Ladies and gentlemen, I have done it again! No, I didn't take another dump behind an area high school. I just scored the interview that everybody has been wanting to get: Captain Chesley Q. Sullenberger, the U.S. Airways pilot who successfully landed an airplane on the Hudson River after both engines got goosed. So take that, CNN! Here's the official transcript:
Dyck: First of all, thank you for taking time to meet with me today.
Sully: No problemo, homes.
Dyck: I think the first question on everybody's mind is your first name. Chesley. What's the deal with that?
Sully: Look, I can't help it if my parents were fags. Why do you think I make people call me Sully?
Dyck: Fair enough. So tell us the events leaving up to that harrowing flight last Thursday.
Sully: Well, it was a day like any other day. I got up, fixed myself a scotch and soda, downed a couple of Pop Tarts, and headed out. The wife was bitching about how cold it was, so I stopped by Goodwill and got an awesome deal on a used Snuggie.
Dyck: Perhaps we could skip ahead to the flight itself...
Sully: Oh yeah. Well everything was fine at first. We took off from LaGuardia and started making our ascent. I remember seeing a flock of geese headed straight for us...and the next thing I know, KABLAM!! Two engines done blowed up!
Dyck: That must have been horrifying.
Sully: Not really at first. See, I thought Airbuses had like six or seven engines. Then my co-pilot reminded me there were only two. Boy, was my face red!
Dyck: Who is your co-pilot?
Sully: God. Ha, ha! Just kidding! That's an old pilot's joke. Actually his name is Striker. Ted Striker.
Dyck: So what happened next?
Sully: I knew we couldn't make it back to the airport. We were going to try to land in Central Park, but we couldn't because of all the fucking trees. We finally settled on the Hudson.
Dyck: Is that when you told the passengers to brace for impact?
Sully: Heh. Not exactly. What I actually said was, Put your heads between your legs and kiss your asses goodbye!!!
Dyck: That wasn't very encouraging.
Sully: Hey, have you ever tried landing a billion ton metal tube on a river filled with shit and cadavers??!
Dyck: OK, OK. I guess that's when your years of training really kicked in.
Sully: Umm, yeah. About the training thing. Seems the media kinda screwed that up. This is only my second week of flying. Before that I was a bartender. I think you got me confused with Captain Wesley Baconberger from Queens. Happens all the time. Now that guy's quite a pilot!
Dyck: Wow. So in spite of your lack of experience, you were able to pull off a water landing with no fatalities??
Sully: Well, I do have some experience. I've got Wings of War and Flight Academy on my XBox. The graphics are really amazing.
Dyck: I see. So the plane has stopped, and you're floating in the water. What next?
Sully: At that point, my survival instincts kicked in. I knew we only had a short time before the plane would sink, so I wanted to get rid of as much weight as possible. Rosie O'Donnell happened to be sitting in first class, so I tossed her overboard. The plane immediately rose several feet. Then there was a crippled kid in a wheelchair blocking the emergency exit, so I threw him overboard as well.
Dyck: How awful!!
Sully: Tell me about it. One of that kid's wheels rolled over my left foot. Very painful. Anyway, a boat showed up right after that, so I pushed the other passengers out of the way and climbed on board.
Dyck: You mean you didn't stay and help the passengers??
Sully: Well DUH! It was fucking freezing out there!! Besides, that's the stewardess' job. I think. Hell, I don't know.
Dyck: So what's next for you?
Sully: I'm doing two segments on Rachel Ray tomorrow. We're making Chesley Sullen Burgers. After that, I need to talk to my attorney about getting a divorce.
Dyck: A divorce? I didn't know your marriage was in trouble.
Sully: It's not...but now that I'm a hero, I can get all the poon I want! No sense in being tied down, if you know what I mean.
Dyck: Well good luck with that. And thanks for being here on The Mighty Blog.
Sully: Anytime. Peace out, bitches!!
Just because I haven't been blogging lately, doesn't mean I don't have shit to talk about. The wheels in Dyckerson's brain never stop turning, so I have amassed quite a backlog of miscellaneous thoughts and observations. Here are but a few:
There are no skinny Bridgets. Seriously, have you ever met a Bridget who wasn't a chunky monkey? I've known three or four in my lifetime, and they have all been fat fucks. Now I know what you're thinking. Hey Dyck, what about actress Bridget Bardot? OK, maybe when she was in her prime. But check this shit out:
That photo is pretty unbelievable, isn't it? I had my doubts too, but I found it on the Internets, so it must be real. No Bridget can escape the fat curse.
