Wacky Office Hijinks

I hate to bore you with another work-related post, but it's my blog and I'll do as I damn well please...so here's an update.

A guy in the office whom I've never met turned 40 this past week. You may be asking yourself, if you've never met the guy, how do you know this? Well STOP ASKING YOURSELF QUESTIONS WHILE YOU'RE READING MY FUCKING BLOG, YOU DUMBASS SACK OF SHIT. PAY ATTENTION AND READ THE WHOLE POST BEFORE YOU ASK YOUR STUPID QUESTIONS, OKAY??

But to answer your question, I know this guy turned 40 because somebody decided it would be funny to play a little joke on the birthday geezer. This hilarious prankster sneaked in the office after hours and adorned his cube with black balloons and black crepe paper. This comedic genius also made photocopies of the guy's photo with a clever caption underneath it that said (drumroll please) "Lordy Lordy, Look Who's 40" and plastered them all over the office.

(I'll give you a few moments to recover from the uncontrollable laughter.....That's it, take a deep breath.....Maybe ask yourself a few more questions. You seem to like that.....)

OK, better now?? Good. Now listen up. If I am still working in this cube farm on my 40th birthday (God forbid), I'm going to buy myself a little present on the way to work that day: an Uzi. If, upon reaching my cube, I see one balloon, photo, or gag gift, I swear on a stack of pancakes I will SHOOT EVERY LIVING THING within a THREE-MILE RADIUS. I will then WRAP YOUR CORPSES in BLACK CREPE PAPER and SHOVE BLACK HELIUM BALLOONS inside your ANAL CAVITIES. Next I will BURY YOUR CARCASS in a URINE-FILLED GRAVE filled with ANGRY STING RAYS and LEAVE YOU THERE to ROT.

I think I've made my point. ANY QUESTIONS???????


The Legend of the Golden Keys

Question: Have you ever had your keys urinated on by a poodle? No?? Well I have.

It happened last Sunday. It was a nice day, so I decided to do something new. For the first time in 13 years, I engaged in a physical activity that did not end in an orgasm. That physical activity is known as basketball. For those of you who don't know, basketball is a sport invented by Abner Triplenight in 1857. The original concept was developed by white plantation owners, who would toss old musketballs through a wagon wheel mounted horizontally to the side of a tree. At first, it was not a very well-liked game, as the musketballs were quite heavy and incredibly difficult to dribble. But in a stroke of genius, Triplenight replaced the musketball with a rubber, air-filled ball. Fast forward a few hundred years, and today, basketball is an extremely popular sport enjoyed mainly by tall colored folks in the ghetto.

Now while I am neither tall nor colored, I used to be pretty damned talented when it came to handling balls. In fact, they used to call me Hoops Dyckerson back in the day. You remember that "White Men Can't Jump" movie?? Well I was the inspiration for it. Anyway, I was curious to see whether or not I still had my mad skillz. So last Sunday, I hopped in the DyckMobile and cruised through da hood to the local high school, which just so happens to have a basketball court behind it.

First thing I did when I got there was toss my keys on the concrete next to the basketball net pole thingie. When I'm playing, I move like a panther...so I didn't want any unbalanced weight in my pockets throwing off my game. So there I am, slamming dunks and scoring three-pointers like a mofo. Pretty soon, a crowd starts to gather. All the neighborhood kids are studying my technique and marvelling at my swan-like grace...when in the distance I notice an old woman walking a dog. I continue playing the game and dazzling the crowd, but I notice she's getting closer. And closer. The dog is a poodle, and it is clearly in charge of this walk. I take a concerned glance over at my keys beside the pole...then I glance back at the approaching canine. I think to myself, "Nah. This is a huge, wide-open space with grass all around it. There's no way in hell that little mutt would..."

It was at that moment when it happened. Pepe's eyes locked on that pole, he made a beeline for it, and he cocked his leg. It was too late for me to respond, and the old woman was oblivious to the whole thing. All I could do was stand there and watch in horror as this french furball emptied its bladder on my keys. Game over.

