Tonto does MMA way back before it was cool to - Pt. I of II

So yeah, I tried this whole MMA, or mixed martial arts stuff, if you will.

In fact, I did it way back before it was cool to do.

Back when I did it, people said I was stupid.

Said I was punch-drunk.

Said I was like a rooster with razors on my talons (I don’t have no talons. Do roosters?).

Said I was afraid of a re-match with Larry Holmes.

The year was 1987. I was riding high on a five-fight win streak. I had just won via a rd. 4 KO against Joe Humphreys at the Sports Arena in LA, and was relaxing in my dressing room when there was a knock at the door.

“Yeah?” I said.

In walks this guy. He looked and sounded Mexican, but turns out, he was from Brazil. His name was Carlos, which further confused me about his heritage, not that it mattered, but he assured he that he was from Brazil. He said he liked my style, liked my right hand, and that he had a proposition for me.

“Eeez called Vale Tooodoh,” he said.

“What?” I said.

Turns out, what we call mixed martial arts, was called Vale Tudo back in the proverbial day. No rules. Anything goes. Kicks. Punches. Chokes. Anything. Lots of jiu-jitsu guys (or “zhooo-zhitsuuu,” as Carlos said), but no one who could punch like me. I wonder if he’d heard of Larry Holmes?

The pay was good. I got a couple thousand bucks, and a free plane ride to Curitiba, Brazil to go fight some nobody. Carlos met me at the airport and we went straight to the arena.

“Isn’t the fight tomorrow?” I said.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Eeeez to-night. We sell out tonight.”

On the way to the arena, we passed by a billboard with my face on it, next to a mean looking Brazilian guy that said, “Morte de um Americano.” I’ll let you translate that one.

I was in the dressing room warming up with some of the other fighters. No one really talked to me, even if they did, they weren’t speaking English. The only interaction we had was after I wrapped my hands and put my 16 oz. moneymakers on. I asked one of the guys if he could tie my gloves for me, and he busted out laughing.

He pointed to my gloves and all the other guys started laughing hysterically.

“You won’t be needing those,” Carlos told me, trying to hold back snickers…not the candy bar, mind you.

He took my gloves and tossed them back into my bag.

“Can I at least wear a cup?”

“Oh yes,” Carlos said. “You will definitely be needing that.”

Suddenly, the dressing room door opened.

“Americano, you’re up,” someone yelled.

I looked to Carlos, and he nodded. I made my way to the door. I could hear the roar of the crowd starting to spike. I turned back and Carlos was staying behind.

“Go ahead,” he said. “You’ll be fine. Just punch.”

Come back tomorrow for Pt. 2.
Find out what happened when I made my way to the ring and what happened during the fight. It’s insane…
- Tonto

- Tonto Balboa, real name unknown, is a former prizefighter with a record of 48-10. He is best known for getting his ass royally whupped by Larry Holmes in Madison Square Garden. Since then, Balboa has toured the country as a salesman, attempting to cash in on his 1/64th Native American heritage, by selling Indian artifacts. He is currently the editor and chief (after all, he Native American) of Tonto and Friends.

Contact Tonto and Friends

Getting in touch with the staff at Tonto and Friends has never been easier!!!

I make sure that they all get and respond to email immediately.

Tonto Balboa, Editor and Chief - tontobalboa@hotmail.com
Click here to open email in your email client.

The Schmooz, Resident Love Expert - theschmooz@hotmail.com
Click here to open email in your email client.

Linus, The Angry Mime - linustheangrymime@hotmail.com
Click here to open email in... you shoud've figured it out by now.

Vans McCoy, Expert in Whatever he Says - VansMcCoy@hotmail.com
Click here to email Vans.

Stephany Ericson, Literary Expert - stephany.ericson@hotmail.com
Click here to email Stephany.

Bustamante, Culture Expert/Conspiracy Theorist - therealbustamante@hotmail.com
Click here to email Bustamante.

Got any comments or feedback, please email any of our staff. They'd love to hear from you... oh, if you want to contact our resident professional bum, Slocomb Jones, just send it to me. It's hard to contact him.

- Tonto

HOW THE SCHMOOZ FOUGHT THE LAW, AND THE LOVING WON

Hey there, predilections and peccadilloes!

As we ease ourselves out of another holiday, many of my loving readers have told me about their recent troubles with the local law enforcement. Stopping them for sobriety checks while they’re en route to a sweet caress and a hot tongue bath. Tossing them in jail overnight for being too drunk, drunk with passion and a fifth of Jose Cuervo Gold.

It’s a hard world sometimes, beautiful people.

Sometimes, in the case of the law, you just need to give a little kindness, a small token of decency.

Let me tell you a story.

The year was 1984, and I was high off the recent release of my newest album, "It Takes a Moment to Make the Love of a Lifetime." I was feeling sure of myself, and just purchased a slightly used De Lorean DMC-12, which was customized with gold plating on every square inch.

One night, on a midnight drive southbound on Highway 99, about ten miles out of Turlock, CA, I looked out my rear view mirror and I saw a couple of red and blue lights flashing. Once I pulled over to the side, the motorcycle cop parked as well and walked over to me.

"I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car," the cop said.

