Bid On THIS, Bitches!

Ladies and germs, I'm about to fulfill a lifelong dream. No, I'm not talking about two chicks at once. I fulfilled that dream the night I scored with Maven and Ms. Babble in the Wawa's mens room in Flagstaff.

On Friday, April 13th, 2007, I will board a Delta flight to Los Angeles, CA, to attend a taping of the Fabulous 60-Minute Price Is Right!!!! You heard me, Dyck lovers! I shall be making my debut on national television!* And what's more, I just learned that this will be no ordinary taping of The Price is Right. Nosiree Bob Barker! This will be a PRICE IS RIGHT MILLION DOLLAR SPECTACULAR, to be aired in PRIME TIME on the CBS TELEVISION NETWORK!

For those of you who don't know, The Price is Right is a TV game show in which contestants are selected out of the studio audience to play pricing games with an 80 year old pervert who carries a long microphone that resembles a penis. For example, you may be shown a bag of pork rinds. Bob will ask you how much the bag of pork rinds costs. You answer 79 cents. If you are correct, you win the bag of pork rinds! Then you proceed to the SHOWCASE SHOWDOWN, where you get to spin the SEXUAL HARASSMENT LAWSUIT WHEEL for SERIOUS COIN! If you do well here, you advance to the final stage, where you bid on a showcase filled with FABULOUS PRIZES. On the daytime show, the top prize is usually a piece-of-shit Ford Focus. And it's always the base model, which means standard transmission, factory AM radio, and no brakes. But for the MILLION DOLLAR SPECTACULAR, Bob and the boys kick it up a notch - they throw in CUP HOLDERS and AIR CONDITIONING!!!

A successful Price is Right experience requires weeks of careful planning and intensive study. First, I will need to obtain the price of every single product that's bought and sold in the U.S. Memorizing all those prices would be impossible, even for a man of advanced intellect like myself. That's why I intend to devise an elaborate crib sheet and smuggle it into the studio by stashing it in a body cavity. Fortunately, my ultra tight sphinctor will make this task a breeze!

Of course, my efforts will be wasted if I don't look and act the part of a TPIR contestant. Contestants are chosen right out of the audience, and the screeners want to see youth and enthusiasm. I already have the youth part taken care of, thanks to a few Botox injections and a microderm abrasion. I've also shaved my head and inserted a nose ring. It's actually a paper clip, but I doubt they'll say anything. After all, we're talking about California here. Now the enthusiasm part could be tricky, but with a little bit of work, I think I can fake it. I'm even thinking of hiring a personal tutor to teach me how to smile.


Next I have to decide what to wear. Some folks make personalized t-shirts with retarded little sayings - things like "I've been spayed and neutered" or "Plinko rules." The college dorks wear their fraternity sweatshirts - really creative. The military morons show up in their dress uniforms hoping to score points with the producers - fuck 'em. My taxes paid for that uniform, so get back to work and try not to embarass your country. I think I'll make myself a Mighty Blog t-shirt with my URL on the front. May as well get a little free advertising while I'm there, right?

Oh yeah, and I'm going to take my own microphone...only mine will be three inches longer than Bob's. That way, if Bob should keel over during the show, I'll be able to quickly step in and take over.


Stay tuned for further updates, plus details on how YOU can win a chance to have breakfast with Mighty Dyckerson during his 43-minute layover at the beautiful Cincinatti/Northern Kentucky International Airport!!!



* That's if you don't count my numerous appearances on COPS, America's Most Wanted, To Catch a Predator, Jerry Springer, Maury Povich, Judge Judy, The View, and as the wacky neighbor on Alf.

Name That Tumor

Cancer seems to be all the rage these days.

Last week, John Edwards' wife Tipper announced she had lumps in her tits. Stage 4 cancer or whatever. Big frigging deal, I say! Hell, I've got a bad case of the 'rhoids, but you don't see my crying about it. Besides, the woman must be pushing 50 by now. She's had a full rich life. Actually, the timing of her announcement is quite interesting, considering Johnny recently declared he's running for president. Sounds to me like somebody is fishing for a few sympathy votes. Well I'm not falling for it. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if his bitch didn't have cancer at all.*

As if that weren't enough, a couple of days ago some dude named Tony Sleet came out of the cancer closet. My first reaction: Who the fuck is this idiot, and why should I care??! Then I found out he works as a SECRETARY in the White House. WTF??! Why the hell is a MAN doing woman's work anyway?? Sounds to me like this guy is one of them gay homersexuals. No wonder his asshole is fucked.**

Then I thought, why should these two have all the fun?? I want to get in on the cancer bandwagon. So I hereby announce that I, MIGHTY DYCKERSON, HAVE TESTICULAR CANCER.