I carefully approached the crime scene as the perp and its human accomplice scurried away. I was hoping maybe he missed. He did not. That little bastard scored a free throw right on my keys. Franctically, I scanned the area for a water source - a garden hose...a water fountain...a stream...even a fucking mud puddle. Nothing. So with great ire, I scooped up the evidence and drove home, with poodle piss dripping from my steering column and onto my knee caps.

And this, my friends, is why I never like to leave the house.


Putting Out Fires

Folks, I am livid. Just take a gander at what I found in my mailbox today...

Dear Mr. Dyckerson:

My name is Jorges Wongerez, and I am the president of the National Association for the Advancement of Spics and Chinks (NAASC). Your recent post entitled "I Hate People" was brought to my attention by our acting secretary, Kwang E. Chang. I believe you two have met.

I have reviewed the aforementioned blog post, I am shocked and outraged at the negative stereotypes you are perpetuating. You implied Hispanics are nothing more than promiscuous thieves and menial laborers, and you displayed an unflattering image of an Asian man with a stupid expression on his face.

Surely you are aware of the extreme disservice you are doing to our nation's spic and chink population. I demand that you remove the offending post at once, or the NAASC will file civil suits against both Mighty Dyckerson and Dyckerson Enterprises Worldwide. You have been given 24 hours to comply.

Thank you for attention to this matter.

Jorges Wongerez

P.S. - Love the Google ads! I can't stop clicking on them!

Obviously this requires some serious finessing. I have drafted the following response, which should help to shut them up. Let me know if you think I left something out...

Dear Senor Wongerez:

Thank you for your recent letter. Please accept my deepest apologies for any pain I have caused your people. It was never my intention to promote negative stereotypes in any particular racial group(s). Rather, I was merely trying to convey the intense anger and bitter hatred I feel toward all people...regardless of sex, race, religion, or Creedance Clearwater Revival. I have nothing personal against your chinks and your spics. I know they can't help it that they're not white.

Furthermore, I'd like to point out that my dry cleaner happens to be of Asian descent. I'm not sure if he's Chinese or Japanese - they all look alike - but he does an excellent job on my shirts. Always the perfect amount of starch. I guess they know all about starch, what with all that rice they eat. I noticed he's also a fairly good driver, which is pretty rare for those people.

Then there is the Hispanic chick who works at the convenience store down the street from my house. I'm amazed at how polite and friendly she always is, despite the fact that she probably lives in a cramped studio apartment with 28 other illegals.

So there you have it. I hope this clears up any misunderstandings you may have had. And thanks for reading The Mighty Blog!!!

Mightonimous "Mighty" Dyckerson

There, that should shut up those foreign fuckers!!!


I Hate People

Yesterday I had a doctor's appointment. Nothing to be concerned about. I'll spare you the details, but it involved projectile vomiting, explosive diarrhea, and a plate of bad spinach. Seriously, I was puking up things I ate a year ago...and some things I don't even remember eating. In fact, I had to have my septic tank pumped out five times in one day! And the smell - my God, the smell!!! But like I said, I'll spare you the details. So I showed up at the doctor's office yesterday for my appointment, and the waiting room was fucking packed. I knew I was going to be there for a while, so I decided to engage in a little people watching.

First up was this really hot spic chick in a jogging outfit. She couldn't have been more than 17, but looked like a very mature 17. I thought about offering to share my barf bag with her, but alas, she was there with her mother and an obnoxious little brat kid. I was curious as to whether the brat was her little brother or her son, but frankly, I was afraid to find out. Anyway, the brat kept stealing shit out of the girl's purse and walking away with them. (I guess it was just his hispanic nature shining through. If we had been outdoors, I suspect he would have done some impromptu landscaping.) At one point, he dug a prophylactic out of the girl's purse and presented it to me like a trophy. (I guess I found out who his mother is.) But always being a good sport, I dropped my pants and modeled it for him.

