Mighty Dyckerson's Oscar Wrap-Up

So Sunday night was the Oscars. One of the 87 times per year when the overpaid twits in the entertainment industry get together congratulate themselves for simply doing their jobs. Well I have a little message for all the goobers in Tinseltown: I DON'T GIVE A RAT'S ASS!!!

Do you know how many movies I saw last year that were nominated?? ZERO. Do you know how many I'm going to see as a result of last night's shmooze fest?? The same number I mentioned before. In fact, I only watch and indie films like Trailer Town and Period Piece.

I think the tide turned for me the year Titanic won umpteen awards despite the fact that it was a piece of shit - the year that cocky prick Jimmy Cameron lept to the stage shouting "I'm king of the world!" No Jimmy, you're not. You're the king of arrogance and pomposity. Do you realize how much the budget was for that shipwreck? Something like FIVE HUNDRED TRILLION DOLLARS. Christ, for that kind of money, you CAN'T HELP but make a good movie. They basically rebuilt the Titanic to scale. Then they built an ocean to float it on. (They were going to use the Atlantic, but Sir Cameron decided it wasn't realistic enough.) And in spite of the effort, the only decent part of that whole fucking movie was the scene where Kate Winslet shows her boobs.

Of course, the big deal this year was the international theme. Listen, I don't like it when the illegal spicks steal our jobs and take our money back to Mexico. And I SURE AS HELL don't like it when some greaseball or frog takes our golden statuettes out of the country. I say KEEP THE OSCARS AT HOME!! Nobody wants to see their artsy fartsy Euroshit anyway. You know what I want when I go to a movie? Tits and ass. Explosions and car crashes. I want to see Rachel McAdams getting pounded in the pooter while on board an airplane that's about to crash into a day care center full of retarded children.

And what the hell is the deal with that Helen Degenerate? Who's the fucktard who thought she'd make a good host? I don't want some red carpet muncher dressed like a theater usher trying to act all cute. Hey, let's go backstage and make hand puppets in front of the projector! Hey, let's go into the audience and make fun of the seat fillers! Brilliant shit. If they were smart, they'd bring back the only decent host the Oscars have ever had: David Letterman. Who could ever forget his famous "Oprah/Uma" schtick?? Now that's comedy with a capital K.

And then there's the shit we put up with every year. Like that red carpet crapola. What, the stars are so fucking precious that we can't allow their shoes to become soiled? You want me to watch the Oscars, make those bastards walk through a bed of hot coals. We'll see how fucking talented they really are.

Then there's the acceptance speech nonsense. I don't give a damn about your wonderful mom or your courageous wife who's battling tit cancer or the superb cast or the tireless crew or the great folks at Miramax who "had a vision" and green lighted your piece of shit movie. When the winners take the stage, I want them noosed up like Saddam. If they take any longer than FIVE SECONDS to say their piece, a trap door opens beneath them and that's that. For extra fun, place a bomb in one of the Oscars, and mix them up before the show so nobody knows which one it's in. Rig the bomb to be moisture sensitive, so the flop sweat from the winner's hands will set it off during their speech. That'll keep me tuned in for sure.

Then there's all the montage and musical tribute idiocy. How fucking in love with yourselves can you possibly be? Here's an idea for a musical bit. Put a giant mirror on stage and make all the nominees masturbate to their own reflections while the band plays that "I Am Beautiful" song by Christina Aguilera. The first one to finish gets a Lifetime Conceited Award rammed up their assholes by yours truly.

And who fucking cares who died last year? I don't need to see their pictures again - I know what they looked like. You want to impress me? Let's see a montage of people who are LIKELY TO DIE in 2007. Peter O'Toole would surely be at the top of the list. Hell, if I had a name like "Peter O'Toole," I'd kill myself anyway.

Remember the year Jack Palance did the one armed push-ups when he won for Shane? And that foreign fruitcake who did the cartwheel in the aisle a few years back? I'd like to see more of that...only make them do some REAL exercises. Let's see Jennifer Hudson do a hundred squat thrusts. Have Martin Scorsese do some ab crunches. These clowns should have to WORK for their prize.

You know, if they gave out Oscars for blogs, I'd have a mantle full of the little gold bastards. But I don't need an annual pat on the back or a hunk of metal to recognize my excellence. The Mighty Blog speaks for itself each and every day.