That's right, you heard me. I discovered it this morning while I was fondling my beanbag in the shower. There I was, cupping my sack and squeezing my nuts...when all of the sudden I felt an unfamiliar lump. Or maybe it was a node. Yeah, node sounds better. Anyway, I immediately rushed to the doctor and had him inspect my family jewels. Sure enough, he confirmed my worst fear. I have a tumor in my teabag. And none of that stage four bullshit. That's kid stuff. I have STAGE 93 CANCER!!! Let's see you fuckers beat that!!!!

Actually, the doc said the tumor could be easily removed. But I'm leaving it in for a while so I can enjoy the attention. Hell, with any luck, I might even get a sympathy blowjob from Manola. In the meantime, here come the waterworks!






* Yeah, I'm going to Hell.

** I better start packing.

Mighty Dyckerson: True American Hero

For years, you've known me as Mighty Dyckerson the humorist, educator, masturbator, entrepreneur, philosopher, philanderer, artist, entertainer, raconteur, bon vivant, and homo sapien. Well as of today, you can add HERO to my long list of achievements.

Actually not as of today. This life altering event took place a couple of weeks ago. But unlike certain bloggers, I have such a wealth of top quality blog material, I have become a bit backed up. Hell, I throw away more blog ideas than some of you write in a year. But I digest. Back to my story.

It was a windy Sunday afternoon in early March. Old Man Winter was just beginning to loosen his tight grasp, and Young Lady Spring was emerging over the horizon like a hungry rat atop a bucket of extra crispy at a New York City KFC. Somewhere in the distance, a baby robin cried out for its mother with a hearty "tweet tweet."

I had just arrived at Mother Dyckerson's residence for a lovely dinner consisting of pot roast, mashed potatoes, and a few heaping helpings of guilt. Mother Dyckerson lives in a condominium, which is like an apartment, only you buy it. Her neighbors consist mainly of old fossils much like herself (think Del Boca Vista only without the palm trees).

I was walking up the sidewalk to Mother D's unit when I heard a woman's voice out of the corner of my ear. "Help! Help me, young man!"

Immediately I sprung into action...by pretending to ignore the voice. Normally I prefer to avoid getting into situations where I am expected to do something. Unfortunately, my efforts to elude the woman's plea were in vain.

"You there! Please help me, my mother has fallen and she can't get up!"

For a brief moment, my trepidation turned to relief. They must be shooting a Life Alert commercial, I thought. Then I looked around. No lights, no cameras, no yellow 800 number suspended in mid-air. Instead, there was a rather large old woman laying on the sidewalk two doors down. Her middle aged mother kneeling beside her, flailing her arms trying to get my attention. No one else was in sight. Awww SHIT, I thought. My potatoes are going to get cold.

With the speed and agility of a panther,* I dashed to the scene. "What seems to be the problem here?"

"My mother fell down! Help me get her up!" the daughter screamed frantically.

She's got to be kidding, I thought. There was no way in Hades I'd be lifting that whale. I sized up the daughter and could easily tell she would be no help. Besides, I had already washed my hands for dinner. Immediately my EMT training** came back to me.

"We better not try to move her," I told the daughter. Then I turned to the old broad. "Is anything broken?"

"No...I don't think so...maybe," she muttered. That was good enough for me. This woman wasn't going anywhere on my watch.

"I'm going to call 911," the daughter said.

"Good idea," I replied as she ran into their condo. "And bring some blankets! I'm getting cold standing out here!"

A few hours later, the fire department showed up and got her off the ground. I think they used a crane. Or maybe it was a forklift. I don't know - I was too busy eating my pot roast. As for what happened next, again I'm not sure. I guess she lived. Anyway, that doesn't really matter. The important thing is, I assisted the woman who called 911, who then dispatched the fire department, who then possibly saved her life. And in my book, that's just as good as saving her life myself.

I was thinking about calling the local newspaper and telling them my heroic tale. Perhaps I'd get my picture on the front page. But then I thought, real heroes don't care about that kind of recognition. So I decided to write about it here instead. Please, no need to thank me. Your gifts of cash will be thanks enough.

Tweet tweet.



* Make that a very old panther with a cinderblock tied to its foot.
** I used to watch "Emergency!" when I was a kid. I was a big Randolph Mantooth fan.

H.O.A. HOLES

Have any of you twatlickers ever lived in a neighborhood governed by a Home Owners' Association? Well I have, and are a gigantic pain in the ass. On the other hand, they can also be a source of great amusement.

