Crappy Birthday, Dyckerson! (Part 1)

Ask me what my mother got me for my birthday.

Go on, ask.


My mother...who gave birth to me 36 years ago...whom I shared a home with for 20-something years...who claims to know me better than ANYONE ELSE IN THE FUCKING WORLD...somehow got it into her head that I would enjoy having one of THESE on my body.

Go on, click the link.

CLICK THE FUCKING LINK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That's right, it's a bracelet. A man bracelet. A bracelet...for a man.

It came wrapped in a small box. When she handed me the package on Saturday, I was hoping it might contain something useful and/or manly, like a gift card to Home Depot or perhaps a set of truck nutz. But no. Oh, hell no. My mother has to buy me BLING.

My jaw dropped in disbelief as I extracted the atrocity from its silky holster. I looked up at my mother, then down at the bracelet, then up at my mother again.

"Well what do you think??!" she asked eagerly.

I struggled to find the right words to express my emotions. "It's...it's..."


"It's a fucking BRACELET!!!" I screamed.

"I know!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it beautiful??"

"Beautiful just isn't the word," I replied.

"Try it on!!" she insisted.

"What, here? Now??!" I objected. "No, I couldn't possibly."

"Try it on, or I'm cutting you out of the will!"

Reluctantly I lifted the object - the fucker must've weighed five pounds - and fumbled with the clasp trying to get it open. As I fumbled, I said a silent prayer: Please God, if you care anything at all about my happiness, you will see to it that this bracelet breaks apart in my hand.

Needless to say, the clasp snapped off with ease.

"I hope it fits!!!" she shouted with anticipation.

For a moment, I felt like O.J. God, I'm serious this time. If you really do exist, you will make certain that this bracelet does not fit.

Of course it fit. It fit like a fucking bloody glove.

You want to see it, don't you? I know you do, you SICK FUCKS. Alright, here it is:

(I'll give you a moment to remove the Coke spittle from your keyboard......)

"It looks great on you!" Mother Dyckerson shouted with glee. "You need to wear it all the time!"

"Oh, I think I'll be saving this for...special occasions," I stated unconvincingly.

I attempted to remove the offending bling from my limb. I fumbled around with the difficult clasp, pulling and tugging in all directions. To my absolute horror, I COULD NOT GET THE FUCKING THING OFF MY ARM!!

"GET IT OFF!!!" I screamed.

Mother D. came over and proceeded to tug and twist the thing, but she too was unsuccessful.

"Well what do you make of that?" she asked quizzically.

I was about to contemplate amputation when finally the stupid piece of shit fell off on its own, taking most of my arm hair with it. It landed on the floor with a metallic CLINK sound.

I scooped up the scrap metal, tossed it in the box, and got the hell out of there.

How am I going to unload this damned thing?? I can't return it - she bought it off of QV-Fucking-C, for Chrissakes. I guess I can't blame her. The customer reviews on the QVC web site are quite favorable...

"This bracelet looks more expensive than the price."
--Translation: It's cheap.

"I purchased two of these, one for my husband and one for our grandson...I can't wait to give it to them!"
--Isn't that precious? Matching bracelets! I'm sure your grandson will be a huge hit at the next gay pride parade.

It is masculine and I wear it with a suit or with jeans and a polo shirt...Duke of Marmunster"
--Well if it's good enough for the Duke of Marmunster...

Besides, she honestly expects to see me wearing it! Maybe amputation isn't such a bad idea after all. I suppose I could learn to type with my feet. Hell, I already type most of my blog posts with my enormous wang.

Meanwhile, I'm working on my pimp name just in case. Here's what I've come up with so far:

  • Pimp Daddy Dyckerson Flow
  • Funk Master Mighty D.
  • Sugartastic Mighty Shmoove
  • Reverend Doctor M. Flex
  • Ghetto Fabulous Dyck Tickle

And if you think this was bad enough, just wait til you find out what my DAD bought me.....on the next installment of Crappy Birthday, Dyckerson!



