Usage:
Read “The Pearl Harbor” by comedian Mark Riccadonna for a hilarious usage.

Usage:
Read “The Hurricane Seat” by comedian Mark Riccadonna for a hilarious usage.

Read “The Pearl Harbor” by comedian Mark Riccadonna for a hilarious usage.

Step 2: Induce a person to become so inebriated that they vomit into the unflushed toilet.

Step 3. Laugh uncontrollably at that person.

Usage:
Read “The Pearl Harbor” by comedian Mark Riccadonna for a hilarious usage.

So I’m in a hotel with my wife and dog while on the road. I decided the dog needed a walk so I could release some wind without making wifey vomit. And with the hurricane conditions outside, I wouldn’t even have to smell it myself! It was a win-win as far as I was concerned, so long as Toto and I didn’t get blown away while taking care of business. And it reminded me of a truly great story that happened last February which also involved a hurricane and almost vomiting.

I went to perform for the troops in Iraq. And if you’ve read the news anytime in the last ten years then you know it’s not exactly safe there. We couldn’t take ground transportation because of IEDs (Improvised Explosive Device). So the Army supplied us with Black Hawk helicopters. We flew into a base called Alasad. The pilot told me everyone on the base that was American was a Marine, so when I’m on stage… make fun of the Marines.

Make fun of the marines. I’m not stupid. But I am dumb. I made fun of the Army instead. And they were my ride home.

Later that night they got me back. At chow time the pilot said they have a tradition on base to prove you’re a man: eat a whole bowl of Alasad chili. And that shit is hot!

Now I’m always up for a challenge, especially if it involves food. So I got me bowl. Now what they didn’t say is NO AMERICANS eat Alasad chili–it’s what they make for the Iraqis that work on base. Our bodies aren’t used to the spices and curry and ground up glass I think they probably put in it.

I ate the whole thing and.. did I mention it was hot! Real hot! But I did it. I ate every bite. Just then the pilot said, “I hate to break up the party but we gotta get these guys to the next base.” So in a cocky swagger I walked to the chopper.

They told me to sit in the Hurricane Seat. The Hurricane Seat, for those of you who’ve never ridden in a chopper, is in the dead center of the heli. Two pilots in front of me, two 50cal gunners next to me, and three Marines right behind me, hitching a ride. The chopper takes off very smooth. And I felt a bubble. Then I realized what it’s like to be pregnant. There was something inside me and it was coming out with or without my permission. Now I watch a lot of TV, so I started doing Lamaze–those breathing exercises–and cramped up so bad my legs started curling up in front of me..

Carlos, the pilot, saw this and said, “Hey Riccadonna, hold on.”  Zoom! He nose planted the heli in the air and the bubble rose.

Now I didn’t shit myself, per say. But what I would say is that I didn’t tweet so much as I blogged. Okay, my underwear looked like a used coffee filter.

When something like this happens, there are two emotions that come over me:

1. Panic, because I just shit myself.
2. Relief, because it dawned on me I’m in a helicopter which is basically a giant fan and the doors are wide open. So I might get away with this shit!

But as I’m sitting there in my Irish diaper, I look back and see the Marines blaming each other for the intense smell blowing their way and start gagging. And in my own way, I was proud. I made three guys who handle mustard gas for a living gag.

I was laughing and radioed the news to the other guys. They turned, saw what I’d seen, and started laughing but, one-by-one, even with their masks on they started gagging too. What I didn’t realize was, I was in the hurricane seat which is the eye of the storm. The air can’t leave the cabin. We were literally in a shit storm. They had to turn the heli sideways just to get fresh air in the cabin.

Apparently I’m not the only one to have done this because when we landed, Carlos walked me to the doorway, handed me a pair of pants, and ripped the patch off his jacket, making me an honorary member of the Werewolves, Company A, 3-227 Air Assault Battalion. The proudest moment of my life.

How will I explain this to my grandkids? “That’s the day they all got purple hearts, and black lung.”