For those of you who don't know, a Home Owners' Association (or HOA) is a group of crabby old bats with one foot in the grave and nothing but time on their hands. They enjoy such activities as bingo, red hat society conventions, earlybird specials, and operating a Nazi dictatorship. It is this dictatorship that is the basis for the HOA. Remember back in grade school when we elected class officers for student government? It was all just a popularity contest, and nobody really gave a shit because the officers didn't have any real power anyway. Well HOAs are exactly like that...only these people are FULL GROWN ADULTS. Their favorite activity: Imposing arbitrary, meaningless rules upon their neighbors. Like what color you can paint your house or how many cars you can keep in your driveway. They claim to do this for the benefit of everyone, but their only real concerns are collecting dues and protecting their own property values.

I love to fuck with these people, because their rules are virtually unenforceable. For example, the condo I used to live in had a small patio. The HOA there was very picky about what people could and couldn't have on them. They even had a patio patrol that combed the neighborhood every week looking for eyesores. Well one day I found myself a rusty old can of Kilz in my storage shed. I could have easily thrown it in the garbage, but I tossed it on my patio for the hell of it. Sure enough, two weeks later, I received a friendly letter in the mail reminding me to remove my rusty paint can. Well technically, I didn't have a rusty can of paint on my patio. I had a rusty can of Kilz on my patio. Kilz is not paint, it's primer. Naturally I had no idea what they were talking about, so I threw out the letter.

A couple of months later, I received another letter...this one more harshly worded. I had 30 days to remove the rusty paint can from my patio or they would hold a judicial hearing. Again, I had no idea what they were talking about. Kilz is not paint.

Another month goes by, and then a final letter with the date and time of the judicial hearing. Great, I thought. Maybe they'll have free refreshments! So I went to the meeting, and it was a bunch of douchebags sitting around a table. I could tell they were really pissed too. They wasted a ridiculous amount of time going through bureaucratic red tape - they took roll, verified people's addresses, passed out copies of the letters, blah blah blah. Finally got to the issue at hand.

"Dyckerson, do you plan on removing the paint can on your patio?" they asked.

"I don't have a paint can on my patio," I replied. Then the morons whipped out a photo.

"Oh, you mean the can of Kilz??!" I beamed. "Why didn't you say so?? Sure, I'll remove it!"

I then stood up, helped myself to a cracker, and left. That night, I tossed the paint can onto my neighbor's patio and replaced it with a dead 'coon. Yeah, I was being an asshole. BUT IT WAS SO MUCH FUN!!! Besides, I was proving a point. Dyckerson is a reasonable man - if someone had just PICKED UP A FUCKING PHONE AND CALLED ME, we could have straightened out the whole thing without all the hassle.

Anyway, that's all ancient history now. Last summer, I moved into a townhouse. Again, another HOA to deal with. Recently they held their annual public meeting. No one ever shows up to these things unless they have a complaint, so they usually turn into great pissing matches. I figured this had to be good for a blog post or two, so I decided to check it out. The affair took place in the community clubhouse, and it was attended by a total of ten people - seven residents and three officers. There was Gladys the Secretary (she knows shorthand), Inez the Treasurer (she owns a calculator), and Gertrude the President (she watches a lot of C-SPAN).

The majority of the time was spent going over the annual budget and other assorted nonsense. Toward the end, they opened the floor to questions. One couple complained about the lack of visitor parking for their dipshit friends. Someone else didn't like the banner hanging from her neighbor's front window. Blah blah blah blah blah. Finally, it was my turn to inject a little mayhem. I raised my hand.

Gertrude: "The floor would like to recognize Mr. Dyckerson."
Dyckerson: "Thank you. Sculpture is my passion, and I was wondering if it would be permissible for me to display one of my works in my front yard. It would really mean a lot to me."
Gertrude: "Well I don't know. What is it?"
Dyckerson: "Oh, it's a lovely birdbath."
Gertrude: "That sounds nice. I don't think there will be a problem."
Dyckerson: "Great! I'll finish up the penis tonight and place it in my yard first thing tomorrow morning!"
Gertrude: "Wha...?!"
Dyckerson: "The penis. Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot to mention that the birdbath is actually a giant marble penis. Water squirts out of its eye and into a bowl. It's quite magnificent!"

That didn't exactly win me any fans with the HOA. But no worries. Those old bats aren't getting any younger, and I predict they'll soon start dropping like flies. Then I shall take over the HOA and begin my own reign of terror! BWA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!!

I've Been Schooled

You haven't lived until you've spent eight hours cooped inside a hotel conference room with a homersexual traffic school instructor.

That's how I spent my Saturday. If you're a regular Mighty Blog reader (and if you're not, why the fuck aren't you?), you will recall I was framed for speeding in a school zone two months ago. I fought the ticket in court, and upon hearing my eloquent and well thought out argument, the judge decided to let me go to traffic school in exchange for dismissing the charge. What a swell guy.