I couldn’t hear the cop too well, so I asked if they could repeat the question. The cop took off the motorcycle helmet, and this long, blond hair parachuted across her shoulders.

"Would you please step out of the car, sir?" she asked me.

I told her to take a step back, and I opened up the windows of the De Lorean. As their metal wings gave in to the urges of night and lifted towards the sky, I couldn’t help but notice that Office McGrady was looking a little down. And damn if The Schmooz doesn’t have a soft heart for a sad woman.

I knew right away what would make her feel wonderful.

"You were driving a little crazy on the road, sir. Have you had anything to drink -" she started to say, but I placed a finger, just a finger in front of her soft, comely lips.

"Honey, I think you dropped something on the ground here," I whispered.

She looked me incredulously, but asked, "What?"

I slowly raised my cupped hands towards her face.

"Your smile," I teased her.

And that was it. That was all it took to open the floodgates of love that had been locked up inside of Karen. The night was ours, as every inch of my coveted car was occupied by our hot and simmering bodies. We even made love on the roof, watching the stars fade as the dawn took over the countryside.

So if you want the law to open up, readers, sometimes you’ve got to remind them that they are lovers too.

Spread your legs, drop your flies and realize!

Before I go, let me answer an urgent question from one of my readers:

Dear Schmooz, I really like this guy, but it would be unprofessional to date him. What do you think I should do, especially when he asks to borrow money?
- Lost and Confused in Minneapolis

Well, Lost, love and money don’t mix. That’s what banks are for. If someone you love wants money, you got to be firm. Unless, of course, you love somebody who gets paid for making love. In that case, you got to pay to play, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I’ve had a few damsels pay for the privilege of sweating with The Schmooz. Ain’t no shame about it.

I say love this man until you don’t want any more of him. I don’t care if he works for you, is in charge of you, or used to babysit you as a kid. If you want his love, make your body his!

Until next time, keep sending me your questions, your sexy pictures, and I’ll help spread the love!

Sincerely,

THE SCHMOOZ

- Reginald Thurgood is known to his legions of fans as "THE SCHMOOZ," an international Rhythm and Blues singing sensation who has made love to thousands of women across the planet and loves to share every poetic detail. He answers all questions on love and relationship...as he is an expert, baby.

Portion from "A Millioner Little Pieces" - A Memoir by James Frey

I came across the following preview for an upcoming James Frey memoir, "A Millioner Little Pieces" by James Frey. I present it for your enjoyment. - Tonto
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Traveling by donkey, on our way to Kathmandu, Egypt to be trained in Japanese Kung Fu.

It’s the final step in my addiction self-cure thing I’m doing.

After our lesson, we will traverse snowy mountains in search of the elusive Yeti.

Legend has it, if you win a Kung Fu fight against a Yeti, you are officially cured from addiction. In addition, if you keep the Yeti’s skull, you can take as many drugs as you want and not get hooked.

I was covered in vomit.

I guess you could say I was in A Million Little Pieces...correction: A Millioner Little Pieces.

Suddenly, a huge explosion. Black helicopter gun ships descend from all directions, surrounding our party.

“Oh fuck,” yelled a Buddhist monk. It was the first time he had spoken in forty two years.

A hail of bullets rained down. Massive rounds tore through everyone around me, turning them into mix race chutney. The blood of my companions mixed with the vomit on my shirt which was so disturbing that I re-vomited on my shirt. A mental note is made to avoid future purchases of plain white shirts.

Now, it was my friends who were literally in A Million Little Pieces.

Looks like my Kung-Fu lesson came earlier than expected. I‘d taken down helicopter gun ships before, but never this many. I had to do something I’ve had no trouble doing in the past. It was time to get creative.

That’s when the aliens came.

- James Frey is the greatest living human author ever. His struggles are harder than yours. That's why he writes, and that's why you'll read.

Memorial Day note from Tonto

Just so you know, I can't get in touch with any of the contributors today, so we're going to take Memorial Day off. Not that I had any plans, but I guess everyone else does.

THE SCHMOOZ is out doing....I'm sure he's chasing women down with the sound and the fury of his voice.

Slocomb Jones is probably sleeping. Or at the beach. Or dead in a gutter.

Stephany is surely enjoying the day with her family.

Bustamante is hosting a Memorial Day BBQ at his country club in Newport Beach, Ca.

Me? I'm gonna go try to sell some Indian shit.

- Tonto

You wanna know what bugs Professional Bum, Slocomb Jones?

There’s only a few things in life that really upset me.

The ’88 Washington Redskins are one of them. I spent most of the 1980’s in DC, because I supported Reagan. I liked where he stood on Russia. Those people are all government sponsored bums. I didn’t like that. I say, if you’re gonna be a bum, do it on you own. Don’t let the government do it for. Anyway, I agreed when Reagan said he…well, he said he didn’t like it either.

So, during my time in DC, I was a ‘Skins fan, which is why they really upset me in ’88.

I also never like unicycles.

But there’s one thing that always gets stuck in my craw, and that’s a no-good lying bum who’s trying to deceive his customers by pretending to be something he’s not. Now I’m not talking about the guy who makes a version of the “Vietnam Vet” sign. That’s not honorable where I come from, but it’s not repugnant.