For more comedy, check out Mark’s website: http://www.markriccadonna.com

What was I doing in Cuba? What wasn’t I? It turns out that if you bring a box full of classic car parts to that poor beleaguered island, you can have pretty much the run of the place and ol’ Raul and Fidel pretty much have no idea you’re even there. Those Cuban people? They’re Danny’s kind of people. Strong, self-sufficient, and letting those sourpusses think they’re in charge for, you know, a while longer. At least until the old U.S. of A. finally does something that makes them they say, “Oh? You done being a bunch of assholes toward us? Okay, cool.”

Anyway, I was there for the fortieth anniversary of the Bay of Pigs invasion. Or, I should say, attempted invasion. Now that was a cluster-fuck of mammoth proportions.

Like my buddy Frank Sinatra, I thought I was going to have an in with those Kennedy’s after their election. I mean, I did my part by drinking a few truck loads of Joe’s booze to fund the goddamned thing. And what did I get for it? A year-and-a-half stay in the Lincoln bedroom. But did they listen to me? Hah. If they had, I wouldn’t've needed to go back to Cuba.

As a for instance, we’re all chilling in the Cabinet Room, mojito’s in one hand, cigars in the other when in who walks but the Sec-Def himself, the original Gin Rummy, Robbert McNamara. The Mac Daddy was all hopped up on some kind of goofballs, swearing up and down about this Bay of Pigs thing he had planned. It would end Castro. It’d bring freedom and democracy. It’d lay the groundwork for the McDumper to start a whole new branch of his swinging couples club (though, in retrospect, I think this was the Nam-man’s way of getting yours truly out of the way).

Jack, the thinking man he was, perked up and asked when exactly it was all supposed to go down. Nama-rama-ding-dong blurted out the date and I got to scratching my head. Back then, we had calendars that were made out of paper and got hung on the wall, and the good ones also showed the phases of the moon. So, I step up and flip the page and say, “So this is supposed to be a night op?”

“Yep,” says the Big Mac. “Under cover of darkness. They’ll never see us coming.”

“Well,” says I. “According to this little baby, it’s a full moon. Just, you know… FYI.”

The Mac Attack waves it away, mumbling something about it being last year’s calendar and well… you know what happened from there.

Now, I don’t know it for certain, but I’d heard that old Bobby had been hitting the rum pretty hard. Apparently, he had a thing for that Bacardi and always felt bad about them getting kicked on over to the PR. I don’t know if that has anything to do with his eagerness to invade, I’m just throwing it out there as one of many possible reasons why things went so badly that day.

Of course, ol’ Danny loves his rum, too. It warms my lower extremities when I go without pants in the colder months. But it’s really meant for hot summer days. Which is why, in the waining days of this summer, we’re featuring Drinking Rum as a new PartyTime check-in type. Hope you use it to it’s fullest!

But today, I want to discuss something serious. There are women out there right now, harboring a terrible shame. A shame that’s haunted them all their lives. A shame that’s kept them from the full enjoyment of their sexual adventures. These women have an awesome power. But just like the X-men, they believe this power makes them a freak, an outsider, alone.

I am of course, talking about the mythical power of the squirter.

Many religions have their flood myths. What you may not know though, is that these myths are rooted in the power of the squirter. In a top-secret meeting with the Pope – or, more specifically, the Pope’s very hot younger sister (she’s a spry 62), Danny gained access to the restricted Vatican archives. Books left out of the Bible. The Apocrypha. One such book tells about Noah:

——————————————-
The lost book of Halitosis:
Halitosis 7:7 And Noah did lay with his wife. And it was good.
Halitosis 7:8 And as Noah did pierceth his wife with his meaty sword,
Halitosis 7:9 Lo, did a great flood spill forth!
Halitosis 7:10 And Noah was filled with fear and trembling. And his sword did falter.
Halitosis 7:11 So Noah went beforeth the Lord and asked,
Halitosis 7:12 “O, Lord, how may I lay with my wife when such a mighty stream threatens our livestock and floods the village?”
Halitosis 7:13 And the Lord did respond, “Looks like you’ll need a bigger boat.”
——————————————

These lost verses, my dear friends, are what gave us the Judeo-Christian Flood Myth. True story. Very wet.

