11/28/2006

Mighty Dyckerson - 85.7 / Karlababble - 86.0

That's the final score according to Blog Laughs, a blog review site.

When I saw that the crazy babbler had beaten me by a lousy THREE TENTHS of a point, I nearly dropped my pork rinds. Don't get me wrong, 85.7 is a good score, and in general, the reviewers liked my blog. But for a MERE WOMAN to beat me at ANYTHING is simply inconceivable!! How could this happen??!

Let's break it down, shall we?

The first category was CONTENT. In this category, Ms. Babble and I tied. Most of my comments were very flattering, but a few reviewers said they found my blog to be "juvenile." Juvenile??!! Oh yeah, well yo momma wears socks that smell!!!

The second category was DESIGN. This is where I lost the most ground. Ms. Babble scored a whopping 2.2 points higher than me! Based on some of the comments, I get the distinct impression that some of the reviewers didn't like my flashing lights. I don't know, something about them being obnoxious and seizure inducing. I think they're just jealous that they didn't think of it first.

The third category was QUALITY OF WRITING/GRAMMAR. Again, Ms. Babble beat me here. But come on, what do you expect? Do I look like Willie Shakespeare here?? Besides, I write most of this shit when I'm drunk.

The fourth category was INTANGIBLES. I came in behind Ms. Babble here as well. Again, reviewers took this opportunity to poon my chasing lights. That's it, I'm adding 12 more rows of lights just to piss them off.

The fifth category was FREQUENCY. Here's where I slaughtered Ms. Babble. I'm the hardest working blogger in show biz, posting nearly three times more often than the crazy babbler. I don't know about you, but I'll take three of my half-assed, juvenile posts over one of her witty, inciteful posts any day of the week!

The sixth and final category was WOULD YOU READ THIS BLOG REGULARLY. Ms. Babble beat me once again by a small margin. Not surprising, for at this point I feel this contest is rigged. In fact, I suspect Ms. Babble performed favors of a sexual nature on the reviewers in exchange for higher scores. And if this is the case, I cry foul. Especially since I would've been willing to go down on all of the reviewers if they had asked...and I guarantee I would have performed much better.


I have no ending for this post, so I'll just say fuck you all and good night.

11/25/2006

Calling Dateline NBC...

Something very strange happened to me on Thanksgiving. I'm not even sure I should be talking about this here, but I feel the need to unburden myself of this troubling onus. (That's ONUS...with an O.)

Anyway, my Thanksgiving tale (that's TALE...with an LE) involves my precocious 6-year-old niece whom I'll call Nice (the French pronunciation). Nice loves her Uncle Dyck, and Dyck loves his niece Nice. But Nice possesses a great deal of energy, which I can only assume is pent-up rage.

So I'm at my brother's house, and I'm sitting on the couch before lunch trying to ignore the relatives. Nice the niece decides she wants to play with her uncle. I don't mean she wants to play a game with her uncle. I mean she wants to play with her uncle.

She starts off by placing a wide variety of foreign objects on my head. A pink hat...a stuffed animal...a pair of cartoon sunglasses...a piece of dog feces. I'm a good sport, so I played along. Then Nice decides to kick it up a notch. She runs way over to the other side of the room, looks at me straight in the eye, and runs at me full force. Surely she'll stop once she reaches me, I thought. Well, I thought wrong.

Once she gets one step away from the couch, Nice takes a gigantic leap in the air and lands right in my lap. Well someone needs to teach this kid a thing or two about respecting male anatomy, because I don't normally wear a cup to Thanksgiving dinner. Just doesn't seem necessary. Christmas, however, is a different story. I've worn a cup every Christmas since my brother got that Louisville Slugger back in '82. But I digest.

Actually, by some miracle, I survived the impact with Nice, averting disaster by mere inches. It's what happened after the initial smackdown that has me a bit concerned.

Christ, how do I put this? You see, Nice was jumping up and down on my lap when I started to realize that...that something was happening to my aforementioned male anatomy. Something that normally doesn't happen til after I've consumed three bottles of Viagra and watched ten minutes of Baywatch.

