News Update

My, but a lot of shit has transpired in the last week or two! I've been so busy crafting my Price is Right novella, I haven't had time to cover any of it. I know many of you get your news solely from The Mighty Blog, so I feel it's my duty to take a few moments and catch everyone up. Here's an update:

Of course, the big story last week was the Virginia Tech Massacre. (Doesn't that sound like a 70's slasher film?) Quadrahexadecahomicide is no laughing matter...particularly when commited by a psychotic chink who had no business being loose. Hell, I spent a few of my formative years close to Blacksburg. I even fornicated with a handful of VT coeds. So this really hit home for me - especially when that package from the killer arrived at Dyckerson Headquarters two days before the shooting. Guess I shouldn't have waited til yesterday to open it.

Earlier this week, astronomers announced that they found a giant ball of crap floating around in space. Wow, that's really something. It sure is rare to find a round object in space. There are only what, A BILLION STARS in our galaxy alone?? That doesn't even include the planets, moons, comets, asteroids, hemorhoids, and assorted other 'rhoids floating around out there. I guess the big news here is this planet is Earth-like and might contain life. Gee, I wonder if they have mass murdering mental midgets there too? No thanks, I think I'll just take my chances here. Besides, it'll save me from having to mail all those change-of-planet cards to my relatives.

Speaking of giant balls of crap, Rosie O'Douchebag announced she is leaving The View. That's the best news I've heard all year. Now maybe that bag of gas will keep her fucking mouth shut. Of course, we can't be that lucky. She'll be back on television polluting the airwaves again in no time. I even heard she wants to host The Price is Right. Yeah, that would go over well: "Before we bring out the Plinko board, I'd like to tell you why Donald Trump is a loser. Oh, and that whole 9/11 thing was a government conspiracy. Now what's the price of the toaster?"

I understand there was a presidential debate the other night. I didn't watch it - it's too early to care. I think we'd see better voter turnout on Election Day if we used the American Idol format. You know, start out with maybe 10 candidates...then once a week we dial in and vote for our favorite. The candidate with the fewest votes gets eliminated until we narrow it down to the final three. Those three get to have sex with Paula Abdul, who then chooses the winner!

We were all saddened to hear of the passing of Jack Valenti, head of the Motion Picture Association. He's the dude responsible for the rating system - you know, R, NC-17, and XXX. I think there are others, but I have no idea what they are. Anyway, funeral arrangements have finalized. Services will take place at Forest Lawn daily at (3:45), 5:30, 7:15, 9:00, and 10:45. Concessions will be available in the lobby, and wreaths may be purchased for $7.00 (Medium), $7.50 (Large), or $8.00 (X-Large).

On the home front, my ex-internets-wife RevRee leaked a very personal voice mail to the media. In the message, I went a little nuts and cursed out our baby son, Dyck Jr. Did I cross the line? Listen and judge for yourself:

If you ask me, the little bastard was asking for it.

Anyway, that wraps up this news update. Stay tuned tomorrow when I begin my 92-part series on my recent appearance on The Joker's Wild!!!



In our last installment of A DYCK IN HOLLYWOOD, a video camera possessed by Satan attacked the studio audience, killing several and injuring hundreds. Miraculously, the first four Price is Right contestants managed to escape harm and take refuge in the front row section known as "Contestants' Row." The game was about to begin.


The remainder of this post contains "spoilers" pertaining to game play that took place during THE PRICE IS RIGHT MILLION DOLLAR SPECTACULAR to be aired on May 16th on CBS. I tell you this not as a warning, but to give you the opportunity to make some easy coin by wagering on the game's outcome with your loser friends. No need to thank me.

Door #2 opened with brute force. Huge panels of termite-infested plywood opened up, banging into each other as they slid across the stage. There he stood. The man, the hero, the legend. Born in Darrington, Washington on December 12, 1923. His mother, a school teacher, and his father, an electrical power foreman. He began his career in broadcasting while attending Drury University in Springfield, Missouri; then moved to California in 19.....oh fuck it, look it up yourself on Wikipedia. I'm talking about BOB BARKER!!!!!!!

Bob emerged from door #2 and walked out on stage with the vim and vigor of a man half his age. It was simply amazing. He was spry, he was energetic, he was alert....and he walked right into door #1 and broke his nose. Give the man a break, he's 83 fucking years old. He's lucky he's not crapping into a bag. After the 7th take, he finally hit his mark on the front of the stage and took a bow. He sported a black suit with grey pinstripes and a red power tie. A sobering thought occured to me: This is probably the suit he will be buried in.

A model handed Bob his long, thick dildo/microphone, and we were off and running. The first contestant to make it on stage was a hot little piece of ass named Blythe. Yeah, you heard me. BLYTHE. Blythe looked to be all of 16 years old. Hell, Bob could be her great great great great great grandfather. Blythe wore a pair of black short shorts and a tight white t-shirt with a black CBS eye logo around the tit area. My first thought: She looked like a Mouseketeer. My second thought: She's probably too young to know what the hell a Mouseketeer is. My third thought: I'm too young to know what the hell a Mouseketeer is. Blythe was a little ball of energy, jumping up and down and slobbering all over Bob as if he were Mickey Mouse himself.

Blythe's game was Golden Shower...or something like that. It was a total clusterfuck. First, Bob had a senior moment and screwed up the game rules. Bob yelled "Stop tape!" and ran over to the producer's table to regroup. This would be the first of countless "stopdowns" that would occur that afternoon. Look for the edit if you watch the show. When taping continued, Blythe blew her chance at a Dodge Viper by guessing the wrong price for one of the intermediate prizes. Anticlimactic to say the least. Bob was just about to give her the boot when something interesting happened: He pulled a key out of his pants pocket, handed it to Blythe, and whispered something in her ear. I couldn't hear what it was, but I'm sure I saw him mouth the words "dressing room."

Another contestant was then called to come on down, and again, IT WASN'T ME! No problem, they were probably saving my name for one of the really big prizes. Actually, it was probably a good thing, because I STILL COULDN'T HEAR A FUCKING THING over the damn crowd noise. How the fuck can I come on down if I can't hear the jackass announcer??! Anyway, somebody else gets on stage and plays the second game out of six, this one called It's In The Funbag or whatever. If you're betting on this one, the contestant lost.