I frighten people. A few weeks ago, I was in need of some croutons and Lemon Pledge, so I went to the local grocer to do some shopping. I parked the Dyckmobile II in a handicapped spot* and proceeded to make my way across the parking lot and into the store. As I approached the door, out walked a mother carrying a couple of bags. At her side was a young child who looked to be around 4 or 5 years old. She glanced up at me, and without missing a beat, she grabbed the kid's arm and yanked him toward her. An overprotective parent, perhaps? I think not...because just last week the EXACT SAME THING happened again. Same setting, different woman and kid. And it ain't just the broads. The other day I was walking in the county park, minding my own business and enjoying nature's beauty. I was approaching this kid who was standing on the edge of the sidewalk and taunting a goose. Dad was standing about 10 feet away admiring the result of his sperm. He must have seen me coming, because I distinctly heard him say,"Come here, Corey! Come here!"
Now I assure you, I look and dress relatively normal. I have no unsightly growths on my person, nor am I disfigured in any way. Yet something about me makes people want to grab their children. What the fuck??! When I was a kid, my parents let me drink household cleaners and play in construction sites. Hell, once when I was six, I got a hold of my dad's keys and drove his Gremlin straight into the ditch. He thought it was hysterical. So what's the deal with all these uptight parents? I blame the media.
I'm a musical genius. Pick any love song that contains the word "heart" in the title. Now replace the word "heart" with the word "fart" and get ready for endless hilarity!!!
Unbreak My Fart - Toni Braxton
Achy Breaky Fart - Billy Ray Cyrus
The Fart Of The Matter - Don Henley
Fart To Fart - Chris Brown
My Fart Will Go On - Celine Dion
Fart Attack - NLT
Put A Little Love In Your Fart - Dolly Parton
Fart Full Of Soul - Chris Isaak
The Last Unbroken Fart - Patti Labelle
Broken Fart - Motion City Soundtrack
Sin In My Fart - Siouxsee And The Banshees
Pop! Goes My Fart - Hugh Grant
Fart Of Glass - Blondie
Fragile Fart - Westlife
Cold Hard Fart - Bon Jovi
You'll Be In My Fart - Usher
Here Is My Fart - Lionel Richie
Taking Back My Fart - Cher
Love's Got A Hold On My Fart - Steps
Where Is Your Fart - Kelly Clarkson
Listen To Your Fart - Roxette
One Determined Fart - Paulini
Hungry Fart - Bruce Springsteen
Straight From The Fart - Bryan Adams
Piece Of My Fart - Janice Joplin
Listen To Her Fart - Tom Petty & The Fartbreakers
My Fart Has A Mind Of Its Own - Connie Francis
Fartache Tonight - The Eagles
What Do I Do With My Fart? - The Eagles
Owner Of A Lonely Fart - Oasis
Sheer Fart Attack - Queen
Thunder In My Fart - Leo Sayer
Make up your own! Play along at your office Christmas party!!
Alan Alda has lost his fucking mind. I was recently on iTunes looking for a podcast that I could listen to while I walk in the park and frighten people. I've almost been a big fan of M*A*S*H, so I was intrigued by an audio podcast featuring the actor speaking to a group at a book signing. Great, I thought. He'll probably tell stories about all the wacky behind-the-scenes hijinks that took place on the M*A*S*H set! Well I thought wrong. Apparently Hawkeye had a near-death experience a few years ago and consequently gave up acting in favor of philosophy. So I listened for 45 minutes while he rambled on and on about what "now" is. "What is now?" asked Hawkeye. "Now only lasts for a few seconds. Then it's gone, and that now is in the past. Then there's a new now." I'm paraphrasing, but you get the idea. And he said this with all the passion and enthusiasm he could muster.
At last, he opened up the floor to questions. Finally, I thought. Now we'll get some good M*A*S*H questions. No such luck. The first question: "How has your near-death experience affected your perception of 'now'?" Similar questions followed, and Alda ate them up like a bag of pork rinds. Eventually someone had the balls to ask a question about M*A*S*H, but by this time I was so groggy, I didn't even hear it. However, I can tell you that Hawkeye likes to refer to the series not as M*A*S*H, but as "The M*A*S*H Show."
Too bad that near-death experience wasn't a DEATH EXPERIENCE. Am I right people??!!
That's all I got for now. On the next Mighty Blog: My experience as a mall Santa!
* My busted arm is 98% healed, and I don't have a handicapped decal, but I'm not taking any chances.
Christmas cums early this year, ladies and germs...for I, the Mightiest of Dyckersons, have returned to The Mighty Blog!!! Let us rejoice and give thanks!!!
I know I've been gone for a while. I missed Thanksgiving. I missed Halloween (the Haunted Poon post was a rerun from last year, in case you idiots didn't notice). Fuck, I even missed the election of America's first Afro-American president, Balack Osama!