Now before I continue, I want to make this absolutely clear: I am not a pedophile, nor have I ever had inappropriate thoughts of a sexual nature involving children. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But guys, you know how it is. Sometimes Mr. Happy just has a mind of his own, and there's nothing you can do to stop him. And in my case, any sensation that occurs in that general area of my body will usually result in a certain transformation that...

...Oh fuck it, my 6-year-old niece gave me a goddamn boner!!!

There, I said it. So I'm sitting there with Nice the niece on my lap, and I'm praying to God she doesn't notice and say something really loud in front of all the relatives. This was my nightmare scenario:

Nice: Hey Uncle Dyckerson, you're poking me in the butt!
Uncle Dyck: Umm...that's probably just my car keys. Heh heh.
Nice: But aren't those your keys on the counter over there?
(Relatives all turn and stare at me in shock.)
Uncle Dyck: Umm...yeah...hey, why don't you go check on the turkey??
Nice: No, I like it here! Hey Mommy! Daddy! Uncle Dyckerson is poking me in the butt!!
(At this point, my brother would bludgeon me to death with a half-frozen drumstick. At the funeral home, they'd have to drill a hole in the coffin lid to get it closed.)

Fortunately, the nightmare scenario didn't play out. Nice finally got off my lap, totally oblivious to the bulge beneath her. Not sure what that says about my endowments. But I promptly placed a nearby pillow over the crime scene until things subsided, so to speak. And I spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to think about baseball.

So that's my Thanksgiving Day story. I guess I'm really looking for some reassurance from other guys. Bostick, you've got kids, right? Has this ever happened to you? Photogguy, how about you? What about you, Bacon Eggar?? Hey Babbler, did Wombat ever get a stiffy from little Joke? I will be awaiting your candid responses...


11/22/2006

Gobble This

Some of you may not be aware of this, but I paid my way through reform school by working at the Butterball Hotline. As a result, I am an absolute expert when it comes to turkeys. So as a public service this Thanksgiving, I decided to take a few minutes and answer some of the most common turkey-related questions.....


Q: How long should I cook my turkey?

A: What a stupid question. Microwave your bird at full power one hour for every pound it weighs. Or, if you like a smokier flavor, strap it to your car's exhaust system and run the engine for six hours.


Q: What is the best method for carving a turkey?

A: Mother Dyckerson always used a hacksaw and lots of elbow grease. Of course, her turkeys tended to be a bit on the tough side. If you don't have a hacksaw handy, a Dremel tool or some piano wire will suffice.


Q: Michael Richards (TV's "Kramer") has accepted our invitation to be our dinner guest. Any advice on how to prepare his meal?

A: Well, I hear he's not crazy about dark meat...


Q: We plan on serving homemade pork rinds with dinner this year. How should we prepare them?

A: Try this recipe handed down to me by my Grandpa Dyckerson: Fuck an umbilical cord out of your phony asshole and hang a pig with it, while I impregnate you with my 80 year old pork rind dick. You'll give birth to a dead pig. Cut it into pork rinds, salt the dead skin and put it in plastic bags! Serves 8-10.


Q: As a prank, our teenage son dropped our frozen turkey from a highway overpass into oncoming traffic. It collided with a van filled with precious babies, killing all on board. Our problem is, our turkey is now severly mangled. Is there anything we can do to salvage our Thanksgiving meal?

A: Ah yes, kids will be kids! Yes, your bird can be saved. First off, you'll want to remove any shards of broken glass that may be embedded in the carcass. Next, bodies can become missiles in an accident...so be sure to examine the turkey for any baby body parts that may have become lodged in it. And finally, thoroughly rinse your poultry in soap and water to remove any traces of gasoline, diesel fuel, engine oil, antifreeze, transmission fluid, axle grease, road tar, blood, guts, urine, or feces. Follow these instructions and your turkey will be scrumdelicious!


Q: Any ideas for leftover turkey?

