That 70's Townhouse

Take a close look at this townhouse. If you ever run across this thing in your travels, for the love of God, get the hell away from it. I went to look at this shit hole during my lunch break today. For those of you who don't know, I've been looking to move ever since the asshole neighbors from Hell moved in to the condo above mine. I've been focusing my search on townhouses so I could have a small yard but still not have to worry about maintenance. Dyckerson does not like to sully his soft, tender hands with dirt and grime and such. Besides, most single family homes around here are way too fucking expensive.

So back to this townhouse. This was an older unit, built in the mid-70's, and it had been vacant for quite some time. The seller's agent was waiting outside when I arrived in the DyckMobile. We exchanged pleasantries and headed inside.

The front door opened to the living room, where I immediately started having 70's flashbacks. What is this I'm stepping on? Brown shag carpet? "Well, it is a deep pile carpeting. That's very rare these days," the agent says. No shit, Copernicus! There's a reason for that, you know!

We continued down the hall to the kitchen, which sported ugly brown cabinets and a worn vinyl floor with approximately 39 shades of brownish yellow. "This is all original," the agent boasted. So is my colon. Would you like to eat in THAT???

The final stop on the first floor was half bath. The agent was trying to gloss on by this feature, but I took a peek out of curiosity. Holy God, I wish I hadn't. More ugly vinyl flooring...more outdated fixtures...but wait a second. What the fuck is that in the toilet?!! "Oh, that's just some mineral deposits. Nothing to worry about." Mineral deposits??!! Since when are minerals the color of shit? People, I kid you not. The inside of the toilet was brown...and so was the liquid inside the toilet.

As we headed upstairs, I marvelled at how closely the brown shag carpet matched the contents of the first floor crapper. In the master bedroom, there was a large rectangular patch of dust bunnies that extended at least an inch above the surface of the floor. Gee, I wonder where the bed used to be. "Yeah, the previous owner didn't do much cleaning before they left," the agent said. Did the bastards even own a fucking vacuum cleaner??!

Bedroom number two was a little girl's room. I gathered this from the pink walls and the plastic stars glued to everything. Wait a minute, what the fuck is that smell? "I think that's from the pet." Oh really? And how many wild pigs did they have, exactly??!

There was a full bath on the second floor. More ugly vinyl flooring and 30-year-old fixtures. The toilet lid was down...and as far as I was concerned, it was staying that way.

The final bedroom was a home office. How did I know that? Because there was an ugly desk and rusty file cabinet in there. "Oh yeah, they left a few things behind when they moved out." What the fuck did these people do, move out in the middle of the night? What was the hurry? Are they wanted by the feds??

At this point, I wanted to get the hell out of that pit like you wouldn't believe. But the agent planted himself in front of the door and started in on the hard sell. "So what do you think?" What do I think? I think I'm about to become violently ill if you don't step off right now!! "What do you mean? Sure it needs a little TLC, but that's part of it's charm," he said. What it needs is a few sticks of dynamite. This is the ugliest fucking townhouse I've ever seen! "Oh!!!" said the agent. "Townhouse?? I thought you said BROWN house!!"

So to make a long story short, my search for a new crib continues.....


I am a fucking idiot.

I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot.
I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot.
I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot.
I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot.
I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot. I am a fucking idiot.

Tonight I was having dinner at Shoney's with Mother Dyckerson. Spending time with Mother D. is usually an exercise in sheer torture, as she always speaks to me as if I'm a five year old. But tonight, a pleasant distraction was awaiting me in the booth diagnally across from ours. A lovely young brunette whom I'll refer to as "Salad Chick" (because she was eating salad) was having dinner with a female companion. When I say lovely, I mean she was mildly attractive...not drop dead gorgeous, but certainly no Bea Arthur either. She was wearing a cute blue sweater-blouse thingy and black jeans. Quite a nice little figure too. Bottom line, Salad Chick was definitely in my league! And the lack of finger bling meant she was available!!

As the evening progresses and Mother Dyckerson is droning on about the latest distant relative to drop dead, I'm periodically glancing over at Salad Chick. And a few times, I actually catch Salad Chick starting to look in my direction. But because I am a fucking idiot, I immediately look away, so we never actually make eye contact. I suck at eye contact, mainly because I am a fucking idiot.

