Happy Birthday to ME!!! And a Drink of the Week Inspiration...

Cheers all. Well, I am most certainly having a truly delightful birthday. A jaunt to Frank E. Formaggio's for drinks and pizza with the gang, then home for a power nap before heading out again for round two of the week long celebration of ME!

I guess I should explain... By "gang" I mean the tykes whom I sired through the Upper Manhattan Thoroughbred Sperm Repository. Every year on my anniversaire, I gather them up from around the greater New York area, and force them to acknowledge the superior genetic material I graced them with... They appreciate that and the bag of game tokens I slip them as they bow and thank me.

Here's a snap of me and a few of the happy little Spawns of Link™. Oh, and Frank E. "The Rat" Formaggio had to bully his way into the photo. I do wish they'd launder those costumes. His stench of Faberge Macho Man cologne and Mortadella rendered a few of my offspring unconscious.

While I was sitting there, fanning my comatose moppets, and in desperate need of a stiff libation, I came up with the perfect Drink of the Week: The Frank E. Formaggio Birthday Boy Bloodbath. A take on the classic bloody Mary, but with gin, pizza sauce, sausage balls, and a candle.

DIRECTIONS:

5 Parts Gin

4 Parts watery, flavorless Pizza Sauce

1 Pack Hot Pepper Flakes

5 Sausage Balls

1 Candle

1 Handful ice

1 Desperate Birthday Boy

First, drag 25 children to your local two-bit pizza party establishment. Sit in misery for one hour, muttering to yourself and handing out tokens to placate the screaming children periodically. Pull out your Dapper Gent Survival Mini-bar™ (where the gin lives) and pour said liquor into plastic cup. Add ice. Stir pizza sauce and pepper flakes into gin until thoroughly mixed. Arrange sausage balls in an "X" shape by using toothpicks. Impale candle in middle pork ball and rest gently on top of beverage cup. Light candle, make a wish, and guzzle drink in one swallow. Cough up candle and prepare second drink...

Ask a Sausage Link...

A new column, where YOU, our devoted readers, can write in and ask pertinent sausage-related ponderings to an actual living, breathing, stinking sausage link. And not just any old kielbasa, but if I don't say so myself, the Dapperest of 100% pork by-products. My name is Sal Salsiccia, but please call me "Mr. Sausage". And without a further adieu, our first question:

Dear Mr. Sausage,

First of all... I love the sausage. I mean I REALLY love the sausage. I eat it for breakfast, brunch, lunch, banquet, snack, tea, dinner, supper, and dessert! But I have absolutely no idea what is in this heavenly meat tube. Can you enlighten me?

Linus P. Schneider

Queens, NY

Dear Linus,

It's really quite simple. The only two ingredients in any "official" sausage are... Lips and Assholes. Ha! I love that one! But no, I wish it were true. Unfortunately sausages are actually made out of parts far worse than that. Lips and assholes are reserved for "chicken" nuggets and chili fries. Since you have only a few more weeks to live, based on your sausage-exclusive diet, I'll tell you what's in these devil dogs...

On second thought, you might as well die in peace.

_________________________________________

Dear Mr. Sausage,

I'd like to team a Finnish Mustamakkara sausage with an appropriate beverage. What do you recommend?

Martin Globnick

Pensicola, FL

Dear Martin,

You Sir, must have the Balls of Altas to even look at, let alone, consume this black evilness masquerading as a sausage. Oh, I know what the townsfolks of Tampere say about killing the pungent flavor with lingonberry jam and rotmos, but I have traveled the world of sausage, and know that this wiener is Satan's work... So, I'd recommend a dry white wine. Perhaps an Aligote or Basque Txakoli.

Our apologies...

Due to an unfortunate flare-up of his horrible case of the Prawns (see "What's that on my Johnson?" posted on January 12), Link will be unable to process today's blog entry, but he's posting the punch card of it, for your perusal. Binary digit line 12 is particularly saucy. Shame on you, Link!

Links New Automated Computation Device

Good God, people. I really don't think you fully realize the level of difficulty I must endure in my pursuit of furthering the Great Patriotic Cause of Dapperness™. This "internet bloggery" thing is killin' me!