I Am An Ass Man

Today I would like to talk to you about asses. You know, butts. Cans. Tushies. Booties. We all have them. One would think that we as a culture would have similar opinions regarding their significance in our lives. Yet when it comes to asses, we are split down the middle.

Many of us view asses as nothing more than a device to hold up our pants and connect our legs to our torsos. An exit for feces and an entrance for penises. But then there are those who prefer form over function. They study their shapes and share their observations with their peers. They say things like "Hey, check out the ass on that bitch," and so on. But I've never really been much of an ass man. Asses were always incidental to me. Give me a cute face and a nice set of tits and I'm happy. But not anymore.

I recently encountered what has to be the world's most perfect ass. It was attached to a lovely blonde chick with whom I work at a freelance job. She's a moderately attractive young woman - nothing spectacular - but I had never gotten a good view of her from behind until last week. Holy shit, let me tell you I am a changed Dyckerson.

Allow me to expound upon this miracle ass. This is an ass of exceptional quality. An ass of such roundness and precision, it should be worshipped and celebrated by all who behold it. An ass possessing a breath taking beauty that mere words cannot describe. An ass that, if you were walking down the street and saw it, you would fall to your knees and weep. A piece of art so exquisite, so magnificent, it deserves its own museum. If you took the best features from every ass that ever existed in the world and morphed them into one super ass, this ass would still be a thousand times better.

Ladies and gentlemen, I want this ass with every fiber of my being. If this ass were in my home, I would spend my remaining days on this Earth admiring its splendor and caressing its gentle curves. And I would spend my nights with my head perched atop its cushiony cheeks like an angel hovering above a puffy white cloud, dreaming dreams of bliss while drool oozes slowly from my mouth and into that superb crack, forming a river of sweet nectar surrounded by two fleshy banks of pure goodness.

The U.S. Mint should hire this woman and require that every new coin be bounced atop her ass before being placed into circulation, and the distance of the bounce should be measured with pinpoint accuracy and engraved upon the coin for historical purposes.

This ass is worthy of more than just poetry. This ass should have its own language, its own state holiday, perhaps its own religion. I've never been a churchgoing man, but I'd be there every Sunday if this ass was hanging above the pulpit.

An ass of this magnitude should not relief itself upon some common, ordinary toilet. This ass deserves a solid gold throne, jewel encrusted, with a seat made of the softest velvet and a bowl filled with Perriere. The turds should then be extracted with the greatest of care and preserved in formaldehyde so that scientists may study and learn from them.

One thing I left out when I was describing the ass. It slopes down and outward from her lower back like an awning, but more rounded. A midget could seek shelter under this ass in a rainstorm and never get wet. Now I'm not saying it's a large ass, because it isn't. It's just not the kind of ass you'd expect from a chick of her size. It is an ass of character, with a personality all its own.

I want to taste this ass. I want to lick it, suck it, and bite it. Then I want to smack it, squeeze it, and pinch it. I want to knead it like dough. I want to place edible items upon its surface and eat them without using my hands. I want this ass to sit on my face and flatulate directly into my nostrils. I want to inhale its aroma until it fills my lungs. I want this ass to completely consume my body.

I wish I had a picture of this ass to share with you, but even if I did, it still wouldn't do it justice. This ass must be experienced to be appreciated. I pity each of you, because I know in my heart you'll never know an ass like this.

Cops Is So Stupid

They really, really are! Remember last month when I regaled you with the story of my speeding ticket? I was AMBUSHED in a fucking SCHOOL ZONE by an asshat with a radar gun. The RAT BASTARD wrote me a ticket for going a paltry 13mph over the speed limit. Fucking BULLSHIT. Grandpa Dyckerson drives faster than that coming home from the bingo parlor, and he's LEGALLY BLIND!!!

A lesser man would probably just pay the fine and move on with his life. But not I! Mighty Dyckerson never gives up without a fight...or at least a restraining order. So I decided to contest the ticket, and wouldn't you know it, today was the court date!

I arrived promptly at 11am, found my nomenclature on the docket, and entered the appropriate court room. I immediately spotted Officer Lugnut (the ticket writing weasel) in front, but I don't think he recognized me. I then took a seat on the hardest goddamn wooden bench I've ever seen in my life. Holy shit, could they possibly have worse seating??! Christ, I'll be picking splinters out of my ass crack for the next two weeks! So I sat and waited. And I waited and I waited and I waited. If you've ever wondered why the wheels of justice turn so slowly in this fucking country, just spend a day sitting in traffic court and witness the idiocy that is our legal system.

First, there was the spick who didn't speak a word of English. I'll call him Hector. Hector was charged with driving with an expired inspection sticker. A court room translator was on hand to facilitate the communication process...

Judge: Hector, you are charged with having an expired inspection sticker. How do you plead?
Translator: HECTOR, ELJUDGO ELCHARGO YOU WITH ELSTICKO DE LA INSPECTIONEZ EXPIREZ. ELGUILTY OR NO??

After ten minutes of this bullshit, a deputy brought out a dude in a khaki jump suit and handcuffs. Turns out he had been in jail over a month for "disorderly conduct" (i.e., mouthing off to a cop). A minor offense, but this guy decided he'd rather stay in the clink.

Judge: You've been in jail all this time? Why didn't you just post bail?
Defendant: I didn't want to.
Judge: Well you've served your time, so I'm going to let you out today providing you pay court costs. Is there anything you want to say to the officer you offended?
Defendant: Umm, no.
Judge: Don't you want to apologize??
Defendant: Nope.

This guy is my hero. Sure, he could've swallowed his pride and told the pig he was sorry. But he wasn't going to compromise his beliefs. And for that, he's now getting three squares a day and free cable TV. Not bad.

Countless others are paraded in and out of the court room over the course of an hour. Many of these poor souls were victims of Officer Lugnut. Fucking bastard must be trying to make Asshole of the Year. And the judge showed no mercy. I was starting to wish I had just paid the damn ticket.

Then something interesting happened. Officer Lugnut packed up his shit and hit the road! Strange, I thought. I figured he'd have to be there for my case. So then another cop went before the judge and they picked through his victims one by one. Then another cop went through the same routine.

FINALLY, after almost TWO GRUELING HOURS of this nonsense, they called my name and asked for my plea. Here's where I made my big mistake. Based on the outcomes of the previous cases, I figured I didn't stand a snowball's chance in Hades...so I said guilty.

Suddenly, mass confusion ensued. "Where's the arresting officer?" the judge asks the court clerk. "He already left," she replied. "Well why the fuck did he do that? He still has a case here!" The judge was not pleased.

Ladies and gentlemen, I tell you my eyes lit up like a Christmas bush. I don't know much about the law, but I do know that in these United States of America, one is innocent until proven guilty. And if the dumbass cop ain't there with his ticket and his copy of my Godawful driving record to show the judge, there ain't squat they can do about it.

"Alright, Mr. Dyckerson," the judge said defeatedly. "Tell me, how is your driving record?" This judge was totally OWNED. He knew it, I knew it, he knew I knew it, and I knew he knew it.

"Oh, spotless, your honor," I beamed with the biggest shit eating grin I could muster.

"Fine, I'll dismiss the charge upon successful completion of traffic school," he said.

Yeah, that's right. I gotta go sit through traffic school. I suppose it's better than (more) points on my DMV record, but the charge would have probably been dismissed entirely if I hadn't pleaded guilty like a dipshit. That just goes to show you, honesty is always the WORST policy. Especially in court. But I still consider this a small victory over the jackass cops and their Nazi speed traps.

So bottom line, you motherfuckers can soon expect a nice long post about my adventures in traffic school. Hell, I may even type it out right there in the classroom. It will give me something to do while the instructor is covering the History and Evolution of the U-Turn.

I Can't Please Anybody

Dear Mr. Dyckerson,

I am Mrs. Gladys Clumpstein of Syracuse, NY. You may recall when I wrote to you about a month ago about my son Stewart. I loved that boy with all my heart and soul, up until the time the little fucker went and died from a seizure caused by staring at the blinking lights you used to have on your delightful blog. I asked you to remove those lights, and you kindly obliged.

In the last month, I have come to a startling realization: My son was really quite worthless. He didn't do anything except eat, piss, and shit. Hell, if I wanted that, I'd just get a fucking dog.

And I can't say I honestly miss him. We've spending his college tuition on Eagles memorabilia, and we've turned his old bedroom into a computer room...which brings me to my reason for writing today. I want the blinking lights back. I want them back with a vengeance. I want my dead son's bedroom illuminated solely by the pulsating glow of your blog on our computer screen.