Time for a commercial break. This is when Bob likes to take questions from the audience. This is a really bad idea for two reasons. For one thing, Bob is apparently deaf. Even though the studio is quiet during the breaks, Bob requires a stagehand to relay the questions. It's really quite pathetic to witness. The other reason Bob shouldn't take audience questions: these people are fucking IDIOTS. Case in point: A dipshit seated behind me asked if she could meet "the producer, Mark Goodson." Bob had to explain to her what many of us already knew - namely that Mark Goodson has been DEAD FOR 15 YEARS. Yeah, that was a little awkward.

Back to the show. Another contestant was called out of the audience. Still not me, but that was okay. I figured they were saving me for the second half of the show. Game number three was Whore Or Less. This was pretty much the same game as Golden Shower, only the prop was a different color. Once again, we have ANOTHER LOSER. It's becoming apparent to me that the producers go out of their way to pick TOTAL IDIOTS so they can save money in the prize budget.

Time for the first of two Showcase Showdowns, featuring the Wheel of Death. Whoever designed that contraption was sick in the head. I giant two-ton wheel with spikes sticking out of the side of it. In order to spin the wheel, contestants must grab one of the spikes and throw all their body weight on top of it. Good news: Somebody hit the one dollar space and picked up $10,000 in cash - the first major win on an otherwise forgettable show. The audience erupted in orgasmic delight. I'm not sure, but I think Johnny Olson ejaculated on his podium.

Back from a commercial, and immediately another stopdown occured when Bob's Alzheimers returns. This time, he addressed the announcer as "Adam." I swear I am not making this up. I have no idea where the fuck he got "Adam"...unless he was having flashbacks of his Happy Gilmore scene with Adam Sandler.

The game continued with something called Lucky Fucker. Once again, I was snubbed. Was I pissed? HELL YES, I was pissed! Especially when the moron contestant won the game and got a Ford Explorer! That should have been MY Ford Explorer!!! But all was not lost, for I still had two chances to get on stage. My moment was about to come.

Another observation: During the commercial breaks, Bob constantly adjusts himself - his hair, his tie, his diaper, you name it. He even hiked up his pants right there in front of us. The man has no shame...nor does he wear a belt. I guess he took it off in preparation for Blythe after the show.

Another contestant went on down. I wasn't expecting my name to be called this time. Obviously they were saving me for last. Now it was time for the fifth game of the day, The Mountain Flamer. You've all seen this game. It's the one with the yodeling fag who climbs this fake-looking mountain. The object is to keep the homo from falling off the cliff and plunging into a deep, dark, smelly hole. Any brain-dead retard can win this game...including the one who played it that day.

Yet another commercial. Someone in the audience complimented Bob on his work for animal rights. Sucking up won't do your ass any good now, I thought. My name is about to be called!!!

Two minutes passed by, and finally the time had come. The last pricing game of the show. My last chance to be called. I had a really good feeling about this. My life was about to change forever. Just then, something happened so shocking, so unbelievably stunning, you simply will not believe it. And you'll find out what that was...on THE PRICE IS RIGHT MILLION DOLLAR SPECTACULAR on May 16th on CBS!!!



In our last installment of A DYCK IN HOLLYWOOD, we had entered the Price is Right studio and marvelled at its utter crappiness. Announcer Johnny Olson tortured us with his lame audience warm-up routine, and the show was about to begin.

The excitement rose to a fever pitch as everyone took their positions and the lights came up. A cue card flunkie ran across the stage holding a sign displaying the air date for the show we were about to watch - May 16th, 2087. Geez, I had no idea they taped so far in advance!

Then the countdown began: 10, 9, 8, 7, 4, 6, 2, 3, 5, 9, 1.... OH MY GODDDDDDD!!!!!!!!!!!!!! That very moment, 10,000 volts of electric current was sent to every seat in the audience, causing everyone to leap to their feet and scream in horror. The stench of burning flesh permeated the room as we all desperately gasped for breath. Just then, a menacing crane camera swung out over the crowd, knocking dozens of people unconscious. I looked over at Johnny. He was shouting at the top of his lungs, but no words were coming out. All I could hear was the blood curdling screams of my fellow spectators, along with some eerie sounding music playing faintly in the distance. It was like I was witnessing the apocalypse.

The cue card guy returned to the stage. This time he was holding up a card with somebody's name on it. I turned around and saw a woman rushing frantically to the front of the stage. The flying camera beast was chasing her, and this poor soul was trying to get away. Then the camera went after another one...and another...and still another. Thankfully, they were able to take refuge in four empty seats at the front of the stage. But the camera creature continued to swing around wildly, brutally injuring scores of innocent bystanders in its path. Sweet Lord, when will the carnage end??!

That's when it hit me like a sack of wet Plinko chips: I WAS WATCHING THE PRICE IS RIGHT!!! The first four contestants had just been called to come on down. And the reason for the cue cards became quite obvious from the moment the show started: WE COULDN'T HEAR A GODDAM THING over all the noise. Honestly, all that wailing and shreaking reminded me of one of my lovemaking sessions with Ms. Babble. Wait a minute, why hadn't MY name been called?? Clearly a terrible oversight had occured! Heads were going to roll! (Actually, heads were already rolling thanks to that fucking camera.)

All eyes turned toward the stage. Any second now, Mr. Robert Barker would make his big entrance. The tension was palpable. Just then, something happened so shocking, so unbelievably stunning, you simply will not believe it. And I'll tell you what that was.....on the next installment of A DYCK IN HOLLYWOOD! Stay tuned!!!



In the last installment of A DYCK IN HOLLYWOOD, we had set up camp on a heavily littered, rat infested sidewalk outside the CBS studios to attend a taping of The Price Is Right two days later. To pass the time, I ridiculed passers-by and ate greasy overpriced fast food. On Monday morning, I was branded with a name tag and interviewed by a gay guy. Oh yeah, and I got to visit a public toilet that's in the same general area as the one Bob Barker uses.

After a grueling day-long audition process, we were finally allowed into the studio. Studio 33. The Bob Barker Studio. A studio steeped in history. The studio that was once home to All in the Family, The Carol Burnett Show, Match Game '73, Match Game '74, Match Game '75, Match Game '76, Match Game '77, Match Game '78, Match Game '79, Match Game PM, and just plain Match Game. I had traveled 3,000 miles and slept on the street for two nights just to be here.

