Ask a Sausage Link...

While Link finishes his electo-shock therapy over the trauma of the last few months, we thought, just for shits and giggles, we'd run an all new "Ask a Sausage Link..." that's been festering on the back burner for some time:

Dear Mr. Sausage Link,

First off, I'm a long time fan of the sausage. In fact, if I may toot my own intestine wrapped horn, I was crowned Ms. Kielbasa Queen '36 in the salad days of my youth. Well, the blossom of that young Kielbasa may have shriveled and putrified, along with the majority of my essential body parts, but I still crave the sausage in a big way.

Enclosed is a photo of me in full pork mode:


But I digress: Is it bad form for a lady of my maturity and vaginal dryness to ask a young man to see his sausage? I'm usually rebuffed with giggles and gagging, but all I desire is to feast my eyes on the fresh cylindrical beauty of young ground pork/beef/venison that he may be consuming or carrying at the moment.

Sally McDickleson
Perth Amboy, New Jersey


Dear Sally,

Hot damn!!! YOU ARE A SAUCY SAUCY SALLY AREN'T YOU? Why can't I ever meet a spicy older broad with a taste for the sausage like you? All I seem to meet are hungry eyes and salivating mouths... I'm more than a wiener Goddamit! I'm a man! No wait... I am just a wiener. But a wiener with feelings, Sally. I know you understand. Can I come live with you? Be you're special salsiccia? If you're open-minded, I know a beefy Macedonian lukanec that would be open to a Ménage à trois!


_________________________________________



Dear Mr. Sausage,

I have what I believe is the world's biggest sausage, but I need an expert's opinion. May I show you my sausage? It measures 50 feet long and has a thickness of 1 foot. Is there some sort of award, or ribbon, or maybe a parade that I could receive for such a feat of pork packing?

Ronald Berkowitz
Long Island, New York

(Picture enclosed)



Dear Ronald,

While certainly an impressive log of meat, it is laughably small and pathetic when compared to the what is the actual KING OF ALL THINGS SAUSAGE...

Behold The MUNDARE METTWURST MONSTER!

An amazing feat of pork-based architecture. I believe it only lasted one day until a group of whacked out hippies, high on dope, stumbled upon it, ate the supporting pork, causing a collapse which wiped out a nearby orphanage. God Damn HIPPIES!!!!!

So, no Ronald. No GOD DAMN PARADE!



_________________________________________



Have any sausage-related questions? Well, then send them to:

Sal Salsiccia
1232 Broadway
NY, NY 10020

The Lost Link

Dear Pupils,

Excuse my tardiness, for I have been most certainly delinquent in my Dapper™ blogifications. But to be frank... I 'm beginning to ponder what I find more deeply disquieting...

The fact that I have been missing for several long weeks, or the fact that NOBODY SEEMED TO NOTICE!!!!

I thought someone might inquire, or at least send a search party out to ascertain my whereabouts, but apparently Link Worthington III, Esq. isn't quite worth the effort. Well, I had the stratagem to just simply pretend to have been amiss in my professorial duties, due to fabulousity and drink, or dazzle you with tales of extreme sexually-charged international chicanery, but the truth is far more horrifying.

But that's for another day. As soon as the nightmares soften, the sores heal, and my sphincter stops quivering, then and only then, will I entertain the thought of passing on the blood-curdling details of my disappearance.

Which brings me to the subject of today's bloggery: SHOES. After weeks of sporting nothing but duct tape and Chinese take-out boxes, the first thing I did was to slip my precious little pitties into my coveted "Rodney of Burbank" loafers. Renowned for his use of only the most endangered animal skins, his footwear excel in both sheer audacity and soft pillowy comfort.

Mr. Rodney personally invites his most valued patrons along to hand pick the "raw materials" with which he'll weave his huarache magic, so off to the Hydrofoil! My last excursion was to the frozen tundra of Greenland, to find just the perfectly portly Phoca groenlandica pup pelt. Decisions, decisions! So many porky pelts to peruse. And times a tickin': We've only a few days to "harvest" the best snowy white furs before they molt! I just need to find the right little fellas and give them a hearty whack upside the noggin. I brought my own club along for this endeavor: A 3-foot long picana negra wood stocked, platinum tipped facilitator of fabulously fine feathery footwear.


But as I gaze hypnotically into those deep, moist, jet-black peepers, I can't seem to muster the inner blood-thirsty killer that I know lurks inside me. I have not a touch of chagrin with butchering my unruly manservants, but I find myself unable to... strike... the fuzzy... little... puff...

