BUSTAMANTE'S GUIDE TO GETTING THE MOST FROM A NUDE BEACH

By Bustamante - therealbustamante@hotmail.com

The human body is a beautiful thing.

Many say we’re made in God’s image.

I don’t. I think we’re the ultimate form of nature in its purest form.

That’s why I love going to a great nude beach.

A nude beach can be a wonderful experience. I’ve had great times while parading around in nature’s swimsuit. Like many, I’ve also had bad times. Like the time I used a coconut-based banana flavor tanning oil while basking in the rich sun of Jamaica. I knew the monkeys there are used to human interaction, but yikes...leggo my nutzo, you know.

Unlike many though, I learned from my bad times, and made myself return to nude beaches when I didn’t want to. That’s how a person grows, in a Jungian sense, of course.

So, thanks to my years spent dipping into the smooth rays of the sun with nothing between me and that vast collection of nuclear explosions except for my all too human emotion and my aura, I’ve put together a guideline for people to use to make the most of their nude beach experiences.

Of course, should you follow these and not learn from your mistakes, you will continue to live a surface value life, and never gain true understanding, as I have. But hey, who am I to get in the way of shared human experience, when I can type it up for you lickety split…that’s right, lickety split.

Rule 1. You’re not the ugliest person there. There’s always someone who is uglier, fatter, shorter, harrier, you name it, than you are. So relax. You may not be a Greek God, but you’re certainly not hideous. Leave hideous for the next guy. Don’t worry, he’s there...and I know for a fact that she’s there. They may be down the beach a little, but rest assured that there’s always someone worse than you. All you have to do is look.

Rule 2. No hard ons. None. Never. This should be rule 1, but I don’t want to turn off my female readers. You’re in a public place, and are naked with hundreds of other naked people (many of whom may be attractive), that’s no place for arousal. You should be above that.

Rule 3. Apply sunscreen before you arrive. Sure there’s the safety reason - you want to give the sunscreen time to get into your pores, but there’s something more important than that. You don’t want to people to see you apply it. You want them to think that you’re naturally that golden bronze (well, bronze until it rains on you for a long time). A nude beach is all about perception eye of others. Do your part.

Rule 4. No animals. Look, there’s no rules on a nude beach, but leave Mao at home (doesn’t everyone name their dog Mao?). It’s pretty simple. Dogs like to smell things...many times they like to then lick the things they’ve smelled. Moving on...

Rule 5. Should you forget and have to apply sunscreen, be very careful how you apply in to certain regions of your body. Think about it...sitting down and applying a creamy white liquid to there can give the wrong impression. In fact, I once served 30 days for a misunderstanding between the Santa Monica P.D. and my application of sunscreen. Charges were dropped, but not before a lot of embarrassment.

Rule 6. Swim Alone. A loner is more appealing. Nude beaches are all about appeal. Few things ruin appeal that being with a buddy who may have better applied my rules than you have. You don’t want to look like the only way you can do public nudity is to be around your friends. This isn’t a fraternity.

That, and you run the risk of body surfing in the same wave as your buddy. If the current has it’s way...all I’m saying is that things have been known to go bump in the ocean when two people ride the same wave. It’s been six years, and things are still weird between me and my old roommate.

Rule 7. Tug it before you come out of the water. Water does many wonderful things for the human body. Nourish. Clean. Cool.

It can also cause some serious shrinkage.

Serious.

The ocean will always be lukewarm at best. Use this information to your advantage. Before you’re about to come back to the sand, rub yourself a bit. This is a technique that must be mastered, and can lead to serious trouble. See rule #1...plus, see the penal code of your local community.

However, once you master this rule, you will stick out amongst the others as an Adonis. People always assume that the shrinking is in effect, and if they think that what your sporting is what’s already been shrunk...well, you should be able to reap those benefits.

And really, that’s what nude beaches are all about...reaping those benefits!

What about you? Got any other tips or stories to help survive a nude beach?

- 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.

LINUS THE ANGRY MIME: MY LIFE AMONG THE TALKING DEAD

So, I just hired someone new to write some funny stuff for us at Tonto and Friends. He's a mime, so he's funny. Plus, he's pissed off too. A pissed mime is always funny. If you like him, leave some comments below...or try to piss him off. I do it all the time. It makes me laugh.
- Tonto

------------

Hey.

My name is Linus. I’m a mime. I’m also a pretty good pickpocket and can break into any kind of lock that’s made.

Because of this, I’m writing to you with a fake name. So eat me if that bothers you.

I ran into Tonto Balboa the other day while he had that court thing, and he asked me to give my two cents about life and larceny, since I know a bit about ‘em.

So, here goes...

When I say I’m a mime, I’m not being cute with you. I don’t do a half-ass job of pretending I’m stuck in a box, or pressed against the wind. I create and perform complete theatrical performances on the street that use every muscle in my body to re-enact the events that take place.

