.
3. No more sexting with the boss man (except on breaks).
4. Stop being so goddamn good-looking.
5. More headbands (see video, above).
6. Less codpieces.
7. 13 way with Singlegirlie, Vodka, KAP, B Schooled, Jami, Spice, Loon, Blunty, OCD, Good Nurse, Nikki and you. Denny will at long last add "Director" to his acting resume. It's good to be a hyphenate.
8. Two way with Gunther. In a totally straight way.
9. Perhaps dabble a bit in the Dildonic Arts.
10. Continue blowing your mind, rocking you world and dampening your chosen variety of undergarment(s) with murderous aplomb.

Good to have me back,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag Of Tricks: Hey Asshole, Why Didn't You Play My Request? (Regress #37)

Let me get back to Friday night.

After my second shower of the week, followed by an Aqua Velva baptism, I squeezed Señor Manaconda into my favorite pair of black, snug-front Bugle Boys and embarked upon a sacred quest:

A mission to ensnare a pair of morally fallacious half-sisters from Scottsdale who would love me more for my checkbook than my heartbook?

A plan to awkwardly enfleshen a prim, virginal booksmith from stacks of the Greater Phoenix Metro Library System's Chandler branch?

Perhaps even a confused attempt to win back the erstwhile love of my life using a brazen scheme to harvest a kidney from a panhandler in order to save a young boy in Bulgaria?

If you answered anything but None of the Above you failed.

Because my simple quest was to have DJ Ricky Rise at Club Levitation play a certain slow jam especially for a special young lady who had caught my fancy through her entrancing, sirenic manner--one that sent so much wayward blood to my party regions even BP tipped its oily hat.

Denny simply wanted her to know how he felt.  And now our love-starved world may never realize what could have been.

Have you ever been in love, Mr. D.J. Rise?

Denny thought not.

Achingly,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance # 63: Coming Soon From Denny

Denny's unseemly hiatus is quickly drawing to a close, so he's already feverishly working on getting laid and shitfaced a number of brave, envelope-pushing stories to satisfy his patient, loyal DelVecchians across the Globe.

Stay tuned for these stories and much more . . .

Benched Pee Wee football QB feels "disrespected."

Look Who's Talking prequel now casting semen.

Your Mom calmly denies fucking your drunk, insulting friend last night.

Miley Cyrus cancels pending South Korean dates in show of solidarity with the North.

Stitch in time quickly yields to goddamn gaping hole.

YNBH Exclusive: Julian Assagne's private anagram Hades.

Groundbreaking Gay Unicorn character now slated for Glee.

Jailed Bernie Madoff's rectum loses track of new investors' deposits.

Potential Bachmann-Palin ticket forces Christ to accelerate Earthly return.

Betty White: "Just watch me out-blowjob Ke$ha in 2011."

Almost home,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag Of Tricks: I Was Almost A New Bohemian (Regress # 32)

It was 1996.

I was at a crossroads in my feral young life, loving like a 70s stag film flesh magistrate and always at the ready for the night's next big thrill.

And then I met "Edie" in the baked goods aisle at Cousins supermarket.  And nothing was ever the same again.

She was in town playing a free show for the Camden Tulip Fest, and had a "bit of the grumbles" which could only be satiated by a marbled pecan bear claw.  As the sweet dews of fate would have it, I already had the last one lovingly cradled in my musky paw.

We shared that nectarous pastry, I called her a Poor Man's Natalie Merchant, and 16 minutes later I was freaking her.

The Winds of the Gods continued to blow forcefully that day, as New Bohemian bassist John Bradley Houser had to undergo an emergency uvula excision. And Edie was suddenly missing half of her rhythm section.

That night I made sweet passion to the crowd--even going off the set list to play an aching, atmospheric solo cover of Peter Cetera's timeless The Glory of Love.

After the lights went down, she asked me to give it all up to become a New Bohemian--to leave the comfortable life I knew behind and venture into tomorrow hand in hand with her.