The Internets have been buzzing about rumors concerning my absence. Some of you thought I had passed away. Others assumed I was incarcerated. A few of you even thought I had actually gotten a social life and perhaps acquired poon. Well you are all wrong! More wrong, in fact, than Ms. Babble smoking crack during her latest pregnancy, which resulted in her giving birth to a baby with Down's Syndrome.
The truth is, I was the victim of a cruel prank played upon me by a deranged journalist. About two months ago, I scheduled a press conference to announce the release of my new fragrance, Simply Dyck (makes a great stocking stuffer). Anyway, I was standing at the podium addressing a sea of eager reporters, when out of nowhere I was hit upside the head by a fresh turd. It seems old Dyckerson isn't too popular in the Middle East (something to do with a joke I made about a camel and lonely Shiite)...so apparently a reporter from that region somehow sneaked past security and assaulted me with the only weapon he had available - his own feces. I was lucky to escape with my life, but the attack left me so traumatized, that it has taken me weeks to gather up the courage to write about it.
Now before I officially return to blogging, there are a few housekeeping matters that need attention. First, I have removed The Chat Hole from the sidebar. My blog has been plagued with pop-ups for quite some time. I suspect it may have been coming from the third-party chat box code. So if any of you fuckers still get pop-ups, notify Dyckerson post haste.
Second, I removed several deadbeat bloggers from The Mighty Blog Network. This leaves several openings for new top-quality blogs that meet my lofty standards of excellence. So if you wish to nominate such a blog, please feel free to do so. But remember, Dyckerson reserves the right to reject or remove any blog from The Mighty Blog Network without notice.
And finally, it's the holidays!! That means I have replaced the seizure-inducing flashing white lights in the background with puke-inducing colored lights! Now go make a joyful noise...and spread the word: DYCKERSON IS BACK!
In celebration of All Hallow's Eve, I shall present to you a tale so creepy, so eerie, so unspeakably terrifying, it's guaranteed to send chills up and down your sphinctor. And the spookiest part of all: It's loosely based on a true story. I strongly urge those of you with heart conditions to skip this post for your own protection.
Our story begins in the late 20th century in the heart of Texas, where lived a fair maiden named Sassilla Blondowski who was coming of age. Young Sassilla was horny and eager to be deflowered. She searched far and wide for a suitable mate with no success. Then fate stepped in and along came a strapping, well endowed lad named Dwight E. Mickerson. Sassilla was in love. A brief courtship ensued, and on a bright and sunny October day, Sassilla decided to take Dwight E. into her daddy's barn and show him her pumpkins. Dwight E. became instantly engorged, and soon the two of them were rolling around in the hayloft. Twenty seconds later, Mickerson was on the verge of climaxing when in walked Sassilla's father. In a fit of rage, the elder Blondowski grabbed a machette from a nearby hook and sliced off Mickerson's member at the base, leaving the remainder of his ample shaft lodged deep inside Sassilla's nether regions. Sassilla screamed in horror as the mortally wounded Mickerson bled to death before her very eyes.
Now here's where the really frightening part comes in. According to the legend, every month on the anniversary of Mickerson's death, Sassilla gets really cranky and bleeds uncontrollably from her poon for several days. Some say it's just PMS, and perhaps they're right. But maybe, just maybe, it's the ghost of Mickerson returning from the grave to haunt his one true love...forever staining her underpants with the memory of unfulfilled love.
Whatever the case may be, it's wise to avoid Ms. Blondowski and her poon this time of the month.
The second presidential debate was held Tuesday night, and was I invited to participate? NOOOO!!! Mighty Dyckerson, unofficial turd-party candidate for the highest office in the land, demands equal time!!! And since the mainstream media won't give it to me, I shall utilize the power of The Mighty Blog to get my message to the people. I'm going to answer the very same questions posed by that fucking fossil Tom Brokewind right now, and we'll just see who the best candidate is!
Q: With the economy on the downturn and retired and older citizens and workers losing their incomes, what's the fastest, most positive solution to bail these people out of the economic ruin?
A: The geezers who can't support themselves need to either (A) get a job, or (B) commit suicide. I know that sounds harsh, my friends, but these are desperate times we live in. And as the saying goes, desparate times call for killing old people.
Q: Obviously the powers of the treasury secretary have been greatly expanded. The most powerful officer in the cabinet now, Hank Paulson, says he won't stay on. Who do you have in mind to appoint to that very important post?