Plus, I never take off my makeup. NEVER.

Tonto’s the one who suggested the name: Linus the Angry Mime. I wouldn’t say I’m angry. I guess my PO might come to that conclusion. The hack dared to tell me my newest work about the world being enslaved by radioactive rabbits was “too confusing,” so I drenched his Ford Taurus in rabbit blood. You don’t wanna know how many pet stores I had to break into to get enough juice.

So, angry? Maybe. I’d just say I’m a thorough guy.

Write me back about any questions you have about stealing or crime or mime stuff.

Don’t be an asshole, because nothing’s more terrifying then when a mime beats you with a hammer.

Later,

Linus

- Linus is a world renowned mime artist whose productions “She Walks with Ghosts”, and “Sleep” have won him several international awards, such as the Deburau Prize He also served fifteen years in Oregon State Penitentiary for grand larceny. He trained in Paris at the International School of Corporeal Mime and will beat up anyone who has a problem with it.

HOW TO CONQUER JEALOUSY: PLUS, THE SCHMOOZ TELLS YOU HOW TO MAKE LOVE TO IDENTICAL TRIPLETS

Hello again, carnivores and herbivores!

I must say that June is one of the best times to spread the kindnesses of love. From the warm summer days that force those lovelies to shed their clothes, to those cool, brisk evenings that make you want to hold on to one another just a bit longer, it’s the perfect time to divest all your energy into making someone else feel special!

So, what are you waiting for? Don’t waste another precious day, readers! Go out there, and love, love, love!

A lot of people ask me, due to my prowess for loving a great many people, if the subject of jealousy ever comes up.

Do I ever have any lovers who get a little worked up seeing me skin to skin with another sexy beast?

Of course I do, readers. It’s a terrible emotion to have, jealousy. Because we should already be worth a damn before we drink the nectar of a lover’s loins. When I love someone, I never own them. The Schmooz ain’t about labeling people as bitches or hoes.

I’m very honest with each individual that our relationship is open and clear.

But jealousy and low self-esteem are two dangerous weapons, and I’ve had my share of automobiles set on fire, shampoos replaced with Nair, searing acid splashed on the faces of new and unsuspecting lovers.

Love is not easy, readers, and the best way to handle jealousy is to remind the person that they are special in their own way, with or without the wanton servings of coitus.

Then, I take them a little trip I call “The Schmooz Total Romance Package #5.” This consists of a surprise trip to have a fine romantic dinner in the actual country or location where such food began. A lot of high endurance loving and care, and then, I gradually bring in a lover that I have carefully screened who will complement this creature to a T. This way, she feels pampered and adored, and I don’t have to warn future vixens to duck if a strange woman runs at them, screaming in Mandarin.

It may be a bit pricey, but money should not be a consideration when one is caring for the matters of the heart. Jealousy is a hard poison to cure, and if any of you have had encounters with the beast, let me know. I can help you through the tough spots.

So, on to the second topic for today. I must start by admitting that even I, in my decades of vast and continuous partners, rarely am faced with the issue of bedding identical triplets.

Twins? I laugh.

Loving twins is so simple that it’s even easier than loving one on one. Reason is that twins have always thought about taking that sultry step into the exploration of desire, and all you really do is gently guide them through the process.

With triplets, though, it takes more research and care. Before the opportunity is even a glimmer, observe them in action, and see if you can spot the leader of the three. Who makes the decisions? Who forces the others to serve their needs?

Then, identify the triplet that is most eager to please people, who needs the most from love’s healing caresses.

The third triplet is the rebel of the group, who constantly seeks to anger the leader of the triplets. Talk to her all evening, as well as the second twin. This will arouse and frustrate the popular triplet, and she will try to take your attention away from the two. She will eventually suggest retiring to their place. Nonchalantly agree, and take the rebel triplet in your arms, surprise her with a deep, soulful kiss, and clasp the triplet that is eager to please in a tight hug.

You won’t see the outdoors in days.

Until next time, keep your heart light, and your jealousy in check!

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.

HOTEL PORNO, OR WHY IT'S BETTER TO JUST WATCH THE NEWS OR READ A BOOK...

So, I’m back from serving on jury duty.

I’ll spare you the case details for now. I served one day and was dismissed – again, for reasons I’ll get into later.

After the first day, we were sequestered and they put us up in a motel. It was a decent place. The carpet was old, flat, and green. There were some cheap paintings on the wall. You know the ones; they paint an out of focus flower and think it’s a sign of class.

A firm queen-sized bed was smack dab in the center of the room. I flopped down on the bed, and I think I strained my neck. When I was fighting Larry Holmes, he caught me with a left hook in the 6th that jarred my C-4 vertebrae. I’ve had problems with it ever since.

I didn’t bring a change of clothes, but they comped us the laundry charge. That was nice, all things considered.