What a fucking shithole.

To say the studio is small would be an understatement. The entire room was no larger than a tool shed. We entered from the rear of the audience area, which is adorned with tacky red, blue, and green curtains. There are approximately one rows of seats, with each row containing approximately one chairs. Somehow 325 people would have to fit in this space. And hanging on the wall behind us was a giant makeshift sign, apparently made of cardboard, with the number "$1,000,000" printed on it. I'm guessing that construction of the sign cost about 1/1,000,000th of that amount.

Next I turned my attention to the stage, which is actually an inverted milk crate. Upon the stage were the familiar Price is Right doors and the turntable area. The doors appeared to be made of paper mache, and the turntable was a block of cheese. (That explained the rats foraging outside the studio.) The whole thing was a caricature of itself, like a PlaySkool model of what is shown on TV. What the hell did they do with the real set??!

We took our seats in the center section of the second row. Best fucking seats in the house. Actually, the only seats in the house that offer an unobstructed view of the Tonka Toy set. The left side of the audience is blocked by the turntable cheese contraption. The right side of the audience can't see door #3 at all because it's at a 90 degree angle. Brilliant stage design. A section of our row was taped off for "VIPs." I don't know about you, but to me, nothing says "VIP" like a strip of masking tape stretched across your chair.

A few moments went by, and announcer Johnny Olson emerged from behind a curtain. He started whipping the audience into a frenzy by yelling such clever things as "WELCOME" and "TO" and "THE PRICE IS RIGHT." Then he got into the rules, which I shall list below:
  • Make sure your name tag is visible at all times.
  • Do not leave the studio during taping for any reason.
  • State your bids clearly and promptly.
  • Should you win a prize, jump up and down at least three times.
  • Do not stare directly at Mr. Barker.
  • Do not touch Mr. Barker or his microphone.
  • Do not expose yourself to Barker's Beauties.
  • No cell phones, cameras, pacemakers, or artificial limbs are permitted in the studio.
Now that the audience was sufficiently warmed up, Johnny took his position behind his magic podium, the lights came up, and the famous Price is Right theme started booming through the studio speakers. Just then, something happened so shocking, so unbelievably stunning, you simply will not believe it. And I'll tell you what that was.....on the next installment of A DYCK IN HOLLYWOOD! Stay tuned!!!



In my last installment of A DYCK IN HOLLYWOOD, I took a wicked shit in my motel room, ate a cockroach-filled bagel, saw Corporal Klinger from M*A*S*H get eaten by a mountian lion, and met a group of Price is Right fans at a crappy restaurant near the CBS studios. (In case you're just joining us, the highlight of this trip was attending a taping of The Price Is Right Million Dollar Spectacular And Circle Jerk.)

We had just finished an unsatisfying dinner and were walking back to the motel to retire for the evening. As we made our way past Fairfax Avenue, I took a gander toward the entrance to CBS, and what do I see?? A group of dipshits SETTING UP CAMP on the sidewalk - complete with folding chairs, sleeping bags, and tents. Here it was, Saturday night, and they were starting the line to see MONDAY'S taping. What kind of COMPLETE LOSERS get in line TWO DAYS EARLY just to attend a fucking game show taping??!

So my buddies and I ran back to our motel room, got our chairs, sleeping bags, and tent, and returned to the line. And we waited. And we waited and waited and waited.

The time actually went by fairly quickly. Every once in a while, a motorist would pull up beside us and ask us what we were waiting for. After shouting "THE PRICE IS RIGHT" for about the hundredth time, we decided to have a little fun with it. One guy answered "American Idol." Someone else said "Conan." I yelled out "Password Plus." Oddly enough, this seemed to satisfy some of the motorists, even though "Password Plus" was an NBC show and has been out of production since 1982.

We took turns sleeping in shifts, but it's hard to sleep when douchebags are honking their horns at you and rats are nibbling on your ears. During one of my breaks, I cruised down to In & Out Burger and further assaulted my stomach with one of their famous Double-Doubles. By the time Sunday afternoon rolled around, there were at least 200 people in line. By Sunday night, over 350 people. I didn't have the heart to tell the bastards the studio only had 325 seats.

FINALLY it was Monday morning. A day at The Price is Right begins ridiculously early for the audience. At 6am, a disgruntled page handed out pink "order of arrival" passes and instructed us to return at 7:45am. I ran back to the motel, grabbed a quick shower, and put the same filthy clothes back on. At 7:45am, another disgruntled page exchanged our faggoty-pink "order of arrival" passes with macho-blue "priority numbers" and instructed us to return at 10:30am. We were starving, so we walked over to the adjacent Farmers Market, which is like a mall food court without the mall. I had a cold Belgian waffle and some burnt bacon. Perfect fuel for the bomb I was planning to leave in the Price Is Right shitter.

At 10:30am, we returned to the CBS lot, where we were herded like cattle onto cold hard metal benches outside the building. Yet another page started going down the line and writing our names on pale yellow name tags with a magic marker. One page. 325 people. Over ONE HOUR just to get fucking NAME TAGS. Here's a crazy thought for the folks at CBS: Maybe get a SECOND MAGIC MARKER and have one of the OTHER PAGES write some of the names??!?! Or even better, get a WHOLE PACK OF MAGIC MARKERS and PASS THEM AROUND to people so they can WRITE THEIR OWN DAMN NAMES??!!?

At around noon, the interview process began. This is where a Price is Right producer (probably whoever drew the short straw that day) goes down the line and decides who gets to "come on down." He asked us such thought-provoking questions as "Where are you from?" and "What do you do?" The answers really don't matter. What matters is how you answer. They're looking for the three E's: Excitement, Enthusiasm, and Excitement. You only have about ten seconds to make an impression, and if you don't exhibit the three E's right away, your ass ain't getting on.