A: I'm going to go with Lakeesha Watkins, the cashier at my nearby Taco Bell drive-thru. Let me tell you why. Last night I had a hankerin' for a Big Beefy Burrito Supreme, so I hopped in my beautiful golden parachute-colored Jeep Wrangler DyckMobile and made a run for the border. Lakeesha was on duty and promptly filled my order. I reached for my wallet to pay for my purchase, but it was dark out, so I couldn't see well. Turns out I accidentally handed her a one dollar bill instead of a five dollar bill. She counted the money, then looked at me and said, "Mister, you owe me four bucks." I already had my burrito, so I just sped off into the night. But friends, I think you'll agree that this is the kind of honesty, integrity, and counting skill that we need in Washington.
Q: Through this economic crisis, most of the people that I know have had a difficult time. And through this bailout package, I was wondering what it is that's going to actually help those people out.
A: First of all, we shouldn't be calling it a "bailout" package. It's more of an investment package...only we won't be getting the money back. I should also remind everyone that I canceled my appearance on Regis last week so I could rush to Washington to help clean up this mess. Unfortunately, I missed my flight and ended up having unprotected intercourse with a filthy whore in the back seat of a Ford Maverick. And that's just what this country needs: A Maverick.
Q: Are you saying that the American economy is going to get much worse before it gets better and they ought to be prepared for that?
A: Well, the Boy Scout motto is "Be Prepared," so I'm certainly not going to argue with that. I don't know what the Girl Scout motto is, but godammit, they sure make some tasty cookies. Am I right people??!
Q: Health policies, energy policies, and entitlement reform, what are going to be your priorities in what order? Which of those will be your highest priority your first year in office and which will follow in sequence?
A: Well I don't know what the hell entitlement reform is. I think you made it up. So I'm scratching that one off the list. That leaves energy as my top priority, andI believe solar power is the answer...but we as a nation must put an end to our dependency on faraway stars to provide it. Our sun is a mean, angry bitch, and she could turn on us at any time. We must start looking for solar energy right here at home...so as president, I will loosen restrictions on offshore drilling for sunlight.
Q: Since World War II, we have never been asked to sacrifice anything to help our country, except the blood of our heroic men and women. As president, what sacrifices will you ask every American to make to help restore the American dream and to get out of the economic morass that we're now in?
A: World War II? How old are you, 80?? That's ancient history! Look, my friends. We're Americans. We don't make sacrifices...ok, except for that thing about the soldiers' blood. The key is to put it off til the next generation. After all, what good are kids if we can't burden them with the consequences of our mistakes after we're dead and gone??
Q: Would you give Congress a date certain to reform Social Security and Medicare within two years after you take office?
A: No, because I am doing away with both programs. Instead, every senior citizen above the age of 65 shall be required to appear as a contestant on Deal or No Deal. Whatever they win, that's what they have to live off of for the rest of their pathetic, miserable lives.
And what happened next was so horrible, so unbelievably awful, you will not believe your eyes. And you'll find out what that was..........on the next installment of The Mighty Blog!!!
My friends, I don't need to tell you that America is in a financial crisis. Our economy is on the verge of total collapse...and no where is that more apparent than right here at Dyckerson Enterprises Worldwide, home of The Mighty Blog. That's because in addition to producing the fastest-growing blog on the innerwebs, Dyckerson Enterprises also happens to own Semen Brothers, the 47th largest sperm bank on the entire eastern seaboard.
The trouble began about a month ago when I, Mighty Dyckerson, lost function of my right hand in an horrific automobile accident. Because of this injury, my ability to produce splooge was greatly compromised, preventing me from making my daily deposits at the sperm bank. When news of this got out, investors on Wad Street panicked and released their loads of Semen. Stock prices immediately squirted downward.
As if things weren't bad enough, last night the giant freezer that contained all of the Semen deposits suddenly failed, causing hundreds of gallons of spunk to thaw. Experts estimate over 700 billion little swimmers were lost in the disaster.
Now there are people out there who claim to have predicted this. They said it was only a matter of time before the cum bubble would burst, and perhaps they were right. But now is not the time to point fingers (or anything else). The liquified jizm is leaking from the freezer and pouring out all over the floors. Semen Brothers needs to be bailed out - literally! So bring your mops, buckets, sponges, squeegees, and Shop-Vacs down to our headquarters and help clean up this Godawful mess. And hurry the fuck up - thousands of infertile Myrtles and lezbo couples are counting on you!!!
I've been making fun of the cripples my whole life. I remember once a long time ago , Mother Dyckerson took me to the mall to go shopping. I pointed to an old man in a wheelchair and said, "Look mommy, there's a cripple!"
"That's not polite, Dyckie," my mother said. "See the uniform he's wearing? That man is a veteran. He was a soldier."
"Oh. Sorry," I replied sheepishly.
"That's OK. He obviously wasn't a very good one!" she said. We both laughed hysterically and gave each other a high five.
