Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Maintaining your P-Zone™


If I've said it once, I've said it a million times...

Proper grooming starts in your pants.

I'm in full preparation mode for my annual ritual of streaking through the Center Court championship game at Wimbledon (which is a time honored Worthington family tradition: I'd like to think we put the CREAM in the Strawberries & Cream), so I know the value of a well maintained Shrub Sack.

Unfortunately, those damned Bobbies covered up a "smashing" ode to Michael Caine. That copper may have covered the strawberries, but he still got himself a healthy hatful of cream!

Frankly, why bother leaving your Man Cave, if you have unruly, unkempt, and unhygienically dreadlocked pubic hair? Ask yourself... Does your buttocks hair regularly get caught in your zipper? Do you have to work your pubes into Squaw-styled Pigtails just to find your Johnson? Is there a nest of Madagascar Sub-Desert Mesites inhabiting your twisted briar patch of man bush? Then Sir, you have some seriously disturbed follicle issues, but thankfully you've come to the right establishment: Link's House of P-Zone™ Salonery is open for business!

P-Zone™, you ask? Why, yes, I answer. Just as a certain dromedary-festooned cigarette brand (that my lips would never touch... I'm a Chesterfield man myself) has it's "T-Zone for Taste ", I have my P-Zone™ for "PROPERLY PRUNED PUBIC PALACE". When your well maintained P-Zone™ now meets a lovely dish face to face, you can feel supremely confident that upon slipping off your trousers and leopard-print thong, instead of uncontrollable gagging and dry heaving, you'll receive a rousing standing Ohhh-vation!

All you need are a set of clippers, generous globs of shaving powder, and your imagination.

Here's some classic P-Zone™ styles I don when the occasion arises:

And here's some duds I WILL NOT sport under ANY occasion:

My gonad-itude is too precious to be cheapened by trendy pop culture references. Only the classics for this gent. So drop those drawers, grab the tweezers and landscape that P-Zone™ post haste!

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Link's Trouser Packing Tips

Ah... back from the salt mines. Who knew over-priced French Sea Salt was mined in the hummocks of West Pennsylvania? I most certainly didn't. Oh, the magic that is marketing, My Friends! It was Herculean work, and we lost a number of good chaps to mine collapses, but it's all for the good of spiking the blood pressure of an insatiably sodium-addicted public.

But what do I come home to after weeks of back breaking work? Is my penthouse festooned with "Welcome Home" banners and blithe balloonery? No. I come home to an automated computation device filled with angry electronic letters.

It seems some of you fine readers have rather rudely commented that I've started to fall off my message. That Chief Big Shot is sending up the wrong smoke signals. That my carrier pigeon has become a directionally-impaired turkey. More Dapperocity™ you demand! Less "What did Link find in his stool this morning". Well, I thought that you'd appreciate the amount of corn and barley in my mid-morning guano, but apparently I am horribly mistaken. So rather than pout like the wee little imp that I am, I will instead toughen up the teats and discuss more appropriately Dapper issues, since after all (read sarcasm here) you ARE paying so very much for this educational enlightenment!

So fine...

Let's discuss PANTS & BELTS:

BUT... Before we address that, I'd like to first clear the air about some scuttlebutt, related to my southern hemisphere, making the rounds of the local bath houses: That I am, or am not, hung like a Belgian Draft Horse. Photos of the now infamous sword fight with Milton Berle in the litter box of the Zanzibar Club have recently resurfaced in Skin Fiesta magazine. First of all, that was an accidental crossing of sausage. Since the urinals are a smorgasbord-styled affair of one long porcelain trough, any wrong movement can result in a twisted knot of gent genitalia. I tacked left, Milton yawed right and... Well, you'll just have to see the snaps and judge for yourself. Or ask the lovely Ms. Mary Tyler Moore...

During a recent fashion shoot for Shempley's Department Store, Ms. Moore took such rapacious delight in perusing my bulging pants, that she couldn't take her eyes of them, there by ruining the whole sitting. Shame on you, Ms. Moore! But sadly, her dreams were horribly dashed, as I later pulled out the Hucklebuckle Farms™ Summer Sausage I regularly pack into my trousers for snack purposes. A man does need to get a big piece of sausage in his mouth now and then. Hmmm. Perhaps I should reword that.

