iPod, I wish I could quit you...

Dear iPod,

I was nothing before I found you. My life was just an unorganized pile of fragile CDs, worn-out tapes, and scratchy records. My Beethoven sonatas were mixed up with my Broadway showtunes, and God knows where my Barry Manilow albums were. I was a mere shell of a Dyckerson.

But that all changed last Saturday. As you know, I like to spend my weekends pretending to be a Circuit City salesman. I don't actually work there, nor would I ever want to. I just like to put on a red polo shirt, go stand in their showroom, and give their customers bad advice. A couple weeks ago, I sold a Betamax player to a senile old lady who was shopping for her grandson. A week before that, I convinced a retarded child to throw out his X-Box and buy an Atari 2600 instead. Good times.

But as I said, last Saturday was different. Things were pretty slow at the store, so I decided to head over to the music department to check out the new gadgets, gizmos, and doohickeys. As I scanned the shelves, my eyes fixed upon you. I was hooked the moment I saw your perky little ear buds and your tight, round thumb wheel.

I climbed on top of a dusty stack of Divx machines and shouted at the top of my lungs, "IPOD, I LOVE YOU!!!" I grabbed your sexy 30-gig body and pressed it against mine, gently massaging my sensitive private parts with your video screen. Before long, you were in my pants making beautiful music for me. As the Circuit City rent-a-cop was dragging me out the rear door in handcuffs, I couldn't help but wonder if we would meet again.

As luck would have it, you were still there waiting for me when I returned the next day. I tried to hold back my emotions, but you saw right through the fake beard and glasses I wore to feign the security goons. I snatched you up, took you home, and docked you in my bedroom...where I spent the whole day stuffing you with my downloads.

iPod, you are the Apple of my eye. You ask so little, and yet give so much. You complete me. Words cannot describe the love and respect I feel for you. Won't you take my hand and join me in holy matrimony?

Eternally yours,
Mighty Dyckerson


Week in Review: March 20-24, 2006

Here's a brief recap of last week's headlines in the World of Dyckerson:

I don't remember what I did last Sunday. Gimme a break, it was a fucking week ago.

Monday was employee appreciation day at work. This is an annual event in which the company likes to thank its employees by doing anything except giving us more money. This year, they ordered us breakfast. Well the biscuits were ice cold and the sausage gave me the shits. Thanks a lot.

Tuesday I showed my condo to some hot college chick wearing tight jeans. I wanted to make sweet love to her, but alas, her mother was with her. And before you say anything...no, a threesome wasn't an option in this case. Her mother's face gave me the shits.

On Wednesday, I went to the grocery store. I didn't need any groceries. I just like to scan my ass through the check-out scanner. Did you know that when properly combed and waxed, my butt hairs form the UPC code for $3.98??

On Thursday, I decided to start a blog makeover. All of the fucking Mighty Blog Network affiliates seem to be on a crusade to outdo each other lately, so I'm going to show all of them who's boss. Also on Thursday, Mark the Medialine administrator showed signs of weakening. In the Show Your Support for Mighty Dyckerson thread, he posted the following message:


Then he locked the thread. He could have deleted it, but he only locked it. He's definitely softening.

On Friday, a bitch performed an act of idiocy in front of me in traffic. I was behind her in a right turn lane, when all the sudden she decides she needs to be in the left lane. So when the light turns green, she sits there with her left turn signal on waiting for.......ah, who gives a fuck.

On Saturday, I finally heard back from crippled chick about my condo. Turns out she's still interested. This dumbass has been "interested" for the last two weeks. Not only that, but it's been her lifelong dream to own a condo. Not a house, a condo. What a freak. I told her to shit or get off the pot. If I don't get a contract (or a blowjob) within 24 hours, I'm going to burn this place down just to spite her.

And that's what happened last week in the World of Dyckerson!!!


Update: Home Search '06

First, I am completely touched and overwhelmed by the outpouring of support from my Medialine colleagues. I know you all miss my crude humor and witty retorts, but fear not! Dyckerson will not be silenced for long!! Keep up the good work!!!