But, as you might imagine, I was simply getting way too much top notch Camden Community College tail to go that direction.

Hard Rain's Gonna Fall,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag of Tricks: Denny Was Just Accepted To College! (Advance #29)

Although I secured my G.E.D. almost 15 years ago (and have had my Ph.D. in The Genital Arts for over a decade), I have always longed to be a college man like the father of some guy I knew back in Jersey who completed almost two full semesters at Rutgers-Camden Extension back in the late 70s.

Well I am both humbled and totally stoked to announce that I have just been accepted to, as they say in Europe, University.

I have long wanted to be an artist, and Mr. Marzetti once told me in junior high that I painted "just like a retarded Van Gough." I  have kept that amazing compliment close to my heart ever since.

This is the drawing that got me in.

In truth I thought Terrapin Sexplosion was a tad broad as I have always considered myself a stylistic disciple of pre-Expressionist Fauves like Matisse and Rouault.  My brash and aggressive use of colors and textures would seem to bear that out. 

Amazingly, I already start school in 10 days at the Glendale branch of the world-renowned Art Instruction Schools. I have to be sure to ask the Registrar about my dorm, and can't wait to get a healthy peek at the co-eds in their apple bottom jeans and boots with the fur.

It's gonna be a great year.

Pomp and Circumstance,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag Of Tricks: Severing Diplomatic Relations (Advance #27)

In a fiery display of solidarity with this site's longtime allies in Seoul, Your New Bad Habit today formally cut all diplomatic ties with Pyongyang, catapulting its often percussive relationship with the cloistered state into icy new territory.

Besides my preternatural disdain for pygmy despots hell-bent on feasting on the loins of power at any cost, that lock-step marching video they always play on Fox and Friends creeps Denny the fuck out.

The truth is that I'm willing to settle this whole thing right now in the same manner by which hundreds of generations of rivals have: erotic jello wrestling.

The ball's in your court now, 'Lil Kim.

With Much Pride,
Denny DelVecchio

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 hoste(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

Denny Still Fucking Loves His DelVecchians

Papa's coming home soon. Don't fret, and keep a fire in the hearth.

For Real(s),
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag Of Tricks: Train In Vain (Regress #13)

I care not what grim personal or emotional depths you are currently plumbing.

It doesn't matter how soul-crushingly bleak your already rawboned lovemaking prospects have become.

It's of no moment that you find yourself shamefully devoid of skill in your chosen vocation as an erotic mime.

And I won't judge you simply because you spend most of your free hours in the musty crawlspace above your ex-girlfriend's apartment bedroom.

Because despite all of these lamentable human conditions, you're George Timothy Fucking Clooney compared to the bastard love child of Sandy Cohen and Dylan McDermott-looking, cleanse my ears with sulfuric acid sounding, Dark Angel Lucifer-spawned, mortal sin against humanity and all things sacred and holy better known as Train.

Feeling better now?

With Perfect Empathy,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag Of Tricks: My Favorite Fan (Advance #30)

Surely you must know by now that you're my favorite fan.

Don't be coy--embrace it.

You have the body of a young, female Eric Nies, and a beguiling way that hasn't been seen since Drew Barrymore led our hearts and libidos astray back in 1992.

And you understand me.  I won't soon forget that. Some wouldn't make much of your two visits to this site totaling 7 minutes over a four week period, but to me you're a shimmering angel of light.

Your lover said they'd leave if you didn't stop worshiping prostrate at my feet.  You swung open the door for them to exit your life forever. That's Denny's brave girl.

Your parents told you that you were no child of theirs. You smiled and cheerfully revealed to Grant and Renee that Your New Bad Habit was nothing compared to how you had made Def Leppardian love to Shaun DiLoretto three times in 37 minutes last year--in their marital bed.  You left them, mouths agape, and moved into the efficiency apartment of your dreams.