Next was the fat guy with the cheap cologne. The kind of cologne you buy from Cosco in 20-gallon drums. He waddled in and took the only available seat...which happened to be right beside me. Luckily, I still had that condom, so I removed it from my wang and affixed it to my nose.

Then we have the smiling granny. This was a woman, approximately 80 years of age, who smiled constantly. I thought a botched facelift might have been the culprit, but the woman had more wrinkles than a box of California raisins, so I ruled out that possibility. I think the part that really creeped me out was that she was smiling while reading a newspaper...and it was turned to the obituary section! I guess she was just happy her name wasn't in there.

Of course, no random gathering of at least 10 people would be complete without a token chink. This piece of work couldn't speak two words of English, but yet seemed fascinated by the medical channel, which was being force-fed to us on a video monitor. And it's not like they were showing anything good like a breast exam. It was just a talking head reporting on the latest advances in tongue depressors. I felt really sorry for the reporter. How bad a journalist do you have to be to end up working for the medical channel?? Think about it. This channel is not available on any cable or satellite system. It is only watched by people who have NO FUCKING CHOICE!!!

And last but not least, there was the self-important career woman. She came in dragging one of those long-handled briefcases on wheels. Have you seen these fucking things before?? Why can't these lazy pricks just PICK UP THEIR SHIT and CARRY IT??! Or better yet, LEAVE IT IN THE CAR!!! Believe it or not, the Earth will continue to rotate without your damn laptop. But the career woman would have none of that. She had to lug her crap with her and set up shop in the doctor's office. Of course, she didn't know how to control the fucking thing, so she was banging it into furniture and rolling over people's feet with it the entire time. I kept hoping the hispanic kid would steal it.

I'm sure there were plenty of other dipshits in that waiting room, so if you're reading this and you happen to be one of them, my apologies for leaving you out. But if you contact me with your name and your act of stupidity, I'll be happy to add you to this list. Now if you'll pardon me, it's time to pump the septic tank again...


Dyck 101

Some of you veteran Dyck lovers may have noticed that a lot of new readers have been visiting The Mighty Blog lately. I don't know where all these losers are coming from, but it is quite gratifying to know that the gospel of Dyckerson is sweeping the world. I would like to take this opportunity to welcome the newbies and answer some of the questions that have been flooding my inbox...

Crashtest Comic says: Dyckerson, your blog inspired me to begin a career in standup comedy. I want to learn from you. Could you describe your process?

Dyck responds: Sure. I never know when an idea for a blog entry will hit me, so I always carry with me a bag of delicious Doritos. Every time I come up with a new idea, I write it on a Dorito and file it away in a shoebox. Once a week, I empty the shoebox and sort the Doritos into one of several categories...like sex, bodily functions, current events, etc. I do not own a computer, so once I choose a topic to cover on the blog, I will sit down at my manual typewriter and crank it out. I then place the printed blog entry in a fireproof safe, crate it up, and have it shipped to my headquarters at an undisclosed location. There, one of my assistants opens the safe, scans the blog entry into a computer, and posts the blog entry on the Internets for the world to enjoy. Then I eat the Dorito.

Bostick says: Who makes up your audience?

Dyck responds: An excellent question. Basically, my audience is made up of two groups of people. The first group is composed of highly attractive women with whom I'd like to engage in sexual intercourse. The second group is everybody else. This includes men, children, old geezers, ugly people, prison inmates, cripples, and the morbidly obese. I try to reach out to both groups in everything I write. This means seducing and sexually harassing members of the first group, while simultaneously insulting, offending, disgusting, and generally pissing off members of the second group. It's a difficult feat to pull off, but somehow I manage to do it.

Mr. Fabulous says: I want to be just like you. How did you get started?

