A Post-Halloween Message to the Kids

Some of you don't seem to understand how this fucking holiday is supposed to work. I guess your retarded parents didn't bother to explain it to you, so let me try.

It's actually very simple: HALLOWEEN IS SUPPOSED TO BE SCARY. Dressing up as a cartoon character or a bunny rabbit or a fireman doesn't cut it. If you show up at my door looking like Mr. Spock, I'm going to snatch your goodie bag from your grubby little hands and take a wicked shit right inside of it. And then I'm going to beam your wimpy ass right back to your mommy's Jeep Liberty.

But don't feel bad, children. I even know some full-grown adults who don't understand this concept. One of the dipshits I work with attended a Halloween party dressed as the "Burger King." Another guy went as half of a peanut butter & jelly sandwich. (He was the peanut butter; his wife was the jelly.) What a fucking pussy-assed douchebag assclown.

So kids, take note. If you're going to celebrate Halloween next year, for God's sake, don't fuck it up like you have with everything else in your pointless little lives. WEAR A SCARY COSTUME!!! Ghosts, goblins, ghouls, zombies, ogres - they're all perfectly acceptable. And for the hot girls, you can't go wrong dressing as a slutty witch. Not creative enough for you? Fine, how about a grenade-wielding Al Qaeda terrorist? Or maybe Steve Irwin's rotting corpse...complete with sting ray barb?? Or perhaps motorcycle accident victim impaled by a stop sign??? The possibilities are endless.

There. You now have 364 days to plan for next year, so don't let me down. And if you're one of those fatass kids I keep seeing at the mall, I suggest you skip the candy altogether and do a few jumping jacks.

That is all.

The Dawn of a New Era

Shhh...be very quiet. Do you hear that? That, my friends, is the sound of the media industry being changed forever.

A new media-related message board is about to be born. A media-related message board that will totally change the way you think about media-related message boards. That media-related message board can be found here...at RollCue.

I have had the good fortune of seeing a preview of this media-related message board, and I don't mind telling you, I wept with joy. Never in my life have I ever been so touched and moved by a media-related message board.

Fuck Medialine and their unjust bannings. Fuck B-Roll and their cocky, arrogant camera monkeys. Fuck TVSpy and their Nazi censorship. Fuck them all to Hell.

So the next time you've got a hankering to discuss media-related issues on a media-related message board, head on over to www.rollcue.tv...and tell 'em Dyckie sentcha! Oh, and while you're there, check out their great deals on web hosting, video editing, and tape/DVD duplication. What, you say you don't work in the media?? Well RollCue's job listings can take care of that too!

In fact, I am so confident that you'll love everything RollCue has to offer, I will have its author pay you ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS CASH if you are not completely satisfied. That's the Mighty Dyckerson guarantee!!!

SET
YOUR
CLOCKS
BACK,
YOU
ASSHOLES!


EAT
PORK RINDS!

EAT
DEAD PIGS!

Can You Read This???

What the hell is up with Blogger lately??! Not only can I not post on Medialine, but I can't even get to my own damn blog half the time!! Just take a look at the latest entries from their status page:


Friday, October 20, 2006: We’ve been having a bit of slowness this morning...

Saturday, October 21, 2006: Blogger was down for a little over three hours this evening, due to the near-simultaneous failure of a critical component and its backup...

Tuesday, October 24, 2006: Tomorrow we will have an outage of 60 minutes from 2p to 3p (Pacific Time) as we perform some hardware repairs...

Wednesday, October 25, 2006: We experienced an outage this evening due to a problem in our networking hardware...

Thursday, October 26, 2006: Whoops, somebody tripped on the power cord to our server and unplugged it from the wall...


OK, I made up that last one, but still! Is this place being run by fucking interns??! This is totally unacceptable. Breaking news could occur at any moment in Dyckersonville...and it is imperative that I have a reliable means of communicating with my associates.