As many of you know, Dyckerson has been looking to get away from his asshole neighbors and move into something bigger. This home buying and selling business is a real pain in the breakfast nook. I'm trying to avoid agents, because frankly, they're scum sucking weasels who like to lie and play games. I'd like to urinate on every single one of them!

One agent doesn't want to accept my contract on a townhouse because I have to make the offer contingent upon me finding a buyer for my condo. Well I didn't want to find a buyer for my condo until I have a place to go myself. But fine, I'll play along.

So I put my condo on the market. Nothing fancy, just some signs in the yard and an open house or two. Most houses actually sell through the MLS (Multiple Listing Service), which is just a database of homes for sale. This is a fucking racket, because these bastards want to charge $300 or $400 just to list a house. Granted, it's cheaper than giving an agent a big fat commission for doing mindless work. But being the tightwad that I am, I'm determined to sell my dump for as little as humanly possible.

Getting back to the open house. As soon as I put the ad in the paper, I was flooded with calls...mostly from scum sucking agent weasels who want to tell me how great they are at selling houses. They all have these "proven techniques" that are guaranteed to "produce results." Yeah, well I have a "proven technique" for bashing in skulls! It's called a SLEDGEHAMMER, and it's guaranteed to "produce" lots of blood and gore!!!

Quite a few people showed up for the open house. Mostly losers with nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon...except for this one crippled chick who stumbled in with a cane. When I saw her come in, I knew I had my sucker...I mean buyer. I mean, here I am with an affordable, tastefully decorated first-floor condo with no steps in a hot area of town. What crippled person wouldn't want that??

Sure enough, she started asking me a bunch of questions. When was it built? What's the square footage? Does the cottage cheese in the fridge convey? So I answered all her questions, gave her my contact info, and sent her crippled ass on her way. In hindsight, I should've stolen her cane and not given it back to her until she signed a contract. But like an idiot, I was nice. Now the crippled chick is dragging her feet (so to speak), and I'm still stuck trying to unload this rat hole.

The search continues...


Here We Go Again

I would like to state for the record that I would never urinate on a child for any reason. Nor would I condone that sort of behavior from anyone. In fact, it's not even something you should joke about. Unfortunately, I had to find that out the hard way.

I was on the Medialine message board the other night, minding my own business as usual, when I run across this thread started by some news chick. The thread involved her little daughter, who took it upon herself to "clean" the bathroom with mommy's $10 bottle of Victoria's Secret body spray. She laughed about how nice the bathroom smelled and how shiny everything was. Apparently she was proud of her daughter for taking such initiative. It was a nauseatingly sweet story, so naturally I couldn't resist giving it the Dyckerson touch.

So in my usual humorous way, I responded by saying that if any daughter of mine pulled such a stunt, I would beat the living shit out of her. Of course I was KIDDING.

Then the mother said something to the effect of "I hope you're not serious" (blah blah blah). Of course I wasn't serious. But the idea that she thought for even a second that I might be serious only encouraged me.

So I responded by saying that not only would I beat the living shit out of her daughter, but I'd flush her down the toilet and wash her down with a healthy dose of my urine. Again, kidding.

Well this created a firestorm. I found out it is considered in bad taste to make jokes about beating up and urinating on children. And not only is it in bad taste, but apparently it is also grounds for banishment from Medialine.

Well that's a new one to me. I checked Medialine's rules, and nowhere does it say you can't joke about hitting or pissing on kids. I mean, it seems to me if that sort of thing was frowned upon, it would be covered in the rules. Live and learn, I guess.

But seriously, a note to any young, impressionable kids who may be reading this:

It is NOT nice to beat the living shit out of anyone, no matter how badly they fuck up your bathroom. Nor should you relieve yourself on them and flush them down the crapper. Hell, I don't even know how you would fit a person into a toilet. The thing would just overflow and make a damn mess all over the floor. I suppose you could try chopping the body into small pieces first, but I doubt even that would work. You'd have to run the pieces through a meat grinder or something. But who the fuck has a meat grinder laying around the house? I mean, besides myself?