So Saturday morning, I dragged my ass out of bed, had a few vodka tonics, and sped my way to the hotel. Many events took place that day, but not to worry. For your convenience, I have arranged the highlights into a handy dandy timeline.....

9:01am - I enter the conference room. The joint is filled with rows of hastily assembled folding tables, two chairs to a table, with a crappy podium in front and a dime store white board tacked to the wall. The victims are lined up in back to register.

9:02am - I am greeted by a homersexual instructor: "HI WELCOME TO THE CLASS MY NAME IS AARON THAT'S 55 DOLLARS CASH FABULOUS THANK YOU VERY MUCH GRAB A BOOKLET AND HAVE A SEAT!!!" He says - make that SCREAMS - this exact same thing, without pausing, to every single person in line. I can't believe how much cash he's handling - 55 clams each times 30. That's.....a whole lot of money! I consider returning next week with a ski mask and an AK-47.

9:05am - I take the only remaining seat, and it's in front of the room. My table mate is a grungy looking hippie who smells like sour milk and looks like he slept in a bus station last night.

9:08am - Class begins: "GOOD MORNING AND WELCOME WE HAVE A LOT OF INFORMATION TO GET TO TODAY I KNOW YOU HAVE OTHER THINGS YOU'D RATHER BE DOING SO LET'S GET STARTED TURN TO PAGE ONE!" This guy sounds like Richard Simmons on crack.

9:10am - Aaron begins the lecture. The word of the day is ATTITUDE. Apparently some genius decided to turn it into an acronym, which each letter representing some brilliant driving concept. Don't ask me what the fuck they were. I was too busy holding back the vomit after each one of his lameass jokes. I am excellent at reading people, and I could read this fruitcake like a second-rate blog. He appears to be a standup comic wannabe, and he's using this class to hone his material. He's probably hoping to be the next Rip Taylor.

9:40am - Aaron the homersexual traffic school instructor begins popping Altoids in his mouth in regular 20 minute intervals. At least I think they were Altoids. They were in an Altoids tin.

10:20am - My hippie neighbor decides it's time for breakfast. He reaches into his coat pocket and produces a can of Dr. Pepper and a bag of vending machine donuts. Delightful.

10:45am - Break time. I stand in the hallway and contemplate suicide. A heavy set coon approaches me and screams, "I KNOW YOU!" I am bewildered. "I'm sure you do not," I reply. "YES YES I DO! YOU USED TO WORK AT SO-AND-SO, REMEMBER?" Unfortunately, I did remember. So much for break time.

11:05am - We watch a dreadful video about seat belts starring an animated character named Giggles the Safety Hyena. I slit my wrists with a paper clip.

12:00pm - LUNCH. I am nearly rear-ended by a classmate while leaving the hotel parking lot.

1:15pm - I return from lunch to find my table mate smoking weed in his van.

1:30pm - Aaron the homersexual traffic school instructor begins spoon feeding us the answers to the upcoming test. "YOU MIGHT WANT TO WRITE THIS DOWN. YOU'LL PROBABLY SEE THIS AGAIN. PUT A STAR BESIDE THIS." I get it, I'm not fucking stupid. Besides, I think I can remember the shape of a yield sign.

2:30pm - Another video. This one is a sobering documentary from Dateline NBC about a woman whose daughter was killed by a distracted driver who was on his cell phone. I use this opportunity to send obsene text messages to RevRee.

3:45pm - Another break - 10 minutes, 15 guys, one urinal. You do the math.

4:30pm - We take the written test. (As an aside, I don't want to say orientals are bad drivers, but this is one time when it's probably NOT a good idea to cheat off a chink.)


4:55pm - Test results are announced. I get a 95. (As God as my witness, I thought yield signs were round.)

5:00pm - Aaron the homersexual traffic school instructor thanks us and plugs his upcoming appearance at the Comedy Silo.

5:05pm - A group of us meet at the neighborhood watering hole, have a few drinks, and go street racing in front of the old folks' home. A good time was had by all.


So that's it! Let us rejoice, for I am a free man! Now if anyone needs me, I'm off to the video store. I hear Giggles has his own series of adult films.

Fuck Exercise

I finally made it to the fitness center the other night! You would have been so proud of me. I had my water bottle, my DyckPod loaded with Don Henley's Greatest Hits, and my skintight spandex - everything a man needs for a refreshing workout. I got there around 8:30pm, signed the register, and headed for the exercise room.

This whole "exercise" concept was new to me, so I took a moment to soak it all in. Let me tell you, it was quite overwhelming. Scanning the room, there was nothing but twisted metal as far as the eye could see - menacing machines that looked like leftover torture devices from the Spanish Inquisition. And the room seemed to go on forever and ever. That is, until I realized one of the walls was covered in full-length mirrors. (Ha! They really had me going there for a minute!) Some of the objects in the room looked vaguely familiar to me - like the door and the wall mounted TV, for example. But everything else was a complete mystery. Where to begin??!