Consequently, I am exploring other options for sharing my teachings with the world. One possible option: Wordpress. I don't know much about them yet, but it appears to be a pimped up version of Blogger - more options, features, etc. Of course, I don't need lots of bells and whistles. I am all about content. Top-notch content the whole family can enjoy.

Anyway, I'm open to ideas. Any opinions on Wordpress? Any other blogging tools out there for free or dirt cheap?? Any ladies want to meet me at Sharky's tonight around 11pm??

Banned CXXXVIII: Update

Actually, there's not much to update. I am still currently BANNED from Medialine. However, I do have a couple of tidbits to share with you. The first was posted by Roy Hobbs on the forum:


Don't you just love that Grandpa video he linked his posts to?

Rev, tell me, did you enjoy hearing your private parts described with words that begin with "c" as you and Dyckerson find SO funny? As a woman do you find that something to be proud of and shared proudly with all here?

And that class act Laff Riot about urinating on a poster's female child and flushing her down a toilet?


OK, first of all, the link he is referring to is in my signature line...and it links to my BLOG, not to any specific post. And my blog is MY FUCKING BUSINESS. Besides, I've had that link in my signature for OVER A YEAR.

Second, the Grandpa video was ripped from ebaumsworld, and it's FUCKING HILARIOUS. "I'll impregnate you with my 80-year-old pork rind dick!" ... pure genius!!!

Third, RevRee LOVES it when I describe her private parts, no matter what words I use.

And finally, the female child urination/flushation bit was MONTHS AGO, and I've ALREADY BEEN BANNED for that.

Roy, I know you're checking my blog, so read this: You are a sad, pathetic, asshole with a huge fucking chip on your shoulder. You may think you've won something here, but I promise you have won nothing. And if you say ONE MORE disparaging remark about one of my LOVELY WHORES, I will find you and OPEN UP THE WHOOPASS.



And then there was this sweet message from "Bill Howard" in my inbox...


But dyckfer - I haven't even STARTED to "play" so how COULD I have won? IF I was playing to win, you wouldn't have a chance. I was simply trying to prove a point and I did. I GOT UNDER YOUR SKIN - so much that you deleted my posts.


Dyckfer? What the fuck does that mean??! And what point are you trying to prove? That you're a delusional douchebag??? Yeah, I deleted your posts. They were meaningless garbage, much like yourself. But thanks for stopping by.


So that's the latest. Stay tuned for further updates...

Banned CXXXVIII: The New Blood

Before I get to tonight's topic, my thanks to all the get well comments and cards. My doctors were completely astounded by my miraculous recovery. They told me an ordinary man would have surely perished...but I am no ordinary man. I am Dyckerson. Also, my thanks to Grandpa Dyckerson for providing the entertainment in my absence: "Eat pork rinds! Eat dead pigs!" Indeed.

Now, on to tonight's festivities. If you're not a Medialiner, you may want to skip this post and go read about RevRee's moist towelettes instead. I'm sure the rest of you know what's coming. Everybody all together now:

MIGHTY DYCKERSON HAS BEEN BANNED!!!!!

Banned from Medialine, that is. Yeah, that's right. And to what do I owe this honor this time??

My operatives tell me it's a forum poster who goes by the name ROY HOBBS. Apparently Mr. Hobbs got himself into a snit over something I said. I have no idea what. But this whiny-ass bitch must have gone and cried to Mark the Moderator. And rather than weigh all the facts, or even ask for my side of the story, Mark and his itchy trigger finger pressed the BAN button on yours truly. Again.

Now I know I don't exactly have a glowing reputation on Medialine, but please. I don't go after specific individuals unless (1) they come after me first, or (2) they are seriously asking for it. By asking for it, I mean being a snotty, arrogant, know-it-all with an ego the size of Uranus. So where does this Roy Hobbs asshat fit in?? Let's look at the facts:

• He registered with the forum in March 2005.
• His member number is 8266. What kind of dumbass number is that??!
  
• In the last 19 months, he has racked up a mind-boggling 6074 posts. That's over 10 posts EVERY SINGLE DAY for nearly TWO YEARS.
  
