The 80s Are Back!

The last time I wore cargo pants, I was in fucking grade school. The year was 1985, and Mother Dyckerson had purchased her favorite son a pair of gray pants with a ridiculous number of pockets.

"What the fuck is the deal with all the pockets?" I asked my beloved mommy.

"They're cargo pants, you dipshit," she replied. "All the kids are wearing them these days! Now shut your hole and finish waxing my legs!"

God I love that woman. Anyway, fashions changed, my growth spurted, and away went the cargo pants.

Fast forward 20 years, and guess what: The cargo pants are back, and they're better than ever! Hell, the fuckers even come pre-wrinkled nowadays! Man, these kids have it easy. Back in my day, if you wanted wrinkled pants, you had to leave them in the dryer for two...maybe three hours! Lazy bastards are too busy with their MTV and their dirty dancing to properly wrinkle a pair of pants themselves. What's next? Pre-skidmarked jockey shorts??!

Anyway, the cargo pants are back, but I've been hesitating to purchase a pair because I assumed they were targeted more for the 29-and-under crowd. Once you hit 30, there are certain articles of clothing you really shouldn't be wearing. (That's why I finally decided to part with my Underoos last year.) But the cargo pants seem to transcend all age groups. I mean, if a 60-year-old fat guy can wear them to go to the local CVS to purchase his Metamucil, then surely I, Mighty Dyckerson, can wear them to.....go to the local CVS and.....purchase Preparation H.

So yesterday, I finally broke down and bought a pair of cargo pants. Shorts, actually. I went with the popular khaki color. I was going to get the camouflage, but I was afraid I'd never be able to find them - ha, ha. But seriously, now that I have them, all those extra wrinkly pockets frighten and confuse me. So they'll likely stay in the drawer next to my bell-bottom jeans and my really skinny ties. Now if only leisure suits would come back...


For chrissakes, I've had enough of this heat bullshit! Every goddamn day for the past month, the daytime high has been over 180 motherfucking degrees! I can't fucking stand it anymore!!!

If I see one more has-been politician or washed-up news jockey plugging their dumbass global warming suckumentaries, I'm gonna shove a fucking glacier up their rotten asses! And you weather pricks can take your dipshit "heat index" nomenclature and your lameass "hot hazy humid" forecasts and go to bloody Hell!!!

I'm sick of it, do you hear me? Sick of it! As I type this, I am running five air conditioners, nine fans, plus a snow machine I stole from a nearby ski resort...yet it's still over 90 fucking degrees in here! I could fill an olympic-sized swimming pool with my own flop sweat...not that it would do any good, because it would all evaporate in about two nanoseconds!!!

This just in: In the last five minutes alone, over 50,000 old fuckers have died from heat exhaustion! Asthma sufferers are also dropping like flies, but there's nowhere to bury them because all the grave diggers have commited fucking suicide!!!

So listen up, Mother Nature, you filthy rotten cunt! Knock off the heat bullshit, and do it NOW!!! Is that clear, you stinking whore??! NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Corporate Hell

So I started this new job last week. And of course, along with most any new job comes...you guessed it...new co-workers. I've only met a few of these dipshits, but here's a brief glimpse of what I'm dealing with so far:

First there's Gail, the broad who, every day, comes to work reeking of coconut oil. I can't stand the smell of that shit. And what's more, the closest beach is nearly TWO HOURS from here! What the fuck, is she afraid she's going to get burned by the flourescent lights above her cubicle??! I've had to deal with these oily sun-worshipper types before, and trust me, they're all BITCHES.

Then there's Scott, the salsa king. I'm not talking about the latin dance. No, I'm referring to the condiment. This guy makes his own salsa at home, and then brings it in for everyone to sample. A nice gesture, you'd think. But you would be wrong. You see, Scott doesn't give a damn about being nice. He just wants you to compliment his salsa. A lot. "So did you like the salsa? It's got a little kick to it! It's great, isn't it? Here, have some more salsa! Isn't it great? Everybody just loves my salsa, how about you??!" I am not exaggerating here. I swear to God, if he brings that shit in one more time, I'm going to lace it with Drano.

Next, we have Jennifer the Wonder Dyke. She has been training me all week on FTP file transfers. All she does all day long is take files from a folder on one computer and move them to a folder on another computer. For security reasons, the developers and data people can't move their own goddamn files. Instead, they have to email a request to the FTP dyke. Then the FTP dyke files away the email, adds an entry into the FTP database, moves the appropriate file(s), and emails a response to the original requestor. Jennifer takes her job very seriously, but everybody else in the office knows it is a fucking joke.