With this in mind, I knew I had to act fast. When it was my turn to be interviewed, I leapt out of my seat, knocked over the old lady in front of me, and planted a big wet kiss on the producer's cheek. Before he had a chance to speak, I made my sales pitch: "HI MY NAME IS MIGHTY DYCKERSON I'M FROM DYCKERSONVILLE AND I HAVE MY OWN BLOG READ BY TENS OF PEOPLE EVERY DAY. I AM A PRICE IS RIGHT JUNKIE AND THE WALLS OF MY HOME ARE PLASTERED WITH PHOTOS OF BOB BARKER. I HAVE THE RULES TO EVERY PRICING GAME COMMITED TO MEMORY AND I KNOW THE PRICE OF EVERY SINGLE ITEM EVER SOLD IN THE U.S. SO IF MY NAME IS NOT CALLED, I WILL SLIT THE THROATS OF EVERYONE IN THE STUDIO!" Then I jumped around like a monkey and dry humped the producer from behind. I think I made a pretty big impact.

After the big interview, I proceeded to another cold hard metal bench where I had to wait for the 311 other losers to be interviewed. At some point, a camera crew from something called "CBS dot com" showed up and shot some footage for the CBS web site. (Sorry, I don't know the URL. I think it's CBS dot something.) Basically, we all had to hoot and holler and generally pretend to enjoy ourselves while the camera panned across the crowd. That old lady kept getting in my light, so I had to kick her to the ground. A little harsh, perhaps, but this is show business. No place for weaklings.

While we were waiting to be led into the studio, I found the shitters. One for ladies and one for gents. There wasn't much going on at the moment, so I seized the opportunity. I pushed open the black restroom door fully expecting to be dazzled by a colorful display of flashing lights, spinning wheels, and fabulous prizes...but imagine my disappointment when I discovered nothing but an ordinary men's room. And it wasn't even a nice men's room. Two urinals, a stall, a sink, and a stench. My dream was shattered. Surely neither Bob Barker nor his feces had ever set foot in that dump. I was so dismayed, all I could do was turn around and walk out.

But my melancholy wouldn't last long, for soon after I returned to my seat, the CBS page opened the double doors to the studio and the crowd went wild. The show was about to begin!!!! I jumped to my feet, trampled the 13 people in front of me, and ascended the stairs leading into the studio. Just then, something happened so shocking, so unbelievably stunning, you simply will not believe it. And I'll tell you what that was.....on the next installment of A DYCK IN HOLLYWOOD! Stay tuned!!!



On Saturday morning, I awoke to the sensation of stomach cramps. It appeared that last night's #4 combo from Jack in the Hole didn't agree with me. I jumped out of bed, made a beeline to the shitter, and put the Beverly Inn's plumbing system to the test. As I sat there ridding myself of giant brown torpedos, I was haunted by memories of that fateful night I spent at the Byrd Theatre.

I was feeling much better (but not well enough to fight the godawful L.A. traffic), so I ventured out on foot in search of my morning repast. The first place I encountered was a bagel joint called "Best Bagels" right across from CBS. With a name like that, how could I go wrong? I went inside and ordered a some O.J. and a cinnamon & raisin bagel from the grumpy Jew behind the counter. At least I think they were raisins. Actually, they were a bit crunchy for raisins. "Best Bagels," eh?? If by "best" they mean "barely edible," then I would have to concur. But it filled me up and gave me a much needed energy boost. And it drained my wallet of nearly SIX BUCKS. I guess Mel Gibson was right. The Jews really do control Hollywood.

By this time, I was up for a little adventure...so I went back to the motel, slipped into my combat gear, and headed out onto the L.A. freeway. Highway 101, I think it was. Or maybe it was the 401. Or the 104. Makes no difference - they all go the same place...NOWHERE. After 20 miles of being honked at, gestured to, and shot at, I decided to get off at the Las Virgenes exit. (Las Virgenes is spanish for "The Virgenes.")

Las Virgenes runs through the heart of picturesque Malibu Canyon. After traveling a few more miles, I came upon the entrance to Malibu Creek State Park. I was tired of driving around, so I went in for a closer inspection. I pulled up beside the guard gate and a flunkie appeared at my window. "That'll be eight bucks," she said. EIGHT BUCKS just to get into the park?? WTF??! I contemplated turning around, but the guard gate is cleverly situated between one of those swinging toll gate arms and a set of spike strips. I couldn't go forward and I couldn't go back. Reluctantly, I pulled out my wallet and forked over the eight bucks. "Want a map?" she asked. No, I'd prefer to wander aimlessly around the mountains and get eaten by a grizzly bear. YES I WANT A FUCKING MAP, YOU ASSHOLE IN A HAT!!! "That'll be a dollar," she informed me. Delightful. Can I put away my wallet now, or is oxygen extra too??

I parked the car and walked over to one of them shit-brown informational signs you always find at state parks. Turns out Malibu Creek State Park was formerly the Fox Ranch, a popular outdoor shooting location for many movies and TV shows - most notably, the exterior scenes of M*A*S*H. Great, I thought. Maybe I'll get to meet Klinger! At the bottom of the brown sign is a warning about wildlife. "If you should encounter a mountain lion, remain still and try to look as large as possible." Umm...MOUNTAIN LIONS?? You tell me this AFTER you take my nine bucks?? And how exactly do I make myself look larger? Stand beside a picture of Herve Villechaiz??!

I proceeded to the trailhead and made my way down the path. For several hours, I hiked over rugged terrain and dodged gigantic piles of lion poo. I guess it was lion poo. It certainly didn't look human...that is, unless someone drank an entire bottle of Milk of Magnesia laced with green food coloring. At some point, I passed a dude dressed in drag coming in the opposite direction. My face lit up like a Christmas fir. "Klinger!!" I screamed. "Is that you??!" Nope. No it wasn't. A little ways further, and there it was: the M*A*S*H site. Nothing left but a pile of dirt and a burned-out army Jeep. That's Hollywood for you.

By this time, I was exhausted, so I headed back for the PT Cruiser and continued down Las Virgenes to the Pacific Coast Highway...so named because it runs parallel to the Pacific coast. There it was, the Pacific Ocean, in all its splendor. Looked a lot like the Atlantic Ocean, which I've seen a billion times, thank you. I wasn't going to bother to get out of the car, but my bladder was getting full, so found a parking space near the beach, walked down to the water, and took a leak. I got some strange looks from the surfers - I don't know why. After all, the ocean is nature's toilet.