One time, I made a sign that said, “I helped free the Slaves in the Civil War. Union Vet. Long Live Lincoln.” I lived well on that sign for several weeks. My fellow servicemen who served in Vietnam didn’t find it funny, but I’m not concerned with them. I’m concerned with the public; the people who pay my bills. I always wanted to let my sense of humor shine through.

So, you can understand why I was so upset with this guy who work a median in the town I retired too…a beach town on the west coast – that’s a specific as I’ll get. He spends his working day slumped over in a wheelchair with his requisite “please help” sign.

That alone bugs me. You need to provide your customers more content than “please help.”

Write a joke, a limerick, a poem, etc. It’s your job to make their time at a red light enjoyable, not awkward.

I always wondered how he got his chair up onto the curb of the median anyway, so my bull-malarkey senses were tingling as it was. The other day I was enjoying a cup of coffee at the local Burger King when I see someone young and employed pushing an empty wheelchair, and I thought someone had robbed this bum, when, lo and behold, here come Mr. Slumpy trotting up behind.

He was trotting! This wasn’t the same pathetic bum who lied to people all day, pretending to be something he’s not.

By the time you’re reading this, know that I’m going to have a little talking to with Mr. Slumpy and what it means to be a professional bum. You have to make it on your own accord. If you want to be an actor, be an actor.

Like Reagan.

But don’t pretend to be worthless bum, when you’re just a bum. It makes the rest of us look like amateurs.

If he wants to act like that, maybe he should go to Russia where they endorse that sort of behavior.

- Slocomb Jones has been a professional bum for over 50 years. In April 2007, he officially announced his retirement as a bum, and has segued into a successful second career as a retired bum and part-time bum coach/advisor. Ironically, he’s busier now that he’s retired than he’s ever been in his entire life.

Bustamante Was There: How His Trip to Woodstock Began and Ended a Half Mile Away.

Yeah, I went to Woodstock.

Sort of.

I mean, I was there. I just…wasn’t there.

Let me explain.

And no, it’s not what you’re thinking. Yes, I took a lion’s share of drugs while at Woodstock, but that’s not the reason I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there because….well, parking was a real pain in the ass.

I went with a couple of buddies. It was me, Tommy, Tellulia (who I nailed that weekend. Score for Bustamante!), and some dude we picked up along the way who called himself Dr. McNally. I doubted the legitimacy of his PhD, but he assured me that he completed the required coursework. I didn’t doubt the legitimacy of his dope. That was premium.

Our plan was to hop into Tommy’s van, and cruise up to Woodstock. We didn’t have tickets, but we figured that we really didn’t need them anyway, and that we’d find a way in. Tellulia said she sleep with whomever she needed to for us to get in. So did Dr. McNally. As the bumper sticker goes, “….or ASS. No one rides for free!” Dr. McNally lived by that philosophy.

Like just about everyone, we got there pretty late, and about a half-mile out from the concert, traffic was stopped cold. I mean cold as in like not moving for like five hours. It was starting to be an official bummer, man. We all got out of our vans and were hanging out. Me and Tellulia climbed up on the top of the van to watch the sunset….and do some other stuff.

By the first night, we could hear the hum from the concert. We had no idea who was playing, but we knew someone was playing. It started to rain, but hot rain in August is always a trip, especially when one is tripping yourself. It sounded like pings and dings coming from the concert, so it must’ve been that jerk Ravi Shankhar and his stupid sitar.

Next thing we know, a bunch of people come walking back up the road from the concert, looking all distraught, like Nixon had won a third term or something.

“What’s up, man?” I asked one dude.

“Fascists won’t let anymore people in the concert, man.”

“Aww, man,” I said. “What are you gonna do?”

“Go home, I guess. Here man, you can have my ticket, it’s useless…This whole thing is useless.”

He and many others disappeared up the road. The road was still a parking lot, so we weren’t going anywhere, so we just decided to party until traffic was cleared and we could drive home. It took two and half days, so we lived on grass, the grass you walked on, and beer.

It wasn’t until we got home that we learned that they started letting everyone in on day two. I guess they weren’t fascists after all. We were a ten minute walk away and Tommy didn’t feel like walking. Dr. McNally vanished. I figure he got in. I spent the weekend listening to a distant hum and bonding with Tellulia.

It was the event of our lifetime, and we were this close….

Heck, I even had a ticket.

- Bustamante is the current Tennis instructor at a swanky Newport Beach, Ca. country club/yacht club. Not much is known about Bustamante except that he taught junior high math for a period of time in the 80’s, and that he’s pretty phenomenal with a hackysack. He was good enough to go pro, but corporate sponsorship just wasn’t there for the sport to get off the ground in the mid 70’s.

THE SCHMOOZ KNOCKS SOME SENSE INTO PUFFY, AND TEACHES HIM A LESSON IN R&B (PART II)

Here's pt. 2 of THE SCHMOOZ' story. We left off yesterday after SCHMOOZ sent Puff Daddy to the canvas with a right hand...not unlike what Larry Holmes did to me in MSG. Never mind all that....Enjoy!! - Tonto
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Sean, I tell him, rhythm and blues ain’t about adding a whole lot of flash to music. It’s not about fronting, pretending to be some great lover, and then spending more time on you than attending to people. You want this group to be good, and not just playing at love and seduction, you’ve got to pay attention to what makes a lover crave what you’ve got. And it’s not clothes, it’s not money, it’s attention that lovers want.