Now, when you’re sequestered, you’re not allowed to watch TV or read the newspaper…but we were allowed to watch the Pay Per View movies. These were also free of charge to us on the jury.

I left my clothes outside the door in bag for the laundry maid, took a shower, and wrapped myself up in a robe for a few hours until my clothes were ready.
All they had to watch was crap.

Crap.

And more crap.

Until my eyes stumbled across the 24 hour all aXXXess adult entertainment channel.

What the hell, right?

Right.

It was simple enough. The screen said to dial “199.” Easy enough.
“Thank you for calling All aXXXcess Entertainment. Please enter your room number,” a sweet voice cooed to me over the phone.

“OK, use the number pad on your telephone to enter your selection now.”

The choices were limited. You had legal teens, Latinas, Asians, milfs, and your standard films. I chose a standard film.

I typed in the correct number and off I was to kill some time until my clothes were ready.

Then, a funny thing happened. Fifteen seconds into the movie, the screen froze. I tried calling to reorder; this time I selected a Latina feature…and that froze too. I tried a milf…froze. Asians…frozen. Even legal teens…froze again.

Thankfully, there was a 1-800 number to call for customer service. A young lady answered the phone. Damn.

“Uh yeah, we…” – I said “we” because I didn’t want her to think I was a loner ordering porno in a hotel room. I explained the problem and she was very helpful. I tried unplugging the system behind the TV, but nothing helped. My screen was stuck with the opening credits of “Daddy’s Youngin’s 83,” and there I was asking for anonymous help over the phone, trying to get free porno on my screen, wearing nothing but an off-white bath robe with a faded hotel logo poorly stitched across the chest.

My clothes weren’t going to be ready for at least two hours.

The next morning the judge opened the proceedings by saying, “Just for the record, taxpayers don’t mind paying for jury services as per the US Constitution, but I don’t think they appreciate fitting the bill for all day pornography.”

Everyone looked at me.

I’ve had better moments in my life.

- 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.

HOW THE SCHMOOZ FELL IN LOVE WITH ONE SWINGING NUN

Hey there, seashells and pearls!

It’s your pal, The Schmooz with another tale of seduction!

It all started when I was playing a small nightclub, “The Cat’s Pajama’s” in Nashville, Tennessee. It was a hot and sticky night, just right for the musical gifts the Lord had given me.

I was wrapping up the set with a riveting, twenty-seven minute cover of “Always and Forever”, when I saw the most heavenly pair of legs imaginable. Brown as ale, smooth as cream. These legs went for weeks and weeks, stopping just short at a simple black skirt, a white top, and two vibrant, jasmine eyes.

Her beauty was so thick and raw that the whole room took notice. Men and women had their eyes locked on her. I even had trouble finishing the song once her gaze took hold of me. She had the kind of sensual spark that comes from simply existing with grace and love.

By the time I returned on stage to deliver my encore, she was gone. I searched the club for hours, hoping to learn something about this mystery woman- a name, a phone number. But no one had any recollection of ever seeing this creature before. She was a mirage, a ghost.

Sadness washed over me like an ice water bath the remainder of the night. I attended a few parties, danced with a few pretty faces, but my mind was somewhere else. I even turned down the opportunity to judge a wet t-shirt contest, choosing instead to call it a night and return to my motel.

As I opened the door to my king sized bed, I gasped. There was a shadowy figure sitting patiently in the corner of the room, just east of the mini bar. I closed the door quickly, and made no move to turn on the light, as I needed a chance to think, or defend myself from a jealous husband or an upset lover.

“Baby, I mean you nothing but love,” I pleaded, my hands gripping a copy of the Gideon Bible, ready to strike.

“Love’s what I need, sugar,” she purred, and turned on the light. Standing before me was that mystery woman from the club, naked as the day she was born. She swept over to my side, devoured me with kisses from her tart, red mouth, and pushed me onto the bed.

My heart was playing a mariachi beat while she dove into my garments, ripping and shredding them in her efforts to reach my total mass of skin. When at last I was as bare as she, the maiden dove her nails into my back so hard that blood welled from the cracks.

I yelped, and she cooed, gently kissing those bruised and distressed patches of flesh. Then, she lept on top of me, and demanded I pay lip service to the soft, quivering quaint she presented to me.

I accepted her challenge handily, and devoured her essence with zeal, bringing her to the zenith of delight again and again and again. She even tried to pry my mouth away from her after a time, but her taste had possessed me and I could not leave it for even a second.

After a few hours, she collapsed by my side. I looked at her, lying sated on the bed, so beautiful in the thin moon’s glow. But, just as I rose out of bed to use the restroom, she pounced on me, wrapped her luscious legs around my standing frame, and drove into me like a jackhammer, rhythm into rhythm, loin into loin, lust into lust.

Dear readers, she was truly a gift from the greatest lover of all. When exhaustion finally overtook us, we fell into other on the bed, pressed tight like legs on a pair of scissors.