Last year, I invested in a new cutting edge, vacuum-tubed ARC 3270 Speedomatic automated computation machine, but now it seems to be on the fritz. And besides, I barely have enough room in my den for the "Human Sacrifice Volcano" for my upcoming Tiki Party, with all this mathematical computation junk everywhere. Where will I playfully rotisserize the "virgins"?

See what I mean? No room for a volcano!

So, I purchased a new computer. Something a tad smaller. I'll still have to hoof the punchcards to the local internet uploading interface command center, but it has to be done. It's my duty to you, the Un-Dapper™.

Behold... the future in Portable Bachelor Pad Automated Computing:

The LRC-4590A. Sleek and sexy. Able to compute at rates up to, but not exceeding, 17 calculations a minute, and with a memory of 1K. Now I can spread my Dapper™ seed even faster with this Pup! I just jammed all the important parts into the den AND have plenty of room for a wet bar AND a volcano.

See the sacrifices I make? It's all for YOU, so don't let me down, Gents. Oh, and speaking of sacrifices, King Pupu Platter is interviewing for Tiki Party Virgins to roast, so send in photos of girl friends, wives, mother-in-laws, or anything human or animal that looks good in a pâ`û heihei and coconut bra. Aloha!

Link's Drink of the Week: The Flaming Peruvian Nipple Twister

Ah, yes...

One of the most impressive, yet impossibly difficult drinks to produce. The Flaming Peruvian Nipple Twister is the official drink for the International Bon Vivant, and an essential refreshment for my annual Peruvian Pillage & Plunder Pizarro Party, in which I don a Francisco Pizarro outfit and reenact his victory over Inca Emperor Atahualpa. Really get to show off my acting chops for this one.

Note: The Flaming Peruvian Nipple Twister is truly an unpalatable drink, but for historical accuracy and style, MUST be served in a devilishly dapper-esque hollowed out Maranka gourd.

DIRECTIONS:

3 part Peruvian Pisco (not that upstart Chilean swill)
2 part Vodka
2 part Mr. Pibb (they love this stuff)
2 scoops llama-milk ice cream
2 Maraschino Cherries

First, buy a first-class ticket to Lima, Peru. I only travel with Pan Am, and advise the same of you. But, I happen to be a card-carrying Platinum Member of the Mile High Diners Club, so my perks may be better than your complimentary bag of salty nuts!

Upon arriving at said destination, charter a local Incan guide and a team of 20 pack-mules/llamas/small children and trek east 250 kilometers to the hamlet of Huancayo, where you will proceed to purchase 125 Maranka gourds (since it will be a big party). Smuggle gourds and any llamas you may have taken a liking to back into the States, carve out all 125 gourds, and bring everything to my pad.

Now proceed as follows:

Place handful of ice and all liquids into gourd. Float two ample scoops of ice cream on top (luckily for us you brought back the llamas), position your cherries to mimic nipples, and light the whole damn thing on fire! Do this 124 more times, then get the hell out of my penthouse! You reek of llama-lovin'. Salud!

The Linkmobile

A man is defined by the style, the savoir-faire, the spirit, of the car in which he tools around the city. A chap in a travel-sized Japanese n500 Hondamatic, will convey a sense of being "Lean in the Manliness Department" to the ladies, while a sucker in a Ford Country Squire might as well have that ball n' chain hanging out the driver's side window, bouncing and sparking off the road as he transports the ankle-biters to their Piccolo lessons.

So what would I, Link Worthington III, jaunt within the confines of?

A brand new, state-of-the-art Cadillac Cyclone, of course!





Cutting edge, outer space-aliciousness. The future in horizontal inter-galactic transportation. You know Fellas, I thoroughly enjoy the sensation of being strapped to an out-of-control rocket, because that's how I live my Dapper™ life every day.

In order to maximize the Dapperness of such a technologically advanced vehicle, I had my tailor design a special space-age, tin foil jumpsuit and polarized Iridium goggles. I always keep a spare or two for any lovely "co-pilots" who may accompany me on my travels (ie. liquor & ice runs).

All that aside, I chose the Cyclone based on this brilliantly designed ad:


Why... Yes, I do have a desire to drive faster than the majority of flying phallic-shaped objects! I'll race any rocket-powered dildo for pink slips.