So you see, my fine friends, I do not need a belt. For a man of my unparalleled style and natural effervescence does not need a slab of cowhide to keep his slacks from a droopin'. No, my pants stay aloft by the sheer magnetic and centrifugal force of my life-giving energies (and snack products). Well... that AND the fact that I only wear Sansabelt Action Pants from the Young Squire's Department at Shemply's. No need for moo skin with these adjustable togs. They put the the ACTION back in my pants where it belongs:

I'm ever so rudely asked by both the Cats and the Kittens, if they can "cop a feel" of my shiny 100% Dacron Action Pants. Like a moth to flame, crowds quickly gather, as they marvel at both the extreme tightness of my slacks, as well as the fact that they can see their most undapper reflections in them. Mouth agape, they drool and froth as I saunter, ever so dapper-like, into the local drinking hole or Hucklebuckle Farms to reload my Snack Sack™.

So there. Are you all happy now?

Excuse me while I now retire to the lavatory. BUT don't you worry, Dear Readers. I wouldn't think of BORING you with the details. And that's certainly a shame since I recently ate a very large bowl of pistachio pudding. Oh well. Your loss...

Friday, March 5, 2010

Link is Free, But Good God is He Fat

Dear Readers, I am once again among you un-incarcerated plebs to spread to Dapper word. Consider me now the Ex-con of Cool™. This jailbird has his leopard print wings back, Baby.

Yes, there truly wasn't a dry eye when I left prison. And to be honest, I didn't want to leave. I had to be forcibly vacated from my freshly decorated cell, which only made it all the more heart-breaking for my inconsolable cell mate and "C" block chums. But alas, their tears and riotous wailings were quickly washed away when the screws turned on the high-powered hoses...

It seems my twin brother, and arch-nemesis since the womb, Wink Worthington IV, using his substantial powers of monetary persuasion, bought my way out of the pokey. But at what cost, My Dapper Brethren? Now I must labor under his wrathful thumb in the Family Salt Mines (A wholly owned subsidiary of Worthington Industries, Inc.) for an undetermined allotment of time to pay off this debt! What is a Trust Fund Fop to do? My hands are so silky and supple!

But worse than the thought of actual manual labor, is the fact that I packed on a few pounds in the can. And by "can" I don't mean prison, if you get my drift. All that easy livin' added some serious poundage to my once lean physique. Charles Atlas no more. Pas plus Jack LaLanne. And since us Worthingtons must look our Dapper Best-est™ at all times, I am required to shed said chub before entering the family business.

My plan is simple: A liquid diet of gin, raw eggs and wheat germ (I call it a "Gin & Colonic"), teamed with strenuous lounging while wearing the Fat-A-Mizer Lard Melter 650 wired to my portly frame. I should start losing those 150+ pounds of unsightly deposits of excess adipose tissue within months... or years!

Week 1: A brisk introductory workout after waddling out of bed, consisting of Squat Thrusts and Deep Knee Bends, followed by a horrendous burning sensation in my groin/buttocks/testicles forces me to postpone my diet plans indefinitely. Heavy drinking, pill popping and strudel sucking ensues. Pounds gained: 15

Week 2: A fresh start. Make myself a Gin & Colonic. Spend next hour in powder room. Cleans out the pipes like Liquid Drano. Reclined on chaises fully wired to the Fat-A-Mizer Lard Melter 650. Watch as my stomach muscles do the "El Crampo Cha-cha". Put on bongo music to soothe my tattered nerves and sphincter. Read warning in brochure: Do not use in conjunction with alcohol or intestinal blowout may occur. Immediately consume TWO more Gin & Colonics. More rectal rooting and intentional intestinal blowouts. Pounds lost: 25

Weeks 3-5: Can't leave Man Cave in fear of losing sphincter lip down trouser leg. Oh, the cramps... the CRAMPS... I think the electronic impulses from the Fat-A-Mizer have made my testicles shrivel into tiny Hickory Times™ charcoal briquets. Lost all nipple sensation... and generous clumps of body hair. Vision blurred. Pounds lost: 137...

Mission Accomplished. On to the Salt Mines!