The South Dakota State University women's hockey team abandoned you. Did my special princess frown? Not that little fighter. She drove her Zamboni of Pride away from the rink without looking back. And her old squad lost the next night to Mankato State 12-2. In your face, ice harpies!

I will never forget you, favorite fan. A Your New Bad Habit hoodie (see above) and Season 1 of The Ropers on DVD have already been dispatched.

Yours In Love,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance #62: Wisconsin's A Little Something Like This...

Love to you all from Denny Dance, somewhere in this Godforsaken Dairyphile land, where football teams score 83 points and Denny scores even more.

Your favorite and mine, too,
Denny DelVecchio

Regress #52: Good Bye For Now (Denny's Been Transferred to Wisconsin)

It is with a touch of sadness, my virulent DelVecchians, that Denny Dance must now share with you some unsettling news.

That fussy little ladyboy that calls himself my boss, Easy Ed Verhowski, has transferred me to a new position in Kenosha, Wisconsin, effective immediately.

While I remain skeptical that Kenosha is a real city and Wisconsin is a real state, I must abide by the rotund dicklord's orders.

Now the real problem--complete relocation and new digs that may or may not have what some people are calling "the internet."

So I will bid a humble good-bye to you all.  Not forever, but for now. I hope to be back online and deep into your panties by Christmas. I'll try to check in on Facebook when I can and, yes, I will continue to reply to all fanmail and tit-shots at my personal email address, dennydelvecchio@gmail.com.

Denny would still lovingly impregnate you all at a moment's notice. Let that fact keep you warm when the cold winds blow.

Much love,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag Of Tricks, Fucked Up Election Edition: Missing Your Demographic (Regress #12)

Although sure to make you drop and do the booty wop, this jam is the harmonic equivalent of assigning Your New Bad Habit as required reading for the Hutterian Brethren.

It certainly would have been insightful to have been a fly on the wall at the Mensa convention where this political masterstroke was conceived.

Such an endeavor is simply too important to leave in the hands of amateurs. Had I been in charge, I would have leaned toward a significantly more old school joint. 

In Confidence,
Denny DelVecchio

Regress #51: His Gateway Drug to Abject Human Failure

This gay subtext-drenched lovely started grandpops DelVecchio down his sodden, failed marriage-pocked, skank-ridden luge run to nowhere.

But, from time to time, I still managed to shake a couple loose for Denny when the old man was passed out.

Reminiscing,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag Of Tricks : Tell Them The Truth, Progressive Flo (Regress #19)

There are actually human beings--or very close--who choose to believe that you're an auto insurance huckster rather than a Lucifer-spawned Emissary of Perdition.

And putting that small detail aside for a moment, I can still think of several entertainment industry namesakes who have comfortably exceeded your level of "Flo" realness.

Hurts doesn't it?

Your Revlon Lot Lizard Luscious lip paint and Rocky Horror Transvestite eye shadow only further suggest your true identity as one of the Beast's earth-stationed minions. I half expect a 1-900 number to start crawling across the screen offering your carnal services to the sad and lovelorn roaming the Church of Satan.

What's crystal clear is that you're going to fail in your lurid quest for our souls. You can take that to the bank.

Denny intends to stop the legions of misinformed, cartoonish disciples from believing that you're something you're not.  And make no mistake, you cloven-hoofed shill--they will learn the truth.

Without irony,
Denny DelVecchio

It's Saturday, DelVecchians

Have a blessed day!

Counting on it,
Denny DelVecchio

Take The Wheel, Douchebag

 
Eds. Note: This is the 12th installment of our ongoing series of guest appearances by cultural heavyweights. 

What the holy fuck did I do to make this world hate me so?

My sole purpose on this planet is to gently cleanse the tender vaginal canals of female human beings across the industrialized world and, if at all possible, fill said female with a heightened sense of confidence and self worth should another human happen upon said woman's vaginal canal.