I was already beginning to perspire, so the first order of business was to find a towel. As luck would have it, right there near the men's locker room exit was a large plastic bin filled with balled-up towels. Some were even pre-moistened, which was nice. They came in a wide variety of colors - like tan, brown, yellowish-tan, tannish-brown, and brownish-yellow. One even had red specks in it. Very colorful! I grabbed a brown towel and threw it over my shoulder.

At that point, I was exhausted, so I decided to head over to the juice bar and get myself a smoothie. I placed my order...and can you believe it, they wanted me to PAY for it??!?! I was shocked!! I looked at the cashier and told the bitch I was a MEMBER there - I thought drinks were complimentary! She just laughed in my face and told me to fuck off. Well so much for the juice bar.

By this time, I was getting my second wind, so I went back to the exercise room. The joint was empty except for some fat lady off in the corner riding on some contraption that looked like a bicycle but didn't go anywhere. This was quite a sight. She had a cell phone in one hand, a milkshake in the other, and a newspaper draped over the handlebars of the bike. And every 10 seconds or so, she would press one of the pedals with her feet. I was tired just watching her.

I spent a good deal of time examining each piece of equipment and trying to figure out what the hell they were. As an educational service to my loyal readers, I'd like to go over each item in case any of you are unfortunate enough to encounter them.

This first one I like to call The Conveyer Belt to Hell. You simply step onto a long platform and walk across it. At first, I found this exercise to be quite easy - all I had to do was take three steps to get across the thing. Then I realized it wasn't turned on yet. Silly me! I hit the power button and was prompted to enter a bunch of numbers into a keypad. I think I just pressed "9" for everything. I heard a motor kick in, and all of the sudden I was moving.....BACKWARDS!! WHAT IN THE FUCK??!! I slid all the way off the back end of the thing and fell flat on my ass!! I tell you, that machine really gives your glutes a workout. Five or six reps and I was feeling the burn!

Here's one I call Instant Hernia. You sit your ass on the padded stool between the two metal handlebars and attempt to raise them over your head. The first time I tried this, I thought my pancreas was going to shoot out of my rectum and splat on the mirror across the room. That fucker wouldn't budge!! Not to be defeated, I dismounted the apparatus and inspected its inner workings. Viola! Attached to the side of the unit was a tall stack of heavy black domino-looking things. Each one had a number on the side - 10, 20, 30, and so on. I wasn't sure what these were for, but some dipshit had stuck a rod between the 50 and 60. I figured this was jamming the machine, so I yanked it out and tossed it to the floor. I tried it again, and sure enough, those handlebars went up and down with ease! I was able to do at least nine or ten reps before passing out.

After regaining consciousness, I moved on to something I call Death's Cold Embrace. This one involves another padded seat plus two armlike things that swing down and crush you on both sides. The object is to resist the pressure of the mechanical arms by pushing against them with your own arms. It's a battle of futility, for no matter how hard you press, the mechanical arms always press harder. Your only escape is to let your body go limp and slide out of the chair onto the floor.

Next up is something I call The Human Pretzel. This one is a mysterious system of padded levers and rollers around which you must somehow contort your body. I spent a good ten minutes figuring out how to mount this beast before finally giving up. At one point, my ass was six feet in the air with my left arm and right leg tied in a knot behind my head. Thank God I always travel with a supply of Vaseline - else I might never have gotten those knots loose!

My last stop was something I call The Bed. This is a long padded bench with a pair of green pillows at one end. It wasn't very comfortable, but I was able to take a short nap by placing my brown towel over my eyes to block out the light.



Unfortunately, my nap was interrupted by the fat lady. I awakened to the sound of her gasping for breath, and when I looked around, I spotted her laying on the floor. Her face was red and she was clenching her chest. Apparently she was doing some sort of weird aerobic exercise. By this time it was getting late, so I grabbed my gear, stepped over the fat lady's flailing body, and headed home.

Oh yeah, and I stole the brown towel. I call it payback for not getting my smoothie. Take that, bitch!!!

Oops!

You know, it's really amazing how many people read The Mighty Blog. People you would never suspect in a thousand years. People like...oh I don't know...MY BOSS'S OLDER BROTHER. Make that my boss's VERY LARGE older brother. Seems he did a Google search for "dork" and somehow stumbled upon my last blog entry, in which I said some not-so-flattering things about my boss. Big brother saw the pictures, read the stories, and was able to put two and two together. And today, things at work were a little.......well, awkward.

I tried to explain to him that this was all just a HUGE misunderstanding. I mean, you guys know what a kidder I am, right?? Go ahead, tell him! Seriously, post a comment explaining what a joker I am! PLEASE!!! I'm always saying silly stuff I don't really mean! In fact, this whole blog is really just a big joke!! I'm laughing now just thinking about it! Ha ha ha...hee hee...heh...cough...ahem.

Anyway, let's set the record straight. I don't think of my boss as a dork or an ass. Not at all. He's actually an extremely intelligent, witty guy - the textbook definition of "cool." For anyone to say otherwise is simply laughable! I mean, this is a man I truly respect and admire. Honestly, I think of him more as a mentor than a boss. And as for his wife, I think I may have said something about her being a hag with no musical talent. I didn't use those exact words, but you get the idea. Well it was all a JOKE!! I've seen her picture, and she is actually quite fetching. Way out of MY league, that's for sure. And that child of theirs? An ANGEL. Yeah, she might be a LITTLE slow at times, but who among us isn't? Personally, I blame the media.

And then there's his BMW. If I recall correctly, I believe I referred to it as a piece of shit. Again, KIDDING!! In truth, it's quite the opposite. I couldn't help admiring the exquisite German engineering this afternoon as I was washing and waxing it in the parking lot. The man is really a snappy dresser too, if I may say so. Lots of designer clothes in his laundry basket. He has quite the eye for fashion.

In closing, you guys may not be hearing from me for a while. I'll be working ten hours of unpaid overtime each and every day including weekends. That is, unless my kind and generous boss could find it in that huge heart of his to forgive me. Now if I could just get his big brother to remove my left leg from my anus.....

A Plain Old Ass

Author's Note: I know some of you may have been expecting an update on the Miracle Ass situation. I assure you, one will be forthcoming. I am expecting a major announcement at any time, and I am prepared to break in to this post at a moment's notice if news warrants. For now, I present to you an ass of a different color...

Meet my "boss." He is the lead dork for the team of computer dorks of which I am a member. This is one of his favorite activities: Climbing on top of his desk and peaking over his cube wall at his neighbor. This is how he chooses to communicate. He does this EVERY SINGLE FUCKING DAY. What, you don't believe me?? Here's another picture from a different day...

And another...

Now I ask you, is this normal behavior for the workplace?? I swear I'm going to rent myself a circular saw from the Home Depot and sneak into his cube one night. Then I'm going to set the saw blade for 1/8th inch less than the thickness of his desktop. Then I'm going to saw a line all the way across the bottom side, leaving just enough wood to support the weight of his phone and keyboard. Next time he tries to climb on top of that thing, he'll be in for an unpleasant surprise. For extra fun, I'll even sprinkle some of my thumb tacks on the floor beneath. And rest assured, Dyck fans...I'll have my trusty camera standing by!

Does that seem harsh to you? Well consider another fact: He does virtually NO WORK WHATSOEVER. Instead, he spends most of his time hanging around our quartet of cubicles and telling unamusing stories about his inconsequential little life. And holy shit, this dork has an endless supply of them. It's like he feels it is his duty to entertain us.

Many of his stories are about his retarded baby whose name I choose not to remember. I don't know much about babies, but I know this one is REALLY FUCKING STUPID. This Darwin Award candidate likes to smear dog shit on her face and eat it, much to the amusement of her dorky father. She also enjoys hitting herself in the head with a variety of dangerous household objects - another source of endless entertainment for daddy. I say throw the little retard a pack of shit-covered razor blades and be done with it.

Other stories showcase what a spoiled little prick he is. For example, there's his precious BMW. Christ, he loves that thing. To hear him talk about it, you'd think he goes home every night and fucks it up the ashtray...and I'm not sure he doesn't. For the last week, his piece-of-shit "beemer" has been in the shop, forcing him to rent a Chevy Malibu, the only vehicle his insurance company would pay for. Now all he does is bitch and moan about how much he hates driving it: "Man, I can't be driving no Malibu! It's just not the same! Where are the heated seats? Where is the GPS?? This thing doesn't even have a motorized retractable cup holder!"

This douchebag loves to spend money on impulse. The day AFTER Christmas, he decided on a whim to buy his homely wife a baby grand piano. He shared with us his intention to do so, and it went something like this: "Hey, baby grand pianos are cool! I think I'll buy one!" Trust me, I know how much this loser makes - it ain't much more than I do - and he has no business buying pianos. Especially considering he'll likely be paying to send his retarded kid to a "special" school. Oh, did I mention HIS WIFE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO PLAY PIANO??! Now they're thinking about moving because the 3,000 square foot McMansion they've called home for all of ONE YEAR just isn't big enough anymore, and besides that, they can't get along with their neighbors. Well guess what, pal. If I were your neighbor, I'd be helping you pack right now.

