Joe Tucci: Man About Keegans

With Dementee's Inspirational and Super-Happy 9/11 Reflection now safely out of the way, time has come again for the semiannual MOB party post mortem. As you may know, I was unable to attend on Saturday, having come down with a severe case of, oh, let's say: gout. So the wrapup duties fell to the Head of Alfredo Garcia who, as is his custom, foisted said duties off onto someone else. The unfortunate soul The Head tapped for the task was an out-of-towner attending the party as a guest of "some guy". Below is the text of the e-mail he sent me:

DISCLAIMER: The following e-mail is a dramatization that is drawn from a variety of sources including Joe Tucci and some other guys, and from personal interviews by Joe Tucci. The e-mail is not a wikipedia entry. For dramatic and narrative purposes, the e-mail contains fictionalized scenes, composite and representative characters and dialogue, as well as time compression and nipple rubbing.

Mr. Foot,

Joe Tucci from Milwaukee here. This guy who says he blogs with you asked me to send you a writeup of my experiences from the party on Saturday. So here it is. Don't say I never done nothing for you.

When I first got there, I ran into this one guy, this and this other guy with his wife. I could tell that that other guy's wife totally wanted me. I could also tell that she was a good cook, judging by the girth of her hubby. We chatted for a few moments, but I had to go inside to fetch me a brandy and sour (and get away from the scary biker dude who was rubbing my nipple), so I cut it short.

Well, the bartender gave me this queer look when I ordered my B&S so I grabbed him by the collar and said to him "JOE TUCCI ALWAYS DRINKS BRANDY AND SOUR! YOU TELLIN' JOE TUCCI THAT HE GOT NO TASTE IN BOOZE?!" Mr. Happy Pants bartender politely informed me that this here bar was Irish and that maybe I might like an Irish brew or whiskey. I though a change might be refreshing, so I ordered a Guinness. No Irish whiskey for Joe Tucci: God knows how much Mick piss is in that stugatz!

On my way out I ran into what looked to be a paisan. I'm like "Thank God - there is a guy in this blonde town who knows how to eat!" Then the guy tells me that his last name is "Yost". What? - is that some sort of Pollack name or something? Guy kept telling me he was from Brooklyn, so I guess he was OK.

So I go back out at the patio, and I see this hot chick. The Head tells me she owns a bar, she's running for Governor, and I ain't seeing no ring on her finger. So I'm about to make my move when this scary broad who looked like some sort of evil enormous weeble walks up to her and starts bending her ear for like a half hour. Gab gab gab gab gab gab. The evil giant weeble would not shut up. So I figured I'd just bide my time and hit on the Governor babe later.

So I go over to what The Head tells me is the "liberal table." Joe Tucci is down with that. I don't care who you vote for, what you look like or if you're a fanook, just as long as you pay off your gambling debts (And I did see one of those welchers at about this time). So anyways I sit down and talked to these folks for quite a while. There was this guy and his wife (who I could tell wanted me) and a stooge sitting there. The stooge started getting angry when the guy and I started talking about Rush. As if I wanna talk about The Black Eyed Peas or Menudo or whatever gay-ass stugatz that dude listens to. Shesh!

So anyways, I start going over to that other guy and his wife that I met when I first got there, and sure enough the evil gi-normous weeble chick's talking to them now. Some bullshit about the County Commissioner race. I could tell they were real interested. Apparently the scary evil giant weeble doesn't know that you don't start buying county commissioners until after the election. What a dumbass.

So then I run into this guy named "Mitch" and his date. This chick was hot, and I could tell that she was out of this Mitch guy's league. You see, Joe Tucci knows how to please a lady.

NOTE FROM LEARNEDFOOT: I have excised the next five paragraphs where Joe Tucci describes in some detail his animal magnetism and sexual prowess.

And so I says to the guy, I says "You gotta smack that ass!" That's how Joe Tucci rolls.

After that, I want to go and talk to the Governor chick again, and guess what? The Evil Gigantic Foking Weeble is chewing her ear off again. This is one obsessive weeble I says to myself.

So then I go back inside the bar and end up talking to some guy, some other guy, this one guy who was sitting with these two other guys, some guy who called himself "Doctor," this guy who was with his wife and these two teenaged chicks (and I'm all like "Whoa! Sixteen will get you 20"), and this one pansy-ass white boy who wanted to take a picture of my hand. I hightailed it back out to the patio after that shit, where I ran into another guy with a real fuzzy head.

So I remember about that first guy I met when I got there, and about how he was some econ prof or some such. As I am the proprietor of the midwest's best textbook wholesaling concern, I wanted to tell him that I could get him a real good deal on some Microeconomics texts that just happened to fall off a truck right in front of my warehouse. So I start going back over to his table.

The foking evil giant weeble is there, bending his ear.

I had had enough. I hopped into my Escalade and headed back to the hotel.

So that's how it went down.

Your pal,

Joe Tucci.

I wonder if this guy would be willing to blog...