I look over at Sheila, and ask her to come over and sit down in a chair next to me. I need you to do me a favor, to help all lovers around the world, I tell her.

She looks up at me, rapt with eagerness.

I need you to close your eyes, and remove all your clothing, I gently ask her.

She asks me why. Because I need you to have all your senses humming, sugar, and your eyes closed while you sit that chair next to me, I intone. I promise, on my life, that no one will touch you while you sit there.

And with that, she peels each layer of her beauty, her eyes closed the entire time. When she stops, her skin takes my breath away, just for a moment.

The room is silent. Sean’s rubbing his jaw, and not saying one word.

Sheila, I beg her, I need you to hear my voice, and groove on my voice while you sit there, is that okay?

She nods.

I pause, letting her anticipate just what I’m about to say.

Sheila, I take it you’re not a Georgia girl, I tease her. That means you’ve probably never had the chance to enjoy a nice treat like peaches and cream, have you?

She shakes her head no. Just then, her goosebumps start to contract and turn flush on her pale skin.

You really should give it a try sometimes, Sheila. It’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted. Just imagine some ripe, plump peaches, sun still casting a smile on their flesh, mixed with the most heavenly home made vanilla ice cream. Every spoonful makes you hungry for more.

She starts to squirm, and I see the magic taking a hold of her. She continues to grind herself into the chair as I continue to speak.

And you, you delicious beauty, I purr, are the epitome of the joy that is peaches and cream. I would die a lesser man if I never had the chance to savor your taste, your skin, bite by bite. To run my tongue along the grain of your fine, bashful hairs and breathe in the wholesome country food that is yours and yours alone –

With a scream, Sheila shakes in her chair for several seconds, rapturous at the thoughts within my loving mind. She shakes faster and faster, and then collapses in the seat. I gently place my hand on her shoulder, and our open eyes lock together in a clandestine embrace.

I glance at the group, and they seem to understand what the lesson was that I had taught them. Sean escorts me back to the limo, and digs out his wallet, offering to pay for my inspiration. I tell him to keep his money, but that Sheila and I would be leaving now. He opens his mouth to protest, but before he can reply, Sheila is already curling up with me in the limo, and we head back to Atlanta.

And that’s the story behind the song. Sheila and me had many sweet nights together, drinking in one another like a fine dessert. 112 made their song about it all, and I got to teach Sean a lesson. Not a bad time, all in all.

Now, until another day, give love to one another, ask me whatever love questions your heart desires, and keep your heart light!

Sincerely,

THE SCHMOOZ

- Reginald Thurgood is known to his legions of fans as "THE SCHMOOZ," an international Rhythm and Blues singing sensation who has made love to thousands of women across the planet and loves to share every poetic detail. He answers all questions on love and relationship...as he is an expert, baby.

THE SCHMOOZ KNOCKS SOME SENSE INTO PUFFY, AND TEACHES HIM A LESSION IN R&B

Salutations, moonbeams and waterfalls!

I was checking the old Schmooz log on this site the other day, and I saw this post:

what does "peaches and cream" mean in 112's song "peaches and cream?"

I found myself pretty steamed after reading this question, so I booked myself a seaweed wrap pronto. Two hours later, my pores were as open as a Nicaraguan brothel, and I had discovered just how flexible Simone, my forceful, yet friendly masseuse could be.

Why, my ardent readers, would such a sensation, such a presence as myself become riled at the mention of some lesser musical group?

Two words. Sean Combs.
Two more words. Puff Daddy.

I never call my second cousin that. Only fools and his mama, who kept teasing him about his weight, do such a thing. The kid’s partially responsible for taking a lot of good grooves and bending all the soul right out of a lick. Ain’t no woman wanna shake her brains to some of his songs when you’ve got real music like me, like the greats.

But he calls me constantly, asking for help on whatever half-brained ideas he cooks up in his head. Most of the time, I avoid him. It’s pretty easy, because our circles are so different. But one day, I find myself wrapping up a set in Atlanta, and right after the show, two apes walk right into my dressing room, pry the lips of a fine young thing off of me, and toss me in a limo. As they drive, I can’t help but think: thank the lord I keep my phone number written on my underclothes. Because, friends, if you saw what a good time I was missing by sitting in some limo, you’d have broken down and cried.

An hour later, the limo stops, and the bodyguards let me out. Sean comes running like some shiny little puppy, pumping my hand. He says he’s got a situation, and he needs my musical expertise. I look him over, and he’s decked out in some fancy ass suit that he spends fifteen minutes of my time talking about, where the silk comes from, who tailored it for him, and how much it cost.

But he doesn’t say “cost,” like anyone ought to say, he says “Benjamins.” He’s about a hardcore as my Grandma playing bingo at the Baptist church on Sundays.

He looks me over and sees the robe I’m wearing, and smirks. Asks me what Wal-Mart I bought it from.