Obviously this calls for another Bring Back Mighty Dyckerson campaign, so dust off your BBMD logos and get ready for war!!!


I'm Afraid of Cottage Cheese

It's true, I admit it. I don't know why, because I've never even tried it. It's just one of those foods that I always assumed was disgusting. You know, like liver and onions. Or pig's feet. Or artichokes. There's a poorly named vegetable for you. I mean, who the hell would put something in their mouth whose very name contains the word "choke"? Seems like you'd be asking for trouble.

But getting back to cottage cheese. I actually like most kinds of cheese. And I have nothing against cottages. I even rented a cottage at the beach one summer. It was lovely, really. But somehow, when the words "cottage" and "cheese" are combined, it conjures up unpleasant thoughts.

I know people eat it every day. It's supposed to be good for you. That's why I bought a container of it two weeks ago. I forget what brand it is. Brookstone or Breakwind or Brokeback or something like that. Anyway, the container is still unopened and slowly migrating its way to the back of the fridge. I'm afraid to open it.

I think it's a case of guilt by association. For one thing, there's that old expression "cottage cheese thighs." How can I eat something that reminds me of the cellulose in my mother's legs?

Then there's the whole yogurt deal. Cottage cheese is a distant relative of yogurt - another food with a nasty sounding name...a food that contains, among other things, LIVE BACTERIA. YUMMY!!! Why do they put expiration dates on that shit? By its very nature, it's already expired! Buy a carton of milk. Leave it sitting in the sun for a few years, and before you know it, presto! You've got yogurt!!!

The final nail in the cottage cheese coffin is its unfortunate appearance. It's kind of a lumpy, yellowish gelatinous crud that I suspect smells like feet. You know, when you buy a can of soup or a box of cereal or tub of butter, there's always a picture of it on the label. But they don't do that with cottage cheese, and it's no accident. The cottage cheese industry knows their product looks like shit. So they always put a picture of a windmill or a farm house on the label.

So there you have it. Perhaps one day in a few years, I'll gather up the courage to open that container. Who knows, maybe if I wait long enough, it will turn into another, more edible, dairy product.



Just a reminder to you fuckers. I do have a message board. It would be nice if somebody actually fucking used it once in a while. It's not hard. You just type words using your keyboard and click on the little "post" button. Then the words you typed show up on the screen. Try it sometime.

You don't even have to look for the URL. It's right here:

There. Can I make it any easier for you? Now go.


Get the Fuck Out!!

Today was the last day of one of my co-workers. He had been here something like 300 years. You know what? I don't give a shit. Doesn't affect me one damn bit. It's not like I'm getting a promotion or a big fat raise. To my knowledge, the idiot isn't even being replaced. Nor will he be able to get me a better job at his new company - he's moving to fucking Arkansas or some shit. So why was I forced to acknowledge his departure not once...not twice...not thrice...but FOUR TIMES over a period of an ENTIRE WEEK???

It began last Tuesday when my department took the bozo out for a going-away lunch. I had to endure an hour of listening to the old timers talk about the "good ole days" and how the company is going to shit and oh by the way did you read the last edition of Computer Dorks Monthly. I had to sit through this without alcohol, mind you.

After that ordeal, I figured that would be it. Adios, Pedro. Hit the road.

But then came part two: the farewell card. In case you didn't know, Hallmark has a fucking card for everything, including departing co-workers. In my office, whenever someone leaves...or gets married...or has a baby...or passes a kidney stone, we all sign a card. Most people write shit like "Good luck" or "Congratulations." I always put "Drop dead, cocksucker." It's perfect because it works for everything.

Think we're done yet? Think again.

