In the last installment of R.I.P., DyckMobile, our hero had just smashed his prized 2002 Jeep Wrangler Sport Edition into a piece-of-shit Mustang through no fault of his own. Despite severe, life-threatening injury, he somehow managed to escape the maze of twisted metal and crawl to safety. What happened to Mighty Dyckerson next? Find out now, in part deux of R.I.P., DyckMobile.....
By this point, a swarm of gawkers and yentas had converged at the scene of the accident. They stood in a semicircle and pointed at the wreckage, totally ignoring the victim (namely ME) standing ten feet away. My right arm, which at first had been numb and tingley, now started to hurt like a sumbitch. It didn't appear broken, but something was definitely wrong.
Moments later, the cops showed up and immediately began passing out Krispy Kremes to the gawkers and posing for photos in front of the mangled vehicles. "This one's going in my Christmas newsletter," I distinctly heard one of them say.
Eventually one of the pigs headed in my direction with a small pad. "Were you in one of the vehicles?" he asked.
"No, I always stand at intersections, drenched in shock-induced sweat and holding my disfigured right arm while gasping with pain," I replied.
He proceeded to interrogate me. He just wanted basic information - name, address, social security number, next of kin, was I an organ donor, which funeral home would I like to be taken to, etc. Then he went to look for the other driver. Unfortunately for him, he was still stuck inside his piece of shit Mustang. This was going to be an open and shut case - it was my word against...nobody's!!! He ended up with a ticket for violating section 3.2 of the Virginia traffic code: Failure to yield right-of-way to the DyckMobile. Punishable by a $500,000 fine and 10 years in maximum security prison.
Next, the rescue squad showed up and proceeded to back the whambulance over my left foot. The 16-year-old driver dismounted the cab, scratched his head, and mouthed the words "My bad" as I hopped up and down on my good foot.
A rescue worker climbed out of the back of the whambulance carrying a first aid kit. A short, squatty woman, I immediately pegged her as a lezbo even in my weakened state. She took my vitals: rapid heartbeat, shallow breathing, flaccid penis. She then noticed my right arm.
"Geez, dude," she remarked. "Did you know you had a dislocated elbow?"
A dislocated elbow? How the fuck did that happen?
"Could be a fracture too," she added. "Does it hurt when I do this?"
The fucking bitch then proceeded to grab my right arm and jerk it away from my body. A streak of pain shot up my arm and pierced my very soul.
"OOOUUUUCCCCHHHH GODDAMMIT YOU MOTHERFUCKING CARPET MUNCHING DYKE," I screamed.
She called for a couple of reinforcements, who then strapped me to a board and threw me in the back of the whambulance. I was going to the hospital.
If you've never ridden in a whambulance, let me give you a little piece of advice. YOU'RE BETTER OFF DRIVING YOURSELF. That's because the idiots who make those things apparently fail to equip them with SHOCK ABSORBERS. If you ever want to experience the unGodliest pain known to man, you can either (1) read Ms. Babble's blog, or (2) ride in the back of a whambulance with a dislocated elbow on a highway filled with pot holes while a bull dyke shoves an I.V. needle in your arm.
"Are you allergic to anything?" she asked.
"Yeah, lesbians," I answered. "They make me break out in a rash on my wang."
Also on the ride, I was fitted with an oxygen tube, despite the fact that I was breathing normally at this point. Then came the obligatory neck brace, despite the fact that I had been moving my neck freely for the last 20 minutes. I would be staring at ceilings for the next eight hours.
Finally, we arrived at the E.R. What happened next was so horrible, so unbelievably awful, you will not believe your eyes. And you'll find out what that was..........on the next installment of The Mighty Blog!!!