• He calls himself a "journalist," but really he is a sad, pathetic prick with no sense of humor.

People, I've overcome far worse than this. Are we going to let this filthy douchebag bring me down?? No!! No, I say!!!! I call upon all of you to RISE UP and DEMAND JUSTICE!! Bring Back Mighty Dyckerson!!! And Roy, as Grandpa Dyckerson would say, SUCK MY DEAD PIG!!!!

I Am Sick In The Head

Holy motherfucking hell, I do not believe this bullshit. I first told you about my damn head cold over a week ago. Then I got better. But now Death has returned...and this time, it's personal.

I haven't had a decent night's sleep in three days. My head feels like it is about to explode. I cannot breathe. And I have expelled enough snot to fill three 10-gallon aquariums five times, twice an hour for a month.

Why must Nyquil taste so fucking nasty? A few years back, the people that make this shit thought they could fool us by packaging it in various imaginative flavors...like cherry, menthol, and cherry. Didn't happen. Instead, we ended up with a product that tasted nasty and a little like cherry.

Anyway, I shall keep this post brief, for Death is beckoning me...and the Nyquil is kicking in. Meanwhile, enjoy this video of my dear grandpa Dyckerson, bless his soul...





Mmmmmm... Fried pig pussy! Once you eat one of these pig pussy pork rinds, you'll never eat another.. human pussy again. But FUCK human pussy! I fuck dead pigs. You'll read all about it in heartburn how I fuck them dead pigs before I turn em into pork rinds!

I couldn't get no twat from serenity back then. She only wanted dildos in her pussy twat. Big phony bologna dicks. But now she wants this real cock. Come here serenity lets show these assholes how we fuck. Lets show these assholes how we fuck. My sweet sweet serenity.

Fuck an umbilical cord out of your phony asshole, and I'll 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 and we'll cut him into pork rinds.

I'll eat pork rinds with God. In a land that speaks only with its eyes. No language, no dildos, no fucking laws! Where the whores can't sell their pussy. Or use their twats to gold dig. A land where us warriors run free with our big dicks out, and our fucking hair wild.

Eat pork rinds, eat dead pigs. Eat pork rinds, eat dead pigs. Eat pork rinds, eat dead pigs. Salt their dead skin and put em in plastic bags. Fuck you, you fucking, farting robots. Suck my dead pig. Suck my dead pig!

A Stroke of Genius

I'm gonna be rich, bitch!!!

After writing my last post, I had me a brainstorm. Actually, this was bigger than a brainstorm. This was a fucking brain cyclone. Actually, you know that giant storm on the planet Jupiter that makes up the Great Red Spot...the storm that's bigger than the entire Earth?? It was like that.

I have come up with a solution that will solve our overpopulation problems and make me an assload of cash at the same time. So listen up, all you wannabe parents...for I am opening a child rental store!

Why fuss with difficult pregnancies, 3am feedings, scraped knees, and rebellious teens? Well now, you don't have to!! Thanks to Mighty Dyckerson's Rent-A-Rugrat, you can be a parent only when you want to, leaving the dirty work to our highly experienced professional child care providers!*

Here's how it works. My company will feed and shelter the kids. We'll give them a solid edukation and make sure they get their shots. And to recoup the costs, we'll rent out the kids to lonely, depressed adults who are desperate to feel needed and loved!!!

This groundbreaking concept is sure to generate a lot of questions, all of which I have already anticipated and addressed in the following FAQ section:


Q: How much does it cost to rent a child?

A: When you consider the cost of diapers, toys, and college tuition...practically nothing! A cute, precocious caucasian child can run upwards of $75 an hour. But if you're on a budget, a fat, ugly, or black child is $25 an hour. If you're a real cheapass, you can rent a child who is all three for $5 an hour. Daily and weekly rates are also available.


Q: Can I rent more than one child at a time?

A: Yes. And for our Grand Opening this weekend, we're having a rent-one, get-one-free special!


