More "Tagged" Bullshit

For the record, I do not like to be "tagged." I am an adult, and I stopped playing children's games in my late 20's. However, I do like to keep my ladies happy...so when Husho recently tagged me, I felt obliged to play along.

So here's the deal. I'm supposed to list six odd things about myself, and then tag six other people. But I'm not going to do that. Instead, I'm going to list TEN things, only six of which are true. Your job is to identify which statements are true and which ones are false. Good luck!

1. I once skipped a day of high school to meet TV's Bert Convy.

2. I have a collection of my fingernail clippings dating all the way back to 1988.

3. I can crack the knuckle of my right big toe at will.

4. It is not uncommon for me to go an entire week without having a bowel movement.

5. I have never gone more than two days without bathing.

6. I am allergic to peanut butter.

7. I did not learn to ride a bicycle until I was 30 years old.

8. I have only vomited three times in my life. The most recent was over 15 years ago.

9. I know the lyrics to over 40 Eagles songs by heart.

10. My grandmother was buried wearing a $5,000 ring.

Now check your answers against the answer key in the comments section. How did YOU do???

BTW, I'm not tagging anybody. You don't like it?? TOUGH SHIT.


Colonel Sanders Has Alzheimer's

This is the most disgusting pile of crap I've seen since I accidentally tivo'd the Tony Danza Show. Have you seen the latest commercial for KFC??! They're pushing this thing they call a "bowl." In fact, all the fast food joints are into this "bowl" gimmick. The concept is simple:

1. Get a bowl.
2. Fill it with random garbage from the menu.
3. Promote and profit.

Getting back to KFC. I'll be honest with you, I haven't eaten in one of those places since I found a human scrotum in my bucket of Extra Crispy. But after seeing their new "bowl," chowing down on a nut sack doesn't seem all that bad. As for the contents of this thing, a picture is worth a thousand words...

OK, there's a lot going on here, so let's break it down. Starting at the bottom, you got your mashed potatoes and gravy. I got no problem here. This is actually the one item on their menu I actually like. But they couldn't just leave that alone, could they? No, no, no! They have to go and top it off with........CORN!!! What in the hell?? Who the fuck puts corn on top of mashed potatoes??! As if that isn't enough, they follow that up with - you guessed it - FRIED CHICKEN!!! Yep, it's a chicken restaurant, so God forbid one of their menu items doesn't contain poultry. But we're not done yet! Last but not least, we have........SHREDDED CHEESE!!! Boy, I don't know about you, but to me, nothing says good eatin' like a big ol' bowl of corn, gravy, cheese, taters, and fried breading. Why not stop there? I think they should crumble up one of their stale biscuits and throw that on top of the pile. After all, that's the only other item on their menu that they haven't included.

Seriously, who in their right minds would eat this shit? And where will it end?? I can see McDonald's getting in on this: Put a Big Mac, a Filet O'Fish, and a handful of Chicken McNuggets in a blender. Set it for puree, then pour the result into an extra large cup, and voila - The McMeat Shake!!!


My Last Will and Testicle

You know, there comes a time in every man's life when he must plan for the inevitable. No, I don't mean a paternity suit. I'm talking about death. Someday I will depart this Earth, and before I do, I want to be prepared. I've already arranged to have my body stuffed and mounted above the entrance to the Mighty Dyckerson Memorial Library and Whorehouse. But now I have to decide what shit to give to you douchebags. Thus, I give you my will:


I, Mightonimous J. Dyckerson, being of sound mind and body (shut up), do hereby bequeath the following:

To the Lamb, I leave you my collection of belly button lint. The next time you shear yourself, I hope you'll think of me.

To Husho, I leave you my job. You may report the day after my funeral...assuming the position doesn't get filled internally.

To Joani, I leave you my pubic hair. May it provide you with warmth and comfort in times of trouble.

To Ewink, I leave you my cholesterol medication. From the looks of you, I think you'll be needing it soon.

To Motor City Monk, I leave you my bubble bath. I hope you'll use it the next time you have one of your "man parties" with that gay hot tub of yours.

To Newsbitch, I leave you my blogs. That's right, you get The Mighty Blog and DYCK'D...mainly because I like your template. I was going to leave them to Ewink, but I'm afraid he'd stick a ton of anime crap on here. Besides, I'm planning on outliving him by about 40 years.