So I'm sitting there in the Shoney's booth eating my meat loaf and wondering how the hell I can approach this woman with my mom right here with me. Mom actually got up to go to the bathroom around 17 times during the course of the meal, so it's not like I didn't have a chance. But each time, my mind draws a blank. I have no idea how to approach Salad Chick without coming off looking like a fucking idiot. Which is what I am.

Finally, Salad Chick and her little friend get up to leave. I'm sitting there watching her as she pokes around in her cute little Salad Chick purse for tip money. I'm thinking, "Dyckerson, you're gonna blow it if you don't make a move right now!" So what do I do? Nothing. Why? Because I am a fucking idiot.

Of course, as soon as we're in the parking lot, it hits me. I could've handed my phone number to the waitress to pass on. Or I could've had the waitress send them one of those Shoney's chocolate fudge brownie sundae things on me. Or fuck that, I could've just picked up the tab for their entire meal! I mean, they're eating salad, and it's fucking Shoney's, for Chrissakes. What's that gonna cost me, seven bucks?! Or I could've just walked up to the table, dropped my pants, and said "Hey ladies, check out this Big Boy!" But no, I didn't think of any of this until we leave the restaurant.....because I am a fucking idiot.

So at this very moment, I could be making sweet love to Salad Chick and thinking of baby names. But instead, I'm just lying here alone on the couch telling you morons about what a fucking idiot I am. Because I am a fucking idiot. No, make that a pussy. I'm a big stupid fucking pussy.

Today I placed an ad in the missed connections section of Craigslist! Salad Chick, if you're out there, please contact me! Fate brought us together once...maybe Fate can do it again!!


Dick, Peter, or Cox???

That's right, my friends! It's the exciting new game that's sweeping the nation!!

Here's how the game works: I show you a series of famous people's photos. Your job to determine if the celebrity is a DICK, a PETER, or a COX! That's all there is to it!!

Now put on your thinking caps, and let's begin!

To find the answers, click the RESPOND TO DYCKERSON link below and check the first post. And thanks for playing DICK, PETER, or COX!!!


What in the hell is the deal with cops?

I've always felt that anyone who chooses law enforcement as a career can't be right in the head. Think about it. They don't get paid well. They work shitty hours. And they put their lives in their hands every time they punch in. So why do they do it? And don't give me that "to protect and to serve" line, because that's crap.

Truth is, there isn't a cop alive that doesn't get his rocks off by abusing his power. That goes for the female cops too. Give these people a uniform and a gun, and they think they're God. They break every traffic law on the books, yet they're waiting behind every bush hoping to catch you doing 5mph over the ridiculously low speed limit. As if that weren't bad enough, now they've all gotten trigger happy. Doesn't matter if it's a kid with a water gun or a really scarey looking chihuahua. They're all fair game for target practice.

The real icing on the cake was this little gem from the local newspaper:

Spotsylvania sheriff: It helps the county's detectives build cases

If you're too lazy to click the link, I'll give you the Dyck's Notes version. Apparently police in the nearby town of Spotsylvania have been engaging in sexual intercourse with women from a local massage parlor as part of some "investigation" (wink, wink) aimed at shutting them down. Basically their argument is they have to allow these women to give them blowjobs so they can charge them with the crime.

Check out these highlights:

Spotsylvania Sheriff Howard Smith said the measures are needed to bring felony sex charges rather than misdemeanors. He compared the practice to drug stings in which undercover officers buy illicit narcotics from suspected dealers.

"I don't see a lot of difference," he said...

You don't see a lot of difference?!! So you're equating a drug deal with felatio? Are you fucking for real??!

While undercover drug officers undergo special training, Smith said the detectives working the massage parlor cases have not had any specialized training in terms of the sexual circumstances they might confront.

Hmm...Sounds like they're getting plenty of "on-the-job" training if you ask me. Or is that "on-the-blowjob" training?

The detective involved in the latest sting is unmarried and volunteered for the assignment, the sheriff said.

