The Shoot from Hell

As some of you may recall, I used to work in the exciting and glamorous world of TV production. I held all the crew positions at one time or another...including master control, director, editor, camera monkey, and microphone spittle remover. The hours were shitty and the pay was even shittier, but I did my work, and I did it with pride. But after over ten years of abuse, I finally bailed out and dove into the exciting and glamorous world of computer programming. However, I do occasionally take on a freelance TV gig. It helps remind me why I got out of that rotten, stinking business.

Last night I was helping on a shoot for a furniture store commercial. For reasons you will see in a moment, I normally despise commercial shoots. But the location was close to my mansion, and I was promised it would take NO MORE THAN TWO HOURS. So I figured, why not?

So I got to the dump at the scheduled time and met up with the rest of the crew. The display room was huge, dimly lit, and had he acoustic properties of a high school gym. I could tell this was going to be a fun night. Then the store owner showed up - he was going to be appearing in the commercial. Now if I have only learned one thing in my vast experience in show biz, it's this: Store owners who insist on starring in their own commercials are Class-A schmucks. Why, you ask? Two reasons...

1. They are too fucking cheap to hire professional talent.
2. They are American Idol wannabes trying to buy their way to fame.

So while the owner was talking to the producer, I sized the guy up. Ten cans of hairspray. Three layers of makeup. Cheap cologne. Loud tie. And the whitest fucking teeth I've ever seen in my life. Serious, this dude must gargle with Clorox every morning. This schmuck was totally in love with himself and eager to get his ass in front of the camera.

Then he came over and introduced himself...

Schmuck: "Hi, my name's Biff Butthead!!!"
Me: "Hi, my name is Dyckerson, and I'll be shooting you this evening."
Schmuck: "But I thought the other guy was the camera operator."
Me: "He is."

Next we began to set up for the first shot. The script was five lines, and there were three different shots...which meant he only had to remember one or two lines at a time. Piece o' cake, right? WRONG. Each shot requires at least 50 takes and two hours of videotape.

Here are just a few of the highlights...

Schmuck: "Do you need to white balance? How's the framing? What about a mic check? How's the back light? Can you fix that in post?"
Me: "We're all very impressed with your vast knowledge of broadcast terminology. I can see your subscription to Videography magazine has not gone to waste. Now shut the fuck up and read the lines, monkey."

Schmuck: "I'm having trouble with this line. I think we should change the word EVERY to ALL."
Me: "No problem, Shakespeare. There will be a $50 teleprompter change fee, paid in cash, directly to me."

Schmuck: "Can you do anything about this shiny spot on my forehead?"
Me: "Sure. I'll get you a bottle of Rogaine."

This bullshit went on for not one...not two...but FIVE HOURS. And if I had a nickel for every time he said "Let's do one more take," I'd be a wealthy Dyckerson. Finally we packed up and left at 1:00am, but the schmuck was so in love with himself, I don't think he even noticed. In fact, he's probably still standing there doing take after take after take.

So listen to uncle Dyckerson, boys and girls. Study hard, go to med school, and stay the fuck out of TV.

Give 'Til It Hurts

A couple of weeks ago, Bill Gates announced he was stepping down as C.E.G. (Chief Executive Geek) of Microsoft. He said he wants to concentrate his time and effort on his bullshit charity, imaginatively named the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. The foundation, which currently has approximately 980 gazillion dollars in its name, has one mission: To provide poor folk in Third World countries with oversized glasses and bad haircuts.

Fine, I thought. You go do that, Billy boy. It's not like any of OUR PEOPLE need any help. So go take care of all those poor bastards overseas. Maybe you can get them jobs as phone operators in Microsoft's tech support department...

Dyckerson (to Microsoft tech support): "Yeah, I just downloaded the latest patch for Windows XP, and now my computer is frozen."
Tech Support Flunkie: "No comprendo la Anglais, s'il vous plait."
Dyckerson: "ME DOWNLOAD-O PATCH-O DE LA WINDOWS! COMPUTER NO GO!"
Tech Support Flunkie: "Try rebooting, you stupid Capitalist cocksucker."