To TFG, I leave you my pants. Judging from the holes in your crotches, you seem like you could use them. I trust you can squeeze into a size 30.

To Raino, I leave you a $1.00 coupon from Dunkin' Donuts. The coupon expired in 1984, but then again, so did the donuts.

To Manola Blablablanik, I leave you a banana and a digital camera. I think you know what they're for, babe.

To Moderator the scientist, I leave you my 6th grade science project: The first-ever solar system model to be made out of coathangers and styrofoam balls. Enjoy it, but please be careful with Uranus...it's taken quite a pounding over the years.

To Chris, I leave you the contents of my refrigerator. A word about the cottage cheese in back of the bottom shelf: Don't.

And last but not least, to my darling RevRee, I leave you.....my frozen semen. Use it to carry on the Dyckerson genes. You can take the batter to my buddy Fingers. He'll give you a good rate on the fertilization.


Well, that's about it. I hope you're all happy with your inheritence. And if you're not, you can kiss my rotting ass.


Screw the Handicrapped

I'm talking about the physically handicrapped here, not the retards. Mother Nature already screwed them big time. How could I be so cold...so heartless...so rude...so un-P.C., you ask??

Next time you're out and about, take a good look around. Look at how much we as a people have had to do to accomodate these stumps. Because of them, I can't even get a decent parking space when I go to Dyck-Mart. The best I can hope for is five or six spaces back...and that's only if I circle the lot for 90 minutes. I mean, I don't mind one or two specially designated spaces. But geez, to look at some of these places, you'd think they were expecting a paraplegic convention to show up at any moment. Note to retail establishments: YOU DON'T NEED 500 HANDICRAPPED SPACES!!!

And it's not just the retail store owners that have to suffer. Think of what all other business owners have to go through to accomodate these burdens on society. Everything from ramps to automatic doors to elevators...all on the slim chance that maybe, just maybe, someday a cripple will want to visit them. What a pain in the fucking ass!! Although I have to say, when I need to take a dump in a public restroom, those handicrapped stalls are a welcome sight...so nice and spacious! And so clean too! Why?? Because NOBODY EVER FUCKING USES THEM! When was the last time you ever saw a wheelchair jockey in one of those places??? That's right, NEVER!!!!

But hey, listen. I'm not here just to rant and rave. Dyckerson is a man of solutions. So here is my proposal. Instead of retrofitting every goddamn building on the planet for the 20 or so wheelchairs in existence, we designate a special area of the world just for these people and make them live there. For example, maybe we rope off a corner of New Orleans. That's a throwaway city now anyway. So we rope off New Orleans, toss all the cripples in there, and build them a giant megaplex equipped with handlebars, extra-wide doorways, and ramps out the yin yang. (Actually, thanks to Katrina, New Orleans is nice and flat now, so you probably wouldn't even need the ramps! God, I'm a frigging genius!) Anyway, they'd be able to do all their eating, sleeping, bathing, and shitting all in one place. Now I ask you, what self-respecting stump wouldn't love that??! They'd get their own little chocolate city, and the rest of us able-bodied folk can live our lives free of the constant headaches they cause us!!! And we could finally replace all those stupid blue and white signs with these....


Job Search: Part One

On Tuesday I had two job interviews. I purposely scheduled them fairly close together so I'd only have to put on my classy powder blue suit once.

The first interview was a fucking pain in the ass. When I get there, I realize their office is in the same damn building complex as the company that fired me three years ago. It was my first programming gig, and it only lasted three months. It was actually for the best, because I hated that job anyway. But I'd never been fired before, I have been permanently scarred as a result. They weren't emotional scars...these were actual scars from the fight I had with the fatass bastard who fired me.

Because of this, I was already having bad vibes about this other place. But I went through with the interview anyway, since I was already wearing the powder blue suit that I look so good in. As I walked in the lobby, I was greeted by stacks of boxes. Boxes everywhere. (What the fuck, did these people just move in??) So I navigated through the cardboard maze and found my way to the receptionist's area. I said to her, "Hi bitch, I'm here about the fucking job." (They like it when you show aggressiveness.) I waited while she rang the guy's phone. A few minutes later, the he came into the lobby...from the OUTSIDE DOOR! The same door I came in through! A bit puzzled, I extended my arm for a handshake, he extended his, and then I yanked mine away. (I love that old gag!)