Alas, I've long fantasized of possessing a car in homage to those driven in Death Race 2000: A time in which a driver weren't unjustly persecuted for mowing down pedestrians, but richly rewarded with points and hot chicks.

Okay, I Admit it...

I can not lie to you, my loyal minions. You've all given me so much of your trust (and UnGodly amounts of your money in tuition) by entering into my Program of Higher Dapperness™... I have to come clean. I DREW THE THREE BLUE RIBBON WINNING HAIR-DACITY™ RENDERINGS. There, I said it. I admit my bamboozlement. I will pay dearly for my fourberie & chicanery. Please forgive a charlatan who only wanted to maintain a high sense of Hair-dacity™. If you saw the REAL entries, you'd agree with my summation. Here, look at a sampling for yourselves (NOTE: There were many so abhorrent, I thought it best to not publish, but rather have framed and hung in my rumpus room):



Good God, People... you are all quite sick. Again, I have taught you well...

The Hair-dacity™ Winners are in...

By Golly, I am tickled pink by the fantastic response and high quality of my readers hair styling abilities. I've taught you well, Grasshoppers. Here are the Three Blue Ribbon Winners:


And being a Man of my Dapper Word, I will march down posthaste, renderings in meathook, and have Roscoe work his magic on my coif. I thank you all!

Good Day, Sirs!

Q & A Time with Link...

Dear Link,
I'm a hard-workin', hair-lovin' Stevedore (Local Union 15: "The Pumpin' Pompadours") who doesn't have the luxury afforded some Namby Pamby Trust Fund Babies (present company excepted) of waking up at the crack o' dawn to primp and fuss before headin' to the docks for 18 hours of gut-bustin', spine-crackin', heavy hoistin'. What's a blue-collar bub like myself to do?

A. Johnson
Hackensack, NJ


Dear "A",
I'm going to take a wild guess and assume that the "A" stands for "Asinine", because apparently you didn't read my Redken Award winning article in Gentleman's Cosmetology, Autumn issue: The Future in Hair Preservation Dome Technology for the Common Working Stiff.



Fork over the 79¢, and do yourself AND your hair a favor. Or, get out your magnifying glass and read it for free:


Oh Deer... I... I mean Dear. I completely forgot this photo shoot was during my short-lived, but heart-wrenching experimentation with Man-Cervidae Love. That little Reeve's Muntjac crushed my very soul when she ran off with Paul. I should have known better than to leave the two of them alone after that grass juice-fueled late-night Kismet tournament. They should call them "evil-toed", not "even-toed" ungulates, if you get my drift, Fellas. It's for the best. I've got my eye on a spicy little Mustelidae down the hall in 5B now!

Yours,
Mr. Worthington III

Decorating with Leopard Print

Just putting the finishing touches on my Man Cave's chambre à coucher. Très groovalicious. Replete with a state of the art lit d'eau ("water bed" for you non-French speaking peasants out there), African fertility sculptures, a copious lotion & oils chest, and decked floor to ceiling with as much endangered Leopard pelt as one could poach, smuggle, or pinch. It's taken me many moons, but I've obtained enough Leopard flesh to make my dream a reality. And what better way to christen such an endeavor than inviting over one of my special lady friends for an evening of martinis and connect the dots. Schwing!

I've kept one future pelt as a pet, whom I'm calling Sir Dingles. But alas, I'm beginning to tire of Sir Dingles incessant nibbling of my dry clean deliveryman. Humorous at first, he recently took a bite out of my Duke Dunby hound's-tooth blazer during one such nibble-fest. I will miss his entertainment value, but he'll make a perfect Leopard lined bathtub.

Why, Thank You! I think...

It's becoming more and more apparent that I am quite the cat's pajamas with the incarcerated crowd. Jailbirds respond to dapperness. Or perhaps it's my soft, supple hands due to so many years of heavy freeloading under my employment with the Link Worthington II Trust Fund that attract the desperados. Either way, I was pleased this morning to find an offering on my stoop: All neatly wrapped in brown paper... a beautifully painted dual portrait of ME. Me in repose, pipe in pie hole, and me in reflective contemplation. This artist/felon chap truly captured the essence of yours truly. I felt a small dollop of moisture streak down my face. A tear. How peculiar, for I lack the ducts necessary for such facial lubrication. But upon hanging this Masterpiece of Moi, I happened upon a note scrawled in the back:




Seemingly, our penal system offers adroit instructions in the art of art to convicts, but lacks the fundamental tutelage in the science of human biology.