Dyck responds: I began insulting people in the mid-to-late 90s, when the whole Internets thing began taking off. I would lurk in chat rooms and wait for the right moment to butt into other people's conversations. For example, I remember this cancer patient chatting to a friend about his chemotherapy sessions. He was rambling on and on about how his hair was falling out. Finally I offered to sell the diseased fellow a wig made entirely of rat fur. Well I could literally feel the anger emanating through my keyboard. I'm sure that guy is dead now...but it was at that moment that I realized I had a gift. Eventually I moved on to message boards, where my comments often got me banned by administrators who didn't understand me. Finally one day it hit me like a wet sack filled with severed penises: I needed my own blog!!! And the rest is history.

Willo's Mom says: Dyckerson, please help me. My daughter is completely obsessed with you. She has plastered every wall of her house with screen shots of your blog. She even keeps a journal under her mattress detailing all the fantasies she has about you. How do I discreetly tell her she has a problem? (BTW, please do not mention this on your blog. I don't want her to know I read her journal.)

Dyck responds: Your concern is admirable but unwarranted. Your daughter is exhibiting behavior that is totally consistent with my other fans. So you have nothing to worry about. In fact, why don't you and your daughter come by my place tonight around 11? Who knows, you might end up starting a journal of your own...if you know what I'm saying!

/t says: {//--**--\\} + "---0000----" / (3.1416) *-!!!-*?

Dyck responds: It's about 9 inches.

That's all the time we have for tonight. Dyckerson loves hearing from His adoring fans, so keep those emails a-comin'!


Suck My Plinko Stick

34 fucking years.

That's how long The Price is Right has been on the air. Today marked the first show of the 35th season of America's most exciting hour of fabulous prizes and blah blah blah. Yeah, I watched the season premiere. I admit it. Actually, I tivo'd it...as I do every day. But I don't always get to watch it, and when I do, I never watch the whole thing. In fact, once I fast forward through the commercials, endless prize plugs, and boring Showcase Showdowns, the show is only about four minutes long.

There's something kind of charming about a show that hasn't updated its set in 34 years. Do you know how many hands have touched that filthy wheel? I wouldn't spin that thing wearing a pair of Isotoner gloves. Jesus Christ, even homeless guys steal a new shopping cart every now and then! And the light bulbs...my God, the light bulbs!! They're everwhere, and in every shape, size, and color!!

And then there's the man himself, Bob Barker. The man refuses to die or retire, and no one knows why. Surely he must be sick and tired of pimping refrigerators and getting groped by fat old chicks. I guess it's better than the alternative: Rotting away in the Old Gameshow Hosts' Home with Wink Martindale and Bob Eubanks. Hell, even the crew is old. I swear one of the cameramen had a crap bag hanging from his camera...although I guess that could've been a parting gift. Who knows.

So here's to old Bob and The Price is Right, for doing whatever the fuck it is they do for 34 years and counting.


The Bobs

I have a bad feeling in my gut. And it has nothing to do with the 75 raw oysters I ate for breakfast this morning. This has to do with something that took place at work yesterday.

People in this company seem to love meetings. I swear they actually have meetings to discuss whether or not they should have meetings. And if they do have a meeting, they have another meeting afterward to discuss what went on at the meeting. Therefore I wasn't too concerned when I heard some guy wanted to meet with me yesterday, even though I had no idea who the hell he was.

If you've ever seen the movie "Office Space," you may recall the scenes in which the Initech employees were interviewed for their own jobs by "the Bobs." The Bobs were two guys named Bob who were brought in as consultants...but really they were hatchet men in disguise. Well, as it turns out, the guy who wanted to meet with me was a Bob. His name wasn't actually Bob, but I shall call him Bob for the purposes of this post. Trust me, I'm doing him a favor here, because his real name is so fucking gay, it requires a detailed analysis in a totally separate post.

So we have the meeting, and I find out Bob is here to "improve efficiency," and he is very interested in what I do...

Bob: So what would you say you do here?
MD: I am the FTP Manager. I take files from one computer, and I move them to another computer.
Bob: I see. And then what do you do with the files?
MD: Nothing.
Bob: I see. Well what happens to the files?
MD: The data geeks manipulate the files and give them back to me. Then I move them back to the original computer. Or something.
Bob: I see. Well why can't the data people move the files themselves?
MD: Umm...That's a nice tie. Really brings out your eyes.