He then led me OUTSIDE the building, down a flight of steps, and BACK INTO the same fucking building. I said to the guy, "Nice building. Who was your architect? Andy Warhol?!" So he took me in his office, where he informed me I would be interviewed by not one...not two...but THREE SEPARATE pinheads. "Great," I said. "Let the games begin."

Pinhead #1 was by far the worst. In addition to quizzing me on my programming knowledge, he also bombarded me with all the standard bullshit interview questions...

Pinhead: What are your strengths?
Dyckerson: Oh, I can bench press about 200 pounds.
Pinhead: What are your weaknesses?
Dyckerson: My main weakness is 16-year-old private school girls in plaid skirts.
Pinhead: What do you like about your current job?
Dyckerson: The free donuts on Fridays.
Pinhead: What do you dislike about your current job?
Dyckerson: The fact that they're firing everybody.

This went on for over 20 minutes. Then came Pinhead #2. This piece of work was wearing jeans and an untucked t-shirt. "Gee, thanks for dressing up," I told him. He was pretty cool though. He just asked me some softball questions like "What's up?" and "What time is it?"

Another 20 minutes ticked by, and I was on to the third and final pinhead. Pinhead #3 didn't really interview me per se. I just made me listen to him run his mouth for 30 minutes. Apparently the jackass likes to hear himself yammer. He talked about the history of the company. He talked about their philosophy. I'm sure he talked about a lot of other shit, but I wouldn't know, because I was asleep.

Finally, after almost 90 minutes of excrutiating torture, I was released by the pinhead triumvirate with barely enough time to get to my second interview across town. So I fired up the DyckMobile and sped like a mofo.

The second interview was much easier. This was actually a tech recruiting firm that matches up computer geeks with companies that need them. I was only interviewed by one pinhead...in fact, he was the only guy in the whole fucking building. Probably not a good sign. Anyway, he asked me a few basic questions, plus one I didn't really understand...

Pinhead: So Dyckerson, do you really want to work in data warehousing?
Dyckerson: Yeah, sure.
Pinhead: I mean, do you really, really want to work in data warehousing? Because this company only wants people who are really passionate about data warehousing.
Dyckerson: Sir, it is my lifelong dream to work in data warehousing. I remember when I was a kid, all the other kids would be outside playing and laughing...but not me! Instead, I spent all my spare time alone in my room warehousing data.
Pinhead: You have no idea what data warehousing is, do you?
Dyckerson: No, I don't.

So as you can see, things went pretty well. The interview was pretty much over, but by this time I was really needing to take a wicked shit. He allowed me to utilize his facilities, but in my haste to get the fuck out of there, I think I forgot to flush. Who knows, maybe he won't notice.

Keep your fingers crossed, kids!


Fuck Richmond

I have finally come to the conclusion that local TV news is dead. The stations here in Richmond have finally crossed the line from the merely obsurd to the outright pathetic. Tonight I came home after a long, grueling week at the office.* I poured myself a tall glass of milk, pried open a can of Vienna sausages, and fired up the idiot box hoping to catch the day's local headlines. Folks, let me tell you, the news was big. So big, in fact, that the lead story took up the entire first segment of the fucking newscast. No, it wasn't a mass murder. No three-alarm blaze at the local deaf & dumb school. No ten car pile-up on the interstate. Then what on earth could it be, you ask???

You better sit down for this. On second thought, you might want to stand. Actually, a squatting position may be more appropriate, because you'll most likely want to shit yourself when you read the news. Here it is. Elliott Yamin, finalist in the current season of American Idol, is making an appearance in his native Richmond for no particular reason. That's right, Pedro. You heard me. This is the story that led the 6 o'clock news.

What, you don't believe me??! Well read about it for yourself here. And here. And here. And here. Had enough? Well the people of Richmond haven't. In fact, these morons showed up in droves to worship and drool all over this fucking fruitcake. Women threw themselves at him, begging for autographs and holding cardboard signs that look like they were made by a six-year-old. Honestly, I haven't seen such a display since the great iBook Stampede of '05. I have but one simple question to ask you......


I swear to God, I just don't get it. I'm proud to say I've never watched American Idol. I've never watched it and I never will. I don't care if Paula Abdul shaved her head, shoved a banana in her twat, and sang "Mammy" live on the show ... I still wouldn't watch it. But there's one thing I know for sure: No matter what the outcome of this bullshit talent show may be, this guy's career will be over faster than you can say William Hung.