Anyway, two weeks go by. And then singer Warren Buffett announces he's giving 500 trillion dollars of his own money to the poor and needy Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. ("500 trillion dollars?", I thought. "Damn, he sure made a lot of scratch off that Margaritaville song!")

I definitely see a trend developing. Suddenly, the "in" thing to do is to retire and give away all your money to charity. For this reason, it gives me great pleasure to announce that effective today, I am stepping down as President of Dyckerson Enterprises Worldwide and forming my own foundation, the Mighty Dyckerson Foundation.

How will M.D.F. be different from these other trendy so-called foundations, you ask? Simple. At M.D.F., we believe charity begins at home. Did you know that right now in this country, there are over 100,000 flat-chested women who can't afford the breast implants they so urgently need? Or that over 1/3 of men with Erectile Dysfunction don't have the money to fill their Viagra prescriptions? And think of the children. The children born to low-income families, who can't afford to buy any porn! Where else are they going to learn about sex? Their parents??!

There is much work to be done, people. But unlike Billy Gates or Margaritaville boy, I'm not donating my own money. Come on, I'm not fucking stupid. No, the money needs to come from YOU, America. So whether you are a wealthy C.E.O. with more coin than the Franklin Mint...or just a drunken slob living in a roach-infested trailer...GIVE. Give all that you have. Then steal from your neighbors and give me that too.

And while M.D.F. is not currently recognized by the I.R.S. as a charitable organization, for every donation of over one million dollars, I will personally send a press release announcing your gift to every major media outlet in the country. You'll be admired and adored by everyone! You'll be interviewed Anderson Cooper and Rita Cosby! And guys, who knows...you may even score a blowjob from Angelina Jolie!

Safety First!

I'm sure you've all heard about the recent controversy surrounding MySpace. Seems some tween cyberslut allowed herself to be assaulted by a poor, unsuspecting gentleman she met there. Apparently the little whore gave her address and phone number to this fine, upstanding citizen...one thing led to another...and now the filthy tramp is sueing MySpace for a gazillion dollars. The argument: MySpace has no meaningful security measures to protect underage users. Meanwhile this innocent young man's name is splashed all over the news. So now his life is ruined and his family is publically humiliated, all over a gold digging little tease with too much time on her hands.

Well, as the author of the most popular blog on the Internets, this story certainly got my attention. Billions, if not trillions, of highly desirable women visit The Mighty Blog every day. Many of them come here horny and frustrated by what is lacking in their sex lives. Of course, women aren't the only ones who visit this blog. So what am I, Dyckerson, doing to protect my three male readers from these scores of crazed women??!

Turns out, not nearly enough. Blogger security is a fucking joke - anyone can register using bogus information. So I have no choice to put my own safeguards in place. Therefore, I am asking all of my female readers to submit to a thorough screening process to verify your ages and identities. Ladies, I need each of you to email me IMMEDIATELY with the following three hunks of information:

(1) Two forms of ID - Face it, identity theft is on the rise. Therefore, for your own protection, I must be sure you are who you say you are. At least one form of ID needs to state your age, weight, home address, phone number, and whether or not you own any large breed of vicious dog.

(2) A major credit card - Let's say, in a fit of hormonal rage, you decide to accuse one of my male readers of a sex crime. Surely they will suffer from pain and emotional distress...not to mention those hefty attorney's fees. Why should the guys pay the price? After all, you're the ones who are nuts! So consequently, I shall require you ladies to provide the account number and expiration date of your credit card. I will then make a large purchase on your account. Once the transaction appears on your credit card statement, you will then have 48 hours to tell me the amount of the purchase.

(3) A nude photograph of yourself - I can't have my male readers wasting their time lusting after some she-male transvestite, now can I? Hell no! Therefore, I must personally verify that you do indeed possess a fully functioning vagina. Of course, pictures can be Photoshopped...so as a final measure, you must also sign a consent form to allow random vagina testing. This is where I come to your house unannounced and put your vagina through a battery of tests to confirm your femaleness.

So there you go. With this new procedure in place, it is my hope that The Mighty Blog will continue to be an educational...and safe...place for everyone to enjoy.

Thank you.

Mighty Dyckerson's Erotic Encounter: Part Two

AND NOW, THE EXCITING CONCLUSION!!!