There is actually a legitimate reason why the data geeks don't move their own files. But for the life of me, I can't remember what it is...which is too bad, because that information would have been really helpful in yesterday's meeting with Bob.

But I'm not worried. I'm only supposed to be doing this FTP gig temporarily. Then I'm supposed to become a full-fledged data geek myself. Unless Bob decides to move all the jobs to India. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an important meeting with a bottle of scotch.

BTW, what the fuck is this copy of "Yentl" doing mixed in with my wrestling tapes??!


Dyckie's Back

Hello, my good friends. I trust you are all doing well. I just ran across this image while I was shopping online for scented candles, and I just had to share it with you.

Isn't it beautiful? Whenever I look at a beautiful bouquet of flowers, I get a little choked up inside.

The most peculiar thing happened to me yesterday. I ran into the christian bookstore after work to purchase a fresh Bible. My old one was tattered and splotched with my tear stains. Anyway, as I made my purchase, a very attractive young woman came over to me and asked me if I believed in love at first sight. I told her no, I think love is a bond between two people that only forms after a long period of friendship and mutual respect. She seemed disappointed in my response. Then she asked me if I would be interested in seeing the tattoo she had on her inner thigh. I had to decline, for I believe the human body should not be scarred in the name of art. Again, the she seemed let down. Clearly that poor woman suffers from low self-esteem, and I truly hope she seeks professional help.

You know, I was thinking. What if clouds are really angels looking down on us? Maybe it's...




OK, I wasn't shopping online for scented candles. I was shopping for BUTT PLUGS and PORNOS. And it wasn't a christian bookstore. It was an ADULT BOOKSTORE. And she wasn't an "attractive young woman." She was a FILTHY WHORE. And for ten bucks, she let me BANG THE HELL OUT OF HER behind the dumpster outside the store. Then while she was getting dressed, I STOLE BACK the ten bucks and blew it all at the DOG TRACK. HA!!!!! Oh yeah, and if you want to see a REAL work of art, CHECK THIS OUT!!!

I'd like to JAM my BIG FAT SCHLONG between those GORGEOUS TITS and ((the remainder of this sentence has been censored by Blogger)).


Damn, that felt good.


Another Sensitive Post

Wow, the broads really seemed to dig my sensitive, classy 9/11 post! Today I was going to write about my latest bowel movement, but I have decided to forgo that post, and instead, expose some more of the inner Dyckerson. Here you go, ladies! Knock yourselves out!!

It has been a busy day, my friends. It all started this morning, when I woke up, opened my Martha Stewart drapes, and greeted the day. "What a beautiful September morn," I said to myself as I admired God's beauty. Just then, a small sparrow perched on the window ledge.

"Hello, little friend," I said to the sparrow. "I'm sorry I don't have time to talk to you, for the day is short and I have many things to do." The sparrow responded with a "tweet tweet" and fluttered away toward the majestic sky. I fixed myself a cup of herbal tea, gathered together some canned goods for the homeless shelter, and hopped into my environmentally-friendly Toyota Prius.

After stopping by the shelter, I headed for the church for the Tuesday morning sunrise service. When I arrive, I am greeted by Father O'Callahan, who is in hysterics. "Dyckerson, please help us! Our organist is out sick, and we need someone to fill in!" Naturally, I obliged. Following the service, an elderly woman came to me on bended knee. "Dyckerson, your Heavenly organ playing has healed me of my paralysis! I can walk!!" To show her gratitude, she offered me her life savings, but I refused. "Money is not important to me," I explained. "Give it to the church."

Next, I rushed over to the children's hospital to read to the blind kids. They had been asking for me, so I didn't want to be late. One of the doctors told me that a little girl's parents had died that morning in a terrible car accident, and they couldn't find any next of kin. "I don't know where to turn! Mary Sue has to be released today!" said the distraught physician. "Say no more, doc" I replied. "I shall adopt Mary Sue right now." The doctor fell to his knees and wept openly.