Q: What if my rental child becomes sick or diseased while in my care?

A: Simply take the child to any convenient Rent-A-Rugrat location and exchange it with a healthy one.


Q: May I molest or abuse my rental child?

A: We maintain a strict don't ask, don't tell policy. The way we see it, what happens in the privacy of your home is none of our business.


Q: What should I do with my rental child when I am done with it?

A: Each of our locations has a drop box available 24 hours a day. However, hispanic and retarded children should be discreetly disposed of in a dumpster or lake.


Q: What will happen to the rental children when they become adults?

A: Some are put to work in our slave labor camp. The rest are euthanized by lethal injection.



So there you have it, folks! Stop by your local Rent-A-Rugrat today!!!



* Many of them have done hard time, but we feel everybody deserves a second chance.

300,000,000 Assholes & Counting

Attention people living in the United States: We have enough people. We don't need any more.

If you are an American citizen and you are thinking of reproducing, DON'T. What is this need people have to be parents anyway? Kids are sloppy, stupid, rude, smelly, and loud. They're enormously expensive to maintain and they contribute absolutely nothing to society. And furthermore, most of them grow up to be disappointments anyway. But Dyckerson, I wanna feel needed! BUY A GODDAM GOLDFISH, YOU SELF-CENTERED PRICK. But Dyckerson, who will take care of me when I'm old and incontinent? SAVE THE MONEY YOU'D SPEND ON PAMPERS AND USE IT TO HIRE A PROFESSIONAL BUTT WIPER.

If you are an illegal alien living in this country, GET THE FUCK OUT NOW. Our economy will survive just fine without you, thank you very much. And even if it doesn't, well I'd gladly trade a few bucks in my wallet for shorter lines, less traffic, less crime, and more green space. But Dyckerson, how am I going to run my crooked business if I have to actually pay people a decent wage? NOT MY PROBLEM, YOU GREEDY COCKSUCKER. But Dyckerson, who will take the crappy jobs that Americans don't want? EASY. RETARDS, EX-CONS, AND FUGLY PEOPLE.

Look, there isn't a problem in the U.S. that can't be traced to overpopulation. Smog, global warming, famine, disease, poverty, depression, homelessness, road rage, addiction to foreign oil...you name it! Of course, no douchebag politician will ever support a ban on baby making. But Dyckerson, no one will vote for me - it's too controversial! GROW A SACK, YOU ASS-KISSING PUPPET.

Clearly, America needs the leadership of a visionary...a man who knows what the people need, not just what they want. A man who isn't afraid to roll up his sleeves and get things done.

America needs a DYCK. Vote Dyckerson in 2008.

Friday the 13th

This morning there was a knock at my door. It was Death.

He was wearing a black cape and carrying a menacing sickle. (Some folks call it a kaiser blade, I call it a sickle...mmm-hmm.) And in the area where his head would have been, there was nothing. Nothing, that is...except a cheese wedge.

"Howdy do," said Death. "I have come for your soul."

"I can dig it," I replied. "Just let me grab my coat."

"You won't need it where you're going, my sinful little fiend," said the grimmest of reapers. "However, I would recommend an umbrella. The weatherman says rain today."

Okay, you caught me. I was not really visited by the Prince of Darkness this morning. But it sure as hell felt like it. My throat was sorer than Al Gore after the last presidential election. My nose was running like a pair of Dollar Tree nylons. And my head was aching worse than a homo's butthole at a gay orgy. That's right, I am sick. I am sick, and I know exactly who is to blame. Allow me to explain.

The year was 1984, and I was in 6th grade. It was a crisp autumn day, much like today, and I was on the school playground playing a quick game of grabass with my female classmates before the morning bell. I was ahead by 112 points, and we were having a swell time...but then along came Filthy Peter. Filthy Peter was just your normal average guy; he just happened to enjoy smearing his own feces on the playground equipment. In fact, his favorite thing to do was to climb to the top of the sliding board, drop his pants, and defecate as he slid down the board...leaving a long brown trail of shit in his wake. Bizarre behavior, to say the least...especially from an assistant principal.