Those were good times. But who would have thought that nearly two years later, I myself would be severely handicapped?? While it is true that I didn't technically fight in any wars, I do live in Virginia...and if you've been watching any of the nonstop election coverage, you would know that Virginia is a battleground state. And if you've been reading my award-winning Mighty Blog recently, you would know that I literally SHATTERED my right arm* in an HORRENDOUS AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT while en route to the children's hospital to read to the blind.**
So here I am, on week 4 of wearing this ridiculous brace contraption on my limb. It's bulky, it's cumbersome, and it itches like a sumbitch. But by far the worst thing is the smell - my God, the SMELL!!! I haven't thoroughly cleansed my right arm in over a month. That's nearly TWICE AS LONG as I normally go between arm cleansings. And if you think that's bad, you should take a good whiff of my armpits! Because of my DEBILITATING INJURY, my right arm stays close to my side at all times, allowing LITTLE TO NO VENTILATION to reach my right pit. And because I cannot fully raise and extend my right arm, I have no way to cleanse my left pit. The result: both of my pits smell like ASS!!!
However, being crippled is not without its advantages. Everywhere I go, people offer to help me: "Here, let me get the door for you," or "Here, let me carry that package for you," or "Here, let me stroke your genitals for you." Now many cripples would be offended by these offers of goodwill. They want to be seen as normal, independent adults capable of taking care of themselves. Well FUCK THAT. If people want to do stuff for me, I let 'em!! I haven't had to open a door or make my own coffee at work since the accident!
And then there's the poon!!! Holy shit, this arm brace is a POON MAGNET!! Gorgeous women naturally flock to me anyway...but now that I'm wearing this orthopedic appliance, I practically have to beat 'em off with a stick!! They run up to me in bars all the time and ask, "You poor baby, what happened to you??" Of course, I look them straight in the eye and tell them the truth: I was injured while rescuing a precious kitten from a burning house. Needless to say, I'm getting more tail than Scott Baio.
But this can't last forever, right? WRONG!!! I'm keeping this stinking brace FOREVER!! I'm thinking of getting a leg brace for added effect. They come with Vel-cro straps, so they're a snap to put on. Every Friday night I'll attach the brace, head down to the local watering hole, and work my magic! Maybe I'll even get me one of them uniforms like the vet in the wheelchair I told you about earlier.
Wait a minute...I betcha that old bastard was faking it too!
* OK, I dislocated my elbow and tore a couple of tendons.
** OK, I was cruising for hookers.
In the last installment of R.I.P., DyckMobile,our hero was released from the hospital with a debilitating injury sustained in an horrific car accident caused by a jackass driving a shitass Ford Mustang. Will Mighty Dyckerson ever drive again?? Find out in the exciting conclusion of R.I.P., DyckMobile.....
The cast I was given completely covered my right arm, from my wrist almost to my shoulder. It had a hinge-like device at the elbow, locked at a 90 degree angle to prevent movement. Made of high-quality translucent plastic and foam rubber, the cast was affixed to my limb by a series of velcro straps. Here is a reasonable facsimile:
Let me stop you before you go there: I've already heard all the dumbass robot jokes, and they are neither funny nor original. I have also been asked "What happened to the other guy?" about 5,000 times...and that's just TODAY. If it weren't for the sweet relief provided by my addictions to Percocet and Vicodin, I would have rammed my good elbow in quite a few crotches by now.
But enough about my disfigured appendage. I had bigger issues to deal with...namely my car insurance provider, Regressive. As if I weren't already in enough pain, now I had to deal with these blood sucking rat bastards. Fortunately, I had a copy of the police report identifying the other driver as being at fault. I also had collision on the DyckMobile. Cha-ching!! Finally my day had come: I was going to make the insurance company bend over for a change!
On the Tuesday after the accident (which was on a Saturday, as we learned in Part 1 of R.I.P., DyckMobile), they sent a lovely young lady named Erin to the storage facility where the cops had my beloved DyckMobile towed. Her task was to assess the damages and determine whether or not my vehicle was repairable. She crunched her numbers and called me the next day.
Erin: "Hello, Mr. Dyckerson. This is Erin with Regressive Insurance. I have some information regarding your claim."
Dyck: "Lay it on me, bitch."
Erin: "Unfortunately, your Jeep appears to be a total loss."
Dyck: "What??! No way! This can't be!"
Erin: "I'm very sorry, sir."
Dyck: "Not my precious baby! She's irreplaceable! Surely there's something you can do!!"
Erin: "I am prepared to offer you a check for $13,000."
Dyck: "You got a deal!!! I hated that old bucket of bolts anyway!"