A: Take all your scraps - gristle, bones, giblets, feathers, what have you - and jam them into a blender. Add a teaspoon of tobasco sauce and a raw egg. Defecate liberally into the blender and puree for 30 seconds. Pour contents in a FedEx pack and overnight it to O.J. Simpson.


Well that's all the time we have for today. Happy Thanksgiving, you pilgrim fuckers!!!





11/19/2006

If I Did It...

Say what you will about O.J. Simpson. Sure, we all know he hacked his wife and Ron Goldman to death in cold blood. But that man is a frigging GENIUS! Seriously, who else could have hatched a plan to confess his guilt to the world...without actually confessing anything...and potentially get paid millions of bucks for doing so? O.J., you are my hero!!!

In fact, I'm going to take a page from his book and do a little non-confessing of my own. So make yourselves nice and comfy and prepare to be pooned.*

First off, I'm not saying I masturbate at work. But if I did masturbate at work, I would probably use the handicapped stall on the third floor, not the one on the sixth floor where I work...for fear that my co-workers may recognize my shoes and catch on to my little game. And I would probably masturbate in the morning, before anybody had a chance to take a poon and stink up the joint. But again, that's only if I masturbated at work.

And while we're on the subject, I'm not saying I jizzed on the mashed potatoes at the company-catered Thanksgiving lunch last year. But if I did, I would probably do it two or three times for good measure. And I might have done it in the supply closet next to the kitchen so no one would see me.

Next, I'm not saying I once sold my piece of shit '84 Pontiac Fiero, which had a history of overheating and catching on fire, to some schmuck on eBay who flew a thousand miles to pick it up. And I'm not saying he didn't even make it across the state line before the fucking thing blew up on his ass. And I'm not saying I pooned all the way to the bank with his $1,200 cash. I'm not saying that at all.

Oh, and I'm not saying I once ate entire package of Oscar Meyer hot dogs in one sitting. But if I did eat an entire package of Oscar Meyer hot dogs, I might have spent the entire day puking and shitting in a wide assortment of colorful plastic containers. And one of those colorful plastic containers might have accidentally spilled on the floor and stained the carpet. And instead of cleaning the carpet, I might have simply covered the stain with a cheap throw rug. Of course, I'm not saying any of this actually happened.

Now I'm not saying I have a phony handicapped sticker on my car so I can get the best parking spaces. But if I did have a phony handicapped sticker, I might have gotten it from my friend Dirk the alcoholic who works down at the DMV in exchange for a case of beer.

And finally, I'm not saying I slept with my roommate's girlfriend back in college. But if I did sleep with her, I would probably poon her at her place, so as to prevent my roommate from finding us. And I might have gotten her drunk beforehand to loosen her up a bit, because she might have been a little nervous at first. And if my roommate ever confronted me about it, I might have lied through my teeth.

Okay, that last one totally happened. Five times. There, I might feel better now.



* I have no idea what the fuck "pooned" means. I just heard it somewhere and it sounded good, so I decided I absolutely had to work it into a blog post.

11/17/2006

Be Very Afraid

I am in fear for my life. After almost 10 years of insulting and offending people online, the inevitable has finally occured. That's right, I am being stalked by a deranged psychopath.

Now I know what you're thinking: "But Dyckerson, you are a deranged psychopath!" Yes, 'tis true. And indeed I have many, many stalkers...but I'm okay with that. I mean, there's nothing wrong with a little good clean stalking amongst consenting adults. In fact, I even planted some lovely bushes in my front yard so my stalkers would have a nice place to hide. Last night, I even brought them milk and cookies.

But this stalker is completely different. She appears to be happily married...she has a delinquent son named Joke who resembles Dennis the Menace on acid...and worse yet, she lives in a state where they say shit like "yee-haw" and they have coin operated mechanical bulls on every street corner.

Oh yes, and this stalker even has her own blog. Usually she writes about innocuous things like boobs and severed hands, but do not be deceived. If you read between the lines, her blog is actually just an excuse for her to express her insatiable lust for me. But enough fooling around, I shall keep you in suspense no longer.