On the way home, I passed a homeless man begging for spare change by the road side. I stopped, got out, and walked up to the poor fellow. I put my arms on his shoulder, paused, and asked simply, "Why?" As the man told me his tale of woe, I knew what I had to do. I drove him home with my newly adopted daughter, where he received a warm bath, a clean set of clothes, and a hot meal. "You know, I used to be a pretty good cook," he told me at lunch. "Is that so," I replied. After lunch, I made a few phone calls and was able to get him a job as Head Chef of Renee's, a five-star French restaurant here in town.

Then there was a knock at the door. It was Heather, my next door neighbor. "Please help me!" she cried out. "My little kitty is stuck in a tree!" I immediately sprang into action. "I'll save your kitten," I assured her as I ascended that mighty oak. Moments later, the frightened feline was back in the safe, loving arms of its owner. "How can I ever thank you?" she asked. "The warmth and purring of your sweet little pussy is thanks enough," I told her.

Just then, the phone rang. It was my boss. "Dyckerson, when the fuck are you coming to work??!" he screamed. "Please do not use that kind of language with me," I replied. "I find it very offensive." He rattled off a few more obscenities and hung up. How can I go to work when the world needs me??

By now, I was so tired, I decided to make some hot chocolate and pop in my video of "Yentl." Now, as I lay down to slumber, I leave you with these words, which I penned whilst under the glow of the silvery moon:

Love is a river that flows long and deep
It fills my loins and makes me weep
The proper words, I cannot find
For the joy of life has blown my mind.

Good night.

There. If this shit doesn't get me laid, nothing will.


Five Years Later...

Five years ago, I was working the second shift at my old station. I was sound asleep in my former apartment when the planes hit. Mother Dyckerson called me sometime after 9am, and she was in hysterics. "Turn on the TV! Turn on the TV!" My first thought: The old woman had been hitting the sauce again.

Of course, I was glued to the TV the rest of the day. No, I mean I was really glued to the TV. Apparently some asshat put epoxy on the dial as a joke. I never did figure out who did that. Probably Lambo.

Anyway, there's no real point to this story...except that I'll never forget that day.

I have a couple of clips. The first is a live performance of Don Henley's New York Minute from 1994. This is from the Eagles' Hell Freezes Over video. I have a copy of everything Henley and the Eagles have ever released, and you should too.

The second is a YouTube clip of David Letterman. It's the first act of the first show produced after the attack. Dave has always been one of my TV heros, and this clip is part of the reason why. He pretty much says it all.


Nine Things I Will Never Put In My Mouth

SUSHI - I rarely eat fish even when it's properly cooked. I'm certainly not going to eat it while it's still squirming. Eons ago, I dated this really hot chick I met at work. She was as dumb as a rock, but she was a real piece of ass. Things were going swimmingly...that is, until we went to a fancy seafood restaurant and she ordered sushi. I was so disgusted, I threw down my hushpuppies, jumped out of the booth, and stormed out in a fit of rage. I didn't even take the time to finish coloring my placemat! Did I overreact?? I think not. When I'm on a date with someone, and there's the possibility that our lips may come in contact, I want to know what the hell I'm getting into. If I had kissed that chick, I would've been coming into indirect contact with raw fish germs. Well no thank you, sister. I'd rather go home, download Pud's blog, and masturbate with my filthy hand.

COFFEE - How could something that smells so great, taste so horrible? I've only tried it two or three times in my entire life, and each time it sucked just a little bit more. I thought maybe I could offset the extreme bitterness with copious amounts of sugar. No dice. Then I tried to dilute the shit with two gallons of whole cream. Didn't work...I could still taste the coffee. Centuries ago, I dated this really hot chick I met online. She was as crazy as a loon, but she was a real hot tamale. Things were going swell...that is, until I found out where she worked: Starbucks!!! I'll never forget the moment when she told me. I was so disgusted, I immediately withdrew my wee-wee from her hoo-hah, slapped her on the ass, and stormed out of her bedroom in a fit of rage. Did I overreact?? Fuck yes.