As I passed through the Malibu beach area, I marveled at the sight of the homes carved into the side of the mountains. These were the homes of celebrities...dumbass celebrities who were cheating fate by building their million dollar mansions in an area prone to landslides, mudslides, and earthquakes. It was in this area that I happened upon my third celebrity sighting.....

Ladies and gentlemen, CHER! Yeah, I got YOU, babe!!!

The hour was getting late, and besides that, it was time for me to meet up with the rest of my group. So I got off the Pacific Coast Highway near Santa Monica and headed back to home base via the Rosa Parks Freeway. Why California has a road named after Rosa Parks is beyond me. I don't think anyone who was on that freeway has ever given up a seat for anybody...unless that seat happened to be an electric chair.

Due to scheduling issues, I had to check my ass out of the Beverly Inn and move next door to the equally shitty Guest House Inn. I met my group in the lobby and we set out on foot in seek of food items. I had no intention of returning to Jack in the Hole or the bagel joint, so we ended up at some nondescript little sidewalk cafe dump that served vegan food. My stomach was sending me multimedia manifestos of hate, so I decided I better order a salad. My friend ordered the orange chicken. Don't ask me how a vegan restaurant can get away with serving chicken. This is California, after all.

After dinner, we swung by CBS Television City to taunt the security guard working the front gate. As we rounded the corner of Beverly Blvd. and Fairfax Ave., something happened so shocking, so unbelievably stunning, you simply will not believe it. And I'll tell you what that was.....on the next installment of A DYCK IN HOLLYWOOD! Stay tuned!!!



On the first installment of A DYCK IN HOLLYWOOD, I had just landed at Los Angeles International Aiport after a grueling 5-hour trip aboard a flying dildo with wings...

And as I made my way through the concourse and toward the exit, something happened so shocking, so unbelievably stunning, you simply will not believe it. I turned toward the baggage carousel thingy, and there it was! The airline had NOT lost my luggage!!!

My next stop was the Payless Auto Rental booth. I told the bitch at the counter to give me my wheels. I had ordered a compact, but apparently there's a huge demand for Ford Foci, because they upgraded me to a BRAND NEW SUV!

Yes, it's the FABULOUS PT CRUISER featuring advanced multi-stage driver and front-passenger airbags, AM/FM radio with CD player, power locks and windows, front disc/rear drum brakes, and power rack-and-pinion steering, and a 2.4L DOHC four-cylinder 16V engine with automatic transmission! Retail value: $16,205!!!!!

I located my vehicle, hopped in, and unfolded my trusty map. Only 10 miles to the motel - I should be there in 15 minutes tops, I thought. Three hours later, I had moved approximately 75 feet. Welcome to L.A. Although I am happy to report that while en route, I had my first celebrity sighting.....

Can you recognize him? That's right, it's SANJAYA from American Idol! Looks a lot different without all the makeup, doesn't he??

God help you if you need to make a left turn anywhere in the Los Angeles area. Evidently Californians don't believe in left turn signals. Instead, you have to sit there on a solid green light and wait for a break in traffic. What they don't seem to understand is THERE IS NEVER A BREAK IN TRAFFIC! Instead, everybody just waits for the light to turn red and sneaks through before the other cars start to move. Good times.

Finally I made it to the motel, the luxurious BEVERLY INN across the street from CBS Headquarters. The Beverly Inn is run by a chink who actually lives in a room behind the check-in counter. Sounds pathetic, but after my battle with L.A. traffic, I couldn't help but admire his short commute. Hell, I even asked to fill out a job application, but unfortunately my Korean is a little rusty.

The room was a shit box. Only one lamp in the whole joint, so I decided to open the window and let in a little bit of California sunshine. Turned out my window opened to a view of an alley and a brown wall. No problem, I thought. I'll just watch some TV! I picked up the remote, but it turned out to be...how shall I put this...sticky.

By now I was starving, so I decided to grab some grub. One thing I noticed as I was cruising around looking for a fast food restaurant: You can't swing a deceased feline without hitting a Jack in the Box restaurant. They're nonexistent in the east, but good God, they're everywhere in Hollywood. The last thing I wanted was a giant ball of grease in my gizzard, but I finally caved in and got myself a fatburger and freedom fries. As luck would have it, while exiting the Jack in the Box, I encountered yet another celebrity enjoying a lovely beverage in the outside eating area.....

Ladies and gentlemen, it's KIRSTIE ALLEY from Cheers! She has really let herself go. Very sad. A word to the wise: Don't approach her for an autograph while she's feeding. It's not pretty.

Anyway, by this point I was fucking exhausted, so I headed back to the motel to get some shuteye. It was a good thing I got some rest that night, because the next day's events would prove to be so shocking, so unbelievably stunning, you simply will not believe it. And I'll tell you what that is.....on the next installment of A DYCK IN HOLLYWOOD! Stay tuned!!!



First, an apology in advance. The hour is late and I'm slapping this thing together, so forgive me if I let this whole post go by without a joke about feces or Ms. Babble's flat chest. Now on to the matter at hand.

Friday the 13th began early for me last week. I awoke at 3:30am, threw some shit in a bag, and headed for the airport. My flight didn't leave until 6:45am, but thanks to 9/11 and a group of asshole sand niggas, I had to get to the terminal two hours ahead of time and subject myself to a full cavity body search.

I parked the DyckMobile in the "economy" parking lot...so named because it's approximately 200 miles from the actual airport. But I am a tightwad, and it's four bucks per day cheaper than the much more convenient parking deck. Luckily, a shuttle bus stops at the economy lot every ten minutes to pick up the cheapskates and drive them to the main building. I was in such a hurry to catch the bus, I didn't take time to make a mental note as to exactly where I parked within the massive lot. This would prove to be very problematic later on.

On to the airport. The first thing I had to do was print my boarding pass. I walked up to the Delta counter and told the bitch I needed my ticket. She told me to fuck off and pointed at an ATM-looking device across the room. I should point out here that I haven't flown in a long fucking time. Apparently during that time, the geniuses at Delta have automated the flight check-in process. I walked over to the computer, punched in some numbers, and my boarding pass popped out of the slot like an unplanned baby out of Ms. Babble's hoo-ha.

I had a bag to check, so I went back to the Delta counter, threw my bag on the counter, and told the bitch I needed to check it. She told me to fuck off and pointed at the ATM thing again. What, are you fucking kidding me? How is a computer going to check my bag??! Unconvinced, I returned to R2-D2 and punched in my numbers again. Then it told me to place my bag on the scale and get lost. I complied.

Next came the security screening. As a survivor of 9/11,* I appreciate the importance of safety in our skies, so I cooperated fully with the TSA guys by stripping naked right there in the terminal. Then I cracked a joke about having a bomb hidden in my rectum. They didn't like that. They didn't like that at all. Christ, some people have NO sense of humor at all!

Finally, I proceeded to the gate and boarded the plane to Cincinnati. The flight attendant: a crabby black woman named Rema. She glossed over the safety instructions - emergency exits, floating seat cushions, blah blah blah. As she yammered on, I glanced out the window, and commented to my neighbor, "We must be really high up! Those people look like ants down there!" My neighbor informed me that those were ants - we hadn't left the ground yet. (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

The flight to Cincinnati was fairly short. The layover at the Cincinnati airport was RIDICULOUSLY short. In order to make my connecting flight, I had to jump out the emergency exit while the plane was still taxiing...then squash several ants** on the runway to get to the other plane! This was a bigass Boeing 757, and I somehow ended up in a middle seat. I fucking HATE middle seats. I was stuck between a chink and a chick who looked like an even uglier version of Kennedy.

At this point, I was starving, so I was looking forward to the in-flight meal. Well that wasn't going to happen. Apparently Delta cut out the meals to help pay for the fucking computers at the airport. Instead, I got my choice of crackers, peanuts, or Biscotti cookies. I didn't know what the hell Biscotti cookies were, so I went with the crackers.

I opted out of the in-flight movie, Snakes On A Plane, in favor of reading this month's issue of Delta's free periodical, Sky Magazine. The articles were complete fluff, obviously meant solely to fill the space between the ads for luggage. Stuff like the mating habits of the barn owl. I couldn't help but think that writing for Sky Magazine has got to be the bottom of the barrel for any self-respecting journalist. Those people must go to sleep every night wishing a 757 would fly through their bedroom window and give them a lethal colonoscopy.

And of course, the answer to the question on everyone's mind: You're damn right I did...with a flight attendant named Heather...and we broke the mirror in the lavatory. Seven years bad luck, but worth every minute of it! You know what I'm talking about!! ;)

Five hours later, our plane landed at LAX with a smooth 83-point touchdown. (Evidently our pilot had been hitting the sauce.) And as I made my way through the concourse and toward the exit, something happened so shocking, so unbelievably stunning, you simply will not believe it. And I'll tell you what that was.....on the next installment of A DYCK IN HOLLYWOOD! Stay tuned!!!

* I was nowhere near an airplane on 9/11, so technically I was a survivor, OK??

** Actually, those weren't ants. They were midget baggage handlers.


Dyckie's Home!

Look, I haven't slept in three fucking days and I don't feel like writing anything. Here's some stupid blog award competition bullshit. Go vote for me and shut up your face.

RFS Blog Awards Nominee


I begin PART ONE of my 37 PART SERIES
about my journey to Tinseltown
to see The Price Is Right!


Westward, Hos!

'Tis my last post before I embark on my transcontinental journey to sunny California. God forbid something should happen to me while I'm gone, but the world is a crazy and dangerous place. So if you don't hear from me again, please do not shed any tears. I ask that you only remember the good times we had together - the joy...the laughter...the wiener jokes. Besides, I prefer to think of death not as an ending, but as a beginning. The beginning of an eternity spent rotting in a box six feet in the ground.

Before I go, I have a few messages for some of my closest fans and colleagues.....

To RevRee: You were always my favorite. You've been there for me through thick and thin, in good times and in bad. You were the wind beneath my wings. Life is short, so stop reading this post immediately and make the most of it! Go now!

To Stacy: Now that she's gone, forget what I said about that nappy headed half-&-ho. My love belongs to you and you only. You parked a forklift under my heart and raised it to new heights. I'll never forget that time we made out in the Super Colon, with cancerous polyps dangling above our heads. Go...and write a poem celebrating our love. Or better yet, write a poem about forklifts.

To Ms. Babble: RevRee and Stacy meant nothing to me. You were the only one who mattered. Sure, we had our disagreements. But the fetus growing in your womb is everlasting proof of our undying love. Be sure to tell our child about me when he/she/it is old enough. Now turn off the computer and go rest.

To Luck O' The Irish: The stuff I said above is pure bullshit. Ever since I set my eyes on your sexy tattoo, I knew you were the one for me. Now hurry down to the tattoo parlor and have them tattoo my avatar on your ass!

To Maven: Ignore what I said about those other sluts. What you and I have is special. With your penchant for ennui and plantars warts, how could I not love you? Now run to the drug store and get yourself some Compound W!

To Manola: You know I'm lying about those other filthy tramps. You are all I could ever want. You...and your bodacious ta-tas. Now put down your giant orange phallus and come to daddy!



The Poop Is Right

I would like to take a break from our discussions about bowel movements and giant colons to address an issue of grave importance to every man, woman, and child alive today. Of course, I'm talking about the shitters at CBS Television City in Hollywood.

As you may recall, I am planning a pilgrimage to Tinseltown to attend a taping of The Fabulous 60-Minute Price is Right Million $ Spectacular Game Show Starring Bob Barker, a Mark Goodson-Bill Todman Television Production. It is to be the fulfillment of a lifelong dream - a dream to wait for hours on a filthy sidewalk with a bunch of screaming yahoos for a chance to be herded into a freezing studio and possibly be called on stage to play a child's game with a 130-year-old geezer.

So far, everything is pretty much taken care of. I have booked my reservations, planned my itinerary, and printed out directions to Alyssa Milano's house (for stalking purposes, if time permits). But the one thing I haven't done is find out what kind of "facilities" they have at The Price is Right should I need to visit them. Dyckerson does not like surprises, so I'd appreciate feedback from anyone who has been there. Here are my specific questions:

  • Is there a string of chasing lights around the mirror?
  • Will I be required to guess the price of the urinal before I may use it?
  • Are the toilets built to accomodate individuals with extra-long microphones?
  • Do the stalls have a time limit, and if so, will a I hear a buzzer when my time expires?
  • Is yodelling permitted?
  • Does the announcer yell "COME ON DOWN" when I flush?
  • Will the toilet paper dispenser make that "beep beep beep" sound when I unwind it?
  • If my name tag should fall into the bowl, can I get a replacement?
  • Can I keep my used toilet paper as a souvenir?
  • May I ask the audience for help?