Shit, I forgot what Haley did next. Goddam A.D.D.

Anyway, she was just about to leave, when I turned and said to her, "Oh, I just remembered. I have one more really big box upstairs in my bedroom. Why don't you come on up and get it?"

"Why, I'd be happy to," Haley said. She followed me up the stairs and into my boudoir. "Hey, I don't see any boxes in here."

"It's under the bed, honey." I told her. "Why don't you just lay across the mattress there and reach underneath? I'm sure you'll feel something." (Giggle giggle.)

Reluctantly, she obliged. "Funny, I don't feel anything," she said.

"Just hold on a minute, baby," I said, as I climbed on top of her. Just then my silk robe accidentally slipped off, I accidentally pulled Haley's pants down, and my giant engorged wang accidentally brushed up against the inside of her vagina...200 times. "Ooops! Looks like I found a box of my own," I said with a chortle while I lit a cigarette.

Haley pointed an accusatory finger at me. "Shame on you, Mr. Dyckerson! I think you did that on purpose!"

"Who, me??!" I asked innocently.

Then I chopped her into pieces with an axe and buried her in my backyard.


THE END.

Mighty Dyckerson's Erotic Encounter: Part One

Yesterday I decided to post a Craigslist ad to give away all my empty boxes from the move:

FREE MOVING BOXES! ASSORTED SHAPES AND SIZES, ALL READY TO HOLD YOUR SHIT! YOU'LL THINK YOU'VE DIED AND GONE TO MOVING BOX HEAVEN! COME AND GET 'EM, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS! CALL 1-800-555-DYCK TODAY!!!

So I figured I'd have to wait a couple of days, and then maybe some fat slob with personal hygiene issues would call me at 3am and ask if I could bring the boxes to his trailer home 50 miles from town. But that's not what happened. That's not what happened at all.

Within an hour of placing my ad, I got an interesting voice mail from a very hot-sounding chick:

HI, MY NAME IS HALEY. I'M CALLING ABOUT THE MOVING BOXES ON CRAIGSLIST. ARE THEY STILL AVAILABLE? IF SO, WOULD YOU GIVE ME A CALL AT 555-XXXX? THANKS.

Now let's examine this line by line, shall we?

HI, MY NAME IS HALEY. I have never met a chick named Haley, but I swear, this is the hottest sounding chick name I have ever heard in my life.

I'M CALLING ABOUT THE MOVING BOXES ON CRAIGSLIST. Sure you are, honey. Sure you are. (Wink)

ARE THEY STILL AVAILABLE? Yes I am...I mean, yes they are. (Double wink)

IF SO, WOULD YOU GIVE ME A CALL AT 555-XXXX? Yes, I would be happy to have sex with you.

THANKS. You're quite welcome.

So I called back the lovely Haley and gave her directions. She said she'd be over around 6:30pm. Just enough time for me to come home from work, put on some soft music, light some candles, and slip into my red silk bathrobe.

Fast forward five hours.....

At precisely 6:30pm, I looked out my kitchen window and saw a blue minivan pull up. Right on time...I like that. Then, there was a knock on the door. A very sexy knock. I dimmed the lights, loosened my bathrobe, and opened the door.

Haley was everything I hoped she would be. She was wearing a.....well I don't know what the fuck she was wearing, but she looked damn good. She had dark brown hair, a nice tan, and a gorgeous body. "Hi, I'm Haley. I'm here for the boxes," she said.

"Of course you are," I said with a smile, as I extended my arm. "Dyckerson's the name. Mighty Dyckerson."

We shook hands, and I gestured toward the boxes in the foyer. "My, these boxes are quite nice," she remarked, as she slowly bent down to pick them up. "Moving is such a pain, isn't it?"

"Yes, but I don't mind a little pain," I replied with a wink. (I don't even know what the hell that means.) "Here, let me help you with those!"

As I reached down to assist her with the boxes, my left hand accidentally brushed up against her curvaceous booty, my right hand accidentally brushed up against her supple breasts, and my tongue accidentally brushed up against the inside of her delicious mouth. "Whoops, sorry about that! Heehee"

Then Haley did something that I will absolutely never forget as long as I live...