Please. Make it so.


Dear Gladys,

Your wish is my command. I share in your hatred for your son, and I hope these new blinking lights help intensify your loathing just a little bit more. Be well.

The Wedding Is Off

I know it seemed like a match made in Heaven, but someone else has stolen my heart. Her name is Bambi, and I met her at my bachelor party last night. When she jumped out of that giant cake and started gyrating her hips in my face, I just had to snatch her up.

We had a nice conversation while she was giving me a lap dance. Turns out she's an aspiring actress trying to pay her way through drama school. You really have to admire that. I told her all about my blog and offered her a role on my upcoming show on ABC, "Lust" - pending a lengthy audition process in my boudoir, of course.

So Ms. Babble, it's been special. But get your crap out of my closet and hit the road. And as for our unborn love child, you're in luck...because in addition to being captain of the world's sixth largest trash barge, Uncle Lou is also a part-time abortion doctor! I already took the liberty of setting an appointment for you. His clinic is on the bus route, so it's super convenient. Bring your own coathanger, and he'll knock a buck off the price...five bucks if you let him take pictures.

As for the rest of you, I know it is customary for the couple to return the gifts if the wedding is cancelled. But I've never been a big believer in customs, so I'm keeping all the shit. Especially the black velvet painting of crying Elvis. (Thanks Stacy!!) And the babbler can keep the tupperware set sent in by Mr. Fabulous (cheap bastard).

Oh yeah, anybody want to purchase a gently used powder blue tuxedo? There's a large semen stain in the crotch of the pants, but the jacket covers it up.

The Wedding Of The Century!!!

Ladies and gentlemen, you're looking at the happiest man in the world...for tonight, I Mighty Dyckerson, have accepted Ms. Karla Q. Babble's hand in marriage!!!


You heard right, my friends. I'm just as surprised as you are. But when the lovely Ms. Babble got down on her knees in that Dairy Queen and popped the question, I just couldn't say no. Maybe it was the Chocolate Strawberry Blizzard talking...or maybe it was the Ecstasy I slipped in her Mr. Pibb. At any rate, it's official! The crazy babbler and I is shackin' up!!!

I know you all have millions of questions. Lucky for you, I have anticipated your queries and addressed them in the popular FAQ format. Read on:


Q: Aren't you both already married?
A: Technically yes. But Ms. Babble's marriage has been on the rocks for quite a while now, ever since her husband came out of the closet. The last straw was yesterday, when a paternity test on Maury revealed their son Joke's father to be Howard P. Stern of Toledo, Ohio. As for me, I have a common law internet wife named RevRee, but we have an open relationship. I am free to fornicate with whomever I choose, and she is free to watch.

Q: Doesn't Ms. Babble hate you?
A: On the surface, it would appear that way. Sure, she has referred to me as a pig, pedophile, psychopath, and degenerate. But if you read between the lines, she's really saying, "Dyckerson, you irresistable hunk of man meat! When I think of you, my legs turn to jelly and my heart goes pitter-pat. Sweep me off my feet and whisk me away in your arms!"

Q: When and where will the big event take place?
A: This weekend. My Uncle Lou has agreed to perform the ceremony aboard his luxurious cabin cruiser on Gulf of Mexico. Actually, it's one of those floating trash barges. But it's free, and as the captain, Uncle Lou does have the authority to marry us. It should be a great time. TFG has volunteered to dazzle us with Don Henley's greatest hits on his accordion, and Jmeped will be capturing all those special moments with her Polaroid.

Q: Why the quickie wedding? Does the bride have a bun in the oven?
A: How dare you think such a thing! I was taught never to.....oh fuck it. Yeah, I knocked her up real good!!

Q: When will invitations go out?
A: As soon they buy toner for the Xerox machine at my office. (A note to guests: Ms. Babble and I are registered at Big Lots...)

Q: Any plans for the honeymoon?
A: Don't tell the babbler, but I've already booked us a room at the fabulous Glancy Motor Lodge. Some of you may remember the Glancy - it was the site for the First Annual Mighty Dyckerson Fan Club Convention. And before you ask, I've been assured by the proprietor that the flea problem has been taken care of. I'll be taking along the camcorder, so look for the video on YouTube next week!