The third waste of my time came yesterday when the douchebag made rounds going to each and every cube and saying goodbye to everyone. Is this a productive use of company time? So he went around telling everybody about his new job (yawn) and how he's going to keep in touch with everyone (yeah right). After doing this for approximately seven hours, he finally gets around to me. "Hey Dyckerson! Here's my email address! Let's keep in touch!" Hey shithead. Here's my prick. Give it a yank.

So that's it. We're done. He's gone. Or is he?

I honestly thought his last day was yesterday. But when I got to work today, the moron was STILL THERE! I'm thinking this shit is never going to end!! This afternoon, we're all called into the employee lounge for an impromptu goodbye party. And let me tell you, parties at my office are wild. We're talking chocolate cake and plastic forks here, people. One time they really went nuts and had balloons. So we had this stupid party that lasted all of about five minutes. Yeah, I got a free piece of cake out of the deal, but my afternoon nap was interrupted. I've been grouchy all afternoon as a result.

I swear, if the bastard shows up tomorrow, I'm going to knock him upside the head with a lead pipe.


Dyckerson Health Watch

I thought I'd take a break from DYCK'NG people to share the results of my latest blood work. As some of you may recall, I've been battling high cholesterol since last year when my idiot doctor told me I had it. "You've got high cholesterol," the quack tells me. Yeah, and you've got bad breath. Just get to the part where you squeeze my balls and check for lumps. That's the only reason I'm here. Anyhow, he prescribed some shit called Advicor and told me to eat right and exercise. I told him to mind his own fucking business.

So here we are a year later, and I'm sorry to say there hasn't been much improvement. See for yourself with the handy MIGHTY DYCKERSON CHOLESTEROL CHART:

February '05:
  • Total Cholesterol - 265
  • HDL - 40
  • LDL - 152
  • Triglycerides - 365
November '05:
  • Total Cholesterol - 237
  • HDL - 51
  • LDL - 121
  • Triglycerides - 324
February '06:
  • Total Cholesterol - 247
  • HDL - 56
  • LDL - 137
  • Triglycerides - 272

The biggest improvement has been with the triglycerides, which are down almost 100 points. To celebrate, I ate a box of glazed donuts and washed it down with a carton of delicious chocolate milk. But I don't know why Advicor isn't working. I've been inserting a pill into my rectum every day for the last year. (They're not really suppositories, but I have a hard time swallowing pills.)

So that's the deal. If things don't improve next time, I'm thinking of hiring someone to diet and exercise for me because it's too damn much trouble. Any takers???


DYCK'D Updates! (Revised)

All the DYCK'D reviews have been moved here:


Right now, it's the same template as The Mighty Blog. I haven't had time to develop it more because I've been busy having a life. Some of you should try it sometime!

I shall resume normal DYCK'D activity as soon as possible.


Get your blog DYCK'D today!!!

My latest cyberwar is with www.italk2much.com. This is a site made up of self-proclaimed "bitches" (and one man-bitch of questionable sexual orientation) whose sole purpose in life is to piss on other people's blogs. You basically submit your blog to their list...wait about 47 years...and then, once you're dead and buried, they write an insulting review of your blog. Some of the criticisms are warranted, but most are along the lines of, "I don't like your fonts!" or "Gee, your sidebar is three pixels too wide!"

What kind of shit is this? If anyone should have a waiting list of people who want to be insulted, it's ME!!! After all, what qualifications do they have??! These cunts don't even have their own original blog! They just think they're hot shit because they have a drop-down box. Well whoop-de-doo! Here's your stupid drop-down box right here! You know what you can do with it!

So I'm going into business for myself. If you have a blog, and you want it reviewed by the one and only Mighty Dyckerson, just let me know! I'll write a bitter, nasty, unfair review of your blog! I'll insult you and your family! I'll reduce you to tears and make you wish you were never born. And I'll do it all WITHIN 48 HOURS or YOUR MONEY BACK!!! So submit your blog's URL today by including it in a comment to this post and GET DYCK'D!!

And feel free to add the GET DYCK'D image link to your blog! Copy and paste the following code to your sidebar: