5/29/2007

Refrigerator Nazi!!!

Please take a moment to enjoy this TOTALLY REAL interoffice email I received from our "Administrative Assistant" last week. Be sure to stay tuned for my commentary on the flip side...


The refrigerator will NOT be cleaned out today!!!!!

You all are obviously missing the point. You are required to label your items with the white labels that are provided. If you run out, please let me know. Yellow sticky notes are not consistent & therefore are unacceptable.

I'm going to use a grown up example so stay with me. What happens if I accept sticky notes? You may have yours properly secured but the next person may not be so smart & what happens when their sticky falls off? THEIR ITEM WILL BE THROWN AWAY! Next thing you know HR will come into the picture b/c it will sure be my word against yours.

If you insist on bringing in small items (i.e., yogurt, can drinks) may I suggest you either bag them up & place a label on the bag OR label each item. The labels MUST be filled out completely…..the date is very important.


Remember, even if it looks good if it's not "properly labeled" it will get tossed. We will try this again next week.


Now if you're like most of my co-workers, you probably read this and thought, "Gee whiz, this woman is a bitch!" Indeed, she has become the subject of great ridicule thanks to her zero tolerance policy on refrigerated food items. One of my colleagues has suggested photochopping her face on a picture of Adolph Hitler and taping it to the frig door. Another is planning to wallpaper her cube in white refrigerator labels.

I guess I am in the minority on this one, because I actually feel the refrigerator policy is too lenient and ambiguous. Basically all the email says is, refrigerated items must be labelled. It says nothing about the items themselves. Theoretically, I could slap a label on a live rat, toss it in the frig, and I'd be in compliance. I could even post-date the label by several months, ensuring my rat lives a long happy life of frivolity amongst the yogurt and tuna sandwiches. So clearly there needs to be major refrigerator policy reform, and as your soon-to-be President, I shall make this a top priority in my administration.

First and foremost, we need to tighten security in the break room. To this end, I am ordering the maintenance staff to erect a six-foot fence around the refrigerator. No one will be allowed access without filling out an application and passing a battery of tests.

Next, I shall appoint a Food Czar to oversee the refrigerator and its contents. Seeing as she has no job, I am nominating Willo to fill this all-important position.* All perishable items will be funneled through the Food Czar, who will personally inspect each item, label it, and enter it into a nationwide database.

Furthermore, all checked food items will be subject to random taste tests by Willo. Of course, the taste tests won't be entirely random. Certain items such as leftover pizza and chocolate cake will need to be consumed in their entirety. In these cases, the food will be returned to its owner only after it has passed through Willo's excretory system. In addition, racial profiling will be in effect. So if you bring in a plate of hog jowls and watermelon, you damn well better have an afro or a receipt.

Finally, we'll need to place tight restrictions on exactly what items will and will not be permitted. As a general rule, anything will be allowed as long as it's dead and edible. This includes bodily fluids. For example, my frozen semen would be perfectly acceptable as long as the sperm is dead and the volume doesn't exceed three ounces. However, Ms. Babble's breast milk would be rejected due to its bitter taste and high concentration of LSD. There will be exceptions to promote healthy eating. For instance, the morbidly obese will only be permitted to bring green salads and Slim-Fast shakes.

In closing, it is recommended that employees with cold food items arrive at work at least two hours early to ensure plenty of time to get through the security checkpoint. Yes, the food may spoil while waiting in line. But that's a small price to pay for refrigerator security if you ask me.


* Willo, if you're reading this, please send me an audition tape, and make sure it is password protected. It's just a formality for HR. Thanks.

5/25/2007

Ode to Randomness

This is a poem
About a hot chick named Randomness
And the Dyck who adores her
My God, he's a handsome mess

Her lips are like rubies
Glistening 'neath the sun
Her jugs are like melons
I'd like to squeeze each one

She comes from a state
That's known as Nebrasker
She won't update her blog
No matter how many times I ask 'er

She works in a deli
Surrounded by trolls
I'd like to lick her sweet hoo-hah
And her stinky asshole

She doles out macaroni
And salad and meat
To clueless customers
Who don't know what to eat

She likes to go jogging
In a park filled with stalkers
She once was molested
By a horny dog walker

Someday I shall travel
To her hometown of Lincoln
And ask her in person,
"What the hell were you thinkin'?!"

And then we'll embrace
And I'll grab her sweet hand
We'll have a quickie wedding
Won't even hire a band

Then we'll retire
To our honeymoon suite
We'll dial up some porn
And I'll cum on her feet

When she tries to get up
She'll slide 'cross the floor
She'll fall flat on her face
And I'll probe her back door

She'll scream in a rage,
"What the fuck are you doing?"
I'll slap her behind and say,
"My darling, we're screwing!"

She'll reach in her purse
And spray me with mace
She'll proclaim, "My God, you're a freak!
Get me out of this place!"

She'll leave me alone
In our room with the porn
And flee back to her home
While I toot my own horn

She'll get an annulment
And pawn her diamond ring
They'll realize it's fake
And won't give her a thing

I'll lay in my bed
And stare at the moon
Wondering if I'll ever again
Taste her sweet poon


5/22/2007

Hail To The (Mis) Chief

Look out, Obama! Move over, Hillary! There's a new Dyck in town! After thorough deliberation, careful consideration, and vigorous masturbation, I have come to a decision. I, Mighty Dyckerson, am running for PRESIDENT OF THESE HERE UNITED STATES!

Of course, the question on the tips of everyone's noses right now is, WHY? Why would a hugely successful blogger like myself want to waste my time dabbling in politics?? The answer is simple. I've been following the news closely the last few months, and I am appalled at what I am seeing. Scenes so horrid, so atrocious, so disturbing, it makes me wonder what's happening to this world. Of course, I'm talking about.....ugly news bimbos. Katie Couric? Diane Sawyer? Meredith Vieira? Give me a fucking break, they're all over-the-hill skanks! Is this the best we can do, people??! I say NO!!!!

The entire TV industry needs a major overhaul. We need to get rid of these tired old war horses and replace them with SMOKIN' HOT NEWS BABES. Babes like French anchor Melissa Theuriau. Dig this chick! I can't understand a damn word she's saying, but I DON'T GIVE A SHIT!!! She could read a fucking phone book for all I care! Every woman on TV needs to look like this...and as President, I CAN MAKE THAT HAPPEN! All I'd have to do is pass a new law banning ugly chicks from the airwaves and have the FCC enforce it.

Perhaps you're wondering how I'll get this law past Congress. Well Congress Shmongress. They can kiss my HAIRY WHITE ASS. Besides, I'm sick and tired of all this "checks & balances" bullshit. All that does is slow progress. When I become President, I am going to TOTALLY ELIMINATE the Legislative and Judicial branches of government. There shall be only one branch, the Excretory branch, and I SHALL BE IN CHARGE OF IT! Think of all the coin we'll save. That's BILLIONS OF DOLLARS we could be giving to myself and the Melissa Theuriaus of the world! And fuck all this nonsense about term limits - the length of my presidency shall be INDEFINITE. That means FOREVER, chumps!!!!!

Now you're probably saying to yourself, "Gee, that sounds an awful lot like a dictatorship." Well I prefer to think of it as a dycktatorship...a country ruled entirely by a Dyck! Of course, I can't do it all alone. I'll need a Cabinet. First and foreskin, I'll appoint Manola as my Secretary of Homeboy Security. She'll be in charge of strengthening our borders and loosening my pants. Next I'll appoint Ms. Babble as my Secretary of Labor. Seems like that ho is always pregnant, so she should be an expert at this. Then I shall appoint RevRee as Secretary of Transportation. I believe she owns a car, so that makes her more than qualified. Beth shall be my Secretery of Foreign Affairs. Her family is half colored, so she's bound to at least know something about Africa...like how to find it on a map. That's good enough for me. Next, Legal Eagle will be my Attorney General. Together we'll eliminate the Supreme Court and have all legal disputes settled by best two out of three rounds of rock/paper/scissors. Then I'll need a Secretary of State. That job goes to Stacy. Her first order of business: Find out what the fuck the Secretary of State actually does. The position of Secretery of Health & Human Services goes to our friend Maven, whose first-hand experience with plantars warts should be an asset. And finally, I shall appoint Scary Monster as my Secretery of the Inferior. As the only male member of my Cabinet, it shall be his responsibility to keep track of the women's menstrual cycles and let me know who to avoid.

Then there is the matter of my First Lady. I shall be auditioning candidates for this all-important position in my boudoir beginning this weekend. Interested persons may forward me their resume along with a suggestive photo or three. I'll call you.

Of course, none of this will be possible if I don't get elected. For that, I'll need a campaign manager. I'm giving that job to TFG, the only one around here with any real management experience. After all, his blog "manages" to nauseate the hell out of me every time I read it! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!

But seriously, let's talk about the issues. I don't really know what they are...but I promise I will have my Cabinet look into this and get back to me with a full report. Then and only then will I make up something that sounds good but has no meaning. So be sure to check back with THE MIGHTY BLOG for further updates in the weeks and months to come. Meanwhile, I leave you with a picture of a cat that looks remarkably like actor Wilford Brimley:




5/19/2007

Nothing Says Lovin' Like Something From The Oven

Surely you twat monkeys remember my two-part series entitled A DYCK IN A PET CEMETERY. The Dyckerson clan was all upset because developers were bulldozing the cemetery where our dead shit zoo was buried 17 years ago. I drove down there to put a stop to it, but I was too late...or so I thought.

The other day I got a call from some schmuck who works for the developer. He was at the cemetery. "We found your dog Pattie," he said.

I was beflabberfuddled. "Really?? Are you sure? Describe her for me!"

"Hold on a second," he said. A few minutes went by, during which time I heard a lot of pounding and scraping noises. Finally he came back on the line. "I'm back. Sorry, the lid was stuck. Anyway, was Pattie kinda boney and smelly, with worms coming out of her eye sockets?"

"Yeah, that's her!!!" I screamed with delight.

"Alright, but I've got some bad news for you," he said. "There are claw marks all over the inside of this coffin. It looks like she wasn't quite dead yet when she was buried."

"Fuck. Look, do me a favor and don't mention that to anyone else."

I axed him what he suggested I do with the corpse, and he referred me to a nearby pet crematory. Apparently many of the pet owners have been taking their corpses there. So I sped down to the cemetery and met the guy.

"Just toss her in the back seat. You can keep the coffin," I told him.

"Umm...don't you want it in a plastic bag or something?" he asked.

"Nah, I'm in a hurry. Besides, it's RevRee's car." (Note to RevRee: You might want to pick up one of them pine tree air fresheners on your way to work tomorrow.)

Next I headed over to Loving Pets Crematory and met up with John the gay funeral director, who was "very sorry to meet me under these circumstances." I told him I'd be sorry to meet him under ANY circumstances...to which he took great offense. I guess that didn't come out exactly right. Anyway, we dispensed with the formalities and got down to business.

"We're offering a special rate for customers who are referred to us by Evergreen Cemetery," John informed me.

"Great, a special rate! I like the sound of that! Please continue," I said.

Gay John walked over to a cabinet and produced a small cardboard box. "For $110, we will cremate your beloved Pattie and place her cremains in this delightful urn," he said. He then opened the box and pulled out a white ceramic vase-like object. "This is what we call the petite ivory cortesia."

"Perfect! You know what they say! A Pattie saved is a Pattie urned!" I quipped.

Gay John did not appreciate my humor. "Ahem. When would you like to pick her up?" he asked.

"Oh, I'll just wait."

Gay John was puzzled. "Sir, you do realize the cremation takes several hours to complete."

"Several HOURS?? What the fuck??! Don't you people have a microwave oven around here? Just zap her for 30 seconds and..."

I wasn't even able to finish my sentence before gay John motioned for a security guard, who then came over and tossed me and my dead pet carcass outside on the pavement. "FINE!" I yelled back at them. "I'LL DO IT MYSELF!!"

After all, how hard could it be? All you need is heat and a container to collect the ashes. So I headed over to Ms. Babble's house and broke in. Turns out there was already a bun in her oven*...so I reached in, yanked it out, and tossed it in the trash.** Then I shoved Pattie's corpse inside*** and set the dial for "well done." (Note to Ms. Babble: You might want to purchase a new microwave on your way to work tomorrow.)

I'm a big believer in recycling, so while Pattie was cooking, I rummaged through Ms. Babble's trash and found an empty coffee can to use for the ashes. About that time, the microwave stopped, so I removed Pattie's charred cremains and dumped them in the coffee can right there on the kitchen counter. Next, I left my calling card in the downstairs toilet, grabbed the coffee can, and hurried on home. (Note to Ms. Babble: In my haste, I think I may have grabbed the wrong can. You might want to purchase a new coffee maker on your way to work tomorrow. Oh yeah, and you might also want to purchase a plunger.)

Here is the end result:


Pattie, turns out you're more trouble dead than when you were alive. But dammit, you were a good dog. Rest in peace, you little furball.



* That's a little pregnancy joke in case you didn't get it.

** That's a little abortion joke in case you didn't get it.

*** That's a little rape joke in case you didn't get it.


5/13/2007

Poop Culture

Friends, remember the name Dave Praeger. This is a man who truly knows his shit. Praeger is the author of the soon-to-be best seller, Poop Culture: How America Is Shaped By Its Grossest National Product. If you have not yet read this book, I insist that you RUN - don't drive - to your nearest bookstore and purchase your copy TODAY. And if they don't have it in stock, you should immediately drop your pants and defecate on their floor...and you should continue defecating until they furnish you with a copy. Or, you could just click here and order it online!

After reading one paragraph, I think you'll agree that Poop Culture is a work of sheer genius. A shiterary masterpiece, if you will. Never before has an author dissected doo-doo so thoroughly and completely...until now. Before you jump to conclusions, let me point out that this book isn't just some childish attempt at bathroom humor. It's actually a MATURE attempt at bathroom humor. But it's much more than that.

In Poop Culture, author Dave Praeger seeks to break down the cultural barriers between man and manure through education and enlightenment. Have you ever wondered how people crapped before the days of indoor plumbing? What happens to your excrement once it leaves your toilet? Why some turds are hard and others soft and runny? You'll find out the answers to all your queries in this book. Plus you'll gain a newfound appreciation for poo as a literary device and a source for artistic expression. Did you know that an art gallery in London recently paid $34,000 for a can of crap that belonged to a dead artist?

Indeed, Poop Culture is the ultimate textbook on fecal matters. Hell, if it were up to me, copies of Praeger's book would be in every high school classroom in America. But it's not just a boring academic tome. With chapter titles like "The Origin of Feces" and "The Shaming of the Poo," the author's unique brand of humor is sure to be met with mass appeal. (Or should that be ASS appeal??) I hear there's even talk of a Hollywood motion picture, with Sean Connery playing the role of Thomas Crapper. So whether you're a "shameful shitter" or a "turd terrorist," I guarantee you'll agree, Poop Culture is to human waste as the Bible is to Christianity.

Now don't be lax. Order your copy of Poop Culture today, and tell 'em Dyckie sentcha! In fact, order several! Christmas is just around the corner, and they make great stocking stuffers!


Mighty Dyckerson has not been paid for this endorsement.


I Got Banged (Into)

So I was on my way to work Friday morning, just minding my own business and listening to Czechoslovakian chamber music on XM radio. I sat idling at a busy intersection waiting for the light to change with a long line of motorists behind me. All was well, until I felt a sudden JOLT inside the DyckMobile. My first thought was I had blown a rod. But then I remembered, I have no idea what that means. I don't think my vehicle has a rod, and even if it did, I doubt my rod could blow itself. At least not without a few beers and a copy of Hustler. Am I right people??!!!

Having ruled out any mechanical difficulties with the DyckMobile, I looked up and glanced into my rear view mirror. In it, I see the reflection of some chick behind the wheel of a bigass Suburban-like SUV. Could it be Paris Hilton, here in Dyckersonville?? Nope, not unless she suddenly gained a shitload of weight. She looked at me looking at her, and she cupped her face with her hands in shame. I recognized that look. It was the same look Ms. Babble gave me the day I caught her banging our Mexican landscaper in our bed, doing unspeakable things with a leafblower. And much like Ms. Babble on that fateful day, I too had been rear ended.

The light turned green and I proceeded to a nearby empty parking lot to assess the damage. The culprit pulled up beside me in her land crusher, and we both got out.

"I am so sorry!" tubby cried. "My foot must've slipped off the brake while I was reaching for a donut!"

"Yeah, you're gonna really be sorry when I'm done with you," I said as I rolled up my sleeves.

We walked back to the rear of the DyckMobile. Fortunately for her, there were no dents...but there was a small rip in the cloth spare tire cover. (I think it may have been there before, but didn't tell her that.) Then we checked out the front of her tank. The bumper was crinkled and steam was pouring out of her radiator.

I pointed and laughed heartily at the damage while rotundra sobbed uncontrollably. Jeep Wranglers may be uncomfortable to ride in and shitty on gas, but dammit, you can't hurt 'em!

"My husband is going to kill me," she said.

"Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised," I said. Then she cried even more.

This opportunity was too good to pass up. I faked an expression of pain and grabbed my neck. "Gosh, I sure am sore," I said. "I better make an appointment with my doctor. I hope you have insurance."

I giggled uncontrollably while she fumbled through her purse looking for her card. "Better hurry! "My back is starting to hurt now!"

As we exchanged information, I noticed she was starting to regain her composure. I wasn't having any of that. I instantly dropped to the ground and started faking a grand mal seizure, twitching and writhing on the concrete. I don't like to brag, but this was truly an Oscar performance.

"Call 911," I gurgled.

As she ran back to her shitbox to find her phone, I stood up, dusted myself off, and sped away. And the moral of this story: If you don't look like this, stay the fuck away from my car!!!


5/08/2007

Pomp And Circumcision

Every year around this time, the headquarters of Dyckerson Enterprises Worldwide gets literally inundated with requests from community colleges and reform schools for me to speak at their graduation ceremonies. Normally I would jump at the chance to inspire tomorrow's leaders (and possibly score some sorority poon), but this year my schedule is booked solid due to my upcoming book tour. Still, I feel a need to reach out and share my wisdom with the next generation. Therefore I have prepared a generic graduation speech which should work with just about any learning institution, no matter how retarded its students may be. I have typed it in all caps for added effect. So grab your tassles, park your ass in a rusty metal folding chair, and enjoy:


CLASS OF 2007, YOU ARE AMERICA'S FUTURE. AND FOR THAT, WE ARE ALL FUCKED. AT LEAST WE WILL BE, IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO WHAT I AM ABOUT TO TELL YOU.

FIRST OF ALL, YOU NEED TO FORGET ALL THE SHIT YOU'VE LEARNED HERE AT [INSERT NAME OF YOUR COLLEGE]. YOUR PROFESSORS ARE ALL DIPSHITS. THEY'RE OUT OF TOUCH WITH REALITY. THEY ONLY CARE ABOUT TENURE AND GETTING THEIR MEANINGLESS RESEARCH PAPERS PUBLISHED IN DRY, BORING JOURNALS THAT NOBODY READS. IN THE REAL WORLD, WE DON'T USE TEXT BOOKS. YOU REPORT CARD IS YOUR PAYCHECK, AND THE ONLY WAY TO GET AN 'A' IS BY SHAMELESS ASS KISSING AND RUTHLESS BACK STABBING. IF YOU DON'T TAKE THE TIME TO MASTER THESE KEY SKILLS, YOU WILL SPEND YOUR LIVES SCRUBBING TOILETS, FLIPPING BURGERS, AND EXHUMING ANIMAL CORPSES FROM PET CEMETERIES.