I should point out that I'm talking about the public poopissery - not the one Bob Barker uses. Surely a man of his stature has his own private facility, probably with a gold plated throne to receive his superior waste matter.

So let's hear it! Surely one of you morons has visited the CBS shittery and can offer up a full report. Speak up!!!



Sometimes the comedy just writes itself.

While working on my Sandra Bullock post last week, I was searching the Internets for a picture of a commode filled with feces. You know, just a typical evening at the Dyckerson residence. Anyway, in conducting my search, I stumbled upon an interesting little item that I just HAD to share with my loyal fans.

Seems the fine folks at the Cancer Research and Prevention Foundation have in their possession a giant inflatable colon. I'd like to repeat that in case you missed it. The Cancer Research and Prevention Foundation have a GIANT INFLATABLE COLON. Before I continue, I'm sensing skepticism from some of you: A giant inflatable colon?? Mighty Dyckerson has surely lost his mind! Ladies and germs, I give you the following excerpt taken directly from their web site. (You might want to sit down for this...)

The SUPER COLON, an inflatable, 20-foot long, 8-foot high replica of a human colon, is an interactive educational tool that is teaching people all across America that colorectal cancer is preventable, treatable and beatable!

I don't even know where to start. A 20-foot interactive colon?!! Of all the organs in the human body, the colon is definitely NOT one I care to "interact" with. And certainly not a 20-FOOT one.

Can you imagine the meeting that led to this idea?? I'm guessing it went something like this...

Marketing Director: People, we need a way to spread the word about colorectal cancer. Any ideas?
Marketing Stooge #1: I say we print up pamphlets and distribute them to doctor's offices around the country.
Marketing Stooge #2:
I suggest we produce a 30-second PSA and buy air time from the networks.

Marketing Stooge #3 (joking): Hey, here's a good idea (chuckle chuckle)! Let's build a giant colon (snicker snicker) and travel around the country with it (giggle giggle)!!
Marketing Director:
That's brilliant, #3! You're getting a raise and a corner office!

Marketing Stooge #3:
Wha...? But I...I was just...

A few months (and a few hundred pounds of rubber) later, THIS was born:

As they say, a picture is worth a thousand turds. In this case, a thousand ENORMOUS turds. Christ, that's the biggest asshole I've seen since Rosie O'Donnell! Can you just imagine the looks on people's faces when this monstrosity made its debut? Talk about a GRAND OPENING!! Am I right people??!! Hey, I'm just getting warmed up here!!!

But seriously, the SUPER COLON is nothing to joke about. Just take a look at the many features it has to offer...

As visitors walk through the SUPER COLON, they get a up close look at:
  • healthy colon tissue
  • tissue with non-malignant colorectal disease like Crohns and colitis
  • colorectal polyps
  • various stages of colorectal cancer
You know I was just saying to myself the other day, if only I could climb inside a GIANT CORNHOLE and get a really good look at COLORECTAL POLYPS, my life would be complete. And now, thanks to the SUPER COLON, I shall get my wish!!!

Actually, if you think about it, the SUPER COLON bares a striking resemblance to another popular U-shaped tourist attraction...

Gee honey, where should we take the kids this summer? Let's see. One offers panoramic views of stunning rock formations, breathtaking sunsets, and the beautiful Colorado River. The other offers a close-up look at POLYPS and CROHNS DISEASE.* Tough choice!

But you better make your vacation plans early, because time is running out...

Please note that the SUPER COLON is currently scheduled to visit more than 30 cities in 2007! We are not booking any other visits for 2007 at this time; please check back for next year's availability.

Wow, 30 cities! That bowel is really on the move! I understand it's really popular at weddings and bar mitzvahs. I even heard the SUPER COLON is "opening" for Kenny Chesney! (I'll give you a minute to think about that one...)

You know, if they were smart, they'd cut the colon in half so they could cover twice as much territory. Then they'd have two SUPER SEMI COLONS! (Or should that be SEMI SUPER COLONS??) Better yet, maybe they should start supersizing other bodily organs. How about an ULTRA SPLEEN or a GIGANTIC GALL BLADDER? I don't know about you, but I'd pay good money to tour a MEGA VAGINA...although it would take an assload of vinegar to keep that cooter clean.

I wonder what would happen if the Cancer Research and Prevention Foundation joined forces with the Restless Legs Syndrome (RLS) Foundation? Think of it - a RESTLESS SUPER COLON!!! I bet that would go over big at Six Flags or Busch Gardens!!

Oh, I got a million of 'em, folks...but I don't want to hog the spotlight. Feel free to make up your own SUPER COLON comments and submit them below.

*If my name was Crohn, I'd be really pissed off.


R.I.P. Bacon Eggar

The Mighty Blog has lost one of its treasured affiliates. Some of you may have heard that Baron Ectar, author of Professor Of All That Is Unnecessary, died last week of after a sudden illness. In case you think I'm making this up, you can read about it here.

Baron was a semi-regular commenter on The Mighty Blog for several months. His final contribution was in response to last week's True American Hero post:

"Someone says help me young man and you answered ...
what kind of drugs are you on Old Man?!"
3/26/2007 06:26:00 PM

I think I speak for everyone when I say, why couldn't it have been Lambo? Oh yeah. In other news, I finally decided to trim my pubes last night. It feels like I have a whole new penis!!


Sandra Bullock Makes Me Crap My Pants


It's time for a Mighty Blog flashback! The year was 1997. Bill Clinton was in office, Jewel's "You Were Meant For Me" was topping the charts, and Ms. Babble was still turning tricks at the El Paso truck stop on Route 5. Meanwhile, a little film called Speed 2: Cruise Control was playing in theaters across the country. The star was the lovely and talented Sandra Bullock, reprising her role as Annie the hot chick. If you've never had the opportunity to see this cinematic masterpiece, you are denying yourself one of the greatest pleasures life has to offer. The sequel was much like the original in every conceivable way, with one notable exception: Instead of taking place on a bus, Speed 2 took place on a boat! ON A BOAT, PEOPLE!!! The implications are staggering!!!!!