When the morning came to us, I awoke to see her already dressed, even though daylight was hours and hours away. She was wearing an outer black robe and veil, which concealed that ripe and delicious body I was supped from mere hours before.

She told me she a nun, and had always fancied my music. She knew that it was wrong for her to enjoy my company, but she would rather spend an eternity in hell than a lifetime without the love my music delivered inside of her. And with a kiss, she was gone.

I never even learned her name, fair readers, but until my dying day, I will rejoice in the gods that brought such a honest and hungry woman into my life, if only for a few hours.

Until next time, be free and eager with your love!

Sincerely,

THE SCHMOOZ

Stephany Celebrates Father's Day with Memories of Days at The Car Wash and "Factory Jobs."

Having a loving Father (or in my case, a Grandfather who acted as a Father) is one of the cornerstones of any American child’s upbringing. It seems a shame for there to be only one day a year to celebrate our Father’s devotion to us. And yet, more days to celebrate it would be awfully self serving wouldn’t it?...like Secretary’s week. What a crock!

Oh, I’m sorry...sometimes when I think of Dad, I get a bit cranky. Guess I’m just a chip off the old block! Or...more accurately, a chip off of the chip off of the old block...I wonder what my real Dad looked like? Did he have my weak chin, my slightly larger than really necessary nose? Did his feet stink just as he got out of the shower as mine do? (could it be that the shower needs another cleaning this year? Well certainly not during “house workers week,” right...I mean that time is SACRED! Lazy immigrants-oops, there’s Dad talking again.)


My Father's Day gift this year was going to be a picture book log of all the past Father’s Day events myself and those other children spent with Dad. But sadly, as I went through my boxes of photographs-what I saw on film did not match my memories. My mind seems to have been playing tricks on me all these years.

For instance, I distinctly remember being on the shore of Lake Erie, my scarf flowing in the wind with Dad and Mom and a few of...those other kids standing next to a bait and tackle store. But, when Mom only just grudgingly let me have the Family Photo box, I viewed the photograph where it had sat for nearly 30 years.

I saw that we were not in fact at Lake Erie. We were instead at Erie Avenue Car wash and Tackle shop, just around the corner from our home! In the photo, Dad is arguing rather emphatically with several people in Erie Car wash uniforms, they looked concerned. Also seen in the background are 2 of the other kids loading the trunk of our car with fishing gear, while the other 2 kids are watching the street and the few other workers for Mom.

I must have taken the picture because the only other person I saw...looked like a very pretty young girl standing on the street corner. She looked absolutely stunning! I didn’t realize that girls that young could wear such “big girl” clothes. She had the same color hair as I.

There was one more photo of the Car wash. Dad is talking to a man in a nice convertible; the other kids are getting into our car, and the car wash workers are even more concerned looking, but just standing looking at one another. The young girl with the “big girl” clothes on is now sitting in the front passenger seat of the convertible, very near the driver. I had a scarf JUST like the one she is wearing.

After looking at this photo and realizing that my mind had been playing tricks on me all these years...I decided to look at only one more. Please let it be an authentic Fathers Day pic!! And for the most part it was. I looked at the time stamp, and confirmed that it was indeed taken on Fathers day 1976 in Lebanon, Ohio.

The photo was of me, Mom, Dad, and those other kids. I always liked to visit Dad at his factory job in Lebanon. Unlike most factory jobs he didn’t get to come home every night ( we lived over 200 miles away in Pacoima), but instead we could go visit him once a week, usually on Sunday’s between 12:30pm and 3:30pm. After that Dad had more License plates to make at the factory.

Why they worked on Sunday I still have no idea. But the very next Fathers Day he “lost” his factory job because of a “search and seizure” problem at the job he had before the factory job. That job was at the county court house. He wore a suit and tie...and just sat there all day listening to men argue. I’m not sure what he did really, but he didn’t look very happy. Well...on the Father's Day that he was able to quit the factory job, we all went out for pie.

It was one of my favorite days ever. I got to ride most of the way home in a convertible. I took a taxi the rest of the way.

Happy Fathers Day, Dad!!

- Stephany Ericson is an award winning author of children's books (“Pasta Rat”, “Compromises are for Sissy’s” and “Daddy Loves Mommy Even in the Middle of the Night”) 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.

Tonto's day in court - In other words...a day off.

So, I need to take today off.

I was called in to testify in case from a long time ago.

I'll tell you all about it next week.

In the meantime, please peruse about. We have plenty of fine, funny, and life altering content for you to devour like a Larry Holmes uppercut.

Hey! Go sign up for THE SCHMOOZ' contest. He'll write a song for you if you win. No kidding!!!

See you next week.

Hopefully, I don't end up in jail.

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.

THE SCHMOOZ GETS REVENGE: A SHOCKING TALE OF DECEPTION, LUST, AND MICHAEL BOLTON’S MOTHER

Hey there, biscuits and gravy!