Q: Will this affect your blogs?
A: That's a tough call. We hope to continue to provide our readers with the top class posts they have come to expect. But we'll be pretty busy with our lovemaking, so it's hard to say for sure. We may hire ghost bloggers to write for us.


That's all for now. I've gotta go up in the attic and pull my powder blue tux out of mothballs. I haven't worn it since my third senior prom - I hope it still fits!!

Close Encounters

I have been traumatized.

I know what's going through your little heads right now. "Oh, there goes Dyckerson again. Making a big deal out of something trivial and mundane, just to call attention to himself and get a few cheap laughs." Well you would be wrong, my retarded friends. For this is no laughing matter. You see, the security of my home has been compromised. My life is in danger. I am afraid to sleep at night.

It all started yesterday at approximately 3:30pm Eastern Standard Time. I was sitting in my living room eating a can of Crisco and enjoying an episode of Square Pegs on DVD. Just a perfectly normal Saturday afternoon diversion. All is well, until I noticed movement in my back yard through the corner of my eye. "What could this be," I asked myself as I wiped the excess Crisco from my chin. I stood, walked over to the window, and peered outside. Laying on the ground in the center of my yard was a round, red, ball-like object. It was a rather large object, apparently made of some type of rubberized material and inflated with an inert gas. "Dyckerson," I said to myself, "You don't own a large round red object." I was befuddled. I mean, how could such an item end up in my fenced-in back yard?

My first theory: It fell from an plane. I immediately picked up the phone and called the FAA. They insisted no aircraft have passed over my domicile in the last ten hours. I then asked if they had any recent reports of UFO sightings in my area. Dead silence, and then a dial tone. I have a feeling they were trying to cover something up, and I was making them nervous.

Before I could conjure up another theory, I once again saw movement in my yard. It was the rear gate, and it was opening. "Holy shit," I thought. "Aliens have come to reclaim their space orb and probe me anally!!!" Then, a head peaked through the opening in the gate. What I saw next was so horrifying, I'll never be able to erase the image from my head.



From my window, I watched undetected as the head scanned my yard and zeroed in on the space orb object. The gate opened further, and the strange creature's body revealed itself to me like a cheap whore's twat on a Friday night. As I studied the creature, I was amazed at small it was, yet how strikingly similar it was to humans. It had two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth, and blond hair...and it appeared to be covered in some sort of loose fabric material.

Before I could retrieve my trusty camera phone, the eerie humanoid being scurried over to the ball, snatched it up with his hand-like appendages and ran out of my yard through the gate. Where it went next, I may never know. All I do know is, that sinister space creature may someday return to finish me off.

Pray for my soul, Dyckerson fans. Pray for my soul.

R.I.P. Anna Nicole

The family of Anna Nicole Smith has asked me to say a few words in her memory.

What can one say about Anna Nicole Smith? She meant so much to so many. First, there was Anna Nicole the Playboy centerfold. My, how I whacked off to her photo back in the day. The boxes upon boxes of tissues, countless gallons of lotion, and the blisters - my God, the blisters! She was a breathtaking beauty...that is, until she turned in to a fatass junkie.

Then there was Anna Nicole the grieving widow who married an old geezer billionaire for his money. Or as Grandpa Dyckerson would say, she "used her twat to gold dig." Poor Nicole. She sucked that old dude's senior sausage and didn't live to see a dime for it. Hell, I'd turn into a meth addict too if that happened to me.

And last but not least, there was Anna Nicole the incompetent mother. Of course, her first kid croaked, and that's a damn shame. But a great deal of attention is being focused on her little baby what's-her-face. A lot of people are wondering who the father is. Some say it's some guy named Larry Brickhead. Others say it's radio shock jock Howard Stern. And a little while ago I heard a rumor that Rosie O'Donnell is throwing her cock in the ring.

I might have some of my facts mixed up, but who cares? The important thing is, Anna Nicole Smith is fucking dead. And I, Mighty Dyckerson, am still alive. Alive, well, and jerkin' my Gerkin to old Playboy magazines. So Anna Nicole, where ever you are, this pud's for you.

Payback's A Bitch

To Mrs. Vinson, my 1st grade teacher: Thanks for yelling at me the day I forgot to bring my pencil to school. I was new to that school and scared out of my mind. You could've shown a little compassion and understanding. But instead, you humiliated me in front of all my classmates. And for that, you are a bitch.