Carl, if you're reading this, I thank you for the painting AND the kind offer to bear your offspring. Unfortunately, I am on permanent birth control known as being a MAN. Perhaps we can adopt?

The Dickey: Miracle Accessory or Harbinger of the Apocalypse?

What cat hasn't wanted to team a jacket or cardigan with a turtleneck, for that crisp, modern, Bing Crosby look, but fretted about all that chaffing if combined with a full turtleneck? I hear ya, Brothers. My nipples are mighty sensitive, just like yours.

Enter the Dickey™: The look of a turtleneck without all that extra fabric! Yes... the Dickey is truly a modern marvel...

Or is it?

There's a dark side to the Dickey. One based on irrefutably damning pseudo-scientific distortions of partial truths and heresay. The Dickey is in fact... an omen for the total and complete destruction of our beloved Planet Earth. Based upon on my studies of ancient Mayan calendars, after nights of ungodly Kahlua consumption, I have incontrovertible proof of Armageddon, AND the hangover to prove it.



By zooming in on a section of the Mayan calendar, one can see that the regal Mayan king IS IN FACT wearing a Dickey-like devise. That particular section of the calendar portends the arrival of the death god, Mictlantecuhtli, donning lime green polyester golf pants, a rayon argyle cardigan AND a snow white Dickey.

I rest my case.

Link's Fun Zone...

Well... Apparently, Mr. Shellac Hair Concrete spontaneously combusts when mixed with Ylang Ylang. Now I've lost every bit of mop on my top. What is a Dapper Gent to do?



Try your hand at Hair-dacity™.

Print out the supplied photo of my mug, ask your cell mate for his crayons, scrawl out some new hairstyles, and send them my way. The best three will get published in the blog, and every four weeks one will be brought to Roscoe, my barber, to be used as a blueprint for my next coif. Nothin' funny, Chums. Keep 'em straight...

Hair-dacity™: The Unparalleled Power of My Hair

There's THREE things essential to the Dapper Lifestyle™: A stiff drink, women galore, and a swell head of hair. Scratch that... There's only ONE thing: A swell head of hair. For with the power granted from the All Holy Follicle Lords upon high, a gent can hook a sweet dish, who (while being under the captivating spell of such unparalleled height, sheen, and silky goodness) will fork over more than a few Ben Franklins for the privilege of joining your glistening locks in a drink or two. But the price one must pay for touching the heavens is a steep one indeed...

I start each hair day at 3 am, even though I'm usually just crawling through the door from a night of licentiousness at the local firewater dispensary, back alley pinochle game, or some honey's slumber-induced death-grip.

First off, I vigorously massage my scalp for 30 minutes with essential oils (Ylang ylang, chamomile, and myrrh). Next, after the blistering and burning sensation subsides, a shampoo, set and curl, then under the Blowmaster 350 hairdryer for 45 minutes. Upon completion, teased and sculpted to a Queensbury Rules height of 5 inches. Dosed with a liberal application of Mr. Shellac™ Hair Concrete (available at any quality industrial hardware store (see ad below)), and I'm ready to roll.



Remember: Hair should be impervious to wind, rain, and open flame. If you can successfully drag a comb through your coiffure, then you have failed miserably as a man. Think of your hair as a dame trap: If a lovely lass should make the mistake of venturing her digits through your topper, she'll become hopelessly entangled... and only you have the lacquer thinner and shoe horn to free her!

What’s that on my Johnson?

Well class, I didn’t plan on addressing such delicate matters so early in your education, but alas, I caught a little something from a particularly nasty chica by the name of Esquita last week, and thought it perfectly apropos to discuss my latest affliction: a festering case of the PRAWNS. It’s a rare condition, portaged by dames who mistakenly believe live sea sponges can be used as contraceptive devices.