So the local TV stations all took turns interviewing Elliott Yamin, asking such deep philosophical questions as, "What's it like being a finalist?" and "What's it like being back in Richmond?" Then they all took turns interviewing the fans, asking such deep philosophical questions as "What's it like seeing Elliott Yamin in person?" and "Do you think he's going to win?" Nobody asks them the questions I want to ask. How about "What's it like being a fucking loser?" or "Why don't you get a goddamn job?"

At this point, I was so fucking pissed, I was ready to throw the TV out the window. But then I remembered how much I paid for it, so I simply kicked the cat instead.** Then I drank up the liquid from the Vienna sausage can, laid back on the sofa, and waited for the actual news to begin. I mean, surely there will be some murder and mayhem in the second segment, right?? Well guess again, Federico.

Segment two was a live shot. Normally, this is where they take a reporter, stand him in front of a scene where nothing is happening, and have him talk about something newsworthy that did happen there earlier in the day. But that's not what this was. This was a fucking commercial.

Seems a local hospital (who just happens to advertise heavily on local media) was holding a screening ... you know, like a cholesterol screening or something like that. They were inviting people to come down and get tested and oh by the way check out our new gazillion-dollar state-of-the-art birthing center. Wow. How very fucking noble of them.

Then came the interview, which was entirely scripted. The reporter (who is nothing but a whore for the station's sales dept.) started asking the hospital's P.R. robot a series of questions that served no purpose other than to promote their damn hospital. And it was so obviously scripted that the P.R. robot actually started answering some of the reporter's questions before he was done asking them...

Reporter Whore: Wow, what an exciting event. Tell me more.
P.R. Robot: Yes I am standing in front of the new gazillion-dollar birthing center here at Bon Secours hospital downtown at the corner of 5th and Placenta Avenue we are very excited about this cancer screening back to you.
Reporter Whore: Great. When can people...
P.R. Robot: We are here all evening from 4 to 7 at the new gazillion-dollar birthing center here at Bon Secours hospital at the corner of 5th and Placenta Avenue there is free parking and a shuttle bus please tell your viewers to come on down and see us back to you.
Reporter Whore: I...
P.R. Robot: That is an excellent question the new gazillion-dollar birthing center offers a wide range of pre- and post-natal services we provide our patients with the best care in the entire galaxy please tell your viewers to call the number on your screen for a free consultation back to you.
Reporter Whore: You know, I went to journalism school for this shit.
P.R. Robot: Uh, that's not in my script. What page are you on?

The interview went on further, but I was too busy kicking the hell out of the cat*** to pay attention to it. I mean, how fucking stupid do these people think we are? Do they actually think Richmonders would flock to some artifically manufactured "event" just to.....

Never mind.

* Okay, I didn't do a fucking thing at the office this week. But that's beside the point.
**I don't really own a cat.
***I still don't really own a cat.


Dyck for Hire

I've been struggling with a personal problem that's been eating away at me for days. No, my underwear isn't stuck in my ass crack again. This is something far more serious. You see, the reality of my impending unemployment is beginning to set in, and I'm wondering if it's time for another career change.

If you've been keeping score at home, you'd know that I'm already on career #3. Career #1 was in broadcasting. This was my first love. (Well, second love, if you count my affair with Alyssa Milano.) I was what they call a "Master Control Supervisor" for much of that time...then I moved into production, where I became what they call a "TV Director." I actually held many positions in my 12+ years in television, and I was damn good at all of them. Problem was, all the jobs paid crap. I was tired of being told how frigging talented I was, only to then be told they can't afford to give me a raise.

Career #2 almost doesn't count as a career, because I never did it full-time. While still working in TV, I scraped together a few bucks and took me one of them real estate agent classes. I went for six weeks, took a stupid test, and got a license to sell houses. That's when everything went downhill. I printed up business cards, passed out flyers, and mailed out retarded little refrigerator-magnet-calendars around Christmas time. Nothing happened. I never could figure that out, because I had such a catchy slogan: "Thinking of moving?? Get a Dyck!!!" Anyway, after a year, I decided to cut my losses and try something else.

