6/29/2007

A Post About My Post

As I was perusing through the Mighty Blog archives the other day, I came upon a rather startling realization. I have written 288 quality posts since 2005, and NOT ONE of them is about my penis. Sure, I've made a lot of references to my junk over the years, but only as an aside while discussing other matters. I've written about poon, miracle asses, super colons, explosive diarrhea, and Katie Couric's boobs...but I've never written about my wang. Today I'm going to change that.....



My schlong is approximately 11 inches in length and 5 inches in diameter.* It has a vein that runs along the back and a small hole at the tip. When I was a baby, a doctor took a pair of scissors and cut off the little piece of skin around the tip. This procedure is called a circumstance.





It feels very nice when I touch my cock, which I do quite often. Sometimes I lay in bed and rub it until it gets big and hard. If I rub it long enough, creamy liquid squirts out of it. After the squirting stops, my weiner gets soft again and I fall asleep for a while.





I find it quite fortunate that human males are able to reach their own dongs. If our arms were just a few inches shorter, we would have to rely solely on others to stimulate us. Plus it would be really hard to aim when we urinate.









I take great pleasure placing my tool inside the vaginas of highly attractive women. In fact, the more attractive the woman, the greater the pleasure I experience. Women seem to enjoy it as well, so it is a win-win for everyone involved. Sometimes women ask me to wear a prophylactic. I am always happy to oblige, but I usually stick a small pinhole in the tip when they aren't looking.




When a vagina isn't available, which is most of the time, I enjoy inserting my salami in a large variety of household objects. Such as the vacuum cleaner hose. Or a freshly baked apple pie. Or a cat. (Don't worry, the cat is dead.)







I think that pretty much covers it. If you have any questions about my meatcicle, I'll be happy to address them in the comments section of this post. Thank you for reading.




* When I say approximately, I mean REALLY approximately.

6/24/2007

The Agony Of De-Feet

Did you morons hear about this shit??! It's an article about that teenage chick who got her feet whacked off while riding on an amusement park attraction. Undoubtedly this was a tragic, horrific incident. Certainly nothing to joke about. But I'm going to do it anyway. And as you read along, see if you can count how many tasteless foot amputation jokes I have included. Enjoy!!!

********************

So there's talk that the girl's family might sue Six Flags. Not to sound callous, but I don't think she has a leg to stand on. I mean, the ride did exactly what it was designed to do: It dropped several feet at once! But seriously folks, I'm sure some poor Six Flags employee will get the ax. I just hope he gets a nice severance package. I understand an investigation is still ongoing - sounds like they're dragging their feet on this. What a bunch of loafers. After the accident, they searched for witnesses...but all they found were ten little piggies.

But there is some good news. Surgeons were able to re-attach the girl's lower extremities. I'm not sure how they got her feet to the hospital. I guess they called a toe truck! All kidding aside, that's gotta be an expensive procedure. I wonder who's going to foot the bill for that. Of course, it's well worth every penny - especially since the girl's legs had been unevenly cut. I heard they had to stick a phone book under the shorter leg to keep her from wobbling.

Seriously, enough of these corny jokes. How could something like this be allowed to happen?? Frankly, I'm stumped. The inspectors are the real heels here. They're always telling us how safe these rides are. Well somebody sure put their foot in their mouth this time. I wouldn't blame that girl if she made Six Flags her arch enemy. I pray for her sole.

********************

So how many jokes did you find? If you said 17, you are CORRECT! Feel free to add your own in the comments section. C'mon, you know you've got one! See you in Hell, suckers!!!



"A severed foot is the ultimate stocking stuffer."

Mitch Hedberg
1968 - 2005

6/22/2007

I Hate Asshats In Shitwagons


This is the vehicle of an asshat. It's one of those Subaru Outback deals that doesn't know whether it's a station wagon or an SUV. I cast my vote for station wagon. Note where this eyesore is parked. See that vertical thing in the foreground that looks like a tree trunk? That would be the trunk of a tree. The only tree that provides any shade in the whole Godforsaken parking lot where I work. Furthermore, only one parking space gets any shade from that tree. And up til last week, that space was occupied by the DyckMobile each and every business day. For some strange reason, none of the idiots I work with have wanted to park there. They'd rather park in direct sunlight on a hot summer day and bake themselves in a 120 degree car during their evening commute.

Well apparently someone is on to my little game. Every fucking morning for the last week, I have arrived at work at my normal time only to find MY SPACE occupied by this goddamn Subaru Outback. "Outback" - what a joke that name is. That fucking piece of shit hasn't been off of pavement since it was rolling down the assembly line. (At least it isn't a Ford Taurus.) Anyway, I know exactly who owns this thing. He isn't a newbie. He's a middle aged, golf playing, country clubbing, elitist little snot and I hate him. Fortunately I don't have to see him often, as he only seems to work about 20 hours a week. I guess regular office hours don't apply to him since he's older than dirt and has been here since the Taft administration. Every day he comes in around 10am, drinks three pots of coffee, sits in on a few conference calls (which I am forced to listen to from my adjacent cube), and then he's outta there. Meanwhile, there I stay, busier than a one armed midget in a dildo factory.* But at least I end my day by driving home in a nice cool vehicle.

But now all that has come to an end. Starting last week, that cocksucker began arriving BEFORE me...just so he can steal MY SPACE, and I know he's doing it just to piss me off. What kind of sick psychopath would do such a thing?? It shudders me to think that someone this devious would be allowed to walk the streets.

Obviously I'll have to exact my revenge. Maybe I'll come in early and litter the parking space with nails and broken glass. Or perhaps I'll erect a "Handicrapped Parking" sign and break my own legs so I can park there. Nah, not a good idea. Where the hell am I going to get a "Handicrapped Parking" sign? Better yet, I'll make my own sign:


NO ASSHATS IN SUBARU OUTBACK SHITWAGONS
ALLOWED IN THIS SPACE.

STOP KIDDING YOURSELF AND GO BUY A GODDAMN BUICK,
YOU WRINKLED OLD FART.



Wow, that's a lot of lettering. I better get started - this project could take all weekend. Anybody got any crayons??



* I have no idea what that means, but it sounded good, didn't it??

6/20/2007

I'm Gonna Be Rich, Bitch!

Do you own an iPod? How about a cell phone? Do you have a Dingleberry? Does it have Blackteeth? What about a digital camera?? Surely you have a calculator, right? If you answered YES to any of these queries, I want you to stop reading this post RIGHT NOW and gather up those items. Got em? Good! Now I command you to carry them into the nearest lavatory and FLUSH THEM DOWN THE SHITTER.

Why would I tell you to do such a crazy thing? Because on June 29th, you won't need any of them. That's the date when Apple's revolutionary new iPhone goes on sale nationwide! With the iPhone, you can listen to music, make a phone call, read The Mighty Blog, check your email, send a text message, and take a picture of your own gonads - ALL AT THE SAME TIME - using Apple's innovative new touch screen interface! AMAZING!!!

You're probably wondering why I'm utilizing valuable blog space to plug something that isn't even out yet. The reason is simple. It is because I care about you, my faithful readers. And I truly believe that the iPhone will improve your quality of life. I'm banking on it improving the quality of MY life, because as of last month I have FIVE THOUSAND CLAMS invested in Apple stock. Yeah, it's a bit risky. But as Grandpa Dyckerson always says when he's not rubbing pork rinds on himself, "No risk, no reward." And I'm counting on my reward being EARLY RETIREMENT. This ain't gonna be like three years ago when the popular Giggle search engine had its IPO. I was all set to sink a big hunk of change in their stock. That is, until I made the mistake of listening to one of them so-called investment experts on TV. They insisted that at $75 per share, Gaggle was overvalued. Well guess what. Today that stock is trading for over FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS per share! That's nearly DOUBLE!!!

This time I'm not going to be fucked up the ass. So I need all of you losers to start saving up, 'cause at five hundred bucks a pop, iPhones ain't cheap. Of course, I'm sure many of you have questions about this exciting new product. With that in mind, I have set up this handy FAQ:


Q: Will iPhone sync with iTunes?
A: How the fuck should I know? Do I look like a 13-year-old nerd??


Q: Any suggestions on where I can come up with $500?

A: Sell your blood. Or a kidney. Or your fingers.


Q: I just sold my fingers so I could purchase an iPhone. Will I be able to use the touch screen?
A: Certainly. Any heat-producing bodily protrusion will suffice.


Q: How many megapixels does the built-in camera have?

A: How many what?? Megapixel isn't a word. You just made that shit up.

Q: If you make a lot of money on this, will you share it with your loyal fans who bought an iPhone?
A:


I'd love to answer more of your questions, but that's all the time we have for today. In the meantime, MARK YOUR CALENDARS for June 29th! Remember, Christmas is right around the corner...and iPhones make great stocking stuffers! Buy one for the whole family, plus extra ones for your mailman and paper boy!!! And tell 'em Dyckie sentcha!!!

6/17/2007

Dyckerson For President - Issue #12: Health Care Reform

So last week I was told I had to attend the company's annual benefits meeting after work at the local Marriott. Great, I thought. Free dinner and a short, painless 20-minute spiel on health insurance. Maybe I'll even score some interoffice poon! Wrong on all three counts.

The big whoop-de-doo was Tuesday night. I arrived at the hotel promptly at 5:30pm, and I brought my appetite with me. I was fully expecting a huge spread of assorted cold cuts, pasta salads, mixed alcoholic beverages, and tasty dessert items. Silly me. All they had to offer was Diet Pepsi and little cheese chunks with toothpicks jammed into them. Just what I need. Soda gives me gas, cheese binds me up, and toothpicks give me splinters in my sphincter. So I just grabbed a wad of napkins and stuffed them down my crotch.

Before I could wield my powers of seduction on the office slut, it was time for the presentation to begin. Imagine my surprise when I was told we would have not one...not two....but FOUR DIFFERENT SPEAKERS! Not only that, but before the evening was over, I would be loaded down with five booklets, seven pamphlets, ten leaflets, and a whopping thirteen Chiclets. No wonder health insurance is so fucking expensive. By the end of the night, I had enough paper to line every bird cage in America...for a YEAR!!

Our first contestant was a fat bald man who talked to us about our new provider which I've never heard of. He was excited to tell us about the three amazingly simple plans we had to choose from. The first plan is what they call a HOMO. I think I might have an extra O in there somewhere, but you know what I mean. This plan has the lowest copayments, but I can only choose between the three doctors in their network, all of whom do business out the trunks of various older model vehicles. The second plan , called WRP (Wallet Rape Plan), is so named because the out-of-pocket expenses are much higher, but you can actually choose a doctor who didn't obtain all his medical equipment off of CraigsList. The last plan is called FTIRS, or Fuck The IRS. This plan basically covers nothing. Instead, you put your own pre-income tax dollars into an expense account and spend it on whatever the hell you want, thereby reducing your taxable income. For example, if Ms. Babble shelled out $2000 to get her tubes tied, her income tax for that year would be reduced by $3.69. Confused yet? Just wait, I'm not even warmed up yet.

Our second contestant was a fat old chick who talked about our new prescription plan. Again, we were promised a SIMPLE PLAN. For example, our copay for a brand name tier 1 drug from an out-of-network pharmacy is $40, but the copay for a generic tier 3 drug from a network pharmacy is only $15. However, if you require a tier 1 drug AND tier 3 drug, that adds up to a tier 4, in which case you pay a special $30 coinsurance...unless you go for the generic, which is only $15. Or you can opt for the anytime nights and weekends plan, where you can purchase your drugs anywhere in the continental United States with no roaming charges. See how easy that is??? In my case, I'm going to stick with the Dyckerson plan. I treat all my ailments with vodka and poon.

Next up was the life insurance dude. He was a skinny old white guy in a fancy suit. Mr. Distinguished Gentleman enjoyed taking off his glasses and using them to point to his colorful PowerPoint slides. I don't even think the moron really needed glasses. I bet he just bought the damn frames just so he could use them to point at things. Made no difference to me, because I didn't listen to a word he said. I'm not leaving ONE RED CENT for my idiot relatives to squander. I'm taking it all with me.

Last and certainly least, there was the cancer insurance jackass. This kid looked to be all of 22 years old. It's nice to know his company cared enough about us to send over their INTERN. I had no idea what the fuck cancer insurance was, but according to Junior, apparently you can now purchase a policy that will pay for your wigs in the event that you require chemo. I shit you not. These people have thought of everything. But why stop there? How about insurance for alcoholics - you know, to pay for the root beer and AA meetings? Or Tourettes Syndrome insurance, to pay for the duct tape to put over your mouth??

After over ONE HOUR of this horse shit, we were finally allowed to escape. And it's a good thing too. Another five minutes and I would've had to put in a claim to my asshole insurance policy to reimburse me for the 30 rounds of ammo I would have emptied in that room.

Clearly this country needs major health care reform. And as your next President, I shall make it my top priority to unprivatize health insurance and lower costs. That's right, you heard me. From now on, when you go to the doctor for some bogus malady, I will personally review your claims and publicize the most embarrassing ones right here on The Mighty Blog. I guarantee you health care costs will drop like a stone. For example, if Scary Monster knew I'd be telling the world how many boner pills he takes every month, he'd think twice about refilling that prescription.

6/14/2007

Dyckerson For President - Issue #1: Iraq

As I am sure you recall, I recently announced I am running for President of these here United States. It was a tough decision, but after realizing the other candidates are morons, I finally decided to throw my asshat into the ring. Now if I'm going to be leader of the free world, I'll have to tackle the tough issues.

Today I shall discuss the situation in Iraq. It has been brought to my attention by my campaign advisor that we are currently at war with this country. Well you could have knocked me over with one of Ms. Babble's breast pumps. I had no idea!!! Clearly we need to get out of that country, and the sooner the better. Luckily I have devised a strategery to do just that. It's called FORK, and it is a multipronged plan. Each letter in the acronym FORK stands for one of the prongs, which is brilliant in and of itself. Here's an outline:

First, we must steal Iraq's oil. Easier said than done, you say? Well think again. Our nation's penal system is bulging with talented thieves and con artists. We can ease this tension by giving these people a happy release and putting their skills to work in the Middle East. If they put their heads together, surely they can cum up with a way to shoot that precious liquid back to us. And by solving the jail overcrowding problem, we'll enable our penal system to once again stand tall and firm.

Once we steal Iraq's oil, the second prong is to go after their weapons. This problem is easily remedied by installing one of them airport metal detectors and paying a couple of security flunkies eight bucks an hour to search every bastard in that Godforsaken country. And to save us even more coin, I'll personally volunteer to strip search the more attractive Iraqi chicks.

The thiRd prong is to bring our soldiers home. The American people demand a deadline, and I shall give them one: June 28th at midnight. That gives everybody a full two weeks notice to pack up their shit and get the hell out. Besides, we'll need our military at home to deal with all those thieves and con artists who'll soon be running around loose.

As for the fourth prong, I don't really have one. I just needed the extra prong to make my FORK acronym work. You got a problem with that??! Take it up with my complaint department.

6/12/2007

Bob Barker: "I Quit Dis Bitch!"

Today you fuckers are in for a real treat! I recently sat down for an exclusive MIGHTY BLOG interview with my idol BOB BARKER, who is retiring this month after an unprecedented 50 years in broadcasting! Here is the transcript:


Dyck: Bob, you hosted The Price is Right for 35 seasons. And before that, you hosted 17 years of Truth or Consequences. And before that, you worked in radio as a...
Bob:
Get to the point, dipshit. I know my own fucking bio.
Dyck: Right. Sorry. Anyway, what would you say is your most memorable moment from TPIR?
Bob: Probably the time that chick's tits fell out of her tube top when she came on down. Man, that gave me a boner. Then there was the time I banged all three Barker's Beauties at one time. Yeah, that one was definitely better.
Dyck: Umm, okay. Tell me, how come you always used that long skinny microphone?
Bob:
God, people ask me this damn question all the time. Look, I happen to enjoy performing with a big black dildo in my hand, okay? You got a problem with that??!
Dyck: Perhaps I should change the subject. Are there any plans for a "Happy Gilmore" sequel?
Bob: Fuck no. Everybody talks about my fight scene with Adam Sandler, but that wasn't even the best part of the movie. My favorite scene was when I got into a brawl with two illegal aliens who were doing some landscaping on the golf course. I told those spics to go the fuck back to where they came from or I'd cut off their heads and shit down their necks.
Dyck: What happened next?
Bob:
Well let's just say they should have listened to ol' Bob.
Dyck:
Wow, I don't remember that scene.
Bob:
It wasn't in the script. And it was edited out later.
Dyck:
Oookaaay. Let's talk about your work with animal rights. Do you plan to continue that?
Bob: Fuck animals. I only did that shit for the publicity. You know how I celebrated my retirement? I drowned a sack of puppies in my bathtub.
Dyck:
That's horrible!
Bob:
You're telling me. Took me an hour to get all that hair out of the drain.
Dyck:
Going back to The Price is Right...Who do you think should be your replacement?
Bob: Oh, Jesus H. Christ.
Dyck:
Sorry, just asking.
Bob: No, I'm serious. I think the Lord should host. He's the only guy who even comes close to filling my shoes. Of course, he'd need to get a haircut. That hippie look just doesn't fly in daytime.
Dyck: Last question. Bob Barker, how do you want to be remembered?
Bob: As a rich muthafucka who got lots and lots of poon.
Dyck:
Well said. Thank you for your time.
Bob:
Before I go, I'd like to give a shout out to my bitch Paris Hilton. Hey Paris, you want a conjugal visit?? I got something HOT for ya right here...in my PANTS!
Dyck: Anything else?
Bob: Yeah. Get me a bag of pork rinds, asshole.


So there you have it, kids! Another MIGHTY BLOG exclusive! Be sure to tell your friends!!

6/09/2007

I Hate My Job

I hate my job. I am not kidding. My job is exactly like Office Space, only I don't get to go home and bang Jennifer Aniston every night.

I hate my job. You want to know what I did at work last week? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. I sat at my fucking desk and stared at a fucking computer screen for 40 hours. Actually, I take that back. I did do about one hour of work. And I read some emails. And I attended a boring-ass meeting to which I contributed nothing. So that's about two hours of semi-productivity out of a possible 40. Oh yeah, and I also wrote this blog post at work. In fact, I write most of my blog posts at work these days. I type them up in Notepad, email them to myself, and when I get home, I dump it into Blogger and add the pictures and shit. But I doubt any of this would count toward productivity as far as my company is concerned.

I hate my job. Some of you probably think I've got it made. I go to work in a climate controlled office, do nothing, and get paid for the opportunity. Who wouldn't love that?? You might be surprised. Time creeps by insanely slowly when you're doing nothing. And I do mean NOTHING. My goddamn computer screen faces toward a busy hallway, and the manager's fucking office is right across from me...which means I can't surf the net, I can't play computer solitaire, I can't even jerk my gerkin. I get away with writing my blog posts by shrinking the Notepad window down to a small box with (SQL Server 2005 in the background) and using a miniscule 6-pt font.

I hate my job. My co-workers are asshats. One guy in my department was out all week with some horrible illness. Honest to God, I was jealous of him. Another guy in my department (salsa boy) is a hypochondriac. He constantly complains about chest pains, yet when he goes to the doctor, they tell him he's fine. Yet another guy is trying to win employee of the century. He's like 23 years old, and he's currently rewriting and streamlining every in-house process and procedure to increase efficiency. That stupid goddamn bastard. What Doogie doesn't realize is, if he keeps that shit up, he'll eventually put all of us in the unemployment line...himself included. Then there's the team lead. He's the poster boy for conspicuous consumption. Yesterday, the materialistic little prick drove his brand new high-performance motorcycle to work just so he could show it off. Every five minutes, he'd wander by my cube and share another fun fact about his bike. ("You know that puppy goes from 0 to 60 in five seconds flat!") I stole his helmet and prayed for an oil spill on I-95 during the evening rush.

I hate my job. I especially hate my boss. I have to listen to him in his office all day as he rambles on ad nauseum, using meaningless terms like "functional matrix" and "deliverables" and "actional components" and "gap analysis" and "metrics" and "stratification" and "high level goals" and "distributed users" and "audit trail" and "ad hoc" and "resource snapshot report"...and that's ALL IN ONE SENTENCE. Sounds like he swallowed a textbook on corporate management. In a meeting the other day, he told us he wants to start having "brown bag sessions." WTF IS A BROWN BAG SESSION? If he thinks I'm going to spend my lunch hour sitting around a table and listening to his oral diarrhea, he better think again. I got a brown bag with something in it just for him...and it ain't a bologna sandwich.

I hate my job. I'd rather exhume dead animals from a pet cemetery in 90 degree heat. At least I'd be outdoors getting some fresh...well, getting some air. Every day would be chock full of surprises, and I'd have plenty of colorful stories to pass on to my grandchildren.

I hate my job. Now they want us to work an extra half hour a day FOR THE SAME AMOUNT OF MONEY. Their argument is that we only work 37.5 hours per week (8:30am-5:00pm minus an hour for lunch.) Technically they're right, but as I said earlier, just because I'm physically at the office doesn't mean I'm actually working. They can make me come in a half hour earlier, but rest assured I'll be spending that 30 minutes looking for new ways to integrate the word POON into my blog posts.

I hate my job. I just thought of another reason my boss is a butt puppet. Ever since he started here last fall, he has been all about documenting EVERYTHING. Now I've gotta stop what I'm doing every ten minutes to write down what I'm working on. Then at the end of the week, I fill out another spreadsheet listing my "accomplishments" and email it to the team lead. The team lead then emails it to my boss, who then emails it to his boss, and so on and so on. We have meetings to discuss how we can better document our documentation, and then we have to document the meetings themselves. His argument is that he needs to know what's going on in case someone asks him. Maybe if the idiot would emerge from his cage every once in a while and TALK TO PEOPLE, he'd know what the fuck is on around here - namely NOTHING.

I hate my job. Yesterday one of my brighter co-workers brought in a toy dart gun that shoots little darts with suction cups on the end. He spent the latter half of the day roaming around the cube farm shooting darts at people, much to their unamusement. Then he decided to shoot them on the ceiling. Great idea, Copurnicus. The ceiling is 10' high. HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO GET THEM DOWN??! The answer: They're still up there, and the dart gun is in the trash.

I hate my job. I worked in television production for about a dozen years. I was pretty good at it, but the hours and the working conditions sucked, so I finally got out. Sometimes I think about going back, but I do just enough part-time/freelance work in the biz to remind myself how much it sucks. And no way am I taking a $30K pay cut to go work for some lousy TV station that treats its production staff like cockroaches...unless, of course, I get a job offer from the 24-hour poon network.

I hate my job. I've thought about doing a lot of other things. I really don't give a shit what I do, as long as I can work for myself. That's the key. I considered day trading, but I believe that requires knowing something about stocks and bonds. Next I thought about real estate investing. I'd love to try flipping houses, but I can't find a spatula big enough. Then I toyed with the idea of learning a trade. Not plumbing though, unless it's new construction. I'm not unclogging any shitter unless it's mine. Electricians make pretty good money, don't they? All I'd need is a few tools, some business cards, and one of those big white vans like the kidnappers drive. Speaking of which, kidnapping might not be a bad profession. I've always wanted to work with children. I've actually had some of my blog fans tell me I should write a book. How does one do that exactly? Don't you need...I don't know, a SUBJECT or something? I mean, I can write blog posts all day. Hell, I could pluck a nose hair and turn that into a 12-part series. But an entire book??! Would people actually pay money to read this garbage?? If so, this world is even more fucked up than I imagined.

I hate my job. Please help me find another one before I go on a shooting rampage. Better hurry - I hear the motorcycle twit coming this way.

6/07/2007

POON Update!

My oh my, you people sure do love your poon!


Normally, The Mighty Blog averages around 200 smacks per day. But on Tuesday, the same day I posted my prose pertaining to POON, you'll notice a sharp spike. Coincidence? I think not!

The verdict is in: Everybody loves POON!!! Let us rejoice and give thanks!!!

6/05/2007

POON

If you were to stop me on the street and ask me what my favorite word is, I would look you straight in the eye and answer without hesitation, "POON." I'm guessing this is why people don't stop me on the street. In fact, most people tend to avoid me at all costs. Nevertheless, it is my goal today to convince you that poon is the absolute greatest word in the English language.