He also calls himself an environmentalist because he switched the incandescent light bulbs in his house to those longer-lasting flourescent jobs. Well whoop de doo. Guess how long his office recycling campaign lasted. If you said THREE DAYS, give yourself a pork rind. Seems he couldn't get the custodial staff to provide a separate bin for aluminum cans, and it was too much of a "hassle" for him to get his own damn bin. And guess how many electrical items Mr. Energy Conscious has in his cube...besides a computer, that is. Let's count them, shall we??

• A lamp. (It's plenty bright in here. What the fuck does he need with a lamp??)
• A clock. (I guess the TWO CLOCKS on the computer and the phone aren't enough for him.)
• A fan. (For God's sake, the building is CLIMATE CONTROLLED.)
• A satellite radio receiver. (More evidence that he DOESN'T DO SHIT around here.)
• A small refrigerator. (We have a break room with a frig in it. I guess the 30-FOOT WALK is too much effort.)
• A wok. (He doesn't really have a wok. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.)

Finally, there's his obsession with Skittles. The other day I was walking back to my desk after taking a wicked piss. I glanced in his direction, and I noticed he had a bag's worth of Skittles scattered all over his desk. At first I thought he spilled the damned things. But then I noticed he appeared to be...well...organizing the Skittles. "What the fuck are you doing??" I demanded. Turns out the goofy bastard was grouping the Skittles by color!! You see, he doesn't like to mix up the flavors. I remind you, this man has FATHERED A CHILD.

Fortunately, I may not have to put up with him much longer. I hear he's up for a promotion to CEO.

This Dyck is Gettin' Pumped!

The other day I had an epiphany. Luckily my houseboy Pepe was there to clean it up. But after my epiphany, I had myself a brilliant idea. "Dyckerson," I said to myself, "You need to get in shape. How can you expect to obtain the Miracle Ass when your very own ass is anything less than miraculous??"

So I decided to join a gym. "Fitness club," actually. I've never actually belonged to a gym or "fitness club." I mean, when you have a body like mine, why mess with a good thing? Nevertheless, I decided it was time to take action.

My first stop was the YMCA. (Actually, that was my second stop. My REAL first stop was the YWCA - big mistake.) They gave me a quick tour of the joint. The whole place smelled like a dirty sock soaking in a bowl filled with human sweat. And the workout room was FULL of dipshits - almost every piece of equipment was in use. "This is our busy time of year," they explained. "It helps if you come during off-peak hours." Fuck that. I'm not getting up at 3am to do squat thrusts next to a hairy old man with a thyroid problem. Plus, those bastards wanted something like FIFTY BUCKS A MONTH for membership and a ONE YEAR COMMITMENT. A Dyckerson doesn't commit to anything. Just ask the hundreds of women I've left at the altar.

My next stop was a place called Gold's Gym. Again, a quick tour. The whole place smelled like TEN dirty socks soaking in a BATHTUB filled with human sweat. Then I got the hard sell from some ugly chick wearing spandex. "Today is your lucky day, because if you sign up RIGHT THIS SECOND, we'll waive your registration fee and first month's membership!! But you have to do it NOW NOW NOW!!" Bullshit. A Dyckerson doesn't HAVE to do anything. "Where are the hot chicks?" I asked. That shut her up in a hurry.

My final stop wasn't actually a gym at all. It is mainly a racquetball and tennis club, but they happen to have a room with exercise equipment. This whole place smelled like someone took a dirty sock bomb, soaked it in a pool filled with sweat, and dropped it on a country made entirely out of more dirty socks...then it rained human sweat for seven days straight. But it's close to my house, there's no long-term commitment, and best of all, hardly anyone goes there! So I signed on the dotted line, gave them TFG's credit card number, and went about my business.

I suppose I should go back to the club and work out, but writing this post has really knocked the wind out of me. I think I'll hit the jacuzzi and make myself a protein shake. I just hope the Miracle Ass appreciates the sacrifices I'm making for her.

Ass Update!!!

Yesterday, I spent a solid 12 hours in close proximity to the Miracle Ass. We were part the crew taping a college basketball tournament in downtown Dyckersonville. This was a multi-camera affair, and she and I were assigned to the control room for most of the day. I have many, many observations to report, so let's cut the crap and get down to business.