I smile and shake my head. What I don’t tell him is that the Dali Lama – that’s right –the Dali motherloving Lama! made it for me out of sheer love for my ever-guiding presence.

Then, the boys from 112 come out. I can tell by the looks in their eyes that they’ve been at least ten hours over on a recording session. You know the look after a while. Where nothing seems to feel like it’s worth the sound of your voice. Something tells me I’m there as a gift, to kick their asses a little.

Pens come out of nowhere, and I’m signing 8 x 10’s , CD’s and albums for the group. Taking pictures with them on their cell phones. One of them blurts out how my 1978 album "Holding on to You" gave him the inspiration to become a singer.

A woman comes out of the studio, runs over to Sean, and kisses him so hard her earrings crack. Sean introduces her, Sheila. She’s Japanese, and with these tall, languid legs that make a lover want to bow his head in reverential prayer for the beauty that is before him.

I ask them, after a time, what songs they had recorded so far. They take inside the studio, and Sean plays each one, hyping it all up. How each new song reinvented hip hop, rhythm and blues, etc. He even starts telling me how he’s gonna buy the rights to some Blondie song from the eighties, “The Tide is High,” do some mixing to it, and add a rap of himself with 112 to make it sound ever better.

I never fight, readers. After all, I am the Schmooz. I earned my name a thousand fold. But I don’t have much patience for kin when they run their mouth. So, I rear up and sock Sean straight in the jaw. Sent him right down to the floor. His bodyguards run in, and Sean pushes them away, glaring at me while he does so.......
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Check back tomorrow morning to see if Puffy gets crazy with THE SCHMOOZ - Tonto

- Reginald Thurgood is known to his legions of fans as "THE SCHMOOZ," an international Rhythm and Blues singing sensation who has made love to thousands of women across the planet and loves to share every poetic detail. He answers all questions on love and relationship...as he is an expert, baby.

Take your kids on a Road Trip! The exciting adventures on "The Road" await you!!!

A GREAT way to bond with your children is to take them on a Road Trip. Kids love the excitement, change, and unpredictable nature of “the Road." Couple those qualities with time in extremely close proximity with Mom and Dad (actually my grandparents), siblings, pets, and home-made suitcases in a small car, and you will be building wonderful lifetime memories as the odometer scrolls effortlessly by.

By the time I had graduated from college in the early ‘80’s, I had become quite intimate with the concept of “Road Trip.” As a young girl, my loving grandparents had taken me… and those other children on many fun filled road trips to exciting places including the Great Lakes (all 4!), the Major League Baseball parks in Akron, Columbus, and even Toledo one year. We also visited seventeen utterly filthy petting zoos in the Central US in only one week! For some reason I remember we ate GREAT most of that week! Dad used to cook all of our meals right out of the trunk. Like I said….Lifetime memories can be had on “the Road.”

A truly loving family need not even plan these family outings. Almost always we would just leave on a moments notice to go somewhere new and fun. Several times, Dad (he was actually my Grandpa) would come and get me right out of class - I remember my teachers were furious. This would only add to the excitement. The lesson here seemed to be “how to get out of town quickly on the side streets of town.”

Grandpa was a great driver and I think he knew all of the policemen, or at least where they were at all hours. The Policemen seemed to really like Dad, and were always interested in what he was doing, or “up to” as they would say. I am still not sure to this day if Mom and Dad planned it, but every trip seemed to be a learning experience about something to help later on in life.

One time, we had an extremely early morning visit to the Sandusky Wildlife Park and petting zoo -I think Mom and Dad got us in with some kind of special permission, because we were the only ones there! After the visit with the wildlife, we went outside to learn how to tenderize Ostrich meat with small baseball bats (we had visited the Toledo Mudhens promotional inventory stockade late the night before). It was messy, but fun!

It’s true…many things do taste like chicken, including tenderized Ostrich! I still wonder where Dad found a grocery that sold Ostrich meat. Sadly that was the last time we visited the Sandusky Wildlife Park and petting zoo. And I never did get to see the Mudhens play a game even though we were at their ballpark parking lot for 7 hours. But the trip was exciting overall!

Your kids deserve the learning, loving, and excitement of a “Road Trip.” Pack just a few things tonight and pick them up tomorrow just after morning recess! Treat them to the hearty bustle and salty sounds of dockworkers busting their behinds. Show them the lovely “backside” of the carnival raking in $$ in your town. Perhaps you will learn a thing or two. Your kids will appreciate your efforts their whole lives!

- Stephany Ericson is an award winning author of children's books (“The Low Down,” “Eat this for a Quarter,” and “Daddy has Stubble in Funny Places”). Raised in Pacoima, Ohio by loving grandparents, educated in the Arab Emirates, and employed for 17 years by Art’s Pastry Shack, she brings to her readers sugar-coated, heart-warming stories of redemption all wrapped in a non-traditional Burqua.

Slocomb Jones wants to be mayor and the subject of a great Blues song.

OK now, let’s see what the mailbag has for me today…

Michael from Norwalk, Ca. asks:

Dear Slocumb,

How did you get your name?

The answer is simple, Michael:

One time, I ran for mayor.