Dyckerson doesn't attend many movies in the theater, but this one was not to be missed. Still, I tend to be a bit frugle with my enormous wealth, so I waited for the movie to hit the 99-cent theater. Here in Dyckersonville, there is only one theater that offers gorgeous architecture, live organ music, and a feature film all for under a buck. Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to give you the Byrd.

Built in 1928, and named for William Byrd, the theatre offers moviegoers a chance to step back in time and relive the Golden Era of Hollywood. With its hand-carved mouldings, velvet seats, and ornate crystal chandelier, the Byrd is truly an experience not to be missed. Oh, and one other thing that makes the Byrd stand out from today's modern multi-screen auditoriums: THE SHITTERS HAVEN'T BEEN RENOVATED IN OVER 50 YEARS.

That's right, the Byrd has been plagued by budgetary challenges for years - i.e. they have NO FUCKING MONEY. I guess that's why the hand-carved mouldings look like shit, the velvet seats are lumpy and faded, and the crystal chandelier is held together with duct tape and prayers.

But none of that compares to the shitter. Normally I avoid public pooperies like the plague. In fact, I had never set foot inside the Byrd's bung depository until the night I went there to see Speed 2: Cruise Control. (If only I had a little more BOWEL CONTROL that evening, I wouldn't have this story to share with you today. My loss is your gain.)

Thankfully, I attended this movie solo. When I go to the theater, I like to sit in the back row, shove my enormous wang through the bottom of my popcorn container, and churn my own butter. All was well until about ten minutes into the first reel. That's when my stomach started grumbling. No problem, I thought. I can take a little discomfort for Sandra B. I continued to enjoy my popcorn. Another ten minutes ticked by, and the grumbling in my stomach turned to sharp pangs. Gradually, pressure began to build against the walls of my rectum. Still, I thought I could make it til the end. I paid 99 fucking cents, dammit, and I was going to get my money's worth! So I adjusted myself and continued to watch.

About halfway through the film, I could take no more. I felt a huge wave of shit pass through my colon and slam into my sphinctor like a killer tsunami pounding the coast of Indonesia. I tell you, the pressure was unreal. It took every ounce of strength I could muster to hold back the fantastic fecal force. I knew I had to purge myself, but I didn't think I could make it to the commode. I waited a moment or two - finally, a slight relief in the pressure. Could the muddy waters be receding??

Better not take a chance, I thought. I got up, threw the remainder of my buttery popcorn on the couple in front of me, and made my way to the lobby. Just then, it returned. A pressure so great, I felt as if Mt. Vesuvius was about to erupt in my pants. I could hold it no longer. I slammed open the door to the bathroom and dashed inside. Christ, it was like I just passed through a time warp.

The first thing I saw were the sinks. Two of them, enamel, with pink marble countertops. The mirrors were rusty and cracked, and above each, a bare flourescent tube light. On the far end were the "urinals" ... if you can call them that. Actually, it was more like a long goddamn trough built into the floor and running the length of the wall. You just stood facing the wall and pissed into ditch which was sloped toward a drain at one end. And across from the sinks, a trio of stalls about the size of small coat closets. And of course, the doors swung inward, so you practically had to stand on top of the fucking commode to get the door shut. The floor was composed of well-worn black and white hexagonal tiles. The ceiling was done up in some sort of acoustical tile that I'm betting was asbestos. The whole room was inadequately lit and reeked of stale urine.

I was just beginning to unbuckle my belt when the levees broke.

It started with a warm liquidy trickle down my leg; then turned into a thick, doughy mass pressing against my Spiderman underoos. It was too late. I unbuttoned my pants, yanked them down around my ankles, and began to squat. But before my ass cheeks reached the throne, the unthinkable happened. A huge hunk of turd exploded from my crack, richocheted on my pants and socks, and landed on the tile floor with an audible "splat." I had soiled myself.

Any chances of seeing the rest of the movie were gone at this point. And the truly amazing part was, I DIDN'T CARE. I was so thrilled to be relieved of that shit storm, all I could do was sigh and enjoy the moment. I just sat there while turd after glorious turd exited my body. But soon my euphoria turned into grave concern. In all my years, I've never met a toilet I couldn't clog. Surely the Byrd's antiquated plumbing system would be no match for the sheer volume of feces I was excreting. Not to mention the half roll of toilet paper I would surely require to return my ass crack to pristine condition. Flushing could lead to disastrous consequences.

I arose from the ancient crapper, and as I did so, I turned to survey the damage. Holy mother of Christ, what a mess. All the water in the bowl had been displaced, leaving only a solid mountain of muck piled almost to the rim. No way in Hell did I want to be anywhere within a five mile radius when that toilet got flushed. That was going to be somebody else's problem. The movie would be ending soon and the patrons would be heading for the toilets, so I knew I had to work fast.

Not my actual feces.

I quickly wiped my ass, concentrating on the worst of it and leaving the finer details for when I got home. Then I inspected my socks. A total loss. I removed my shoes, pulled off my shitty socks, and tossed them in the bowl. (At this point, what possible difference could it make?) Next came my pants. Fortunately the damage here wasn't as severe, so I was able to salvage them with the remaining bit of toilet paper. I had expelled so much shit, I swear to you I had to buckle my belt two notches tighter. Finally, there was the turd I dropped on the floor. By now I was out of t.p., so my options were limited. Besides, it looked kinda nice laying there juxtaposed against the 50s era tile. Thinking someone else might appreciate my artistic statement, I decided to leave it there. The bathroom was still empty except for myself, so I darted over to the sink, splashed some water on my hands, and high-tailed it out of there.

As I fled the scene of the grime, I couldn't help feeling pity for the poor soul whose job it would be to clean up that unGodly mess. So whoever you are, if you're out there reading this, sorry about that. Shit happens. And if it makes you feel any better, to this day I can't watch a Sandra Bullock movie without thinking of that fateful night and getting the urge to purge.

Coming tomorrow on The Mighty Blog:
Grandpa Dyckerson's recipe for chocolate pie!!!