First off, she looked and smelled WONDERFUL...but the Miracle Ass wasn't quite how I remembered it. I think it had to do with the jeans she was wearing. They just didn't compliment her gorgeous cheeks as they should have. I did manage to grab a photo with my shitty cell phone camera, but the room was dark and the image is very grainy. Lucky for you, I have taken the liberty of labelling the key elements for your viewing convenience:


In this photo, the Miracle Ass is seated. She's wearing a black sleeveless top, jeans, and some sort of shiny belt to hold them up. And if you look very, very closely, you see a small white sliver where her blouse ends and her jeans begin. This, my friends, is EXPOSED SKIN!! Although not detectible in the photo, I assure you there was a visible indention in this area that indicated the beginning of the COIN SLOT!!! Christ, I would have given my left nut to stick my hand down in there for a quick grope, and then yank it out and sniff my fingers. But alas, it wasn't meant to be.

I spent a good part of my day training the Miracle Ass. We chatted a bit when time permitted - turns out she is heavy into sports. (Strike one. I hate all sports.) Especially NASCAR. (Strike two. I really, really hate NASCAR.) Of course, I didn't tell her that. I just smiled and nodded politely while she yammered away about pit stops and such. But to her credit, she isn't one of them tank top wearing, Dale Earnhardt worshipping morons...and she does appear to have most of her teeth.

The Miracle Ass is very touchy-feely, but in a non-flirtatious kind of way. I say non-flirtatious, but in all truth, any time a chick touches me, I interpret this as an invitation for me to toss her up against the nearest vertical surface and poon her with all of my might. One example of her touchy-feeliness: At some point I performed a camera transition that impressed her greatly...she responded with a "nice job" and a pat on the knee. At another point, she complained that her hands were cold...then proceeded to prove it to me by pressing her hand against my neck. Again, totally innocent gestures. But at this point I was ready to suck the ((the remainder of this paragraph has been censored by Blogger))

I know what you're thinking: "Dyckerson, she totally wants you!!" Well of course she does. After all, I am Dyckerson. But she acted that way with all the male members of the crew. In fact, she was very much like "one of the guys." (Strike three. I'm not into chicks that act like dykes, even if they aren't dykes. And she isn't a dyke...I don't think.)

At one point, I let the Miracle Ass take over and get some "hands on" exerience. Turns out she is actually a good director. She took to that switcher like a water off a pig's ear. (Strike four. I don't like chicks who are as talented as I am. I see them as a threat to my job and to all of mankind.)

The Miracle Ass is quite a bit younger than I am - I'd say a good ten years younger. No older than 25. (Cancel all four strikes.) However, I don't see much in common. Don't get me wrong, I could tap the Miracle Ass all night long and still not get enough. But I don't think I could hold a conversation with her for more than two minutes if it wasn't work related. She's all about partying and drinking and sports and bars and drinking at parties in sports bars. I'm all about taking naps and trying to lower my LDL.

So here's my dilemma. The basketball season is now over for our purposes, so I probably won't have another opportunity to see the Miracle Ass for quite some time. I didn't have a chance to acquire her digits, but I could easily get them from the producer if I really wanted to. Or I could drop by the bar where she works part-time and surprise her with a Richard Petty poster. Both would require more time and effort than I feel is warranted. Besides, as grandpa once told me, "You're a DYCKERSON! Bitches come to YOU!!!"

I'll put it to a vote. Should I attempt to seduce the Miracle Ass, or should I let her go like a fart in the wind? Post your comments and suggestions, and hurry the hell up - I'm not getting any younger. Besides, I think my Metamucil is starting to kick in.....

Let The Games Begin

It's time for another installment of everybody's favorite new game.....




Here's how it works. I pick a blogger from my list of Mighty Blog affiliates. Then I write a post in which I pretend to be pissed off at that blogger! It's great fun, and absolutely pointless! Here's a highlight from our last edition:


TFG, you are a WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT. How fucking STUPID do you think I am anyway? Did you honestly think nobody would notice? Christ, what is your fucking problem??! Are you REALLY that damn dense??!!!!


And who could forget this classic gem from our October 2002 episode:


Holy shit, Pureiliewawaiteie. You should be ashamed of yourself. How the hell can you possibly sleep at night? I don't ever want to see your PATHETIC ASS near my blog again!!!!!!!


Now, on to this week's contestant is MAVEN! Maven is the author of Sanctum Sanctorum. Her hobbies include haikus, ennui, and bivouac pantomime! Now if everyone is ready, let's play.....




Maven, what in the hell is wrong with you?? Have you LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND???!! I simply cannot believe you. I swear I'll never understand how people like you can possibly exist. I mean, for chrissakes, did you even bother to THINK first?? Did it ever occur to you what a GODDAMN ASSHOLE you were being?? I am so pissed right now I am literally SHITTING BRICKS. All I can say is, it's a good thing for both of us you're not here right now...because if you were, then God help you. It makes me PHYSICALLY ILL just thinking about you. Why don't you just CRAWL IN A HOLE AND DIE??!?!!


This has been another installment of.....




Thanks for reading!!!