7/27/2008

Gas Crisis Solved!


I'm all about conserving our natural resources, folks. Really I am. But if I get stuck behind any more of these BICYCLE or SCOOTER RIDING DIPSHITS on my way to work, they're going in a fucking ditch. Look, it's not my fault this city doesn't have any damn bike paths or scooter lanes. So if you insist on riding your stupid toys to work every day, GET ON THE FUCKING SIDEWALK WHERE YOU BELONG. You people don't impress me. The first hint of bad weather, and you'll be back in your LAND CRUSHERS and URBAN ASSAULT VEHICLES gabbing away on your cell phones and pretending to listen to NPR.

America needs a long lasting solution to the gas crisis, and America needs it NOW. I don't see Balack Osama or John IWalkWithaMcCane doing anything about it, so I have taken matters into my own hands. Here are just a few of my gas saving initiatives:

1. Eliminate the United States Postal Service. Get those gas guzzling delivery trucks and jeeps OFF THE ROADS and INTO THE SCRAP HEAP. Pay your fucking bills online, grandpa. You wanna order a blow-up doll or a dildo? Find out what Brown can do for you. Hell, the only mail I get anymore are BOGUS CREDIT CARD OFFERS, WORTHLESS COUPONS FOR CARPET CLEANING SERVICE, and DEATH THREATS FROM ANGRY READERS. And don't worry about lost jobs. They can find plenty of work for the next 20 years DIGGING UP UNSIGHTLY MAILBOXES and TEARING DOWN POST OFFICES.

2. Get rid of school buses. Here's another nuisance that slows my commute every day. Every fucking morning, I get stuck behind the same fucking cheese wagon that has to stop EVERY 50 FEET to pick up another SNOT NOSED BRAT. The school is only a couple of miles away - would it kill these little bastards to WALK their fat asses to school??! Yeah, I know it's a busy street. It's called Survival of the Fittest. Look into it.

3. Fuck NASCAR. It's not a sport anyway. How much fuel do these fucking rednecks waste DRIVING IN A CIRCLE for hours on end? Let them run or ride bicycles. I know, there's no fun in that. The fans want to see lots of es-plosions and such. No problem. Give each spectator a HAND GRENADE when they enter the gate. They can toss it on the track whenever they desire. Now THAT'S a sport I'd pay to see!

4. Outlaw churches. Yeah, you heard me. You don't need to get up early on Sunday mornings and drive to a special building to worship. Thanks to TV and the Internets, now it's just as easy to be a hypocrite in the COMFORT OF YOUR OWN HOME. Just tune in to that Benny Hinn guy for a half hour every week. I love it when he smacks people on the forehead until they fall to the ground. If that isn't religion, I don't know what is.

5. Eliminate red lights. How much time do you waste every week idling at intersections? Hell, half the time there isn't even any traffic coming in the other direction! Now I'm not saying we get rid of traffic lights altogether. I'm just saying make them PERMANENTLY GREEN in all directions. Yes, I suspect traffic fatalities will skyrocket in the beginning, but this will only be temporary. Eventually enough people will be killed that the roads will be pretty empty anyway.

This is just the beginning. I would also like to BOMB THE CHINESE BACK TO THE STONE AGE, seeing as their increased demand for gas is contributing to the higher prices around the globe. But I suppose that will have to wait til after the Summer Olympics...otherwise it could be a real P.R. blunder for the United States.

And the best part of all, none of these actions inconvenience me in any way. And in the end, that's all that really matters.


7/19/2008

Another Tasteless Post

Let me ask you dames a question. What the fuck is the deal with this wine tasting nonsense? Seems like every damn weekend, there's a fucking wine tasting event somewhere around here. I wouldn't even know about the wine tasting if I hadn't gone out with a chick that was into it. "Oooh, look," she would say. "There's a wine tasting this weekend! Let's go to the wine tasting and taste some wine!!" I chopped her into pieces with an ax and buried her in a shallow grave in my back yard. Actually, that's not true. I buried her in Ms. Babble's back yard. Mine is already full.

I had almost forgotten about the wine tasting until the other day at work. We were standing around the water heater talking about our weekend plans, and this bitch whom I hate decided to chime in: "Is anybody going to the wine tasting?? There's a wine tasting this Saturday! I'm going to taste some wine!!" She is now buried in Sassy Blondie's backyard. (I really need to work on my anger.)

I'm not sure why the wine tasting makes me so hostile. I've never been to one, but somehow I picture it as being a bunch of phony-ass, middle-aged skanks trying to act all sophisticated by sipping imported chardonnay and pretending they know something about it: "Ooh, try this one, Gladys! You can really taste the grapes!" Filthy whore. You wouldn't know a Merlot from a glass of Welch's. These are the same bitches who 20 years ago in college guzzled cheap beer in smoky bars, puked it up in back alleys, and pissed their pants on the way home. Now they're wrinkled old closet wino divorcees whose twats are infested with crabs. Fuck, I bet any one of them could outfart me any day of the week.

This has Oprah's handwriting all over it. Damn that fugly bitch and her brainwashed minions! Stupid housewife soccer mom yentas got nothing better to do than sit in front of the tube all day and celebrate their ovaries. Their own lives are meaningless, so they try to elevate themselves by posing as high-class broads. Well GUESS WHAT, BITCH. Reading Maya Angelou and guzzling cheap wine out of a Dixie cup does NOT make you classy! Damn you all, I say! DAMN YOU TO HELL!!! (Sorry, it's that anger thing again.)

Tell you what, ladies. I got something for you to taste right here. Hell, you can even gargle with it. It's creamy, filled with protein, and has an excellent bouquet. "Oooh, try this one, Marge! It's so tangy and smoooooth!"