Originally posted 06/27/07

35 years ago today, the world was changed forever. On June 27, 1972, Mightonimous Q. Dyckerson emerged from his mother's poon. Weighing 32 pounds and 6 ounces, it was a tight squeeze. But the baby Dyckerson was able to push himself out, penis first, and he immediately began breastfeeding. "But I'm not your mother," said the hot red-headed nurse as young Dyckerson suckled her. "Shut up and spank me, bitch!" the newborn infant replied.

Moments before the birth of Mighty Dyckerson

The world watched as Mighty Dyckerson and his penis grew. By age 4, he had released his first album, "Fart Noises," on Rhino records. The album, which was panned by critics as being "vile, nasty, and disgusting," went platinum in three minutes. At age 7, Dyckerson lost his virginity to his second grade teacher, Mrs. Longest. And by age 12, he had taken his first steps. Upon encouragement from his many lovers, at age 14 Dyckerson took penis to paper and wrote his 360-page tell-all autobiography, "Nocturnal Admissions," using his own semen for ink. The book squirted to the top of the New York Times best-seller list in five seconds, where it remained for 800 weeks. Had all the pages not been stuck together, it might have lasted even longer.

Mrs. Longest (1979)

Soon after the publication of "Nocturnal Admissions," Dyckerson started his own newsletter, "The Mighty Newsletter," which sold to all his friends and classmates for $1 a copy. But the distribution process was slow and cumbersome, and in 1988, while playing Pong on his Commodore 64, he had a brainstorm. Using nothing but an ordinary coathanger and a 9-volt battery, he successfully transferred a file between two computers. Thus, the Internets were born.

Dyckerson's Commodore 64

Seeing the potential for this incredible new invention, Dyckerson wasted no time creating an electronic version of his newsletter, "The Mighty Blog." Last year, "The Mighty Blog" received over one trillion hits, four million bangs, and ten thousand slaps.

Today, Mighty Dyckerson receives hundreds of marriage proposals a week...many of which He accepts. Despite His vast wealth, He chooses to live in a modest, two-story townhouse with an antiquated cooling system and a small-capacity washing machine. And once a year on His birthday, Dyckerson returns to the hospital where He was born and suckles his former nurse's breasts for old time's sake. "Her tits are two feet lower now, and wrinkled, but I'll never forget the role she played in my life." Dyckerson stated in a recent interview for Jailbait Magazine. Neither will we, Mighty Dyckerson. Neither will we.

Mrs. Longest (today)


Lord, Why Couldn't It Have Been Carrot Top??!

I first met George Carlin in the early 70s. He was headlining at the Belch 'N Giggle in Trenton, and I was the opening act. I was backstage rehearsing my act when George came up to me in a panic.

"Dyckerson, you gotta help me," he pleaded as he took a hit on his bong.

"Wassup, dude?" I asked.

"I've got no material, and I'm on in five minutes," he said. "Can you lend me a few of your jokes?"

I was about to tell him to get lost, when all the sudden a stage light came crashing down and landed on my big toe.


Just that second, a well endowed waitress walked by. I turned and shouted, "TITS!!!!"

George's face lit up like a Kwanzaa bush. "That's perfect! Thanks!!"

The rest, as they say, is history. George went on to do quite well for himself, yet he never gave me any credit. But I'm not bitter. You see, a few years ago, we ran into each other at an orgy at Tim Russert's place. George pulled me aside and gave me a piece of advice that would change my life forever.

"Dyck," he said. "You need to give up the stand-up comedy. The real future is in blogging."

"Blogging?" I asked skeptically.

"You heard me, clown. Blogging."

"But if blogs are so great, how come you don't have one?" I asked.

George took a swig of his boilermaker and answered simply, "Can't type."

So here I am, the host and star of The Mighty Blog with Mighty Dyckerson. And now that Carlin's cranky old ass is gone, I'm a shoe-in for next year's Shania Twain Comedy Award. Take that, gramps!!!

R.I.P., old buddy.