Oh, how different the world might be today if Noah wasn’t such a pussy. The Pope said that, not The McDump-a-tron. But I do agree. Noah feared the awesome power of his wife’s amazing fire hydrant vagina. And many men have had the same fear since. Well, Danny’s here to tell you something men. The squirter is a gift from God. I honestly believe 100% that if God were faced with a squirter, he’d have one thing to say: “Surf’s up!” (Or he’d quote another line for Jaws.)

Even Danny does not know all of the secrets of the Va-jay-jay. Danny knows not whence this flow comes. But Danny learned a long time ago, respect the vagina. The vagina is power. It is the holiest of holies. It can grant life. And it can make life Hell. And further more, Danny learned a long time ago, that getting that blast of sweet nectar right in the kisser can be the most powerful aphrodisiac known to man. When Danny gets a nice wet load in the face, his cock goes straight to 11, does not pass Go, does not collect $200.

So guys, I have a mission for you. Tonight, when you’re in bed with your girl. I want you to cuddle right up and whisper in her ear: “Baby, are you a squirter?” She might be one, but ashamed. Ask her again, gently “Do you squirt?” Then let her know how eager you are to lap up that sexy woman-jizz like the dog you are.

And ladies. Let that flow go. If you’re a squirter, don’t hold back. Blast him. Blast that man’s face back to the stone age.

It’s generally common knowledge that men think of women as either saintly mothers or fuck-me-six-ways-to-Sunday whores. Of course that’s not true, but you boys have trouble reconciling the two. May I present the pregnant woman as the ideal example to straddle that line (and you for that matter). Yes, they’re carrying little bundles of joy, but, hello, it certainly wasn’t the stork that put that package in there. There was a vagina involved. And a penis. And well, I certainly don’t need to tell you the rest. That lady got down and dirty and there’s all the proof you need. Sure, sleeping with a pregnant woman isn’t exactly the threesome you had in mind, but consider these reasons why you should jump at the opportunity to put your P in her pod:

1. As I mentioned, pregnant women are walking around 24/7 with a scarlet “S” around their midsection that screams “I have sex.” Now, I’m not saying other women are chaste or anything like that, but nothing says “I put out” like a bun in the oven.

2. There’s no fear in knocking her up because, well, she’s already there. That doesn’t mean you don’t need to use protection (unless you’re well-acquainted with her history), but it does eliminate that one concern from doing the deed and for some, that’s a huge relief.

3. Her breasts are busting at the seams. If you like big melons, these ladies are certainly ripe. Just treat them gently while you’re enjoying every mouthful.

4. Missionary is out the window. It’s boring—you know it and she knows it. And with a fetus, it’s damn near impossible. So you have free reign to get creative. If you like doing it from behind, pregnant women are the perfect partner. Ditto if you like your ladies to be on top. Got some moves that require diagrams and written instructions? Here’s your chance to break them out, because any maneuver that gets you in and gets her off will be welcome.

5. For some women, having a belly full of baby is empowering, giving them extra confidence when it comes to their bodies. As you probably know, ladies are notorious for being self-conscious about every little lump and ripple. But being pregnant is like a free pass to have a big belly and luscious curves. A woman who isn’t preoccupied with whether or not you notice that pudge around her middle or how wide her hips are can really let loose in the bedroom. Or the kitchen. Or wherever else you want to do it.

6. There’s a lot more woman to love. I’m not disparaging the skinny girls here, but sometimes you just want to have something to grab on to. Just make sure you don’t squeeze the belly too hard or you might get a mood-killing kick from your lady friend’s otherwise silent partner.

7. Hormones are making her horny. Those crazy chemicals surging through her body are putting all sorts of dirty thoughts in her head and gearing her up for some action. She may look like she’s had her fill, but her body’s telling her she wants more. Give it to her.