POP ROCKS & COKE - I know it's only a myth, but why take the chance?

A PENIS - Goes without saying, but if I don't include it on the list, one of you bastards will make a smartass comment about it. Actually, if it was my own penis, I suppose I would try it. But in His neverending cruelty, God made it impossible for me to reach it. If only the damn thing was one inch longer...

ANY FOOD SOLD AT A GAS STATION - I'm not talking about the snacks sold in vending machines. I figure those items are fairly safe. Nor am I talking about the gas stations with full-fledged convenience stores attached. No, I'm talking about plain old gas stations and garages. For example, the kind where you go to pay the grease monkey, and they're selling muffins at the cash register. Yes, muffins. Like most folk, I enjoy a good muffin every now and then. But there is absolutely nothing appealing about a gas station muffin, and I'm stumped as to why they are there. Now it could be the best fucking muffin in the whole damn world. A muffin so plump and moist, if you ate it, you'd think you'd died and gone to muffin heaven. But for me, as soon as that muffin made contact with that filthy gas station counter, it became trash.

COLLARD GREENS - What the fuck is a collard??! Never mind, I don't want to know. They just sound bad. Like the poor misunderstood gas station muffin, it's a matter of perception. Those collard greens could be perfectly tasty, but their very name is a major turn-off. The Collard Green Association needs to fire their marketing people and bring in some young blood to launch a re-imaging campaign.

A LIVE INSECT - I don't care if Joe Rogan shows up at my door with a giant sack filled with cash, I am not going to eat a bug. OK, maybe if it was a million bucks. I might even do it for a half million. Possibly a hundred thousand. Hell, who am I kidding?? I'd do it for a free donut.

THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA - Chances are, I will never get close enough to the Great Wall of China to put it in my mouth. It's just not on my top 10 list of places to visit. Probably not even on my top 50. I mean, who cares? It's just a stupid fucking wall. It just happens to be a large wall...which brings me to my second point. Even if I were to visit the Great Wall of China, it simply would not fit in my mouth. No matter how hard you try, it's physically impossible. Besides, you know the problem with trying to eat the Great Wall of China?? An hour later, you want to eat it again!!! (Note to Crashtest Comic: Feel free to use that joke in one of your little comedy bits.)

URINE & FECES - One exception: It has to be fresh, and it has to belong to Alyssa Milano.


Happy HNT!!!

I don't normally participate in this sort of thing, but Pud has inspired me with the revealing photo she posted today. So much so, that I've decided to make a confession of my own. That's right...I, Mighty Dyckerson, also blog in the nude. And here I am, sans clown make-up, for everyone to admire.....











My Ass Revealed!!!!

Alright, it seems that some of you have actually accused me of cheating in the Blog Feud between myself and RevRee. Well I am here to state categorically and undeniably that there is absolutely nothing you can say to make me admit it. Besides, if you want to talk about cheating, you need look no further than RevRee's blog to see the spam comments written by a certain filthy ovine who goes by the nickname "Lambo."

However, I am a fair and just Dyckerson. Just to prove everything is on the level, I shall take this opportunity to reveal my ass to the world...and contrary to popular belief, it is quite a fine looking ass.

Here, see for yourself...




Dyckerson = 141
RevRee = 109

I'd like to take a moment to thank all the little people who contributed to this most worthy cause. If I could remember your names, I'd mention them. The Feud is over, and clearly the best MAN won. No hard feelings, RevRee!

Okay Rev, a deal's a deal! Let's see some ASSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!


Blog Feud!!!


There's a figurative dark cloud looming over me this Labor Day, pissing all over my barbecue. That dark cloud's name is REVREE!

Don't get me wrong, I adore RevRee...so much so, that I even virtually impregnated her with my cybersperm. I tried to give her a virtual abortion with a not-so-virtual coathanger, but the virtual kid came out anyway. But the love affair is over. OVER, I tell ya!! Why, you ask? What could this lovely woman of questionable ethnic origin possibly have done to Dyckerson??