Let's Beat the Press

Ask many anything you want to know about NBC's Tim Russert. Did you know he was from Buffalo? Did you know he was Irish Catholic? Did you know his dad drove a trash truck? Did you know his wife was a writer for Vanity Fair? Did you know he had a son named Luke who goes to Boston University? Did you know he used to be a lawyer before NBC hired him to moderate Press the Meat? Did you know he was in charge of the Washington Bureau and Vice President of NBC News? Did you know he was a tough but fair interviewer? Did you know he always did his homework?

If you've tuned in to a news broadcast anytime since Friday afternoon at 3:30pm, surely you would have known all of this as well. That's when the holy saint of teevee journalism literally dropped dead of myocardiothrombosinary arterioinfarctinosis. Ever since then, the news coverage has been nonstop. Jesus H. Christ, you'd think the Pope died!

It was Tom Brokaw who broke the news on Friday, weeping like a little school girl in an obvious attempt to gain ratings. What the fuck was he doing there anyway? Didn't that idiot retire like four years ago? Did he sneak out of the old anchors' home and wander into the studio?? They really need to put locks on those doors. But I digest.

Soon CNN and Fox News jumped on the bandwagon and began their own respective Tim Russert love fests, showing the same photos and running the same clips over and over and over and over again. Never has it been more apparent how in love these twits are with themselves. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure Tim was a nice guy, but COME ON!!! Nice people croak EVERY FUCKING DAY!!!

Today I turned on MSNBC thinking the Russert weep-a-thon would be over. I was hoping to catch one of them "Lockup" shows. You know, the ones about the maximum security prisons where the inmates throw their own feces at one another til the guards have to extract them with a cattle prod? God damn, I do love those shows! But NOOOO, not today! I tuned in to find some half-wit numb nut who probably NEVER EVEN MET Tim Russert talking about what a wonderful guy he was.

Why don't we just make Monday a national holiday? Will that make these fucking news puppets happy? Or do we need to erect a statue? Perhaps a Tim Russert stamp or a commemorative coin? Is a non-President eligible for Mount Rushmore? If not, maybe we need to make an exception.

Just once I'd like to hear one of these air heads say something negative about the guy. Something like, Russert once bitch slapped an intern for fucking up his lunch order...or, Russert once drowned a sack of kittens for no apparent reason...or, Russert once stripped naked, pranced around the studio and waved his junk in front of Condoleeza Rice. Now that's what I call must-see TV!

But of course, that will never happen. That's because behind all the fake sympathy and tears, those ass clowns are secretly salivating at the chance to move up the corporate ladder. They're putting on their game faces in hopes that the exec's on the top floor take notice and anoint them as Russert's successor. Well good luck with that. I worked in TV for a long fucking time, and if I know management, they'll take Tim's million dollar salary, divide it up amongst themselves, and fill the Press the Meat moderator chair with an intern working for $8.50 an hour.


Heeerrreee's Foreclosure!!!

I think we all know the economy is in the shitter, but what does it say about the state of the world when our top celebrities are going homeless?? I'm talking, of course, about that beloved old bag of gas known as Ed McMahon. Yep, apparently the old bastard is so far behind on his mortgage payments that his Beverly Hills mansion is on the brink of foreclosure.

So how did the folks at Countrywide break the news to him, you ask? Well, it seems they sent old Clydesdale breath a brown envelope with his picture on the front. The envelope contained a letter stating that he MAY HAVE ALREADY LOST his five million dollar house! Sounds like that second banana's gonna have to SPLIT! Ain't that a SIDE KICK in the pants?? HEY-OOH!!!! I guess Ed will be living out his remaining days camped out on FUNK & WAGNALL'S PORCH!! Hey Ed, do you think I give a damn?? If you answered no, then YOU ARE CORRECT SIR! HO HO HO HO!!!

But seriously folks, how does a thing like this happen? Didn't the drunk old fool save any of the money he earned by SITTING ON A COUCH for 25 years??

Ed's defense: He hasn't been able to work the last two years because he broke his neck. Excuse me??! YOU'RE 85 FUCKING YEARS OLD!! Did you not think that you would someday be too old and feeble to work?? Or did you just plan on DROPPING DEAD on the set of Star Search??*

Perhaps I'm being a bit too harsh. Perhaps being a top celebrity is harder than it looks. Perhaps Ed's misfortune is really a thinly veiled cry for help.