WE ARE LIVING IN A TIME OF GREAT STRIFE AND TURMOIL. I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT ALL THAT CRAP IN IRAQ OR YUFUKASTAN. IT'S TOO FAR AWAY TO MATTER. I'M TALKING ABOUT STUFF LIKE, WHY CAN'T ROSIE O'DONNELL JUST ADMIT DONALD TRUMP IS RIGHT AND THAT SHE'S A FAT PIG? WHY CAN'T THE BITCH AT A & P LET ME BUY JUST ONE HOT DOG BUN? AND FINALLY, WHY CAN'T THEY MAKE A VACUUM CLEANER HOSE ATTACHMENT THAT WILL GIVE ME A DECENT HUMP? GRADUATES, YOU HAVE THE POWER TO SOLVE THESE PROBLEMS AND MAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE FOR ME.

I WOULD ENCOURAGE EACH OF YOU TO TAKE A PAGE FROM MY LIFE. I, MIGHTY DYCKERSON, WAS ONCE JUST LIKE YOU. I WAS YOUNG, EAGER, AND NAIVE. AND HORNY. GOOD GOD, WAS I HORNY. I'D STICK MY WANG IN ANYTHING WITH A HOLE. BUT THAT'S NEITHER HERE NOR THERE. THE POINT IS, I HAD A DREAM. A DREAM TO INSULT, OFFEND, AND THOROUGHLY DISGUST EVERY LIVING HUMAN BEING ON THE PLANET.

I STARTED OUT BY VISITING HOSPITAL MATERNITY WARDS AND MAKING FUN OF THE UGLY BABIES. LATER I BEGAN EXPOSING MYSELF IN PUBLIC PLACES - MALLS, LIBRARIES, MUSEUMS, YOU NAME IT. THEN SOMETIME IN THE 90S, I DISCOVERED THE INTERNETS, AND A WHOLE NEW WORLD OPENED UP. SUDDENLY I WAS ABLE TO PISS OFF PEOPLE ON A GLOBAL SCALE THROUGH CHAT ROOMS AND MESSAGE BOARDS. THEN IN 2005, THE MIGHTY BLOG WAS BORN...AND THE REST, AS THEY SAY, IS HISTORY. AND ALL IT TOOK WAS WHAT I CALL THE THREE D'S - DRIVE, DETERMINATION, AND DPERSEVERANCE. IF YOU POSSESS THE THREE D'S, YOU TOO CAN BE A SUCCESS.

IN CLOSING, I WOULD LIKE TO LEAVE YOU A PIECE OF ADVICE MY DEAR GRANDPA DYCKERSON GAVE ME WHEN I WAS A YOUNG DYCKERSON. IT'S SOMETHING I KEEP WITH ME EVEN TODAY:

"DILDOS DON'T BLEED IF YOU CHOP 'EM IN HALF WITH AN AXE. BUT I'M GONNA CHOP MY DICK IN HALF AND SEE HOW MUCH THAT BLEEDS."


NOW GET OUT THERE AND TAKE ON THE WORLD! OR AT LEAST EARN ENOUGH COIN TO MOVE OUT OF YOUR PARENTS' HOUSES.

5/05/2007

A Dyck in a Pet Cemetery (Part 2)

My deepest apologies for keeping you in suspense. Things have been crazy here in Dyckersonville due to the queen's visit, plus I have a MAJOR Miracle Ass update for you, but that will have to wait for another day. First I want to share with you the most gruesome, disgusting, horrible experience I have ever...well....experienced.

In the last installment of A DYCK IN A PET CEMETERY, the Dyckerson clan found out that our beloved deceased "Pattie" (1982-1990) was about to be bulldozed to make room for a new shopping center. Mother Dyckerson threatened to cut me out of her will if I didn't go down there immediately and put a stop to it. Well, there's no way in hell that's going to happen, but I did agree to go by the site and take a few pictures of Pattie's tombstone for posterior. So Thursday afternoon during my lunch hour, that's exactly what I did.

I was too late.

I was much too late.