TUNE IN TOMORROW FOR THE EXCITING CONCLUSION OF MIGHTY DYCKERSON'S EROTIC ENCOUNTER!!!

Buyer's Remorse

Why did you idiots let me buy this townhouse? Seriously, I thought you morons were my fake friends. Seems like at least one of you buttfuckers would've stepped forward and said "Dyckerson, don't do it!" But no. Instead, all of you pricklickers just sat there and laughed your asses off as I poured all the equity from my condo into this money pit.

Now don't get me wrong. I love the place. I really do. I mean, sure the mortgage payments are higher, and I'm facing unemployment in a few months. And yeah, the A/C isn't cooling the second floor worth a shit. And I can only launder one garment at a time in the compact stackable washer/dryer. And the windows are a pain in the ass to open and close. And the refrigerator door opens on the wrong side. And there are no ceiling fans or light fixtures in any of the main rooms. And the tile in the foyer and bathroom are going to be a bitch to keep clean. And I think gas from the stove is leaking. And at night, I hear strange noises coming from the attic. Other than that, I'm quite happy with it. It's just that I'd be much happier if I could make about $10,000 worth of improvements to the joint.

So FUCK ALL OF YOU. Fuck you with a splintery broomstick. And get the hell off my blog THIS INSTANT and DO NOT EVER RETURN. I don't ever want to talk to you mothersuckers again. And if I find any of you ballnibblers sneaking back here, I will KILL YOU TO DEATH.

Now could somebody spot me a few bucks til payday?

MOVING DAY!!!

Ladies and germs, at long last, I have now officially moved into my new estate! The big day was yesterday, and I have never been so fucking tired in my life. Let's get right to it, as there are a number of blogworthy events to cover.....

6:15am: Woke up to the sound of pouring rain. I can already tell this is going to be a great fucking day.

7:00am: Ran to Dunkin Donuts to get some shit for the movers to eat. Held up for 15 minutes by a double-parked dipshit douchebag who couldn't decide which kind of Munchkins he wanted. Problem finally solved by an astute store manager who suggested the Assorted Munchkins.

7:30am: Return home to discover a flat tire on the DyckMobile. Can distinctly hear the sound of God laughing at me.

8:45am: Incoming call: "We be da movers. Where you at?" Spend the next 10 minutes explaining the concept of right and left turns.

8:55am: Movers arrive. There are three, each with clever nicknames. "Dr. Thumbs" introduces himself as the leader, and he wastes no time advising me that if I wish to leave a tip, I should do so with cash. Next is "Cap'n Klutz," who apparently hasn't bathed since the former president of your choice was in office. Finally, there's "Sir Imgonnadropyourshitallovertheplace." I put him in charge of the clothing.

9:37am: Cap'n Klutz drops a deuce in my freshly cleaned commode. Apparently he can't hold his Munchkins.

10:12am: Dr. Thumbs drives me to Pep Boys in his truck so I can get a can of Fix-a-Flat. During the five-minute trip, he smokes approximately 32 cigarettes...but I can't roll down the windows for air because there's a fucking monsoon in progress.

10:50am: The boys play a quick game of dodge ball with my 50" HDTV.

11:20am: The truck is loaded...and so are the movers. We head for the new place.

11:45am: Movers begin bringing in everything - not only furniture, but also about 10 pounds of mud from their shoes.

12:18pm: Dr. Thumbs reminds me for the 93rd time what a great job they're doing with my furniture: "See how careful we droves over here? We didn't break nothin, boss!" (Translation: "Open your wallet, honkey.")

12:55pm: The job is complete. I give each mover a shiny quarter and send them on their way.

12:56pm: I now have four flat tires and a broken windshield.

12:59pm: The rain finally stops. Nice timing, Lord.

2:00pm to 5:00pm: Wait for Comcast goon to show up and connect my service. He never does.

5:48pm: Upon cleaning the kitchen cabinets, I find that the previous owner has left me a gift: Two packets of Kool-Aid mix.

8:30pm: Back to the old place to clean up. Actually, I didn't clean. I just made the place look clean. After all, what the fuck do I care?