Now that I had $13,000 in the bank, it was time to find myself some new transportation. In the meantime, Mother Dyckerson graciously offered to lend me her car: A gently used Toyota Avalon, fully equipped with cloth bench seats, AM/FM/cassette, and a black steering wheel cover adorned with pink and purple hearts. Needless to say, I had to find something else FAST.
I looked at numerous vehicles over the next week. At first, I thought I would "go green" and get myself something more fuel efficient. That's when this gas saver caught my eye:
On the other hand, one can't deny the usefulness and manliness of a pickup truck:
For days, I struggled to make up my mind. Too many choices, and not enough time to research them all. Finally, I found it. Parked in the front of the lot at Carmax, she was calling my name. When I first set my eyes on her, it was love at first sight. Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pride that I present to you.....the all-new DyckMobile!!!!!!
Isn't she beautiful??! It was like a golden ray of sunshine had been sent straight down from Heaven! So rugged...so tough...yet tender and gentle at the same time. Even the saleswoman who showed it to me remarked about how good I looked in it. And why would she lie about a thing like that??!
Without missing a beat, I whipped out my checkbook, wrote a check to cover the Carmax no-haggle price, and hopped in my brand new DyckMobile!!!
Then I immediately backed into a light pole. Fucking sonofabitch is hard to drive with only one good hand. But mark my words: She and I are going to have some good times! That is, as soon as she gets out of the body shop.....
In the last installment of R.I.P., DyckMobile, our hero was laying in the emergency room, desperately clinging for dear life - and his shattered right arm - as the result of a horrifying traffic accident involving Dyck's precious Jeep Wrangler and a piece-of-shit Ford Mustang shit box. Will Dyckerson make it out alive?? Let's find out now, in part D of R.I.P., DyckMobile.....
So they took some x-rays, then they knocked me out and reset my elbow, then they put my arm in a cast, gave me some prescription painkillers, and sent me home.
And here are some pics of what was left of my vehicle:
Oh yeah, and I had sex with the doctor.
And what happened next was so horrible, so unbelievably awful, you will not believe your eyes. And you'll find out what that was..........on the next installment of The Mighty Blog!!!
In the last installment of R.I.P., DyckMobile, our hero was being rushed to the hospital with a shattered right arm thanks to the carelessness of the driver of a certain piece-of-shit blue Mustang. Will Dyckerson ever be able to masturbate again?? Let's find out now, in part trois of R.I.P., DyckMobile.....
The ceilings at M.C.V. Hospital are quite lovely. I wish I could tell you more about the facility, but thanks to the anti-lawsuit brace they had around my neck, I could only see straight up. I do know that the ER area had a number of small examining rooms, all of which were full at the time...so they parked my stretcher in a hallway and told me to wait.
So I laid there and waited. And I waited some more. And after that, I waited a little more.
I should point out that M.C.V. is a learning facility. (M.C.V. stands for Medical College of Virginia.) I tell you this because my next visitor appeared to have just woken up after an all-night frat party. He had scraggly hair and two days worth of stubble on his unwashed face. He held a magic marker in one hand and a plastic arm band in the other.
"Uhhh, Mr. Dyckerson?" he asked in his Beavis-esque voice.
"Please. My father is Mr. Dyckerson. Call me Mighty," I said, bravely attempting to break the ice despite the debilitating pain.
"Uhhh, OK whatever dude," he muttered. "Look, I was s'posed to put this plastic thing on your arm like an hour ago. Please don't tell my professor, OK? If I flunk pre-med again, my parents are gonna make me join the Army."
I stared at him blankly.
"Umm, OK, like, so I'm gonna put this on your right arm now..." he said, reaching for my mutilated limb.
"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, DOOGIE!! In case you hadn't noticed, my right arm is severely disfigured!" I extended my other arm. "Here, put it on this one."
Beavis scratched his lice-ridden head, looking deeply puzzled. "Uhhh, I don't think we're s'posed to do that..."
The great wrist band debate went on for a good ten minutes before a nurse finally arrived. Without speaking, she snatched the band from Beavis' tattoo-covered hand and strapped it on my left arm.
"Shoo," she told him. "Go empty the bedpan in 311."
She then looked over my chart, scribbled a few notes, and wheeled over long metal pole with a hook at the top. "How would you rate your pain on a scale of 1 to 10?" she asked me.
What the fuck kind of question is that? Am I some sort of pain expert??!! If I say 10, and later on it hurts even worse, then what??! On the other hand, if I play it conservatively and go with a 5, then is she going to skimp on the Morphine??! I CAN'T WIN!!!!!
After mulling this over in my head for a few seconds, I came up with 8.2. The nurse sighed, shook her head, and muttered something that sounded like "pussy" under her breath.
"Are you allergic to anything?" she asked.