Yeah, I'll bet he did volunteer: "Let's see...Handing out parking tickets...or playing hide the salami with a professional masseuse. I think I'll take that second one, chief." Hell, he'll probably be given an award for cumming above and beyond the call of duty. Top that off with two weeks of paid leave so he can deal with the emotional stress. At the very least, you know the detective's ass will be covered. He'll get off for getting off.

Look, I know I have some cops who read this blog. And I'm sure there are one or two decent ones out there. But allow me a human reaction, OK?? This is a complete and total bullshit, and every taxpaying citizen should be pissed.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to apply for a position with the Spotsylvania County Police Department. I hear the fringe benefits are outstanding...


Weather Cancellation

FrankieTonight's meeting of the Franklin Cover Fan Club is being cancelled due to the inclement weather.

Our next meeting will be held next Sunday in the janitor's closet at Millard Fillmore High School. The topic: "The Five Stages of Grief." Oreos and chocolate milk will be served. Come on out and celebrate the genius of the great Franklin Cover!!!


Fuck Valentine's Day

I hate Valentine's Day. Everybody knows it's one of those manufactured holidays, forced upon us by the greeting card companies to make us buy their shit. If it's a legitimate holiday that warrants sending a card, I whip out the construction paper and glitter and make my own. It's much more personal ... and more importantly, CHEAP. I even write my own little personalized poems for the inside of the cards.

For example, I sent this one to a really hot chick I met last year:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I'd like to take my Johnson,
And shove it in you.

Here's one I sent to the bitch I was seeing at the time (I was trying to get her to leave me alone so I could score with the hot chick):

Daisies are yellow,
Lillies are white,
Here's twenty bucks,
Now get out of my sight.

Even when I was a child, I hated Valentine's Day. In school, we were forced to exchange cards with our classmates. I don't know about you, but I fucking HATED most of my classmates. They were all Class-A douchebags. In my fifth grade gym class, I got a card with the following message scribbled on it:

Dear Mightonimus,*

I think you are reelly cute. Do you lick me? I lick you a lot. Maybe we culd get together after class and play somtimes? That wuld be fun!

Coach Whitehead

Well, I never did hook up with Coach Whitehead. Although once I did get a blowjob from his sexy little wife. And a result, I had to repeat fifth grade ..... SEVEN TIMES. To this day, my parents still think I am a retard. But it was worth it.

The fun continues into adulthood. Now not only do you have to deal with cards, but you're expected to give gifts as well. And it can't be something generic like flowers or candy. Nor can it be anything useful like a sponge mop**. No, no, no. The bitches all want something romantic. I say, "You want romance?! Give me 20 seconds in the bedroom, I'll show you romance! I'll give you so much damn romance, you'll be walking funny for a week!!"

I can only imagine it gets worse from here. As far as I can tell, the only way out (besides death) is marriage. Hmmm. I think take up heroin and skydiving.

*Those assholes never could spell my name correctly.

**One year I gave a sponge mop to a girl I was over with. I spent the night in the emergency room waiting for a doctor to pry the thing out of my ass. You think that's funny?? Try taking a dump with a butt full of splinters.


How I Killed K-Mart

When I was a young Dyckerson, Wal-Mart wasn't the retail giant it is today. If you wanted to buy shitty merchandise at everyday low prices, you had to haul your ass to the K. Of course, that's no longer the case. These days, you can't swing a severed penis without hitting a Wal-Mart. So what led to the demise of K-Mart? I believe it was one of my turds.

The year was circa 1979, and I was about 7 years old. Mother Dyckerson was in need of some shitty merchandise, so she forced me into our Plymouth Volare station wagon against my will and dragged me to the store.

As soon as we get inside the K-Mart, I started getting these cramps. They were mild at first, but then they started to get worse. I knew I was going to have to take a dump, but I was a kid, and I was terrified of public restrooms. (Still am, actually.) And since I was with my mom, I'd have to go in there by myself. Well that wasn't going to happen. Besides, I had incredibly tight sphinctor muscles, so I figured I could hold it til we got home. And that probably would've worked if it weren't for that damn blue light special.