Early on in my career, I traveled south for an extended stay to learn the trade of the successful hobos of the Deep South. These were the guys that they wrote the great blues songs about. That’s what I wanted to be. I wanted to be blues song bum.

It took me seven months, but I made it down there. One time, on my way down there when I was in Tupelo, I ate a rattlesnake. It was a little spicy, and I couldn’t quite chew the rattle, but overall it was decent. Two stars out of five.

Anyway, I made my way down to Slocomb, Alabama and made myself known to the locals. They were friendly. I spent two nights in jail for peeing on a train. I guess it wouldn’t have been a crime, but the train was starting to take off. They frown on that type of behavior in Slocomb.

My plan wasn’t to be in jail right away, but I did want to be the topic of a blues song (again, I was young, stupid, and full of bum energy), and every great blues song talks about jail, so maybe it was blessing in disguise…or a blessing in a uniform with a snarling German Shepherd.

There I was sitting in jail with a roof over my head, and three meals a day. I was very uncomfortable with this living situation, so I was planning to escape – which would be verse 2 of my blues song – but the cops were nice enough to let me go after three and a half days.

Now, I had no direction and was shiftless again…I was home once more. I ran into a guy named Shorty Something, out back behind a local grocery mart. One thing lead to another, I told him about my dreams to be in a blues song, and he said something about the Devil going down to Georgia…next thing you know Shorty Something was my running mate, and I announced my candidacy for Mayor of Slocomb, Alabama.

I thought that would make the greatest blues song of all times. A rattlesnake-eating, moving-train-peeing-on’er, jailbird, Mayor of Slocomb. That’s a hit if ever I smelled one.

We ran into some trouble right off the bat. There wasn’t an election for over a year, and everyone I talked to when I said I was running already liked the mayor they had, plus, they didn’t seem to have any spare change to boot.

I heard that people don’t like giving money to politicians, so I stopped telling them about my political aspirations. All of a sudden, people started having spare change again.

I quickly became disillusioned with the Joe Q. Public. They only want their bums to be funny, happily drunk, and the subjects of great works of art. How could I be all of those, if I couldn’t run for mayor?

I guess we're not allowed to dream.

After our campaign took that initial hit, Shorty Something and me went back to the drawing board, but just as quickly as Shorty came into my life, he vanished, along with the only political support I had. Mr. Something was the only ally I had, and once he left, I gave up my political hopes.

I spent a couple of more nights in jail for peeing and other victimless crimes, and once I was released again, I decided to leave Slocomb and my dreams behind for good. I decided to take the name Slocomb to remind myself of what could have been in a small town in Alabama…and in record shops across the country.

In the end, It was just me singing the blues.

That's how I got my name, Michael from Norwalk.

- Slocomb Jones has been a professional bum for over 50 years. In April 2007, he officially announced his retirement as a bum, and has segued into a successful second career as a retired bum and part-time bum coach/advisor. Ironically, he’s busier now that he’s retired than he’s ever been in his entire life.

Tonto's Last Stand: An Irishman, nature's speedbag, and a shot at ESPN 2

“If you win this, your next fight’ll be on ESPN 2,” my cornerman, Al Francini yelled in my face.”

I was entering the tenth round (it was scheduled for ten), and I was probably ahead on points, but you never can tell with these judges. I heard of one set of Vegas judges who ruled WWII as a split decision for Japan…This was post nuke, mind you!

I was fighting Randy “Road Warrior” McCluskovich at “The Armory” in Dayton, OH. A far cry from fighting for the heavyweight belt in MSG against Larry Holmes, but whatever. They paid me. That’s all I wanted.

We come out and touch gloves to start the 10th, and I can tell Randy is getting tired. He knows he’s losing the fight, so I go in for the kill. I set up a right body punch by doubling up my jab, and just as I was going to come over-the-top with a left hook, this guy uppercuts me right in nature’s speed bag below my belt.

I doubled up, went down…and the ref starts to count!! He got up to 6 before the ringside Dr., whom I’m convinced was the local bartender, told him what happened. I swear, some of these refs will take any opportunity they can to prove their math skills. I recovered, and we restarted the fight. Within 30 seconds, we clinched, and he hits me in the nuts again!! This time harder!

I stayed up this time, but my legs went numb like the time I spent $10,000 of my purse for fighting Michael Spinks at the Bunny Ranch. Unlike that time, my nuts hurt for different reason altogether.

The ref docked a point from McCluskovich, so I was sure I had the decision.

“You want to quit, Tonto?” the ref asked me.

I shook my head “no.”

I’ll take, “Guessed what happened next?” for $1,000, Alex.

Answer is, “Tonto Balboa wins via DQ, and improves his record to 48-10, yet can’t walk out the ring on his own two feet, while his opponent laughs his way back to the dressing room.”

What is, “Tonto got socked in the jewels uno mas tiempo?”

Correct. Choose again…

I pissed blood for a month.

My next fight wasn’t on ESPN 2.

Wanna buy some Indian Shit?

- Tonto Balboa, real name unknown, is a former prizefighter with a record of 48-10. He is best known for getting his ass royally whupped by Larry Holmes in Madison Square Garden. Since then, Balboa has toured the country as a salesman, attempting to cash in on his 1/64th Native American heritage, by selling Indian artifacts. He is currently the editor and chief (after all, he Native American) of Tonto and Friends.