I promise nothing more. I deliver nothing less.

Well, on second thought, I might even serve to occasionally foster a greater degree of communication between the various generations of human families, as a mother may see fit to regale her daughter or daughters with cheerful tales of yore, such as when her own douching helped her snare her future husband's eye the University of Dayton fall formal back in 1982.

I cleanse. I smile. I die.

Yes, that's right.  After I labor as a reservoir for an otherworldly combination of harsh chemicals, acids, bases and vinegar, I am hurriedly cast asunder much like my recreational cousin, the condom.

How do you think that makes me feel?

Empowered, that's how. Just like a latter-day Geisha at the $10 tug-stand or servile, doe eyed concubine.

But you know what does rile me up?  When humans take my name in vain by affixing the noble moniker to those deemed the most socially befuddled and monstrously undesirable amongst them.

Would you like it if I called you a Dane Cook?

Or a Stan Gable?

Or a The Situation?

Or even the a the late Johnny Olson?

Exactly, you stanky landlord of hell-quim.

Now open up those meaty gargoyles you call thighs and let me get about my business in peace.

-Eve Unit #231,712

From The Bag Of Tricks: Nick Lachey Will Heal Our Broken World (Advance #24)

The global economy is in virtual free fall, two apocalyptic environmental disasters are cravenly mocking us in unison, and mud-slinging and paranoia are sinking our political discourse to new, unmined depths.

And the cruel troika of poverty, war and disease are plowing forward with sinister new traction.

Some are whispering that there's no hope for our future.

Well I say there sure the fuck is as long as the the Alabaster Groinasaurus is still dropping his silky smooth jams.

That's right--we need you more than ever, Nicky Dreams.

Step up, suggestively grind your svelte, percussive hips and coolly transform this broken world into your own personal pleasuredome.

Then impregnate our souls with your Miles Davis-esque Southern Ohio funk.

A Believer,
Denny DelVecchio

Advance #60: Introducing "DelVecchio, The Fragrance"

Coming Winter 2011 at all finer Costco Wholesale Clubs and Kaufhaus Des Westens across the United States and Bavaria.

You will have sexual intercourse, perhaps even with another, within 11 hours of drenching your doughy torso in this oily hump serum, or up to 50% of your purchase price will be cheerfully refunded.

The line forms to Denny's left.

Ballin',
Denny DelVecchio

Regress #50: Mr. Cunningham Felled

Although I once shamelessly foisted a yeoman's bounty of carnal aspirations at your supple, copper-domed better half week after merciless week, I never actually wished that you were dead.

And now you are.

Yet, still, I'm not one iota closer to sexing the erstwhile Mrs. Cunningham now than I was as a musky, besotted rodeo clown of avarice back in 1983. And there's nothing that Spike Jonze can do about it now.

Is that what a loving God would allow?
 
Sad But Not Really Meaningfully Grieving,
Denny DelVecchio

From The Bag Of Tricks: Our Generation's Cary Grant (Advance #17)

Cary Grant. Sir Laurence Olivier. Paul Newman. Gregory Peck. Clark Gable.

These Pharaohs of Old Hollywood all possessed unrivaled acting chops, sculpted jawlines and animal magnetism in spades. And we'll never forget them.

Whether a role required a slow burn or a bright conflagration of thespianic ardor, they stood at the ready to transform themselves. And, perhaps, us a little as well.

Many have debated what nuanced player of our generation will one day proudly stand arm and arm with these Titans of the Celluloid.

Will it be Clooney? Depp? Washington? Seymour Hoffman?

I say none of the above.

Let me be the first to lay my hard earned money down on a multi-faceted son of a Michigan auto mechanic, who worked his way through the acting ranks with razor-like aplomb, never losing sight of his dream to be the very best at his craft.

I'm talking about you, Dax Shepard.  Please get up and take a bow.

Cordially,
Denny DelVecchio