This is at least the third time I have heard this question. By this point, I was running out of smartass responses, so I just told her no. She then grabbed a ziplock bag filled with a pale yellow liquid, hanged it upon the pole/hook device, and jammed the business end into my I.V. tube.
"There, that oughta hold you," she said with a grunt. "The doctor will see you shortly."
"Thank God," I sighed. Unfortunately I didn't realize that her definition of "shortly" was approximately TWO HOURS.
In one of the nearby examining rooms, a woman was moaning loudly. I figured she was either in labor...or having the orgasm of a lifetime. Either way, her vagina was surely involved. Of course, I chose to go with my orgasm theory. After a few minutes, I started to get into it. Every time she would moan, I would follow it up with a deep, gutteral groan. Then she picked up the tempo a bit. The moans became shorter and more frequent. I played along, adding my grunts and groans right on cue.
Suddenly, the moaning stopped. Somewhere an alarm went off. Nurses started running into the room that was the source of the moaning. Oh shit, what have I done? I've gone and killed this poor woman with my intense lovemaking. Dyckerson, your right arm may be shattered. and you may be hopped up on Morphine...but you've still got it!!!
Just then, a middle aged guy in a white coat showed up at my side. He was apparently in a hurry, because he didn't waste time with any small talk.
"Get this man into X-Ray! STAT!!!" he ordered. OK, he didn't really say "stat." I got that from a rerun of M*A*S*H. But he did order x-rays. Oh yeah, and he asked me if I was allergic to anything.
And what happened next was so horrible, so unbelievably awful, you will not believe your eyes. And you'll find out what that was..........on the next installment of The Mighty Blog!!!
In the last installment of R.I.P., DyckMobile, our hero had just smashed his prized 2002 Jeep Wrangler Sport Edition into a piece-of-shit Mustang through no fault of his own. Despite severe, life-threatening injury, he somehow managed to escape the maze of twisted metal and crawl to safety. What happened to Mighty Dyckerson next? Find out now, in part deux of R.I.P., DyckMobile.....
By this point, a swarm of gawkers and yentas had converged at the scene of the accident. They stood in a semicircle and pointed at the wreckage, totally ignoring the victim (namely ME) standing ten feet away. My right arm, which at first had been numb and tingley, now started to hurt like a sumbitch. It didn't appear broken, but something was definitely wrong.
Moments later, the cops showed up and immediately began passing out Krispy Kremes to the gawkers and posing for photos in front of the mangled vehicles. "This one's going in my Christmas newsletter," I distinctly heard one of them say.
Eventually one of the pigs headed in my direction with a small pad. "Were you in one of the vehicles?" he asked.
"No, I always stand at intersections, drenched in shock-induced sweat and holding my disfigured right arm while gasping with pain," I replied.
He proceeded to interrogate me. He just wanted basic information - name, address, social security number, next of kin, was I an organ donor, which funeral home would I like to be taken to, etc. Then he went to look for the other driver. Unfortunately for him, he was still stuck inside his piece of shit Mustang. This was going to be an open and shut case - it was my word against...nobody's!!! He ended up with a ticket for violating section 3.2 of the Virginia traffic code: Failure to yield right-of-way to the DyckMobile. Punishable by a $500,000 fine and 10 years in maximum security prison.
Next, the rescue squad showed up and proceeded to back the whambulance over my left foot. The 16-year-old driver dismounted the cab, scratched his head, and mouthed the words "My bad" as I hopped up and down on my good foot.
A rescue worker climbed out of the back of the whambulance carrying a first aid kit. A short, squatty woman, I immediately pegged her as a lezbo even in my weakened state. She took my vitals: rapid heartbeat, shallow breathing, flaccid penis. She then noticed my right arm.
"Geez, dude," she remarked. "Did you know you had a dislocated elbow?"
A dislocated elbow? How the fuck did that happen?
"Could be a fracture too," she added. "Does it hurt when I do this?"
The fucking bitch then proceeded to grab my right arm and jerk it away from my body. A streak of pain shot up my arm and pierced my very soul.
"OOOUUUUCCCCHHHH GODDAMMIT YOU MOTHERFUCKING CARPET MUNCHING DYKE," I screamed.
She called for a couple of reinforcements, who then strapped me to a board and threw me in the back of the whambulance. I was going to the hospital.
If you've never ridden in a whambulance, let me give you a little piece of advice. YOU'RE BETTER OFF DRIVING YOURSELF. That's because the idiots who make those things apparently fail to equip them with SHOCK ABSORBERS. If you ever want to experience the unGodliest pain known to man, you can either (1) read Ms. Babble's blog, or (2) ride in the back of a whambulance with a dislocated elbow on a highway filled with pot holes while a bull dyke shoves an I.V. needle in your arm.