12:00am: Collapse into bed. What's that I hear above me? Could that be...yes, I think it is! SILENCE!!!!!!

The Silence of the Lambo

People aren't always who they seem. For example, take Little Lamb (a.k.a. "Lambo"). For over a year, she has been fooling me with this innocent act of hers. She fooled all of us, actually. Well the game is over, my ovine little fiend, and I am here to expose you for the corrupt, evil ewe you are.

When I launched my wildly unsuccessful Dyckersonville message board in 2005, I was completely underwhelmed by the incredible number of hits the site was not getting. People were not posting by the thousands - if not millions - and it was clear that I needed to bring in moderators to help oversee all the inactivity.

That's where Lambo came in. When I began recruiting for a moderator, Lambo begged and pleaded for the job. In fact, she even went so far as to offer to perform sexual favors for me. So after reviewing her credentials, and tossing it in her a few times, I finally awarded her the coveted position of Dyckersonville moderator.

All was well, until last week. It was then that I discovered that Lambo had decided to turn her back on Dyckersonville and go into business for herself. Yep, she went and created her own damned message board in a futile attempt to compete with mine. Now don't get me wrong. As a mentor, I like to see the kids learn to spread their wings and fly. But the events that followed had me in a veritable snit.
As a show of support, I decided to visit Lambo's crappy forum and register the good name of Dyckerson. I even posted a few witty and engaging comments in an attempt to stir up interest. And what do I find upon visiting her site the next day???

Critical Information
You have been banned from this forum.
Please contact the webmaster or board administrator for more information.

Well needless to say, I was totally and completely beflabberfuddled. Never have I been so insulted in my entire life. This was a slap in the face, a kick in the nuts, and a pinch on the ass. I mean, there I was, trying to help jump start Lambo's pathetic little message board......and this is the thanks I get??!!

That's it. I am calling for a mandatory boycott of Lambo's blog and forum, effective IMMEDIATELY. If you are a Mighty Blog affiliate or Dyckersonville member, you are hereby FORBIDDEN to post on any sites authored or administered by Lambo. Failure to comply with this directive will result in DIRE CONSEQUENCES!

DOWN WITH LAMBO!!!!!!

I Am Diseased

It's not cancer. It's not AIDS. It's not even syphilis. It's something far, far worse, Dyck lovers.

The disease I have is called Intermittent Explosive Disorder, or IED. This is not to be confused with Intermittent Explosive Diarrhea, which I also have. But that's not really a disease. It's more of a lifestyle choice. No, IED is a real disease...and it has been plagueing me ever since I read about it yesterday on USA Today.

IED is a chemical imbalance in the brain that causes its victims to...well, to get pissed off a lot. One of the symptoms of IED is temper outbursts that involve throwing or breaking objects. According to the research, the average number of lifetime outbursts per person with IED is 43. People, I've had over 400 outbursts...and that's just TODAY! In fact, in the time it will take me to finish this post, I will have broken seven priceless Faberge eggs!

Another symptom of IED is road rage. You know that feeling you get when you're cut off by a blind drunk driver who's talking on his cell phone while doing 90 in a school zone during a blizzard? Turns out he's not the problem! YOU ARE!!! You need to get yourself some help IMMEDIATELY!!!

The third symptom of IED is spousal abuse. This one really hits home for me. I can't tell you how many times my internet wife RevRee has beaten the shit out of me for leaving the toilet seat up. So yes, I definitely suffer from spousal abuse.

So what's the cure? Sadly, there is none. Medication and therapy only help to ease the symptoms. The key is really education and awareness. That's why I have taken it upon myself to start the Mighty Dyckerson Intermittent Explosive Disorder Foundation. We are in dire need of funds, so I hope you will consider making a cash donation today. You can be assured that nearly 100 cents of every dollar you contribute will go directly toward replacing my priceless Faberge egg collection. Your generosity is greatly appreciated.

Now HURRY THE FUCK UP AND SEND ME YOUR DAMN MONEY, YOU STUPID BASTARDS!!!