To Miss McAleer, my 2nd grade teacher: I didn't know it at the time, but you were quite the piece of ass. And that perfume you wore - holy shit! You weren't a very good teacher. In fact, you sucked. But to this day, whenever I'm in the mall and I smell that scent, I think of you and touch myself.

To Mrs. Jones, my 3rd grade teacher: Remember that time I was talking in class, and you confronted me and asked what I was talking about, and I said "never mind," and you threatened to send me to the principal's office if I mouthed off again? No, of course you don't remember that. Because you are DEAD! Rot in Hell!!

To Ms. Rooke, my 4th grade math teacher: You taught me the multiplication table - probably one of the few math-related things I still remember to this day. Oh, how scary those numbers looked all lined up in that gigantic grid. But you walked us through it step by step until we got it. But there was one question I always wanted to ask you. You're a lesbian, right??

To Miss Mickens, my 5th grade science teacher: You hated your job, didn't you? You were the only black teacher in a lily-white school, and that had to suck. All of us were afraid of you because you looked so different. We thought you would beat us up if we looked at you the wrong way. And sure enough, we were right. No wonder you never married, you mean old cunt.

To Miss Hughes, my 6th grade history teacher: You had some creepy birth defect, giving you one regular sized arm and one short arm. The short arm was about elbow length, with stubby little fingers sticking out of it. God, that thing was gross. You never even acknowledged it or explained what caused it, leaving us to form our own twisted theories. My guess: your mother was a crack whore who conceived you in a truck stop bathroom.

To Mr. Schnackenburg, my 7th grade P.E. teacher: Remember the time that kid was making fun of your last name outside by the bus stop? You happened to walk by and overhear him...then in a fit of rage, you slammed his young body against that brick wall and shook him violently til he pissed his pants? And that boy had to ride the bus all the way home in a puddle of his own urine? And he came down with a terrible rash as a result? And he threw the pants in the garbage so his mother wouldn't find out? But she found out anyway and that just made it worse? Well I bet that poor kid really hates you now...whoever he was.

To Mrs. Bateman, my 8th grade algebra teacher: You really loved that overhead projector, didn't you? You had that gigantic chalkboard that spanned the front of the classroom, but you insisted on writing on overhead transparencies. Only thing was, you could never keep that fucking projector in focus. And you refused to dim the lights, so we had to squint to see the screen because of the glare. Half the classes ended up blind thanks to you. And did you realize how much heat that goddamn projector put out? Global warming, thy name is Bateman.

To Mr. McFaden, my 9th grade history teacher: Who do you think you were kidding with that ridiculous rug? Christ, if you're going to wear one, at least spend the extra bucks and get one that doesn't look like a dead weasel living on your head. And what was the deal with those funky-ass sport coats? Burgundy?? Lime green?? What the fuck was the matter with you??! I know teachers don't get paid shit, but Jesus, make an effort! Try Goodwill - even they have standards!

To Mrs. Thomas, my 10th grade typing teacher: Yours was only a one-semester course. I only signed up for it because I was taking study hall the other semester and I needed a filler. Little did I know I would someday use my typing skills to insult, disgust, and generally piss off thousands of blog readers across the globe. Take pride, my beloved Queen of QWERTY. You have done good work.

To Mr. Eschleman, my 11th grade english lit teacher: Thanks for making me read all those shitty books and then calling on me in class to answer questions about them. Thanks to you I had to spend hundreds of bucks on Cliff's Notes. Who gives a fuck about scarlet letters and mice and men anyway? You want to know what great literature is? Penthouse Forum.

And finally, to Mrs. Gilman, my 12th grade anatomy teacher: Thank you. You know why. Call me!!

A Conversation With ... LAMBO

For those of you who don't know, Lambo used to be my comedy partner back in the vaudeville days. We performed under the name "Dyck & Lamb" - she was the straight man and I did the jokes. We eventually broke up and went our separate ways, but over the years, we've kept in touch via AOL Instant Message. Sometimes we like to get plastered and do one of our acts for old times sake. Such was the case last night. Here's an actual transcript from our AIM session.....