That's why I am pleased to announce Mighty Dyckerson's Save the Stars Foundation. So long, Salvation Army! Fuck off, Unicef!! Save the Stars is the hot new charity that's sweeping the nation!!

Here's how it works: You send me a big fat check, and I'll send you a picture of a washed up celebrity for you to sponsor. For just pennies a day, your star will be fed, clothed, and sheltered in a high quality drug rehab facility. You will receive monthly progress reports as well as personalized letters from your star's agent. In time, your star will gradually re-enter show biz by doing commercials for boner pills and making guest appearances on third-rate reality shows. You will be overwhelmed with pride. And I will be overwhelmed by your big fat check. So please make a generous donation...and hurry the fuck up. My own mortgage payment is due next week.

* Yes, I know Star Search was canceled like 20 years ago. It's called comedic license, jackass.


Happy Birthday, Mighty Blog!

Yes, that's right! The Mighty Blog turns THREE YEARS YOUNG today! Can you believe how time flies??! Seems like only yesterday that I took the blogging world by storm, literally changing the Internets forever! To think I started out with just five readers...and today, I have nearly ONE-AND-A-HALF TIMES that many!!!

Now before I continue, I have let you down. I have been terribly neglectful of my blogging responsibilities, and I am deeply ashamed. These are difficult times we live in, and I know all of you count on my guidance to help steer you down the path of life. I haven't been there, and for that I am sorry.

Truth is, I was just about ready to give up on blogging. In the last three years, I've addressed just about every topic of importance: poop, poon, piss, boobs, twats, farts, fucking, fellatio, pricks, spics, coons, dykes, chinks, dianetics, diabetics, diarrhea, and the mortgage meltdown. You name it, I've covered it. There just didn't seem like any point in continuing.

But then, just about the time I stopped blogging, all Hell broke loose.

Three weeks ago, gas was a paltry $3.15 per gallon. Now it has shot up to nearly THIRTY DOLLARS PER OUNCE. A mere coincidence?? I think not! You and I know damn well that if I had been here, heads would have rolled. The Mighty Blog is read by some of the most powerful figures in Washington, many of whom are nearing the end of their sentences. And when they get out of the clink, those greedy oil company CEOs better WATCH THE FUCK OUT!!!

Also while I was gone, there was a big earthquake in China. Nearly ten billion killed so far, and still counting. Sad thing is, nobody can identify the bodies. Turns out even they can't tell themselves apart! Now I'm not saying my absence caused the tectonic plates to shift, but who knows? Perhaps if all those slant-eyed bastards had been sitting quietly in their homes and reading my blog instead of out discovering the automobile and using up all our fuel, God would not have punished them.

Then Ted Kennedy got himself a tumor in his noggin. Ask me if I care. It's not that I'm an insensitive jerk. I just have a hard time feeling sorry for a boozer who lives in a bubble and gets off free after killing some chick while driving drunk and then leaving the scene of the accident. But that's beside the point. Maybe if old Teddy had been reading my blog instead of tossing back martinis, his head would have been filled with knowledge instead of cancer.

And finally, just the other day, Harvey Korman croaked. Harvey was definitely one of the top three most talented members of the Carol Burnett Show cast. (That's not counting Jim Conrad, who wasn't made an official cast member until three years after the show was cancelled.) I think I speak for everyone when I say, why couldn't it have been Lyle Waggoner??! That no-talent pretty boy shitbag could have kicked the bucket 20 years ago and it would have been no great loss. But what does my lack of posts have to do with Harvey's passing? Elementary. Mr. Korman was obviously a fan of my blog, as any man with an appreciation for cerebral humor would be. So when I stopped blogging, Harvey simply lost the will to live.

It was at that moment that I realized how much the world needs Dyckerson. If I don't return, there's no telling what kind of tragedy will happen next...

So here's to another three years! Long Live The Mighty Blog!!!