Ladies and gentlefuckers, meet Ms. Karla J. Babble:



I know, it's not a pretty sight, is it?? Yes, this woman is totally obsessed with yours truly. What, you don't believe me?? Here, read for yourself:

10/01/2006:
"Frankly, Mighty Dyckerson...make...Millions of women...happy. This blog is my...magnet."

11/12/2006:
"I'm a humble and simple girl...and...I wanted the opportunity to...describe Dyckerson's writing. I think...it...clearly intelligent and profound...a goddamn genius!"


Still don't believe me?? I continue: This highly demented, deeply disturbed individual likes to force her son Joke to dress in women's clothing and parade him around in public for the world to see:




My thoughts and prayers go out to that poor child. Oh, the hours and hours of intense therapy he will undoubtedly require to overcome this trauma. (As an aside, I do find it curious that Joke is only 2 years old, yet he already has a bigger rack than his mommy.)

And this is the icing on the cake. This morning when I got out of bed, I drowsily stumbled to my window to greet the day. And here's what I saw when I raised the shade:




Now I ask you, is this the kind of behavior you'd expect from a normal, well-adjusted adult? I think not. Friends, I am calling on you for your help. Anybody out there have a spare bedroom where I could crash for a few weeks? I don't feel safe in my home anymore...


11/12/2006

A Star is Born

The Dyckerson household is brimming with excitement tonight, my friends! I just got the call a few minutes ago. Ladies and germs, my ass has been tapped.....to be the new host of The Price is Right, that is!!!

Yes, you read correctly. I am just as surprised as you are. My money was on Chuck Woolery, but apparently he's stuck in a 3-year contract to host fishing lure infomercials. Sucks to be him.

Actually, I've been after that gig for over 10 years now...ever since I heard the news about Bob Barker getting stoned and banging all the models on the show. I remember thinking to myself, "Dyckerson, if that old fossil can still get it done, surely you can." Well Bob, it's time for you to put your junk back in your pants...'cause there's a new Dyck in town!

Of course, the producers will have to agree to a few changes before I sign all the paperwork. I'm still working on my proposal, but here's my list so far:

  • I will hand-pick the contestants for each show. My selections will be based on their pricing skills, their enthusiasm, and most importantly, their cup size. In addition, I will replace the signature phrase "Come on down" with the much hipper "Get up bitch."
  • Despite technological advances, Barker still uses a goddamn hardwire handheld mic. Well I refuse to spend an hour every day grasping and speaking into something that looks like a black dildo. Instead, my microphone shall be wireless and shaped like a vagina.
  • You know that retarded game with the yodelling mountain climber homo? Well fuck him. Fuck him to death. The mountain climber will be replaced with an Iraqi suicide bomber...and the mountain will be replaced with a building filled with innocent women and children. The object of the game: To keep the suicide bomber from crashing his car into the building and killing them all. A little controversial for daytime, you say?? Well you just tell that to our brave men and women fighting overseas.
  • Then there's that stupid beeping wheel. Kiss that piece of shit goodbye. In its place, the players' scores in the showcase showdown will be determined by giant dart board. Each player will be required to drink three shots of tequila and throw a flaming dart at the board. High scorer goes to the showcase.
  • Of course, everyone's favorite game is Plinko, and I have no intention of getting rid of it. However, I will make one slight modification. As the game is currently played, contestants drop a series of wooden discs down a board penetrated by sharp spikes to win money. The sharp spikes will remain, but the wooden discs will now be replaced by adorable little puppies. Should make things more interesting.
  • And that brings me the closing line: "Have your pet spayed or neutered." What is this shit all about? What is this fascination Bob Barker has with animal genitalia?? I say we focus more on human genitalia. Try this closing line on for size: "Have your privates sucked and licked." Now that's a signoff I can really get behind!!

I know I'm not supposed to start until next fall, but I just can't wait to get in there and put my ideas in place. What I need to do is get rid of the old man before he changes his mind about retiring. Hmm...can anybody tell me the retail price of a bottle of rat poison???