Basically, your Johnson curls up upon itself and forms a hard exoskeleton. The only known cure is to bathe it periodically with fresh lemon juice and a mixture of ketchup and horseradish (I believe the medical term is “Cocktail Sauce”). In the meantime, hanging it over the edge of a large glass garners some relief. I’ll keep you all posted on my rather vexatious convalescence.



(Figure 1) My physician sizing up the "Prawnification" of my manhood. Some keen observers out there may notice my tattoo of a set of cherries on my tuchus. I won't go into that tawdry tale at this juncture, but suffice to say, it's sure to bring a grown fella to tears. Here's to you, Ma!




(Figure 2) Here's a manual that my physician gave me to read. I was unaware Little Golden Books dealt with such ailments. Apparently, it's a new "Lifestyle" category of tomes they're coming out with. Other titles include "The Poky Little Pee-Pee", and "Sore Nutsack: The VD Squirrel"

Link's Drink of the Week: The Dirty Sanchez

Ah yes... What could be a more appetizing beverage than one named after a particularly disgusting urban sexual legend. While I myself have never had the pleasure of either delivering OR receiving a Dirty Sanchez, I thought it best to concoct a more virtual, yet tasty, experience. Especially enjoy the spicy brown moustache you'll have after drinking this treat!

DIRECTIONS:

3 Parts Kahlua™ Coffee Liquor
1 Part Rot Gut™ Tequila
1 Baby Ruth™ candy bar broken in two
1 Small bowl filled with Little Pepito's Cha Cha Sauce™

Gently invert an Old Fashioned glass into the Cha Cha Sauce bowl, making sure the rim is fully covered.

Turn glass over (some people forget this step) and fill with the Kahlua and Tequila.

Float your Baby Ruth™ fecal imitators on the top of said cocktail.

Offer drink to fellow party goer, saying something to the effect: "I made this one ESPECIALLY for you" and enjoy the show. The burning ring of fire, combined with the large, barely digestible chunks of Baby Ruth, will make for an experience JUST AS delightful as the real thing. Salud!

Link's Fun Zone...

ANSWER: None of the Above. These Corn Dogs aren't even close. You don't just jam the hat onto your biscuit. You finesse it ever so gently onto your perfectly shellaced dome. AND... the hat should always be jauntily angled to the LEFT. Angled to the right like Miss Mary Muffinpie in box "C" and you may wake up in an alleyway with your keister-hole the size of Texas.

Hats, Lids, Buckets...

A hat should be tight fitting and angled jauntily at exactly 10 degrees. Any more and you look like a flesh-peddler, and less and you look like a Clueless Joe... Like yourself for instance.



I prefer chapeaus made by “Lord Kent of Canterbury”. He is a crackerjack haberdasher, who produces my favorite nugget cap: The Earl Umbridge Deluxe Trilby. Supple buttery soft goat suede with a brim lined with special Ecuadorian Pygmy Kapok Tree Monkey pelt. His Lordship only needs a tiny strip of fur off the brisket, but it’s much easier to simply snare and garrote the little buggers to obtain it. Apparently there’s only five of these monkeys left in the world, which is a stroke of absolute luck, since I just placed an order for five such hats.

Alright chumps...Class is officially in session.

Drop that pencil, Slick. Get that finger outta your schnoz, Poindexter. Open them peepers and partake in the effervescent glory that is: The Dapper Gent™. My name is Link Worthington III (esq.): International Bon Vivant, ne’re-do-well, and rapscallion. I’ll be your sherpa of smooth.Your chaperone of cool. Your docent of delicious dames and delectable Dollies. Sit back as I unlock my secret stash of juicy tips, tidbits and unproven pseudoscientific gobbledygook, and teach you the fine art of being... The Dapper Gent™. In the coming weeks I will knock the corn outta your keister with my bountiful harvest of noteworthy knowledge. Tune in for: The Art of SeDUCTion (emphasis on DUCT since DUCT tape is an essential part of this lesson), Tantalizing Tales of Toggery, The Zen of Entertaining (with only a can opener and your imagination), Mixology Moxy, Decorating with Leopard print, and... What’s that on my Johnson?

Firstly, we'll discuss Togs. Threads. Duds. The civvies certainly do make the man, and by that definition, Sir, you are no man.