But that was over 20 years ago, so I doubt Filthy Peter is responsible for my current illness. I don't even know why I brought it up. Truth is, I don't know how I got sick. I guess it's just that time of year.

Pud, since you live close by, would you be a dear and bring me a nice big bowl of delicious chicken soup? And maybe some ginger ale too? And if it's not too much trouble, I would also like to wear your panties on my head for a few hours. They might help to clear my sinuses.

And Jmeped, maybe you could send me a lovely bouquet of those lesbian flowers that you sell to cheer me up.

Oh, and RevRee, perhaps you could send me a get-well card...attached to a 70-inch plasma HDTV. Come on, you know you can afford it!

Anyway, gotta run. Death and I are going bowling with Filthy Peter.

Scandal!!!

My life is ruined. Read on:


Dyckersonville (AP) - Shockwaves are rippling throughout the Internets in the wake of yet another sex scandal, this latest one involving blogmaster Mightonimous "Mighty" Dyckerson. Dyckerson, who was recently tapped to host the upcoming BarkieDawg Awards on Medialine, has been accused of sending inappropriate emails and instant messages to women he has met online. People from across the country have made statements, and countless others are expected to come forward.

"At first it was harmless flirting, but then he sent me a picture of himself wearing nothing but clown makeup and big shoes," said Hushetta O. Willoski of Florida.

"He told me he wanted to videotape himself inserting foreign objects in my hoo-hah," said Karla G. Babbler of Texas.

"The filth that I read is etched in my brain forever," said RevRee A. Haffenhaffer, who preferred not to reveal her location.

"He made me bleach his shit-stained underwear," said Jmeped M. Bissesshule of Georgia.

"He is a sick man. He wanted to watch me and my best friend wrestle each other in a vat of raspberry Jell-O," said Judi U. Groadiwhore of Maine.

"Actually, I kinda liked it," said Asshton Clownopolis, the only male to step forward thus far.

Mighty Dyckerson, who checked himself into rehab this morning, was unavailable for comment. At this moment, it is unclear whether he will still be able to fulfill his hosting duties for the BarkieDawg Awards.

The ripple effect has spread all the way to Medialine's corporate offices. Amidst allegations that he knew about Dyckerson's online escapades, Medialine moderator Randy Steinman issued this statement to the press: "Dyckerson WHO?? I've never heard of this man before in my life!"

An official statement from the Dyckerson camp is expected by the end of the day.

**********UPDATE**********

This is Mighty Dyckerson coming at you live from Sharky's Rehab Center and Pool Hall on route 10, and I have to say this rehab bullshit ain't half bad! I get a semi-private room, three squares a day, and cable TV. Plus, I even found a wireless hot spot right here by the crapper!

And rest assured, Dyck fans, for I have been promised by my personal rehabbist that I'll be outta here in time for the Barkie awards. And get this: I've met several celebs in this joint, and I don't want to mention any names, but many of them have promised to make special appearances on the big show!!

Anyway, gotta run. It's time for my pedicure.

Fuck Water Conservation

The previous owners of my new townhouse were cheap bastards.

For the last three months that I've lived here, I've been coping with low water pressure. None of the plumbing fixtures in this dump were putting out a decent amount of water. Not the sinks...not the bathtub...not even the goddamn shitter.

Three weeks ago was the last straw. That was when I had my last bowel movement. My friends, it required approximately 11 flushes to completely remove all traces of my excrement from the bowl. That's right, 11 fucking flushes. No, I didn't unleash some sort of mutant superturd upon my commode. It was just your normal, average, six-foot log. Four or five flushes should have been more than sufficient.

So I called the county to come out and check my water pressure. Now whenever I have to deal with the county, I make sure to set my expectations as low as possible to avoid disappointment. Here's what I expect when dealing with any form of government:

1. They will get around to responding whenever they damn well feel like it.
2. When they do respond, they will do a half-assed job.
3. Afterwards, they will take three days of paid leave to recuperate from the half-assed job they did.