Now before I get started, let me remind you that there is a full-fledged contest on this here website, “Lovin’ Like Schmooz” Don’t pass up the opportunity to have The Schmooz create your very own song!!

Put these tips in motion, and write me back with your results!

As you can see by the title of today’s post, I’m about to tell you, faithful readers, about an episode of my life that I’m not too proud to have done. As you know, I am no fool when it comes to the arts of love and seduction. And I have been guilty in my time of using these mighty powers for evil and destruction.

Such as it was in the early nineties. The Isley Brothers, one of the best music groups around, making solid rock and roll, rhythm and blues, funk – you name it – had just won a lawsuit against Michael Bolton for about five million dollars.

Why?

Because he went out and stole a great deal of their lyrics and music from their song “Love is a Wonderful Thing”, and didn’t pay them a dime.

Unfortunately, that lawsuit bankrupted the Isley Brothers. They had to sell their entire estate, including their music catalogue. And guess who wanted to buy it all up? That low down thief Michael Bolton.

Ron Isley called me on the phone in tears one day, clearly at the end of his rope. The whole situation got my blood boiling and I knew I had to do something to get Bolton out of the picture.

Because it’s not right to have your hero Ron-mother-loving-Isley have his whole life taken away by some faker who wouldn’t know loving if it came with a side of curly fries...

My mind cooked up a plan, and in a few weeks, I found myself a guest at the Bolton estate. Told Michael Bolton I wanted him to bring a new twist to one of my most popular songs, “Love Lessons”, but that I wanted to hear him give it a try before I agreed to let him use the song.

The mansion was an exercise in bad taste: sculptures and paintings of Michael Bolton were littered all over the place. He even had a copy of Da Vinci’s “The Last Supper” hung above the fireplace with his image instead of Jesus. Bowls of potpourri sat on each table, their stale flowers an affront to one’s senses.

While he left me to go to an emergency hair appointment, his mother and I ate brunch by the pool, crafted in the shape of a giant lightning bolt.

She was an older, rugged woman, with grey eyes that glinted in the afternoon sun. I wasn’t into her one bit, her body being the host for such cruelty. But I swallowed my pride and turned on the charm, the joie de vivre.

Within twenty minutes I was wearing leather crotchless chaps, a cowboy hat, and a huge grin. I lassoed that fine filly and rode her bareback into the master bedroom, atop Michael Bolton’s very bed. She even wanted us to play her favorite song, his cover of “When a Man Loves a Woman” while our bodies tested one another.

Michael returned and found us, still moist and glistening. He threatened to sue me for everything I was worth. But then, I pulled my trump card.

I calmly explained to him that I had already filmed our acrobatic exploits, and if he did so much as sneeze, I would broadcast the video worldwide. His crystal clean image would be ruined. He’d have to go back to playing heavy metal.

He stared back at me for what seemed an eternity, and nodded in agreement.

I left him one last message as I stripped off the cowboy gear and stole a white Egyptian cotton towel to wrap around my bare skin.

Don’t ever mess with the Isley Brothers again.

And thus I prevented Michael Bolton from purchasing their music, and brought justice into the world. Not a bad day’s work!

Until next time, lovers, send me your questions!

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.

Tonto's ten-step guide to celebrating in Vegas without being robbed at a strip club!

So, yeah. I’ve been to Vegas.

In fact, I’ve fought there a couple of times. I fought at the outdoor arena at Caesar’s Palace on the under card of Hagler/Leonard. I won that fight with a 7th round TKO over Barry Phillips, who, truth be told, wasn’t much of an opponent.

Anyway, I’ve recently made a killing selling some Indian Shit. My sales business happens to be going very well at the moment. In fact, I just sold a sealed original version of Dances With Wolves, signed by both Kevin Costner and Two Socks (the wolf) himself. Two Socks signed with his paw. That alone paid my rent last month!

With my recent bounty, I decided to reward myself with a little fun in the sun as they say, and spend a few nights in the town that was witness to some of the best nights of my professional life.

Of course, no trip to Vegas is complete, especially if you’re a single, ruggedly good looking, former heavyweight title contender with a little bit of scratch in his pocket, without a trip to the strip club.

Without getting into the details of my exploits of my excursion, I have prepared a ten-rule guide that I invite you to use, so as not to have a horribly rotten, time and money wasting, soul destroying, self-esteem killing trip to the strip club…

1. Don’t ask the cabbie for a recommendation – It seems like a good move, but don’t do this. They make kickbacks from the clubs to bring saps like you to the club. They’ll tell you: “Oh, I take you to this club, it’s my favorite. You a big guy, the girls like you. Best titties you ever see.”