Dyck: I dropped a pretzel under my couch.
Lambo: Are you going to go get it?
Dyck: I'm debating...
Lambo: when did you drop it under there?
Dyck: 1997
Lambo: No you didn't. You didn't even live there then
Dyck: Of course not - Do you think I'd live in a house where there are pretzels under the furniture?
Lambo: maybe
Dyck: I don't even like pretzels.
Lambo: then why is one under your couch?
Dyck: Because I didn't want to eat it.
Lambo: why buy them then?
Dyck: How else am I going to put them under my couch?
Lambo: Hmmm, you have a point there
Dyck: Hey, this is good shit. Mind if I put it on my blog?
Lambo: go right ahead. It's your blog. Are you going to use my name?
Dyck: I shall call you Lambo.
Lambo: Well ok, but I was hoping you call me Little Lamb
Dyck: Come pick up this pretzel and I'll call you whatever you like.
Lambo: Ok, be right over.
Lambo: When can I expect this post to be up?
Dyck: Probably sometime next summer.
Lambo: I was hoping it would be sooner. I might not be alive
Dyck: Sorry, this week I'm beginning a 40-part series on the Joy of Feces.
Lambo: You haven't even start it yet
Dyck: It's in the can...no pun intended.


I would like to emphasize that this was a real conversation that actually took place. I would also like to emphasize that this is the kind of time-wasting shit that keeps me from getting laid.

I Work In A Dump

I love it when we get emails from the idiots who run our office building. An company memo may seem pretty dull to most folk, but they're a welcome distraction from my pointless job. And if you take the time to fully analyze the text, they can be quite entertaining and enlightening. I like to dissect each paragraph line by line, much like a second year med student might dissect the cadaver of a homeless man on a cool December morn. Here's an actual email I received recently, edited only for length. My comments are in red italics.


Below is a summary of work to be completed in [this building] over the next few months. This work should have very little impact on operations. In other words, just ignore the clamor from the jackhammers and power saws.

1. Chiller Rebuild Project: We have contracted with [so-and-so] to rebuild the chiller that cools the building. By rebuilding the unit now we avoid a unplanned shutdown during the summer months. It's quite a comfort to know that the people who control my oxygen supply for 45 hours a week refer to the HVAC system as a "chiller." Perhaps next year they'll get around to upgrading our "wetter" (a.k.a. indoor plumbing system).

Potential Impact: With the chiller off, we may need to pre-cool the building the night before so that it will not get too hot during the day. So you're saying the icicles hanging from my computer screen when I come to work in the morning should boil off by lunch time. Fabulous.

2. Energy Management System:
Currently the building does not have an energy management system, it is operated with a 1960's vintage pneumatic control system. Thanks for sharing. It's nice to know our well-being is in the hands of something that belongs on display in a museum. This project will be replacing this system with a new electronic energy management system. This will give us the ability to monitor and adjust the temperature in every suite remotely. This I like. I'll be able to turn my idiot boss's office into a meat locker with my garage door opener.

Potential Impact: This project will require that we remove every existing pneumatic thermostat and replace it with an electronic stat. Then wires will be run above the ceiling to connect all of these to the main EMS computer. Thanks for telling us exactly where these critical wires will be located. If any hackers want to fuck with the mainframe, they'll know precisely where to look.

3. Fluorescent Lighting Conversion: Currently the building is lighted with T-12, 3' fluorescent lamps with magnetic ballasts. These are in the process of being phased out by manufacturers. Great. More equipment that belongs in the Smithsonian. I guess that would explain my constant seizures and migraine headaches. The new lamps will be T-8 lamps with electronic ballasts. These use less energy to operate, run cooler, and should increase productivity. Increase productivity, eh? So no more excuses for taking a three hour nap every afternoon??

Potential Impact: Currently we are placing this out for bid so work will not start immediately. Great, electrical work being done by the lowest bidder. In a year, someone will plug in a toaster and the whole building will erupt into a massive fireball. This project will be completed after-hours by third party contractors. Please be extra cautious about leaving laptops or other valuable business or personal items unsecured overnight. They hired a bunch of illegal aliens they found hanging around the 7-Eleven parking lot this morning. They'll be searching our drawers and stealing our shit, so I better take my porn collection home with me. We will be monitoring access to our spaces for the duration of all of this work, but you should be made aware of the increased activity in our spaces during the overnight hours. They're paying a rent-a-cop five bucks an hour to watch the joint, but there's no guarantee he won't rob us as well.

We appreciate your patience as we work to improve our operation and bring our office into the 21st century. Didn't the prison down the street make all these upgrades ten years ago?? Better late than never, I guess.


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