Career #3 is my latest, and so far has been the most lucrative. Computer programming seemed like a perfect fit for me. I'd stay quietly tucked away in a climate controlled office all day, not having to deal with jackass managers or idiot customers. And in reality, it ain't all that bad. No overtime, low stress, decent coin. But I'm not particularly good at it. I guess that's because I hate it. I work with an ancient programming language that nobody else uses, trying to fix ancient, poorly-written code that nobody else understands. I swear, some days it makes me physically ill just to look at that shit.

What I need is a career that will showcase Dyckerson's true talents. A career that will require little effort on my part, yet reward me handsomely. A career where I answer to no one but myself. So I am turning to all of you, my loyal fans: Find me a motherfucking job! And hurry the hell up - it's almost time for my nap.


Townhouse Update!

Today I met the home inspector at my new bachelor pad. He actually found quite a few things wrong...some of them were just nit picky code violations, but others were a bit more serious. Total estimate was around $1500. I could either ask the sellers to do the repairs, or ask for a credit at closing. I plan to do the latter. Then I'll ignore the repairs and spend the extra coin on hookers and crack.

While I was waiting for the inspector dude to do his thing, I took a few pics to share with my fans. So come with me now as we take a little tour. (Click to enlarge the photos, motherfuckers.)

Welcome to Dyckerson's future home! A home which he will probably not be able to afford now that I'm about to become unemployed...

The foyer floor is covered in a lovely ceramic tile, with real authentic fake wood laminate in the hallway/dining area. Note the exsquite detail in the tile where it meets the laminate. Note also the sandals, which belong to Peng, the Asian guy who's selling the place...

The kichen is in the front of the townhouse. Oak cabinets, vinyl floor, laminate countertop. Brand new gas oven. All appliances convey. Just think of all the frozen pizzas and bean burritos I'll be making in there...

The back half of the townhouse is the dining/living area. I don't have much use for a dining room, seeing as I eat my meals on the couch...so I'm thinking of making this into a masturbation room. I plan to take down that metal railing to open up the area a bit. The wall behind it will be the home of my entertainment center. The living area is about 19' x 11'...

Another view of the living /dining area. Note the fireplace behind the column in the center. The sliding glass doors on the right lead to the fenced back yard. The couch will go on the right wall (opposite the entertainment center), giving me a great view of the yard...

And here's the back yard. There's a small toolshed on the right, and behind the toolshed, a Super Dish Network satellite dish was left by the previous owners. I don't know if it works or not, but I intend to find out...

Now we're on the second floor, and here's the master crapper. It has two doors, so you can enter through the hall or master bedroom. Observe the double sink, tile floor, and toilet by the window. That's right, I'll be able to move my bowels and spy on the neighbors at the same time! There's a laundry closet with stackable washer/dryer on the left...

On to the master bedroom. It's quite large (16' x 11'), but it was hard to get it all in the shot. I took this picture from inside the closet. There's new wall to wall carpet in all the bedrooms as well as the livng room...

Most of the rooms are off-white in color, but this bedroom was done in a powder blue. It's about 9' x 9'. This will likely become a second masturbation room...

It's hard to tell, but this bedroom is PINK. I call it the Pepto-Bismol room. But that will be changing SOON, as it will become the executive office of Dyckerson Enterprises. It's a roomy 10' x 10'.

That concludes our tour of my new palatial estate. In lieu of housewarming gifts, a cash donation may be made via PayPal to the Mighty Dyckerson Unemployment Fund. Thank you.


Add Me to the List of Unemployed Bloggers!

Here's a little taste of what a shit festival my life has become.

Some of you may recall that I was planning to move out of my condo due to ongoing issues with my upstairs asshole neighbors. You know, the ones that stomp on the floor, slam their doors, and have sex on their squeaky bed at all hours of the day and night. My plan was to sell the condo, and then use the proceeds as a down payment on a townhouse. At one point I had a purchase offer on my place from a handicapped woman I call "crippled chick." With this contract in hand, I went ahead and made an offer on a townhouse. The offer was accepted. Then crippled chick couldn't get out of her lease, so we had to cancel that deal. And since I can't buy anything without selling my place first, I cancelled the deal on the townhouse. So at that point, I was starting over from scratch. Confused yet?? Wait, there's more!

A week later (last week), I got a new purchase offer from an overweight woman I call "chubby chick." With this contract in hand, I went ahead and made an offer on a different townhouse. The offer was accepted. Sounds like everything is working out, right? Wrong!!!