2. Don’t sit in the back corner once you get there – When you do this, you think you’re just fading into the background, but you’re really making yourself a mark. You don’t want to be bothered. You don’t want to be recognized for say…getting your ass kicked by Larry Holmes (nothing worse than when a pretty girl knows you as they guy who got his ass kicked). In reality, you look desperate and lonely hanging out in the corner. Strippers know what to do when they see men like that.

3. Don’t make too much small talk. This is where they hook you. You tell them your job, your job you took on to supplement your retirement. You don’t really like your new job, and she understands. She puts her hand on your inner thigh, and whispers that she knows what it’s like to be looked at as only one thing and that you’re more than that. She knows that you’re more than just the guy who got eviscerated by Larry Holmes and is now a salesman. She knows...She knows.

4. Don’t go up to the VIP room, even if she knows your pain. Something weird happens up here. You have to start tipping everyone. The bartender. The waitress who serves you your two drink minimum. The bouncer who let you up there. They all get a piece. This is before you even sit down on the couch to smell her sweet vanilla body spray.

5. Don’t say yes to another dance. Each dance will last you three songs. Towards the end of the third song is when she finally takes her top all the way off. During the first two song, she’ll tease at and show you a little, but it’s not until the two-minute mixed version of a Tupac song come to an end that you get to see the whole deal.

6. Don’t say yes to another dance again.
7. Don’t say yes to a final dance. I know it’s difficult. They seem to whisper all the right things in your ear, but you must say no.

7a. Don’t be surprised when they stop giving a crap about your pain the moment you turn down another dance. At first it hurts like Holmes jab, but the sting will go away.

8. Do bring a calculator. Strippers aren’t dancers because they have world class mathematical skill. For example: they may charge you for four dances when you only bought three. You remind them that you aren’t as drunk as they think. You’re just depressed, and you plainly recall only three dances. They will argue this point until you concede.

9. Don’t think that you’ll get away without paying for whatever they want you two. Reason why: All their bouncers look like Ivan Drago. Not saying that I can’t take him one-on-one, but when you’re outnumbered by five men whom she implies are all in the Russian mafia, you get your ass to the ATM, make a withdrawal and pay her for the extra $100 dance. When she rudely asks for tip on top of her ransom, you pull out the last Hamilton in your pocket and say, “this is all I have left, just take it, and leave me alone.” At that point, she’ll leave you without as much as a word, and with a severe case of blue balls.

10. Just don’t go in the first place.

So yeah, I’ve been to Vegas.

Anyone know where I can get a hold of a Laserdisc copy of Dances With Wolves? I need to get that signed quick.

- 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.

ENTER THE “LOVIN’ LIKE SCHMOOZ” CONTEST - PLUS THE SCHMOOZ OFFERS SOME FATHER’S DAY ADVICE…

Hey there, hugs and kisses!

Your pal, The Schmooz, is back from a fantastic weekend. Joints all rested, linens at the dry cleaners. Phone numbers stacked on top of one another like dry autumn leaves.

Now, read with rapt attention, dear readers! For you are about to hear about the first contest offered on this lovely site.

A week ago, I decided to crack an egg of knowledge right over your eager bodies with some of the hottest tips this lover knows will guarantee you the sweet chorus of climax.

You can find the link right here:

Click here, baby.

So, here’s what the “Lovin’ Like Schmooz” contest is all about. From now until midnight, Pacific Daylight Time June 30th, I want you, my sexy and adoring readers, to put these tips into your game. Then, WRITE ME BACK with your own personal account on how “Lovin’ like Schmooz” opened the doors of passion for you.

And, hell, write me back if you tried them and nothing worked. I’ll hear you out and turn it around so you’ll be making upside down kisses in no time!

The best entry will receive something so coveted, so rich with sensuality that their lives will be affected forever:

I will create and sing a personal song for you or your loved one.

So, start “Lovin’ Like Schmooz!” and send me your testimonials!

Now, Father’s Day is just around the corner. I bet a lot of you are thinking that your hero has himself a damn near little league team full of accidental babies.

That’s not how the Schmooz makes his mark. Better to leave it in the shudders of a satisfied lover than with some crying machine.

Besides, I lost my baby bullets a long time ago.

To make a long story short, add one lusty podiatrist with areolas as large as dinner plates divided by one jealous husband multiplied by one narrow barbed wire fence, and make the mental picture yourself.

So, until next time, enter the contest, start “Lovin’ like The Schmooz!”


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.

Producers can't come to terms for pro bum to appear in Bumfights

As I dipped into my mailbag, I found one letter that gripped me like a woman with a burned hand giving me a hand job...a hobo handshake, if you will!

Heh, hobo handshake...I can’t take credit for that one. An old pal of mine, Salmon-Catcher Terry, coined that phrase somewhere in Northern Oregon back in the late 1960’s. I always give proper credit. I’m not one to steal intellectual property.

Anywho...or is it anyhoo? Who came up with that semantic nonsense anyway (or is it anywoo)?