Holy fucking shit, was I too late.

At first, I couldn't even find the place. I was halfway to the next town before I realized I passed it. I made a sharp U-turn in the middle of Route 1 and proceeded in low gear with my eyes scanning the roadside. Another mile further, and I finally found the place. Turns out the gawdy pink house that served as a landmark for the cemetery for several decades had vanished without a trace. POOF - just like that. In its place, nothing but weeds and prickly bushes and bushy pricks and such. Thankfully, the DyckMobile is equipped to handle even the roughest of terrain, so I was able to navigate my way back to cemetery.

Or, should I say, what was left of the cemetery. The images I saw that day will haunt me for the rest of my life. They are images that no other human being should ever have to see. Certainly not the kind of thing that any self respecting blogger would ever display on an open site where children could have access. Unfortunately for you, I have no self respect. Here's the first picture:


In the movie industry, they would probably call this the "establishing shot." It helps set the stage for the coming attractions. There's a lot going on here, so let me give you a little tour. In the foreground, you see a DANGER/DO NOT ENTER sign with bold red lettering. Much to my regret, I would later ignore that sign. In the middle of the picture, we have a big open field with little red flags. These mark the locations of the graves to be dug up. Now look closely toward the background. Can you see what looks like a huge pile of unearthed animal coffins? I bet you have no idea what that is. Give up?? Alright, I'll tell you. It's a HUGE PILE OF UNEARTHED ANIMAL COFFINS. Let's zoom in for a closer look, shall we?


On the surface, this looks like a heap of rotten old Tupperware containers caked with mud, right?? Listen, I've been on this planet for a long time. I know what mud looks like. I know what mud smells like. Ladies and gentlemen, take my word for it. That ain't just mud.

The stench was totally indescribable. To say it smelled like shit would be an insult to shitkind. If you submerged your head in Rosie O'Donnell's septic tank on a hot summer day, it would smell better than this. I would have to burn all the clothes I was wearing that day, and then nuke the fireplace for good measure.

But where were the bones??! Those furry fuckers have been dead a long time, but surely there would be some sort of solid remains. That's when my attention turned to.....


.....the Hefty Bags of Atrocity. WHAT IN GOD'S NAME WAS IN THOSE BAGS???!! I did not want to know, and I did not want to find out. But I had a pretty good idea...and it ain't empty beer cans. What did you think I was going to do? Rip open one of the bags and skull fuck a terrier??! Even Dyckerson has standards. Collie maybe, but not a terrier.

The wind picked up, and my nostrils were once again assaulted by the rancid unGodly stench emanating from the rotting corpse Tupperware party. Thank the Lord I had eaten that day - otherwise, those Hefty bags would have been awash in a sea of hot puke.

Then I thought about Pattie. Was she somewhere in one of those bags? Not all the graves had been dug up yet, so I decided to see if I could get a picture of hers. This in itself was a dangerous mission, for I had to tiptoe through a minefield...only the mines were FRESHLY DUG HOLES and SUNKEN GRAVES.


As I searched the grave markers, I was amazed at how many of these critters were named after food items. There was Pumpkin and Gumdrop and Muffin and so on. As I passed each one, I added the names to my mental list of foods that I will never eat again. Finally, I reached the end of the grass.

SHIT! This was the section where Pattie had been buried! Those motherfuckers bulldozed my goddamn dog! Those sickass sons of bitches!! I was too late!!!

I was just about to leave when I noticed the stones. Grave stones, that is...arranged like dominoes along the edge of the property.


Now I could add "Sugar" and "Brownie" to the list of foods I'll never again put in my mouth. I'm sure Pattie's stone was buried in there somewhere, but the wind was picking up and blowing the stench of death all around me. Fuck that shit. I decided to call the number on the DO NOT ENTER sign (the sign I should have paid attention to in the first place) and get the hell out of there.

And not a moment too soon, for I apparently parked the DyckMobile a bit too close to the cemetery, because it was beginning to SINK INTO THE GROUND.