Finally I couldn't hold it any longer. I didn't pull down my pants and squat or anything. It just kinda came out on its own...somehow this turd came out of my butt, down my pants leg, and onto the white linoleum floor right there in the cosmetics aisle. It was a perfect, solid log. If only I had taken my camera phone...but alas, they hadn't been invented yet. Luckily, Mother Dyckerson was totally oblivious to the whole incident, as she was preoccupied with her shopping on another aisle. In fact, as luck would have it, no one was around to witness the carnage.

So I limped out to the Volare and endured the ride home in my filthy britches, hoping mommy wouldn't catch a whiff of anything offensive. Thankfully, it was a nice day, so I could open my window. On the way home, I wondered how long my turd would stay on that floor before someone noticed it. I imagined the headline on the evening news:


I never did find out what happened to my feces. But it wasn't long afterwards that K-Mart began its slow decline in market share and Wal-Mart rose into prominence. And I can't help thinking that my loose bowels may have been partly responsible. It's a guilty burden I'll have to carry with me the rest of my life.


A Poem by Mighty Dyckerson

What food is this, I do not know
Something nasty on it grows
In my fridge is where it's been
It expired last April 10

A raunchy stench from it arose
It teared my eyes and stung my nose
I cried, "Oh God, what could it be?"
God said, "Beats the shit outta me!"

By now the odor has made me gag
So I grabbed an empty Wal-Mart bag
I dumped the crap right down inside
As I wondered what the hell died

I felt something land upon my feet
It wasn't veggie nor was it meat
I inspected the bag and what I found,
A hole in the bottom three inches 'round

The cheapass bag and rancid food
Had put me in a nasty mood
So to the fridge that shit returned
And another lesson learned

What food is this, I do not know
Something nasty on it grows
In my fridge is where it'll stay
Until my final dying day


What are the odds??!

Something weird is going on here. In the average week, I find two...maybe three severed penises. But yesterday, I found FIVE. That's right, FIVE severed penises in ONE DAY!!! I know what you're thinking: "Dyckerson, that's a lot of severed penises!" I would agree with you, especially given my 2.5-severed-penis-per-week average. But it happened, and I'd like to tell you how.

The first severed penis was in my morning bowl of Special K. For those of you who don't know, Special K is a cereal consisting of oat and wheat flakes. It's quite nutritious. But rarely does it contain severed penises. Yesterday it did. Most people would be repulsed by this, but I was hungry, so I removed the severed penis and finished my cereal. Honestly, you could hardly taste the severed penis at all.

So I headed for work thinking I've found the last severed penis for that day. But lo and behold, what's this stuck to the end of my Jeep's antenna? You guessed it...a severed penis. Now this one didn't really surprise me, as I have found severed penises stuck to my Jeep's antenna many times in the past. I mean, who hasn't?

On the other hand, severed penis #3 was a complete surprise. When I got to work, I couldn't get my computer to boot up. I tried several times, but nothing. So I called the tech guy, who came over and took my computer back to his office to work on. An hour later, I got a call at my desk from the tech guy: "Dyckerson, it's no wonder your computer isn't working. There's a severed penis stuck in your hard drive." Imagine my shock! In one day, I had found as many severed penises as I normally find in one week!!!

The fourth severed penis was really a fluke. I was walking out to my car during lunch, and I heard an airplane flying overhead. I looked up to admire this miracle of modern technology (turned out to be a 747) and sure enough, I got hit right in the eye by a falling severed penis. Now you might not think a severed penis would hurt much, but let me tell you, this one surely did. I'm guessing it fell off a wing of that 747.

The fifth and final severed penis also involved food, only this time it was at the grocery store. I was in the produce section picking out kumquats. (Actually, they were apples, but I like saying "kumquats.") The funny thing was, by now I was almost expecting to find a severed penis. So I was examining the kumquats for ripeness, making sure to select only the freshest ones. I picked up what looks to be the perfect kumquat, and as I turned it over to check the other side, I am greeted by none other than.....a severed penis! It was partially lodged inside the kumquat. Now, I was concerned that a vegetarian might unknowingly bite into the severed penis, so always being the good samaritan, I removed the severed penis from the kumquat and left it over in the meat section.

So there you have it. Five severed penises in one day. I'm thinking that's got to be some sort of world record. Now it's your turn! Share your severed penis stories!!!