Just remember, it doesn't count unless you swallow.



7/13/2008

Pain At The Rump

I have a bit of a personal problem, and that problem is thus: Recently my employer purchased new leather office chairs to replace our old cloth chairs. Much like Ms. Babble, the old chairs were worn, unsightly, and riddled with a variety of unidentified stains. Here is a reasonable facsimile of my old chair:


And here is a hot-linked stock photo of my new chair:


Right now you're probably thinking, "So Dyckerson, what's the problem?? I would kill for an office chair like that!"

Well it's kind of a long story. I'll give you the long version. You see, thanks to a certain Sassy Blonde who shall remain nameless, I have acquired an addiction to fiber. A few months ago while seducing Her Sassiness online, we somehow got on the topic of bowel movements. It seems that the lovely Sassy shits at least seven or eight times per day, whereas at the time I was only shitting about once a month.

"DYCKIEPOO!!!" she exclaimed. "You're going to kill yourself! You must have more fiber!!! Fiber is key!!!!!!"

I immediately put down my laptop, pulled up my pants, and ran to the store. I stocked up on every kind of fiber product you could imagine. Fiber cereal, fiber breakfast bars, fiber powder, chewable fiber tablets, fiber brownies, fiber ice cream, fiber Doritos, fiber Coke, and fiber aspirin. Needless to say, my fecal output has skyrocketed. I am now shitting three or four times per hour. PER HOUR, people!!!

I have also become far more flatulent.

To say that my farts stink would be an understatement. My farts are vile, offensive, and downright unsavory. Imagine the aroma of fresh turds...combined with the odor of boiling cabbage...combined with the stench of a rotting skunk carcass in the middle of a country road on a hot summer morn. My farts have been known to make grown men weep. My farts could wilt the flowers on wallpaper. My farts could knock a buzzard off a shitwagon. My farts could strip the chrome off a '57 Chevy. My farts could knock a grown buzzard off a '57 shitwagon covered in chrome wallpaper.

Therein lies the problem: My gas attacks often strike me on the job. The pressure usually starts building up after my mid-morning fiber boost. I usually try to hold it in for a while, but by early afternoon, the force becomes unstoppable. I have no choice but to unleash my noxious fumes into the office via my anal orifice.

Being made of a somewhat porous fabric, my old chair was significantly more...how shall I put this?...more absorbent. In the old days, I could release a fart, and my chair would dutifully soak up a good 50 or 60% of the sound and the odor. By the time my old chair was retired, I estimate that it contained at least 75 pounds of foul flatulent funk.

Contrast that with my new chair. Nowadays when I let loose, the leather upholstery forms an inpenetrable shield, thereby rejecting my gaseous emissions and deflecting them back into the atmosphere where they can be experienced by all. And when the vibrations from my ass cheeks ricochet off the chair, the sound level is amplified greatly. What used to be silent but deadly is now deafening and fatal.

I have already tried a number of strategies to deal with this unfortunate circumstance. I have tried various Renuzit and Febreeze-like products...but they only add to the nasal assault. I have tried creating a diversion to mask the sound, such as slamming a desk drawer or clearing my throat...but these tactics fail to address the stank issue. I have tried walking around the building and cropdusting...but the stench always seems to follow me back to my desk.

People, I need solutions, and I need them NOW. It is only a matter of time before I am caught and outed by an offended co-worker. So tell me, how do you hide your farts???


7/06/2008

Crappy Birthday, Dyckerson! (Part 2)

My dad usually gives me money for my birthday, which is fabulous. But he can't just stop at cash. He somehow feels the need to purchase at least one item, regardless of how crappy that item may be. I think he wants to appear as if put some time and effort into the process, when in reality, all I want is the cash. Previous birthday gifts include a stuffed dog, a yellow button-down "old man" sweater, and an illuminated turtle. With a track record like that, one might wonder how Father Dyckerson could ever manage to top himself. Well once you see this year's offering, your doubts will be put to rest.

So without further ado, here it is:



Right now you're probably asking yourself, "WHAT THE FUCK IS IT??!" Don't worry, I had the exact same response. It took me a while to figure it out, but upon examining the small print on the bottom of the box, I was able to ascertain that this was indeed a BILLY WITH WHEELBARROW GARDEN STATUE.

"Gee, dad. You shouldn't have," I said.

"I know, I know," he replied. "But nothing is too good for my son!"

"What exactly do I do with it?" I inquired.

"You put it on your patio or your front porch and fill it with flowers so everybody can see it," he explained.

Where everybody can see it??! Great. I just hope nobody steals it from 4000 Pilots Lane in Richmond, VA, where it will be on be on display while I am at work Monday through Friday from 8am to 5pm.

I kid, I kid. I could never get rid of such a charming and delightful gift...especially since my dad will be expecting to see it whenever he comes over. Fortunately for me, that isn't too often. Of course, he didn't give me any dirt or flowers to go with in Billy's wheelbarrow, so now I am forced to go out and purchase these items with my hard-earned birthday money.

Now I don't know about you, but little Billy seems to be missing something. The t-shirt and overalls just aren't going to impress the ladies. If only he had the right accessory to complement his ensemble...




There, now we're talking! The HOA will just LOVE seeing this shit in my front yard! My brotha be stylin', yo! This mack daddy is one badass muthafucka! Billy is a playa - Hell, I've already caught him checking out the bird bath in the neighbor's yard. He gotta get him some of that!!


Why couldn't I have been born on February 29th? Then I'd only have to endure this shit once every four years.