OK, I made up that last part. But I still wanted to get the hell out of there before the crew came back and began resuming the exhuming. There's a nice final thought for you. Think of how shitty your current job is. Now compare that to DIGGING UP ANIMAL CORPSES. I bet your job doesn't sound so bad now, does it?

Brownies, anyone??


5/02/2007

A Dyck in a Pet Cemetery (Part 1)

Let me axe you a hypocritical question. Let's say 25 years ago, you had a dog. And let's say 17 years ago, that dog died. And let's say your family paid to have that dog buried in a pet cemetary. And let's say that the pet cemetery owner died a few years later, and the cemetery was closed. And let's say you recently found out that the property was going to be bulldozed to make room for a new commercial development. And let's say other people who have pets buried at said pet cemetary heard the news and started showing up at the cemetery and removing their grave stones. And let's say those same people were also DIGGING UP THEIR PETS while they were at it. Sound strange?? Well not in Dyckersonville, where this very scenario is taking place even as I type.

Why do I give a fuck? Because my family happens to have a dog buried at that pet cemetery. Her name was Pattie, and she was a shit-zoo. Born January 1982; died August 1990. I was 18 years old and about to start college when little Pattie croaked. There was great debate among the Dyckersons as to what to do with her corpse. My older brother couldn't care less - a Hefty bag and a nearby dumpster would have sufficed. My dad wanted to cremate her and smoke the ashes. I wanted to have her stuffed and mounted above the fireplace. But Mother Dyckerson wouldn't have any of it. She wanted a proper burial.

That's where Evergreen Pet Cemetery came in. It was a quaint, unassuming little operation. The owner was a batty old woman named Mrs. White, who also lived on the property. Despite her Alzheimer's, she was the brains of the outfit. Mrs. White's sole employee was the equally geriatric gravedigger and caretaker, whose name escapes me. I'll just call him Mr. Spade. Together they had a monopoly on the local pet cemetery industry, as theirs was the such business within a 50 mile radius. They didn't have an office. They didn't have business cards. When we decided to buy a plot there, we conducted the entire transaction at Mrs. White's kitchen table. Looking back on it now, I'm pretty sure that's also where she prepared the bodies.

We opted for a small ceremony - the Evergreen Economy Plan. Only immediate family and close friends were in attendance. Mr. Spade delivered the eulogy and Mrs. White played the organ. What a multitalented duo. I remember Mr. Spade still had dirt on his overalls from digging the grave. I liked that - somehow it added to the authenticity of the moment. At the end of the service, Mr. Spade lowered the coffin into the three-foot grave on the end of his fishing pole, and that was that.

Fast forward 17 years. The owners are long dead and the cemetery is closed for business. The property has been dormant for years, although the last time I was there, it appeared that someone - or something - was cutting the grass. Basically we had pretty much forgotten about it and moved on with our lives. That is, until last week, when the local news ran a story about a new shopping center being built over the cemetery. According to the report, pet owners have something like 30 days to ... umm ... relocate the graves, or the developers will dig up everything, toss it in a mass grave, and start building. Also according to the report, people had already started showing up to reclaim their beloved pets' remains. Of course, Mother D. happened to see this and called me up in hysterics: "Dyckie, turn on the news! They're bulldozing the pet cemetery! We need to get Pattie out of there!"

Let's get one thing straight right now. There is NO WAY IN BLOODY HELL I am digging up a coffin that has been in the ground for 17 years. Don't get me wrong, I loved that stupid little dog. But GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK. Nothing is forever. And besides that, let's say I pry up the headstone and dig up the box. THEN WHAT??! Am I supposed to drive around town carrying this crap around in the back of my car??! Does my mother think I'm going to bury this thing in my back yard??!

Although I must admit, curiosity is starting to get the best of me. Tomorrow I think I'll take a little ride out to the Evergreen Pet Cemetery and just check out the scene. No, I don't plan on doing any digging...but if a shovel should happen to find itself in the back of the DyckMobile, I can't make any promises. But I can promise you that I shall post my findings - complete with photos - on the next installment of A DYCK IN A PET CEMETERY! Stay tuned!!!