Therefore I wasn't surprised when the county came out and told me the pressure was fine "on their end." Translation: "We categorically deny any and all responsibility for the lousy service you are receiving from our facilities. Now if you'll excuse us, we have to go lobby for another national holiday."

Clearly I was on my own here, so I decided to do a little investigating...starting with the kitchen faucet. This one was especially annoying because it was taking me twenty minutes to fill an 8-oz. cup with tap water. I removed the aerator with my handy dandy vice grips...and voila! Inside the aerator was a little plastic insert with a pin-sized hole in it for the water to pass through.

Turns out this was what they call one of them "water-saver" devices. Well bull-fucking-SHIT. How much fucking money did the former owners think they were saving with this thing? Five cents a year?? Ladies and gentlemen, I don't think I have to tell you what I did with that little piece of plastic. I replaced the newly unobstructed aerator, cranked up the faucet...and va-va-va-vooom! It was like fucking Niagra Falls, but without all the newlywed assholes! I cannot tell you what this did to boost my morale.




Next I moved on to the bathroom sinks. (There are two sinks in my master bathroom. Don't ask me why. I guess one is a backup in case the other one breaks.) Turns out these aerators had similar devices installed. Only these were so fucking corroded, I had to replace them entirely.

My final stop was the bathtub. The shower head was one of those low-pressure water-saver massager things that the chicks seem to like. Well fuck that shit. When I take a shower, I want to feel as if I'm actually being cleansed. I want the water gushing out so hard, it peels off several layers of skin. So I went online and purchased the Turbo Jet Master 4000. You've probably never heard of this shower head, as it is illegal in 42 states (including mine). The Turbo Jet Master 4000 is capable of putting out a stream of water so powerful that, if operated at close range, can slice through a frozen coconut in three seconds.*

So I wired up the TJM4K last night...and viva Las Vegas! I took the best shower of my life! Sure, I used up 4,380 gallons of water...but I'm CLEAN, you hear me?? CLEAN!!!!!!!

Of course, I still have my shitter to deal with, but that shouldn't even be an issue for several more weeks. Thank God for chronic constipation.


Oh, and by the way...I'm trying this new thing where I pretend to be mad at people. Right now, I'm pretending to be mad at Husho...so if you happen to see her, play dumb! (That shouldn't be hard for some of you.)




* There is no such thing as a Turbo Jet Master 4000. What I actually purchased was a no-name shower head from Dyck-Mart.**

** There is no such place as Dyck-Mart. I actually made my purchase at Wal-Mart.

Google Boycott!

Some of you may have noticed the Google ads I recently added to my blog. These ads were the product of a joint business venture between myself and ECP, our goal being to earn money for doing no work. It's a pay-per-click deal. You click the ads, and Google pays me serious coin. In the last week or so, I had racked up nearly $70 from what I feel are totally legitimate clicks. I was looking forward to early retirement in Cancun...but my dreams were shattered when I received this email today:


It has come to our attention that invalid clicks and/or impressions have been generated on the Google ads on your site(s). We have therefore disabled your Google AdSense account.

Publishers disabled for invalid click activity are not allowed further participation in AdSense and do not receive any further payment. The earnings on your account will be properly returned to the affected advertisers.

If you feel that this decision was made in error, and can maintain in good faith that the invalid activity was not due to the actions or negligence of you or those you are responsible for, such as employees and family members, you may appeal the closing of your account.

If Google decides to evaluate your appeal, we will do our best to inform you quickly and will proceed with appropriate action as necessary. If we have reached a decision on your appeal, subsequent or duplicate appeals may not be considered.