I Hate Nice People

To the cunt who found my cell phone on the ground last Friday:

Yeah, I know I lost the damned thing. I was walking around the fake lake at my office park during lunch, and the belt clip must have unclipped itself. It did not take me long to realize this, as I am not a fucking idiot. So I retraced my steps, figuring I would find the missing apparatus and return it to its rightful place near my crotch. Simple enough, right?

WRONG!!! Because YOU, being the "good samaritan," happened to wander by and find it on the ground...and rather than minding your own business and leaving it there, you had to PICK IT UP and TAKE IT WITH YOU. So I spent two hours in the sweltering heat searching for a fucking phone that WASN'T THERE! Then I blew fiddy cent on a pay phone trying to call my cell phone, but YOU DIDN'T ANSWER! Why not, dumbass?? WERE YOU EXPECTING ANOTHER CALL??!!?!?!

Finally I gave up. I figured one of those bastard geese ate the thing, and maybe I'd return tomorrow and find it protruding from one of their many turd piles. So I returned to my office and waited for nature to take its course. But what's this? A new email in my in-box from an employer I interviewed with a few days ago! Could this be a job offer??!

Guess again, Copernicus. Turns out, the bitch had gone into my list of recent calls, found this guy's number, and dialed it! I know, I know. You were only trying to track down the owner. Good for you. Really, I mean it. I'm having a fucking statue erected in your honor. I can just imagine that phone conversation...


Cunt: Um, hi. I'm trying to reach the owner of this cell phone. It was lost today by someone who clearly should not be hired by anyone. Do you have caller ID?

Potential Employer: Yes I do, and I recognize the number as belonging to one Mightonimous J. Dyckerson. I have his resume and email address right here, as he interviewed for a position the other day.

Cunt: How delightful! Could you email him and let him know I'm turning it in to the receptionist at so-and-so's office?

Potential Employer: Absolutely. I admire your honesty. In fact, I'm going to tear up his resume and hire you instead. When can you start?


So thanks a lot, you retarded asshat. Thanks for wasting my time, and thanks for destroying my career. And thanks for not leaving a name with that receptionist, so I could hunt you down and kill you. Oh yeah, that's right. You're just a "good samaritan." You didn't want any recognition, because you're so humble and sweet and kind. Well LISTEN UP, YOU FILTHY WHORE! I am making it my life's mission to find you, and when I do, I'm going to SUE YOUR ASS for EVERYTHING YOU'VE GOT!!! That's right, pain and suffering...emotional distress - YOU NAME IT!!!

Maybe then you'll think twice about trying to help somebody!

THE MIGHTY BLOG'S FIRST ANNIVERSARY!!!!!

Travel with me back in time, if you will. The year was 2005. It was a warm, sunny summer day. The birds were a-singing, the bees were a-buzzing, and the rats were a-mating. And a handsome, well-endowed young man named Mighty Dyckerson was about embark upon a bold new adventure in blogging...and the Internets would never be the same.

My, how the world has changed since way back then. New Orleans was still a chocolate city, a gallon of gas cost less than two bucks, and Don Knotts was still alive. Fortunately, Dyckerson was here to guide the nation through these troubling times.

Let's all gather 'round the computer screen and relive some of those classic Dyckerson moments...

We begin at the beginning, with Dyckerson's first-ever blog post. Who could forget the sheer anticipation over what was to come?

Over the year, Dyckerson invited us into his palatial condo for an inside look his exciting lifestyle. He also took us on the road, whether he was bonding with nature, visiting faraway lands, or hob-nobbing with the stars. And let's not forget Dyckerson's ongoing fight for freedom of speech on the Internets.

Of course, Dyckerson has corresponded with fans from all over the world and recalled tales of his youth. He has shared with us his love for animals, his dedication to cleanliness, and his respect for law enforcement.

Then there were those special moments that are beyond description. Whether he was reaching out to a colleague, a child in need, or even his fellow bloggers, Dyckerson could always be counted on to put a smile on everyone's face.

But now it's your turn, loyal readers!!! What are your favorite memories of The Mighty Blog? Has Dyckerson touched you in a meaningful way? If so, did you enjoy it? Please, take a moment and share your story with your fellow bloggers. And here's to a year full of laughter, tears, and explosive diarrhea! Long live The Mighty Blog!!!!!