RAINY DAY LOVE-MAKING WITH THE SCHMOOZ

Hey there, you savory morsels dripping with desire!

From the looks of the weather out in this old world today, it sure looks like rain. Rain tends to make a lot of lovers weary. Not your buddy, The Schmooz, though.

Rainy days are the perfect time to call in sick from work, wrap your blankets tightly around the bare shoulders of an eager love, and just put your muscles to work, baby!

It reminds me of the time I spent a rainy afternoon in Toledo, Spain making sweet sounds with a dark-haired toreador with breasts like teardrops, while the amor del lloviendo accompanied our fierce and impassioned thrusts during those memorable hours.

We have a lot of reader’s questions to answer today, so let’s spread some love!

Curious in California writes in to ask:

"Do boys get more sad over a girl, or do girls get more sad over a boy?"

I like your style, Curious. The way I see it, both boys and girls get sad about leaving their loves about the same. They just show it differently, that’s all. When I part from a lover, I end up feeling so blue, I usually write a soul-drenched song.

Then, as it often happens, some lovely young woman will hear me tearing up the night with that song, and the love starts over again.

So, use that sadness you feel to live life with more attention and resonance than ever, and soon, you’ll find yourself a guest at love’s pancake breakfast once more.

Frustrated in Fullerton wrote me with a very important question:

"How do you know when it’s right to have your first time? And do you have any suggestions for making it good?"

Frustrated, it’s time to chill. The only person who can tell you when you’re ready to surrender to the pleasures of the flesh is you and you alone. Don’t let anybody else tell you otherwise. Having said that, however, I can assure you that lovemaking is the most divine experience this world has to offer anyone.

The key to making your first time right is being honest with your lover. Good love involves talking, letting them know which touches make your toes curl and when they need to try another way to release your sensations.

And, hey, it never hurts to have a copy of any of my albums playing when you’re ready to press flesh to flesh. I recommend my favorite album, Let’s Make Love until the Movie’s Over, because the Seats Recline so Fine.

The last email comes from another noteworthy musician and friend of mine, Yohan, who hails from Zambia and is no stranger to the delicious carnival of lust. He asks:

"u seem to have lots of secks, schmooz. wut exersizes do u do to kepe yer junk werking in gud shape for the ladys?"

One word, Yohan.

Kegels.

You gotta do them at least ten times a day. Squeeze your muscles like you’re miles away from a restroom and you’ve got to use the bathroom. Hold it for a minute each time. It’s the best advice I can give you.

That, and using protection when you love, Yohan. I’ve heard stories about your escapades, my African amigo, and you really should respect your lovers and wear a latex jumpsuit before you skydive into love’s forgiving country.

Until another day, sweet ones, send me your emails, and love, love, love!

THE SCHMOOZ

- Reginald Thurgood is known to his legions of fans as "THE SCHMOOZ," a platinum-selling international Rhythm and Blues singing sensation who has made love to thousands of women across the planet and loves to share every poetic detail. He answers all questions on love and relationship...as he is an expert, baby.

Slocomb Jones on how to survive as a professional bum

Peter from St. Paul, Minnesota chimes in with a burning question:

“How did you become a professional bum, Slocomb Jones?”

Well, Peter, like everything in life, it’s simple, and it’s difficult. I started off my bumming career with little things like cigarettes and beers. I was pretty good at it. Many said I was a natural. But, like Socrates said, “Make your hobby your career,” but I never really took that seriously when I was younger.

Soon after that, I was able to get money from friends and family on a fairly consistent basis, but I thought they were just being friendly for the longest time.

One time, I was in Baton Rogue…I don’t remember how I got there, but I was there for a few weeks and it was Mardi Gras. I went there with nothing and left with nothing, BUT, and here’s the thing: I didn’t go hungry or sober the whole time I was there. Plus, I had a great time!

That’s when I knew I was good enough to turn pro and make a career out of this.

Some people will tell you to start your career in bummery in big city like Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, Las Vegas, so on. I don’t subscribe to that school of thought. Don’t start at the Mecca's of bumdum.

I’ve seen too many bums try to enterprise in a big city and just get caught up in the wave of life and get washed away. Next thing you know, they're making fools of themselves on Bumfights 7. Pitiful. They become just another bum on the corner with no bum skills distinguishing themselves from the bum on the next corner.

I say, start off in a small town like Tupelo, or Biloxi. It’s a low pressure, less competitive arena where you can develop a bum skill set that suits your particular needs. Plus, you become something of a local celebrity, which is always nice for the ego. That way, when you do go to the big leagues, you’ll be able to not only survive (literally), but you can thrive and flourish.

You don’t want to spend 10 hours a day at the Las Vegas off-ramp for the I15 North (#7 most coveted bum spot in the US). You want to be able to make your money, and enjoy your life as a bum, reaping all the advantages the lifestyle has to offer.

- Slocomb Jones has been a professional bum for over 50 years. In April 2007, he officially announced his retirement as a bum, and has segued into a successful second career as a retired bum and part-time bum coach/advisor. Ironically, he’s busier now that he’s retired than he’s ever been in his entire life.