If you don't know what poon means, I refer you to the good people at UrbanDictionary.com, the world's foremost authority on poon-like words. According to their site, poon is a noun referring to "a female's genital organ (vagina)." They provide this example: "I fucked Karla last night. She's got a tight poon." I find it odd that they would use Ms. Babble as an example. Her poon hasn't been tight in 20 years. But I digest. Often, POON is used in conjunction with the word TANG, although this is against my personal poon policy. POON and TANG are two completely separate entities. POON is pussy; TANG is a powdered orange beverage enjoyed by astronauts. There is no correlation whatsoever.

For me, the beauty of POON isn't so much its meaning. I just love the word itself. It has a child-like silliness to it. I dare you to say "POON" out loud three times without laughing. IT CAN'T BE DONE!! Sometimes when I'm in a bad mood (which is ALL the time), I'll spontaneously shout the word POON and all my troubles are instantly forgotten. Sure, I get some strange looks from my friends and loved ones, but fuck them.

To the medical community, I say take heed! If laughter truly is the best medicine, then POON is the miracle cure-all you've been waiting for. If a patient comes to you with stage XXXVIII cancer, skip the chemo. Just prescribe a few cc's of POON and he'll be feeling better in no time! Of course, he'll probably die because you skipped the chemo...but that's none of your concern.

POON rhymes with a multitude of other funny-sounding words - coon, loon, goon, prune, cartoon, macaroon, spitoon pantaloon, and Pat Boone. Because of this, POON can be substituted in countless titles to create amusing puns. For example, the 1941 classic, "Poon Over Miami" ... or the Cher hit, "Poon Struck" ... or the Gary Cooper western, "High Poon." Or that great old game show, "Name That Poon." The possibilities are endless. Try it at your next party or get-together. It's guaranteed to be a crowd pleaser!

Bottom line, POON is something we can all get into. We need to unmask its power and expose it for all to see. Only then can we ever hope to live in a world of peace and harmony.


6/01/2007

Lindsay Fully Loaded


Lindsay, Lindsay, Lindsay. What are we going to do with you?

Normally I don't like to talk about celebrity gossip on The Mighty Blog. I prefer to engage in intellectual discussions about the most important issues of the day - like foreign objects I find lodged in my cornhole. For example, just last night I extracted the crescent wrench I had been missing for over a year. No wonder I was having so much trouble getting through airport metal detectors! But that's neither here nor there.

The subject today is Lindsay Lohan's recent self destructive behavior. I happen to know for a fact that Ms. Lohan reads my blog on a semi-regular basis. I'm sure you've read her comments. She posts under the nom de plume "Anonymous." Anyway, I think the time is come for something I like to call an interception. This is not to be confused with an intervention, which is where a bunch of idiots gather together and back their addict friend into a corner and force him/her to admit she/he has a "problem." Well I'm not into that psychobabble mumbo jumbo. Much like the great Dr. Phyl, I like to tell it like it is. So without further ado, let us begin the interception...

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Lindsay Lohan, you are a drunk and a pothead. Your movies suck and so do you. Actually, I kinda liked "Mean Girls," but that's only because of Rachel McAdams. Not that I wouldn't bang you anyway. Most certainly I would. I would bang you with great vigor and then toss you to the curb like some unwanted object that one would normally toss to the curb. (I like to call that intercourse.) But as far as your acting goes, well, you suck there also. You're a no-talent, overpaid, spoiled little brat. You have way too many freckles, and I don't care for that either. You're currently at minute #42 in your 15 minutes of shame. You've had more run-in's with the law than Ms. Babble has had home pregnancy tests. That's a helluva lot of run-ins. You're spiraling downward faster than a turd in a newly flushed toilet.

I tell you these things not to hurt you, but to help you - to help you understand why nobody likes you. Some call it tough love; I call it easy hate. Either term applies, as it is both tough to love you and easy to hate you. Please take whatever money you haven't squandered on booze and crack and get the fuck out of Hollywood. Find yourself a little hut on a remote island someplace where there are no TV cameras and stay there til you die. You can take Paris Hilton and Britney Spears with you, but let me bang them once before you go.

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This concludes our interception for today. Coming next week: Rosie O'Donnell. Now if you'll pardon me, I think I just found my needlenose pliers. Man, this is gonna hurt.....