At work earlier this week, we were all informed via email that a bunch of suits from the corporate office were coming to town for a big whoop-de-doo. These are the same people who, a year ago, told us we were doing a fantastic job and had nothing to worry about. But in reality, we never really hear from them unless they are:

(a) firing a manager,
(b) fucking with our benefits, or
(c) rearranging the organizational chart.

So I held my breath and waited. After all, how bad could it be? Well, on a scale of 3 to 17, 9 being the worst...this would be at least a 32.78. That's right, the weasels informed us that they were closing this office at the end of the year.

Of course, they went on about how this was a difficult decision...blah, blah, blah. They value our work...blah, blah, blah. They are here for us if we need them...blah, blah, blah. Then everyone was given a sealed envelope with a severance package and an end date inside. Everybody got a different offer, depending on their position, length of service, etc. Turns out my last date here will be September 30, and I'll get an extra month's pay. Should I find another job before then, I can leave early and still get the severance. Could be worse, I guess. We have also been encouraged to apply for other jobs within the company, but that would mean relocation. And since I'm now committed to moving, that's not really an option.

Bottom line: I have four months to find another job, or I'll be eating cat food. But at least I'll be eating it in a nice, soundproofed townhouse.

Speaking of the townhouse...I'm doing the inspection tomorrow afternoon, and I'm planning on taking along the Mighty Blog camera to document the occasion. So check back for photos! And then check eBay, because I'll probably be selling my camera to pay the inspector.


A Trip to the Dentist

Today I went to the dentist for a checkup. Every ten years or so, I try to get my teeth cleansed and examined by one of Dyckersonville's fine dentistry experts. Well, I missed my appointment in '96 due to a conflict I had with my masseuse, and I've been using my toothbrush to clean the grout in my bathroom tile...so needless to say my teeth had grown a bit grungy.

When I arrived at the office, they were actually waiting for me. This is not a good sign. The waiting room is for the patients, not the staff. I want a dentist who's up to his tonsils in other people's tonsils. A dentist who is so fucking busy, I can't get in to see him until I've read last September's issue of Highlights cover-to-cover at least seven times.

So they escorted me back to Room Number B, which I've always preferred because the saliva suction tube thingy has greater sucking power. I remember one time they stuck that thing in my mouth, I clamped down on it, and up came the penny I swallowed when I was six years old. (God, I wish my pretend wife could suck like that.) But unfortunately, today the suction tube was broken, so they were collecting the spittle with the hose attachment on a Hoover upright.

As I waited in the chair for the dental hygienist to arrive, I inspected the Tray of Pain. That's my name for the container that holds the hammer, chisel, rusty miniature pick axes, and Sears Craftsman power drill. Are these people cleaning teeth or building a log cabin? I mean, we've been an industrialized society for what, 200 years? Yet they haven't found a better way to remove plaque than to scrape it off with a metal one-pronged fork?

Then she walked in: the woman of my dreams. She was young, blonde, petite, and built like a set of high-end dentures. And from the moment our eyes met, I knew this was going to be no ordinary checkup.

She parked her firm, apple shaped hiney in the stool and got down to business. "Hi Dyckerson, my name is Ginger. Ginger Vitis. I understand you'd like a little...oral care," she said with a wink as she slowly lowered my chair. I nodded with a smile. "My, what beautiful teeth you have," she commented. "The better to eat you with, my dear," I replied.

It took her three or four hours to scrape away the layers of plaque, film, and mold that had built up on my molars and bicuspids. Finally Ginger removed the tools and inserted the suction device. "Here baby, suck on this," she ordered. I gladly obeyed. Then she bent over and whispered in my ear, "You look like you could use a good flossing." I reached up to her face, pulled down her mask, and said, "OK, but you have to use your pubes!"

Ginger smiled, her eyes lit up, and before I knew it, she was on top of me, riding me like the Tooth Fairy on Santa Claus. Then she paused, reached over to the Tray of Pain, and produced an electric toothbrush. "You know, these can be used for other things," she said. Taking her cue, I grabbed the instrument from her hand and screamed, "Open wide, bitch!" She did, and before I knew it, I was filling her cavity with...


So as Ginger buttoned her blouse, I asked her when I should set my next appointment. She said, "How about tomorrow night, at my place?" I zipped up my pants and asked, "Do I get to be on top this time?" She blew me a kiss and replied, "You know, four out of five dental hygienists like it in the ass!"

I'm thinking about volunteering for elective root canal surgery next week.