Finally, there's Ethan, the guy who likes to say the word "nomenclature." I've worked at this shop for less than two weeks, and I've heard this douchebag use that word at least ten times. He uses a lot of other needlessly big words, but "nomenclature" seems to be his favorite. I guess we're all supposed to be impressed.

That's it for now, but I've only scratched the surface. This is a huge company, and I'm sure many of the other idiots and morons will soon make their presence known. So stay tuned for further updates.


My First Drunken Post

So i went out to a bar which i rarely do, and i'm sitting at the bar drinking rum and ckes. There's this really hot chick sitting a few stools down witha fat female friend but her view is paritially aobstructed bya goddampoll but i keep looking at her but hse doesn't look at me...andyway I keep looking at her wondering why nobody is approachign this fine lookige ass but i'm such a pussy that i don't buy her a drink, so finally she leaves with her fat firend and then i take aleak and leave too, only its fuciking pouring otuside so i have to run to the parking lot - you ever try running while you're drunk? It's not a good thing, an;yway I made it home so Here i am all alone. Godd that woman was beautifujl what the fuck is wrong with me anyway/


Oh by the way jemped im' in love iwth you so i hope you''ll call me sometime and we could talk OK/ you're beatufivul!

You know who else is hot is that Amey poehlar on snl, the show sucks and she's kinda old but she's still gettin it done, you know what i mena/?


Work Sucks!

Holy fucking shit in Heaven above, I hate starting a new job.

First of all, you're trying to make a good impression, so everything is a test. Better not show up for work late the first day. Better not have any armpit stains on your shirt. Better not do five grams of cocaine and have sex with the secretary in the janitor's closet during lunch.

Then you have to remember everyone's names and pretend like you're happy to meet them. Plus, I fucking hate people who say "welcome aboard." They all think they're the first ones to come up with that line. For the love of shit, just say "hi" and get back to your Solitaire game.

Next, if you're in a large building, you've got to figure out where the fuck everything is. The place where I'm working is such a huge maze of cubes, I have to pull up fucking MapQuest to find a place to take a goddamn leak. And I'm told there's a snack machine on the third floor. Perhaps next spring, I'll take a week off and try to find it.

Not to mention all the dumbass company policies. This company has a fucking policy or procedure for EVERYTHING. Need a paper clip? Just log on to the company's intranet site and fill out a request form. Want to take time off? You get 8.002 hours vacation time for every 41.375 hours worked, except if it's a leap year, in which case you get 7.9993 hours off per 40.0040322222 hours worked. Shit, this company even has a form to fill out if you run out of other forms!

Perhaps most important is the office politics. Who can you go to for help? Who should you avoid like the plague? Stuff like, "Don't bother Bob if it's the last Friday of the month - he's always cranky because that's the day he has to pay his alimony." Or, "Alice is a dyke, so don't tell her you hate Rosie O'Donnell, even if you do."

Despite all this, the job seems to be going well so far. Actually, I haven't done a fucking lick of work since I've been there...so it's quite similar to my old job in that regard. In fact, I've been told by several people not to expect any actual work til I've been there a few weeks. I'm not looking forward to it.



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Fuck "Bureau Chief"

Yesterday's mention of Medialine in my "Breaking News" post (see below) sparked a controversial new thread on the once-popular message board. Predictably, the intelligent people spoke out in favor of my return...while the idiots and jackasses called for my continued banishment. However, one jackass who calls himself "Bureau Chief" (yeah right) had this to say about yours truly...

"...This is a board for those in the media to exchange ideas etc, by his own admission, he was canned and now works in computers..."

Hey dipshit. You can insult me with clever nicknames like "mighty dork." You can claim to hold a position of authority in some podunk news outfit. But you will not - I repeat NOT - put words in the mouth of the one and only Mighty Dyckerson!!! Never have I ever been canned from a media job, or any job for that matter. I was damned good at what I did, and my bosses knew it. And even if I had ever been fired (which I haven't), I would certainly never admit it on a goddamn two-bit message board. So Bureau Chief, I am calling you out. You, sir, are a fucking liar! LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE! What have you got to say for yourself now, asshole???

There. I'm glad I got that out of my system.



We interrupt this blog for some major breaking news. Dyckersonville HQ has been bustling with activity all week, so let's get right to it...

First, an update on my ass. The pain has largely subsided, thanks to the many remedies suggested by my loyal fans. I wish I knew who to give the credit to, but I've jammed everything from potatoes to tomatoes to raw egg yolks up my cornhole...so it's hard to tell which one worked. But thanks to all for trying to help.


Next, an update on my employment status. If you're too fucking lazy to click the link, last May my company informed us that they were shutting down the local office and moving operations to Bumfuck, South Carolina, at the end of the year. I immediately began a worldwide job search, and after several grueling interviews, I finally accepted a job doing something at some company. I don't really know what I'll be doing...only that I've never really done it before, despite having told the employers otherwise. I don't really know much about the company either...except that they're willing to pay me money.