WHACK!!! As luck would have it, Mr. Rodney instantly notices my trepidation, and gentleman that he is, promptly pummels the fuzzy imp to death. Heavenly loafers, here I come!

And oh how that buttery soft baby seal fur soothes my horrible carbuncles, corns, and calluses. Cheers to you, Rodney!

Now if only we can rid ourselves of those pesky PETA agitators forever blocking patronage to your fine establishment. Today it's the seal slip-ons, tomorrow... who knows? Will they be ruffled by your Kitten Klogs™? Your Tibetan Sand Fox puppy pumps? And why pray tell is it only the homeliest of the group that must strip and paint faux blood all over their corpulent frames??? I've a right mind to protest their visual pollution! Well... as soon as my sphinter ceases to quiver that is.

Link's Drink of the Week: Tax Time Tea Baggin' Toddy

As a man of unparalleled Dapperness & Wealth™, I loathe the 15th of April almost as much as I loathe my continually reoccurring case of the Prawns.

I so despise having to give a penny of my hard-earned (earned by someone else) money to the "Man" only to have it be given to supporting various ridiculous services, organizations, charities, and worth-while associations that I'm not directly affected by...

How will this help me purchase those fur pants I've been eyeing, if I have to give .0001% of my income (I have a great accountant) to help pay for silliness such as the police, army, fire, or civil services? I say Anarchy in the streets! I have my penthouse safe room AND access to the Worthington Family Armageddon Bungalow™ on the Cape. Plus, my new manservant Chatsworth is trained in the deadly arts. Not sure which ones, but they're DEADLY...

So when I came upon literature pertaining to something called a "Tea Party" rallying against taxes, I though it my civic (ie. greed-induced) duty to attend. Well, actually it was the rumors of "Tea Bagging" that got me a tad bit more titillated. Tax protest AND orgy. What a great combination!

But upon arriving (wearing my special quick-releasing silk ORGY pants), I saw no such activities taking place. And to be brutally honest, I wouldn't even want to dangle my treasured man-sack in any of these homely pie-holes. The nerve of such false advertisement!

After storming out, it dawned on me...

The perfect protest is to drink heavily! Hence this weeks Drink of the Week:

Tax Time Tea Baggin' Toddy

1 All-American, Red-blooded Lipton Tea Bag

4 Shots Wal Mart Barn-Burnin' Brandy

1 Tbsp. Honey (From some God Forsaken Dustbowl State)

1 Lemon Slice (Carved in the shape of a Bald Eagle)

1 1934 Minted $1000 bill

1 Match

Steep tea in hot water for 10 minutes. Place tea bag off to side. Mix in brandy and honey. Garnish with Lemon Eagle. Place $1000 bill in mug, light on fire, then throw drink out of nearest window, or if incarcerated down the toilet. Now drop cold tea bag into mouth, and stew about giving away both your precious booze and money.

Link Gets All Artsy Fartsy

I truly am an unabashed Paraclete of the Arts, as all us bona fide Dapper Gents™ are. When not posing au naturel for the local progressive-minded primary school figurative drawing classes, I'm snatching up young penniless artisan's work hand over foot to both horde and later exploit.

At the moment, my collective "peepers" have been focused on the talents of one Margaret Keane. Her hauntingly disconcerting doe-eyed rascals equally charm and creep the hell out of me. In fact, when I placed my vast collection in my boudoir the other eve, I had a dickens of a time persuading my various lady friends to disrobe and fornicate. So off to the rumpus room with you, Keane-ish freaks!


I kept the kitty pillows though. Worked with the milieu of the room.

Ms. Keane was kind enough to let me pose for a portrait recently, and I am tickled pink by the horrific results! I swore she wouldn't make me cry, but she had to bring up my dearest Mr. Dingles... and the waterworks began...


I believe she has captured my true essence... that of a small, forlorn pipe-smokin' man-boy who's only dream in life was to skin his pet leopard for a fur-lined bathtub. Where's my hanky? Sob...

A little trade secret: As luck would have it, these priceless Keane paintings show up ever so often in local second hand stores, rummage sales, and more commonly, dumpsters. Pick any random trash receptacle, dive in, and you'll surely come up with a Keane painting AND a nice pre-chewed, post-supper snack.

Next time on Art Collecting with Link™: A behind the scenes look at my life-size, anatomically-exaggerated, Alabaster sculpture garden.

Maintaining your P-Zone™

Gentlemen,

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!

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...

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!