8. It’s time to feast before the famine. A pregnant woman knows that there’s probably not going to be a whole lot of fornicating in her near future, so now is the time to really live it up. It’s no secret that 3 am feedings, chapped nipples, and dirty diapers (not to mention the state of her vagina postpartum) tend to dissolve a lady’s sex drive, so if she wants some lovin’, she’s got to go for it while she can.

9. The big O is often even bigger when she’s shaped like a big O herself. For some women, pregnancy means orgasms are more mind-blowing than usual. Mother Nature probably had number 8 in mind when she decided to give the preggos this gift.

10. And finally, pregnant women are looking for any excuse to get off their tired, swollen feet. Give them a good one.

The funny thing is, I never thought of myself as a “spy”, per se. See, spies are devoted agents of one nation and I was never that. It’s not that I don’t love the good old US of A, it’s just that I never saw why people should be able to give blow jobs to one another here where in other places the same act would get someone beheaded. A terrible travesty, I don’t think I need to tell you.

But the breaking point was when I saw a man executed for doing nothing other than taking a cock into his ass. Now, had ol’ Danny not had diplomatic immunity, I swear I might have had my head on the chopping block given the number of objects placed into my rectum by then. But seeing it happen–the beheading, not the anal sex, which I would have been totally down for–I realized, America has its problems. A lot of them. But, on the whole, the governments of this fine land don’t tend to execute people for putting things where it gives them pleasure. (Consensually, of course.)

And so that’s when the patriotic ferver gripped my gonads and squeezed like a firm, yet sensitive lover, and I ramped up my efforts on behalf of Uncle Sam. Hey, Uncle Sam’s had his share of fuck-ups, don’t get me wrong. The aforementioned Hank (Kissy-face) Kissenger has enough all by himself to get a Circle of Hell named after him. But on the whole, this fab nation of ours tends to lean in the right direction. The direction of banging as much as possible. Or as most people call it, Freedom.

I mean let’s face it, despite the occasional lunatic fringe (ehem – the Defense of Marriage Act – ehem), our Fed can be all right. It’s not like the government takes our gay, bisexual, and bi-curious freaks like myself out to Chop-Chop Square every Sunday just to make an example of us.

So, yes. The Dumper did a little covert work for a clandestine agency we shall call, from now on, the Gentral Gintelligence Gangecy. Some of it involved entrapping potentially dangerous people with some of my aforementioned photography skills. And while I mainly snapped secret photos of world leaders with their junk in all the wrong places as a demo reel for my former boss Bob Guccione, it also did a world of good. Have you ever wondered why Osama Bin what’s-his-name never had an office in the old Saudia Arabia? Believe me, it’s not that those boys didn’t like his extra-curricular activities, but because there was a shot floating about of him with baby McDumper in his mouth. And as much as that man loved to swallow a load, it didn’t exactly go over well with Ye Olde Jihad.

Oh, there were times where your Danny may have gone a little overboard.

Take Iran for instance. I didn’t have anything against the Shah, that guy knew how to run a harem. Clean, efficient, and wow, s-e-x-x-y. But unfortunately, women of Tehran were crazy for learning new positions, and the Dumper was a little too eager to teach them.

Well… you know the story from there. That killjoy, the Ayatollah had to go an ruin a city well on its way to the party capital of the Middle East.

Was it my fault? Hey, fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, and Danny gotta bonk. Anywhoo… The next time you’re in Tehran, if you see some particularly handsome, blond haired, blue eyed Persians running around burning American flags, think of Danny. Jeeze, I miss the little bastards. *sniff* Sorry. Where was I?

Oh yeah. Why I did all of this. Well, just remember kids, I did it for the Red, White and Blue.

The Red is for the throbbing, wet vulva in front of you, just waiting to be licked.
The White is for the Jizz running down your leg after a good tug.
And the Blue is for the bruises on your ass after a very ripe spanking.

Danny, Captain of the Good Ship Butt-Plug, saying, “Keep it real, keep it hard, and keep it wet.”