Yesterday was my last day at my old job, and I start the new job on Monday. How long the new job lasts depends on how well I can bullshit my way through it. So if any of you asshats know anything about SQL, T-SQL, DTS, and Stored Procedures, I would greatly appreciate a crash course. I bought a bigass 800-page book that covers all of this, but I really don't want to read it. In fact, I really don't even want the job. Maybe I won't show up on Monday.


Someone has been secretly resurrecting old Dyckerson threads over on Medialine. Seems the Dyckerson legacy has not been forgotten in the four months I've been banned. In fact, my popularity appears to be greater than ever! I've been contemplating writing another suck-up email to Mark the moderator in hopes of getting him to cave. We'll see what happens.


And speaking of message boards, Dyckersonville is on life support. Someone besides Stacy better start posting or I'm pulling the fucking plug. I honestly couldn't care less either way.

We now return you to our regularly scheduled blog, already in progress. Stay classy.


I Have Been Ass Raped.

At least, that's what it feels like. Not that I would know, mind you. I mean, I've never been ass raped before...unless you count that one time I accidentally sat on a Zima bottle. But that's another story for another day. No, the pain I am feeling right now comes from something called a "hemorrhoid." The term "hemorrhoid" comes from the latin hemo, which means unGodly painful burning sensation, and the German rrhoid, which means asscrack.

Special thanks to my internet wife and business associate RevRee for helping me to diagnose this condition. Last night during one of our cybersex sessions, I happened to discreetly mention that my ass hurts. I told her I suspected a hemorrhoid, but I wasn't sure. But being the sport that she is, RevRee rushed right over and examined me for lumps. And let me tell you something, friends, that woman sure is thorough! Honestly, at one point she was in up to her elbow! I swear, you'd think she had been probing anuses her whole life!!

Turns out the examination revealed one hemorrhoid...as well as several hairy, hardened dingleberries. So I was off to the store to pick up a tube of ass cream. I could already envision the impending nightmare at the check-out counter, as the cashier announces over the loudspeaker: "I NEED A PRICE CHECK ON PREPARATION-H! THAT'S RIGHT, THE GUY STANDING RIGHT HERE BESIDE ME HAS A SORE ASS AND NEEDS SOME OINTMENT, SO HE CAN TAKE IT HOME AND RUB IT ON HIMSELF!!"

When I returned, Nurse RevRee was waiting for me with some cotton swabs. As I stood bent over the kitchen table while she gently applied the ass cream, I couldn't help but think to myself, "If this isn't love, I don't know what is."

Today, the pain is still quite exquisite, thanks in part to an unfortunate cough and a rare mid-morning dump (two big no-no's for hemorrhoid sufferers). But fear not, Dyck fans...for I am on the mend and expect my bum to be in tip-top shape in no time. I just wish I knew what caused this excrutiating affliction. Personally, I think I caught it from Stacy. Lord knows where that woman has been - am I right people??!

But let's look on the bright side. At least I'm better off than this guy.
In the meantime, if anybody out there has any soft pillows I could borrow for a few days, my ass and I would be eternally (and externally) grateful. Thank you.


Fuck Happy People

Tires. If you've ever owned a bicycle or motorized vehicle, surely you're familiar with them. They're round and black. Air on the inside, rubber on the outside. They're an important safety feature, and I like to keep at least two or three of them on the DyckMobile at all times. But I've been driving on only one tire for the past year now - it was bald, it was flat, and it had a big hole in it...much like my first wife. Fearing it may not pass Dyckersonville's tough inspection criteria, yesterday I got up bright and early and took the DyckMobile to the local Wal-Mart's Tire, Lube, & Abortion Shoppe.

The cashier couldn't have been more of a bitch if she tried. She clearly did not care for me or her stinking job. But you know what? I kinda like that. I like that because it's normal. I mean, here is a woman who probably sees more tires and aborted fetuses in one day than I see in...well, two days. Why wouldn't she be in a pissy mood? In fact, if she were anything but a total bitch, I'd be worried. So I had no problem with her.

No, my problem lied with the freak in the waiting room. Let me ask you. Have you ever met someone who was so goddamn perky and cheerful that you wanted to smack the living shit out of them? If you answered yes, you are not alone.

"Hiiiiiiii!!!!!!" she said as I sat down. "Beautiful morning, isn't it??!! I'm getting my oil changed!!!!!!"

She was a fat woman. Fat and ugly. And she was gobbling up Burger King french toast sticks like there was no tomorrow. There was a moving picture box mounted on the wall, and it was tuned in to one of those godawful morning shows...one where hordes of people gather on sidewalks behind concrete barriers in hopes of being asked where they are from.