THE SCHMOOZ REFLECTS ON HIS FIRST LOVE AND ANSWERS YOUR QUESTIONS

Hey there, hipsters and debutantes!

Your pal, The Schmooz, is back from a beautiful love-making weekend! Thanks to Missy for her luscious brown lips, Alison for her sensual curves, and Mother Nature for all the earthly delights she shines upon us all!

As I sit here, resting my loins, and sipping a cup of the finest French-pressed Indonesian java I have ever tasted, I think about a question so many of my fans have asked me over the years.

How did I come up with my first song?

“Butterscotch Delight” was a breakthrough single for me at the young age of 21. It was a raw account of my first endeavors with the female form. I’ve always kept quiet about the details of the actual events, of “the red-haired vixen/who’s always been mixin’/the frosty machine.”

But the fair female has passed on from this world a couple of years ago, and so I shall make clear to you the majesty of her gentle touch, her hungry eyes and wanton smile.

Her name was Cera, a foreign exchange student from Dublin. One summer, we worked together at the Frozen Freez, a popular ice cream parlor in town. Every beautiful boy and girl would frequent the place, hoping to make their love come true. Working there was a master class in the art of seduction and charm. It was there that I sharpened my love senses and found the possibilities of epicurean ecstasy.

One night, after closing up the Frozen Freez, Cera and I were turning off the machines when she giggled and told me that we had a half gallon of ice cream still left in the mixer. We both knew what that meant: it was ours to savor.

After grabbing a few bowls, we scooped the mixture as best we could. Cera, however, wanted the ice cream at the bottom of the mixer, and as she leaned all the way over, the front of her shirt was exposed to me. I was lost in the sight of her freckled cleavage, shimmering like the sun.

As she stood back up again, we saw that her top was covered in pistachio ice cream. She looked down, and without a word, she pulled off her shirt, her pants, her underclothes. She stood there before me, naked with the scent of pistachio ice cream coming off of her, and handed me a squeeze bottle of butterscotch.

Friends, the rest was mind-blowing. I poured hot, thick ribbons of the sugary goodness all over this delectable creature, and for the next three hours, she was a skilled, patient teacher. She let me know how a lover communicates, how they recognize when attention must be offered, and where. It was her who gave me my new name as The Schmooz, and I owe her greatly for the lessons she taught me in the short time we were together.

We made love for the rest of that summer, and when school began, Cera and I parted – she, returning back to Ireland for the university, and I, to New York to make my calling as a soul singer. We each knew how perfect we were together, but love isn’t always about being perfect for one another, people. It’s about enjoying the spectacular little moments as they come, knowing that with any new breath, your world may change.

Now, before I leave you, lovers, let’s answer a quick question that sweet L.K from Norwalk, CA sent in for The Schmooz:

"Do guys like girls more than girls like guys?"

L.K. , I think boys and girls like one another just about the same. Only reason boys seem to like people more is that they’re given more freedom in our world to do so. This makes The Schmooz pretty upset, if you ask me. I encourage all you ladies who love to do so as loud and as open as your heart desires, damn the status quo! Find a boy or girl you’d like to kiss and do it with all the passion your heart can hold.

Until another time, lovers, keep sending me your questions, and keep loving one another…

THE SCHMOOZ

- Reginald Thurgood is known to his legions of fans as "THE SCHMOOZ," an international Rhythm and Blues singing sensation who has made love to thousands of women across the planet and loves to share every poetic detail. He answers all questions on love and relationship...as he is an expert, baby.

Professional bum, Slocomb Jones, and his no good budddy share pizza and pain

One time I got attacked by a dog because I was ugly.

It’s true.

It was 1982. Reagan was in office, and…wait, no, that wasn’t Reagan, it was some other guy.

I was walking down the street, and this dog came up to me. He was hungry, so I gave him some pizza I found. The dog liked the pizza, and I thought we’d become friends. Buddy was good looking dog. He had pointy teeth, full set of fur on his back and stomach, and even had that little claw that comes up a few inches up the arm.

“Hey Buddy, you want more pizza?” I asked him.

“No, I’m all full,” the dog said.

I didn’t ask his name. In my profession, you don’t bother asking names. Everyone you meet is your buddy. At least to me, anyway.

So anyway, me and Buddy go on a bit, and out of nowhere, this mutt bites me on the arm. The little jerk bit me hard too. One time, I got half my arm swallowed by a python in the swamp when I was trying to retrieve a baseball, but that didn’t hurt as bad as when my buddy bit me. He did one of those things where he shakes your arm like one of them rubber newspapers dogs play with.

Only I don’t squeak. I yell.

I should’ve kicked Buddy, but he was my buddy, or so I thought, so I didn’t think to kick him. You don’t kick your buddy.

Then again, you don’t bite your buddy either too.

“The hell’s wrong with ya?” I said.

“Nothing. I’m a dog.”

“So? I gave you some pizza, didn’t I?”

“Thanks.”

“Well, what gives?”

“I don’t associate with ugly people.”

And then Buddy turned around and walked off. Just like that.

That’s all I remember of 1982. Well, that and getting run over by a train one time.