11/10/2006

Pedophiles, Homos, and Freaks

Are any of you crotchsniffers old enough to remember a show called Mr. Wizard's World? It was an edukational program for kids that aired on Nickelodeon back in the 80's. Mr. Wizard was this really old dude...who had no apparent job...who lived by himself...and who routinely invited young children to his house to conduct "scientific experiments."

That's right, Mr. Wizard was a pedophile.

I don't know what got me to thinking about that show, but looking back now, I can't help thinking how incredibly creepy that guy was. Every show would start the same: Mr. Wizard would be in his kitchen washing dishes or baking cookies or whatever. Then some random kid off the street would barge in through the back door. One thing led to another, and before you knew it, the "science" would begin...

Random Kid: Hi, Mr. Wizard! What's shakin'??!
Mr. Wizard: Come here, Timmy. I want to show you something.
Random Kid: My name is Steve!
Mr. Wizard: Timmy, today I want to teach you about the law of gravity.
Random Kid: I already know about that. I'm 13 years old.
Mr. Wizard: Shut up, you little bastard. Now here, unbuckle my belt and watch what happens.
Random Kid: (Unbuckles belt) Hey, your pants fell down!
Mr. Wizard: Yes, Timmy. That's gravity. Now we're going to learn about friction. Here, rub Mr. Wizard's lizard.
Random Kid: Hey Mr. Wizard, why are there pork rinds all over the floor??

About this time, Mother Dyckerson would make me take out the trash and do my homework. But you get the idea. My question is, how the hell did they get away with this shit?? A strange old geezer letting kids into his house unsupervised? Where did these kids come from, and where were their parents? Were they all orphans and runaways??!

Clearly a show like this would not fly today. Nor would Mr. Roger's Neighborhood...a show about an effeminate man who played with puppets, sang gay songs, and partially disrobed on camera. I was never a big fan of this show when I was little - even then I knew the man was as queer as a three-legged monkey, and I wanted nothing to do with that. Besides, there's something a little bizarre about a man who keeps a fully functioning traffic light in his living room.

And don't get me started on Captain Kangaroo! Talk about queer, that guy was as gay as a french horn. Every day he wore a bright red jacket and hung out with a guy who called himself "Mr. Shinypants" or whatever it was. They were probably the first openly gay couple on television...if you don't count Bert & Ernie from Sesame Street.


Geez, with all the homos and pedophiles I had to deal with growing up, it's a wonder I turned out to be such a normal, well adjusted man...


11/07/2006

The RLS Foundation Responds...

My last post about Restless Legs Syndrome created quite a firestorm. The RLS people are demanding equal time. So in the spirit of fairness, I am sharing this letter I just received, which I SWEAR to you I am making up...


Dear Mr. Dyckerson:

I am writing in regard to your recent blog post entitled "This Country is Fucked," in which you ridicule sufferers of Restless Legs Syndrome. As Executive Director of the RLS Foundation, and as a victim of RLS myself, I take great offense to your comments.

For your information, nearly 10% of the U.S. population is currently suffering from symptoms related to RLS. That's approximately 30 million people...or 60 million restless legs! These are ordinary, average people just like you and me. They just happen to have an uncontrollable urge to move their legs.

As sufferers, we have to live with the insensitivity every day. And the jokes - things like, "What's your favorite soap opera, The Young and the Restless Legs?"

You may be surprised to learn that some very famous people throughout history were RLS sufferers. For example, do you know why Abraham Lincoln liked to sit in the balcony when he went to the theater? Because he needed room to stretch his restless legs!

And furthermore, I...

I...

Oh, fuck it. Yeah, you're right. RLS is totally bogus. And the RLS Foundation is nothing more than a pawn for the drug companies. We're actually just a bunch of lazy bastards who get together once a week to drink beer and play bingo. And Requip is nothing more than repackaged Skittles.

But look, I've got a mortgage, a wife, and three kids with A.D.D. So I need this job! Please, please don't make me go back to that horrible temp agency!!