So any...ah hell, I got a question to answer for Mark from Downey, Ca. who asks:

Slocomb, what's your take on those direct-to-video bum fights that people do?

Mark from Downey, CA

For those that don’t know, Mark is talking about the infamous Bumfights series.

Now see, I was nearing the end of my bum career, when the producers of Bumfights approached me about participating in these films. I was in no shape to compete on a high level against younger, more physically fit bums, so I offered to serve as a referee or a commentator.

I would even take a job as an alley announcer, but I guess the producers weren’t willing to meet my asking price...so I passed on the opportunity.

I would’ve been good too.

You see, I know a thing or two about bum fighting.

One time, I was spending summer in Venice Beach, California. I had just come back from a railways tour of the Northeast section of Iowa, and I felt I deserved a well-needed rest.

I’d had a goodnight sleep in a bathroom on the sand. A four-stall establishment, mind you...hey, I deserved it. I’d logged a lot of miles from there to Iowa. I got up, washed my hands, and took to the sand for a nice day of relaxation and a long nap.

Next thing I know, a beach ball hits me in the head, waking me up. One time, I woke up on the beach and I couldn’t move my legs...until I realized that the lifeguards ran me over in their truck. Once I learned that, I went back to sleep. As I was saying...

Some beach guy is yelling at me to give him his ball back, and I tell him that if he wanted it back, he shouldn’t have hit me with it in the first place. So, I bit into that thing (you see, one off my canine teeth is a bit pointy from a time way back from when I had to use my teeth to twist in a screw. It’s now a handy tool for me.), and I popped that beach ball, and tried to go back to sleep.

A couple hours later, I wake up, and I can’t see out of my right eye. I got up and went to the bathroom and my eye was swollen shut. For no reason. Then, I got to thinking, I figured that I must’ve got in fight with that beach guy.

I was wondering if I’d won the fight, so I figured I’d just go ask him.

I went back out to the sand, and there was a guy playing volleyball, so I told him that I didn’t appreciate what he did. He acted like he didn’t remember me, and that really made me upset. It’s disrespect.

So, I pushed him. He said he was afraid to touch me, which to me, says he’s scared of me.

Then, one of his buddies throws the volleyball and bounces it off my face. Right in my already swollen eye. I’m not too proud to say that hurt really bad. I tried to bite a hole that ball, but it must’ve been made with real leather because I couldn’t pop that volleyball.

Seeing that they were afraid to fight me, I took my belongings and went south to lifeguard tower 6 to spend the remainder of my vacation in peace. I’m glad to report that was my only fight of that trip.

It was that real life combat experience that I was hoping to bring to the Bumfights series, but I guess the producers were looking for something a bit different that what I had to offer. And that’s OK.

I’m certainly not in the business of making a fool of myself in a public setting. I’ll leave that for bums with a little less self-respect.

But anywoo...

- 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.

HOW THE SCHMOOZ FELL FOR A TINY CRIMINAL, WHO STOLE HIS HEART, AND REFRIGERATOR…

Greetings, cups and saucers!

As the weekend winks at us like a stunning young beauty in a shimmering velvet dress, I think about the many, many lovers who have dipped their candles into the raw and volcanic fire that is The Schmooz.

When I reminisce, I tend to put on one of my old songs. Dust off the LP, set it on the turntable, let it spin. Just as I finished lighting up a nice sandalwood incense and kicked off my sandals, I heard the first bars from my seminal 1992 album, Here I Groove Beneath the Light. The track, “Tiny Criminal” took me back in time, to a devil’s cocktail of love and pain.

When I say that this sweet lover was tiny, I mean she had all the right curves, in all the right sizes. Only her height made her a small one, about as high as my knee.

Though we never saw eye to eye
In the bed, I’d cup her thigh
And together the loving was fine…

She had a temper like a drowning cat. The first time I met her, she tried to mug me in an alley for the seventy-nine cents making percussion in my velour slacks. We fell in love instantly, our shadows attacking the moonlight as we tasted our bodies.

But soon it would be clear
Her love for theft was stronger
Than the love we shared together
Far and near…

I thought it would last forever, our love. But just twenty-six hours later, I came home to my apartment and found she had taken everything – my clothes, my furniture, and my beauty casts of breasts I had made one summer while traveling across the states, making love to one American girl for each star in the flag.

Her betrayal – it was colder
Than the Kenmore she had taken
With the ice cube maker machine…
Oh, oh, girl, so obscene!!

It’s no lie, readers. The heart can hurt like nothing else when your lover’s gone and you’ve got no place to store your leftover Chinese takeout. I was inconsolable for about thirty-eight minutes, until the doorbell rang, and in popped a gift from my manager: two blond, statuesque mathematicians, and a big fat royalty check from my latest album.