Check out her fucking blog. Today she writes a lameass post about finding a magazine on her bed. A post hardly worth reading...much less commenting on. But guess what...she's got TWENTY COMMENTS and counting!! When the fuck did she get so popular??! My blog posts are witty, inciteful, educational, and inspiring all at once...and what do I get? A small handful of legitimate comments from the same old losers, and 40 spam comments from some anonymous prick claiming I live in my mother's basement!

I'm not about to sit back while one of my affiliates' blogs surpasses mine in popularity...especially when that blog belongs to a woman! So the Feud has begun!!!

Now listen up, you bastards. I'm going to be watching RevRee's blog, and I'm going to be watching my blog. And I damn well better have more comments on MY blog, or heads will roll. Hell, I don't even care if it's one of Lambo's dull comments...as long as it's a legitimate, spam-free message. Now don't just sit there. Stop reading and start commenting! NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!

***UPDATE - As of this moment, this post is up to 23 comments...while RevRee's "Blog Feud" post contains ZERO COMMENTS! I declare Dyckerson to be the winner!! OK Rev, show us your asssss!!!!!!!


Recipe For A Hurricane

Eastern Virginia is recovering after Ernesto slammed into the region and pounded us with torrential downpours yesterday. Fortunately, I was able to survive nature's fury by hunkering down in my mother's basement. As I rode out the storm, I got to thinking. Though Ernesto was technically what they call a tropical defecation, it really is no different than a hurricane when you look at their ingredients. Allow me to elaborate...

First, you gotta have a generous supply of wind and rain. That's a given.

Next, you'll need a TV weather monkey jumping around in front of a color-splotched map. In Richmond, we have an abundance of these. There's Tom Patton, the ugly geek who looks like a gopher. When the weather makes the headlines, he likes to take off his sport coat, roll up his sleeves, and prance around the studio like a little fairy...which is what he is. Then there's John Bernier, the sleezy egomaniacal lardass who has worked at the number three station since the dawn of television. Every time he farts, he breaks into regular programming to tell us about it. He's unbelievably awful, and my sources tell me that off-camera, he's a conceited prick and a womanizer. Like I couldn't figure that out just by looking at him.

Follow that up with a heaping helping of dipshits. Natural disasters are a good way to easily identify the idiots in your community. They're the ones who attempt to drive their cars through 8 feet of rushing water. They also like to run their gas-powered generators inside their sealed living rooms. The exceptionally retarded folks go surfing in the middle of the Atlantic during the height of the storm. These mental midgets never seem to run out of creative ways to defy the laws of common sense, and their antics bring me unspeakable joy.

Now you'll want to sprinkle in a local politician or two. These people enjoy the limelight even more than the weather monkeys. For example, in Virginia our governor declared a "state of emergency" approximately seven years before the goddamn storm even formed. In case you're not familiar with this term, the "state of emergency" declaration allows governors to hold press conferences and photo ops in front of important-looking buildings.

Of course, no storm would be complete without massive power outages. Who's fucking idea was it to distribute electricity by stringing high-voltage wires in the air on 100-foot toothpicks? If wind isn't knocking the damn things down, it's lightning...or cars hitting the poles...or ice storms...or helicopters. Hell, I truly believe an electrical line could be brought down simply by the power of suggestion. So every month or two, I must sit in the dark and wait for the monopolistic power company to get around to fixing it whenever they damn well please.

And finally, there are the school closings. Not to sound like an old fart, but when I was a kid, schools usually didn't close unless there was some form of frozen substance on the ground. Didn't have to be ten feet of snow (I'm not THAT old). Could just be a thin layer of sleet. Or an ice cream truck spill on the highway. But nowadays, even a CHANCE of a storm shuts down the schools for a month. And thanks to the wonders of modern technology, the names of those fine learning institutions will be crawling across the bottom 7/8ths of your TV screen around the clock.

Dyckerson out.