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Gerard "Shaky" Leggett
Executive Director
RLS Foundation





Oh, and make sure ya'll come out to our national meeting in San Antonio! Like the ad says, hold on to your hats! And your lower extremities!!


11/03/2006

This Country is Fucked

The other day, while preparing for yet another fun-filled day in cubicle hell, I happened to have the TV on. (I always like to see what Matt Lauer is wearing so we don't clash.) Anyway, while I was sculpting my beautiful hair, I saw another one of them drug commercials. It was an ad for an exciting new prescription medication that's sweeping the nation. The name? Requip.

You've probably seen the ads. The makers of Requip claim it treats sufferers of a condition known as...get this...Restless Legs Syndrome. I shit you not. There is actually a fucking disease called Restless Legs Syndrome (or for those of you with Lazy Tongue Disorder, RLS).


I know it sounds like complete bullshit. But let's suspend our disbelief and educate ourselves, shall we? Lucky for us, the fine folks at the RLS Foundation (yes, they have a FOUNDATION) have their own web site, which I swear to you is for real.

According to their web site, here are the telltale symptoms of Restless Legs Syndrome:
  • You have a strong urge to move your legs which you may not be able to resist.
  • Your RLS symptoms start or become worse when you are resting.
  • Your RLS symptoms get better when you move your legs.
  • Your RLS symptoms are worse in the evening, especially when you are lying down.
I'd like to call special attention to bullet number three: Your RLS symptoms get better when you MOVE YOUR LEGS.

Okay, let me get this straight. So you have restless legs...then you MOVE THEM...then your legs ARE NOT RESTLESS ANY MORE??!! Well so much for suspending disbelief. This is indeed COMPLETE BULLSHIT.

Patient: Doctor, doctor! Please help me! When I lay on the couch for extended periods of time, my legs become restless!!
Doctor:
Have you tried...I don't know...GETTING OFF YOUR LAZY ASS and MOVING THEM AROUND??!

Patient: Yeah, and that helps, but it's too much trouble. If only there was a pill I could take...
Doctor:
Say no more. Now there is!

Patient:
Oh, thank you doctor! And thank YOU, Requip!!!


I am now TOTALLY CONVINCED that the pharmaceutical companies are INVENTING DISEASES just to sell drugs. In fact, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if they actually came up with the drugs first, and then thought of diseases to go along with them. I'll bet you a week's pay that Requip was originally supposed to be a male enhancement drug. It didn't work, but during testing, patients complained that they became PARALYZED FROM THE WAIST DOWN. Six months later, GlaxoSmithKlinePfizilever makes a sizable, tax-deductible donation to launch the "RLS Foundation." And six months after that, Requip commercials hit the airwaves.

But fear not, RLS suffers! You no longer have to suffer from your made-up disease in silence. According to the RLS web site, there are over 100 RLS support groups in the U.S. and Canada! Can you imagine what THOSE meetings must be like?? Picture a bunch of losers sitting in metal folding chairs arranged in a semicircle. Now picture a bunch of losers sitting in metal folding chairs arranged in a semicircle...and their legs are twitching like mad! Honestly, I am tempted to sign up myself just so I can witness it. I'll invest in a pair of steel-toed boots and walk around the room kicking people in the groin!!! ("Oops, sorry about that! The ole Restless Legs Syndrome is acting up tonight!")

Oh, and did I mention this? Requip isn't just for adults. Kids can take it too! Just make sure it doesn't interact with their Ritalen!!

But beware, pillheads - there are side effects. According to the Requip web site, the most commonly reported are NAUSEA, DROWSINESS, VOMITING, and DIZZINESS. Well gee whiz. I don't know about you, but I think I'll just STICK WITH THE RESTLESS LEGS!!!

That's it, I'm inventing my own disease. I'm calling it HOT POKER IN THE ASS Syndrome. It's for people who have hot pokers in their asses, but who would rather not go to the trouble of removing them. The drug is already on the market. It's called Tylenol...and you'll need a shitload of it.