So, you see, while love can hurt you and make you feel lower than you’ve ever felt, don’t despair. Keep your heart light, and soon you’ll be licking some sweet, tawny breasts with women who can trade you pleasure for pleasure as well as demonstrate the fundamentals of the Atiyah–Singer index theorem.

Until next time, give those Schmooz tips a try, and write me back with your success stories!

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.

A Listener’s Guide to Jazz (for cool people only)

By Bustamante - therealbustamante@hotmail.com

Jazz.

I so it’s so ironic that most uncool team in sports is given the coolest name on the block.

Jazz.

The music for the modern man.

Jazz.

It’s a sophisticated brand of melody, rhythm, and that intangible that makes listening to it feel, oh so cool. It’s the music that separates man from his fellow man. Normally, my 60’s idealism wouldn’t support such intellectual segregation, but hey, this is jazz were talking about…not some 40 year old notion of equality

Now, the fact that you’re a jazz listening fool makes you far cooler than your average cat already, but if you want to be super hip cool, then you’ll follow my guide to better appreciate your jazz experience.

Here it is, my listener’s guide:

Rule 1 Your jazz must be played by an African American. That’s it. No skinny white guys playing a flute. People may say that’s racist, but I don’t think so. Last time I checked, I’m a white. I just happen to be speaking the truth. Generally, white people are very proficient at country music. If anything, following rule one means that you’re not a racist, and that you’re more in tuned (if you will) with your fellow man.

Rule 2 They can’t be popular. It’s a fact: if an artist is popular, they have no credibility. If their music touches a wide group of people, then it’s too bland to be meaningful. It might as well have come off the assembly line. It was like this in the old days of folk music too. That’s why I left the scene…it became too popular. There’s nothing better than sitting in a smoky jazz club listening to someone that you’ve never heard. Do you know how hip that makes you? As soon as your buddies start buying their vinyl (no CDs. Ever.), you may as well burn yours and move on to the next unknown.

Rule 3 They have to be old. Young people suck. You see, my generation, we changed the world with our music, politics, and attitude. Today, people can barely make change. Only old people know what it’s like to live; to be hurt; to love; to lose; to fight. So on, and so on.

Rule 4 The artist must be having a bad life. When I listen to jazz, I need to know that it’s being played by someone who has not has it easy. I prefer them to be broke, and to have been broke for at least a decade. Drug addiction also make for a great jazz musician. Preferably, you want them to be hooked on heroin. Coke is ok…only if you’re into that Be-bop stuff. Jail time is a must. A short prison sentence is most desirable; a conviction for armed robbery would be primo. If they are in a healthy relationship...that’s a no-no as well.

When I know that their personal life is in a shambles, it makes me feel better about the music. It makes it real to me. I take comfort in that.

Rule 4a It helps if they’re ugly. Ugly people make better music. They have to.

Rule 5 The artist must have a nickname, or a first name that sounds like it might be a nickname. Who would you rather see...Matt Smith, or Tennessee Red? I think the answer is clear. A nickname means that somewhere down the line, they were good enough to transcend into something bigger than what their mommy called them. Like when Ben Kenobi became Obi-Wan. Who would you rather on your side?

Your best case scenario is when the artist has a nickname that’s so prevalent that no one really knows their real name…except for you! You’ve done the research. When you can brag about little known facts to people with scraggly beards and pointy mustaches, you know you’re listening to some grade-A, world class jazz.

- 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.

NOTE: If you liked this article, be-bop shooby do wop your fine behind over to 9 Songs That are True Guilty Pleasures, Iron Man Sucks and you Know This, and The Most Awesomely Lame Songs Ever!

Stephany recollects...and does an errand.

Many times I am not comfortable with absolutes, but this morning was a PERFECT morning for one of my special trips back down memory lane. I like to sit and recollect sometimes, even if there are not tissues handy. It seems to be a great activity to reassure you of who you are, where you have come from and why you must go the way you are going.

In this mornings recollections, I thought of my Mom and the tasks she would give me and those other kids during the day. These tasks always made me feel special, as if I was somehow a part of a grand machine that was keeping our family safe on the other side of the hill.

She would assign me my task.

“Stella, get your skinny tail up that stove pipe and get Daddy’s plan book.”

There were no other Stephany’s...but she liked to call me Stella. I corrected her once just before I met Dr. Naghouli in town. He said that “ice will take the swelling down.” Then he said to me, “In the future...please be more careful Stephany.” But while he was talking to me he looked right at momma in the eyes, as if momma had taken one of his nice pens. He was a nice man. I never saw him again though, probably because he made momma nervous.

Later in the morning, after my recollection, I was about to run an errand and was looking forward to having my little Jassie with me. She absolutely loves the smell of this week’s rental car!! My one and only child(that I know of...) is 24 months old. Lots of people say “oh, you mean she’s 2?” But I think “24 months” is a much better and more accurate description of who she is now. And besides, my Mother(who was actually my Grandmother) would tell people my age in mo