I paid little attention to the fat woman or the morning show, as I was still half-asleep. Instead, I took a seat, closed my eyes, and slowly drifted into dreamland........

"AAAHHHH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I was immediately startled awake by the high-pitched laughter of some strange creature. "What the fuck was that??!" I asked myself. "Has a wild lemur escaped from the zoo and sought refuge here inside Wal-Mart's Tire, Lube, & Abortion Shoppe??!" I looked around, and no wild lemur was to be found. Turns out the noise was emanating from the fat woman...she was cackling and pointing at the TV with a french toast stick. It was weather boy Al Roker, and he was trying on a hat that belonged to an audience member.


I turned to the fat woman. Then I turned to the TV. Fat woman. TV. Fat woman. TV. Then it clicked in my mind: The fat woman is actually amused at the sight of Al Roker wearing a strange hat. I was speechless.

Too tired to care, I shut my eyes and tried to block out this embarrassing display. As soon as I dozed off, a commercial came on. The ad was for cat food, and it featured...what else...a talking cat.

"BWWAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I swear to God, I thought she was going to choke to death on a french toast stick. The way she was carrying on, you'd think she just saw the Pope pull a chocolate bunny out of Bea Arthur's twat.

At this point, I was looking for a hidden camera. I figured that bald bastard Alan Funt had to be behind this. I mean, no sane adult could possibly find this crap amusing...especially while stranded in a Tire, Lube, & Abortion Shoppe at 7:00 in the fucking morning. But alas, there was no camera to be found.

Now the morning show is back on. They're doing a segment on new toys, and some guy in a suit is playing with a radio-controlled robot. Only the guy in the suit doesn't know what he's doing, so the robot is crashing into the set.


That was the last straw. There was a pot of complimentary coffee simmering on a table in the corner. I grabbed the pot, removed the lid, and poured the scalding hot contents onto her lap. Or in her case, the area where her lap would be if she weren't so damned fat. Then, before she could react, I grabbed her carton of greasy, syrupy french toast sticks and smashed them in her face.


I enjoyed the rest of my wait in peace, and the tires looked great.


Happy 4th, You Fuckers!

I know this blog is read by trillions of people around the world, but today's post is strictly for my American fans. So the rest of you can go to Hell. (Just make sure you return in time for my next post, in which I will examine foreign objects found in my feces.)

Dear Americans,

As we pause today to celebrate our independence from those lymie bastards across the pond, let us take a few moments between our wieners and burgers to remember the sacrifices our foreskins made for us to be here. Time for a little history lesson...Dyckerson style.

As we all learned in reform school, in 1492 Detective Columbo stole a speed boat from a cross-dressing queen in Spain. He then took off across the Atlantic with a case of cheap beer, got himself totally plastered along the way, and ended up landing on an island inhabited by seven stranded castaways. "Yo wazzup," he told the fat one they called the skipper. "I'm looking for a trade route to the West Indies. Yeah, that's it." The castaways sent Columbo on his way, and soon he crashed into a Plymouth parked on a beach. "What the fuck??! Who put this goddam continent here??!" America had been discovered.

Fast forward to 1607. A bunch of lymies named John Smith piled into a Carnival Cruise ship and headed west to steal America from the Indians. Upon reaching the new world, they wasted no time fucking it up. One of the John Smith's found himself an underage prostitute named Pocohontas, and they rented a room in a Motel Six. Nine months later, Vagina Dare was born. Meanwhile, some of the other John Smith's stole some tobacco from the Indians and built themselves a cigarette factory.

Well one of the other John Smith's bragged about this on MySpace to his buddies back home, and the Brits decided they wanted a piece of the action. "Let's tax those motherfuckers," they said. The colonists protested, threw a bunch of Snapple into Boston Harbor, and declared war.

The war dragged on for years, and in an attempt to boost his approval rating, President George Jefferson enlisted the help of America's first outwardly gay musician, Francis Scott Francis Francis Key Scott Francis. "The Star Spangled Banner" became an instant top 40 hit...mainly because there were only three songs in existence. All of the John Smith's and their bastard children began downloading the song onto their measely 1-gig iPods, and the president's approval rating soared.

Eventually the Americans won the war. Then a group of John Smith's met at a Waffle House and penned the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights on the back of a napkin. (It was a big napkin.) "Damn, this is some good shit," they remarked. "Let's frame it and sell copies on eBay!" And thus, the United States of America was born.

There you have it, my fellow citizens. Let us not forget the sacrifices that were made to protect the freedoms we enjoy today. So in memory of those wacky John Smith's, take a few moments today to bang a whore and smoke some weed. For this is the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Oh yeah. And fuck England.

Mightonimous Q. Dyckerson