"Are you allergic to anything?" she asked.
"Yeah, lesbians," I answered. "They make me break out in a rash on my wang."
Also on the ride, I was fitted with an oxygen tube, despite the fact that I was breathing normally at this point. Then came the obligatory neck brace, despite the fact that I had been moving my neck freely for the last 20 minutes. I would be staring at ceilings for the next eight hours.
Finally, we arrived at the E.R. What happened next was so horrible, so unbelievably awful, you will not believe your eyes. And you'll find out what that was..........on the next installment of The Mighty Blog!!!
Ladies and gentlemen, I am in mourning. Last week, I lost a dear old friend in a tragic, horrific accident. Last week, I lost my beloved DyckMobile.
She came into my life almost three years ago to the day. My previous vehicle, a sporty 1995 Mazda MX-6, was in dire need of major transmission work...so rather than pay for the costly repairs myself, I posted an ad on DycksList and sold the worthless piece of shit to some retarded kid for a cool two grand. Subsequently I hitchhiked to the nearest used car stealership and instructed the sales weasel to find me a vehicle that matched my personality: rugged, tough, manly, powerful, well-built, and with a loud exhaust. The sales weasel immediately pointed me to a gently used 2002 Jeep Wrangler TJ Sport, Amber Fire in color, complete with 6-cylinder automatic 4WD transmission, soft top, full sized spare, full steel doors, fog lights, CD player, sound bar, tow hooks, and an unquenchable thirst for gasoline. It was love at first sight.
In the last three years, we've done everything together. We've leaked oil on the sandy white beaches of the Outer Banks, we've torn up the freshly sodded lawns of newly built homes, we've parked in dozens of handicapped spaces, and we've knocked countless idiots from their dumbass bicycles. But last Saturday, it all came to a screeching halt...literally.
It was a warm and sunny day. The DyckMobile was topless and I was heading north on Parham Road in Richmond's fashionable West End. Parham Road (pronounced Pair-um) is two lanes in each direction, with a delightful grassy median strip in the middle. It's a residential area with numerous side streets, all of which are regulated with red octagonal signs that say STOP. The speed limit on this stretch of Parham Road is 45 mph. I was sipping on a Hi-C juice box and listening to the dulcet tones of Mr. Don Henley blasting on the radio: Life in the fast lane, surely make you lose your mind. Indeed it will, Mr. Henley. Indeed it will.
So I was cruising along, minding my own beeswax, when out of the corner of my eye I take note of a blue late-model Ford Mustang approaching the next intersection from one of the side streets. I paid it no attention, figuring the driver must certainly know that I have the right-of-way. Hell, the DyckMobile ALWAYS has the right-of-way.
I glanced down for a fraction of a nanosecond so I could crank up D.H. on the radio. When I looked up, all I could see was the blue Mustang attempting to cross the road mere inches in front of me. Oh my goodness, I thought. This poor individual apparently did not notice that my vehicle is in his path. He apparently also did not notice that my vehicle is much larger than his, and made of steel instead of fiberglass and paper mache. I better apply my brakes before we...
It all happened in slow motion, only sped up a hundred times faster. The first thing I noticed was my windshield cracked into a million pieces. I know it was a million pieces because it happened so slowly, I was able to count each piece and rearrange them in order like a jigsaw puzzler. The next thing I noticed was my airbag deployed. Fuck, I thought. That's gonna be a bitch to stuff back in my steering wheel. The last thing I noticed was that the DyckMobile appeared to no longer be moving.
At this point, I was still conscious, but quite confused and disoriented. Now I'm no medical genius, but I've seen enough E.R. reruns to know I was in shock. I somehow managed to locate my keys and climb out of my vehicle, which had stopped in the left lane of northbound Parham Road. Oddly enough, the vehicle was facing west. Well, the front end was. The rear end was still facing north.
My rear end was about to pass out, so I stumbled over to the side of the road and leaned up against a three foot retaining wall. Almost immediately, a middle aged colored man approached me from behind. Shit, I thought. I've just been in an accident, and now I'm going to be mugged.
"Are you OK?" asked the stranger.
I took a moment to conduct a personal inventory. No body parts appeared to be missing or broken, but I could sense something was wrong with my right arm. I was holding on to it with my left hand, and my left hand refused to let go.
"Something's wrong with my right arm," I said.
Stranger dude looked down at my arm. "Hmm," he said. "I don't see nothin' wrong with it."
Then he walked around the other side and looked at it from behind. "Holy shit, mother of God! Somebody call a fucking ambulance!! We got a code blue here!!!"
What happened next was so horrible, so unbelievably awful, you will not believe your eyes. And you'll find out what that was..........on the next installment of The Mighty Blog!!!