Well, you could have knocked me over with an Amish quilt! How dare they accuse me of invalid click activity!! I assure you, I shall not take this lying down. Dyckerson doesn't give up without a fight. That's why I sent off the following reply:


How convenient. I guess when you found out someone was actually making money with your shitty ads, you decided to back out of your end of the deal and refuse to pay me. Invalid clicks and/or impressions? What the hell does that mean?? Why don't you do an "impression" of a real business and fork over the $70 you owe me?

And just so you know, I wasn't just doing this for myself. Fact is, 50 cents of every dollar I've earned from AdSense was earmarked for the local Children's Hospital.* So I hope you can sleep at night knowing you're stealing from poor, sick children.

You're a total scam. I demand my account to be reactivated immediately, or I will not hesitate to contact the Better Business Bureau and demand a full investigation. I will not warn you again.


Anyway, we'll see what kind of response I get (if any). In the meantime, I am calling for a total boycott of all Google-related sites. This includes Google searching, Google video, GMail, Google Earth, Google Maps, and Google images. Yahoo rules!!!




* Complete bullshit.

The DyCkerson Code

My previous post about the idiotic shenanigans of my office colleagues sparked the following cryptic message from Stacy, one of the MBN affiliates:


Mister Dyckerson,

Thank you for the green bean clarification. However, I was honestly more interested in the toppings on your stack of pancakes. I was in the mood for something sweet yesterday.

Sadly, that mood has passed. Now, I feel as though I could chew on a bag of nails. No, it's not PMS. It's an unruly large blubberized fractal of wasted air space that continually aggravates and annoys me to, (apparently), no fucking end!

[deep breath]

Yeah. Sorry for overtaking the comment box with that lovely bit of depression.

I'm going to go meditate now. (Translation: I will be envisioning the demise of my enemy yet again... Incineration-by-way-of-Meteroite.)

Ohm-Ohm-Ooohhhmmm


Now I don't like to brag, but in college I got a C+ in Remedial Psychology. (Would've been a B-, but I spelled "Id" wrong on the final exam.) So I happen to know a thing or two about the mind. And it doesn't take a Sammy Freud to figure out this message is a cry for help. I re-paste this line for further examination:


Now, I feel as though I could chew on a bag of nails.


As you can see, something appears to be bothering Stacy.

First of all, happy, healthy people do not normally possess an urge to chew on a bag of nails. But why did she choose "nails" here? Perhaps she is unsatisfied with the recent work of a carpenter? Unlikely. A botched job from a manicurist? Seeing as though Stacy is a chick, this has possibilities. But let's read on:



No, it's not PMS.


Here, Stacy states that it's not PMS. Given this clue, I'm going to rule out the possibility of Stacy's dilemma being related to Pre-Minestrone Syndrome. Continuing on:


It's an unruly large blubberized fractal of wasted air space...


Air space is an aviation term. Then we have the terms large and blubberized. Could Stacy be under attack by a rogue Goodyear Blimp? Or perhaps a mutant bird/whale creature? Doubtful. It's possible she is referring to her husband, but close examination of her blog would lead me to think otherwise. She seems to be happily married (or is that just what she WANTS us to think)??? Moving on:


...that continually aggravates and annoys me...


Stacy is being aggravated and annoyed continually. Whoever it is that's pissing her off, it's someone she has regular contact with. Perhaps a neighbor or boss? I think we're getting closer! And finally:


...to, (apparently), no fucking end!


Here we see that Stacy is being fucked, and the fucking does not appear to be stopping. But the question is, does she mean fucking in the literal or the figurative sense? Now I don't know about you, but I happen to enjoy a nice long literal fucking every now and then. I mean, who doesn't?? Unless, of course, Stacy is in the process of being raped. Again, this is highly unlikely, since it's very difficult to type on a computer while being sexually assaulted. Usually the victim is restrained in some way. (Or so I've heard.) Therefore I deduce that Stacy is using the term fucking in a figurative sense.

OK, I have examined all the evidence and have come to the following conclusion: Either Stacy is being violated by a humpback whale with incredible stamina...or her mother-in-law is driving her crazy. Or both.

My work is done here.