The Mighty Blog

De Plane, De Plane!

2009-01-19T21:47:00.001-05:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I have done it again! No, I didn't take another dump behind an area high school. I just scored the interview that everybody has been wanting to get: Captain Chesley Q. Sullenberger, the U.S. Airways pilot who successfully landed an airplane on the Hudson River after both engines got goosed. So take that, CNN! Here's the official transcript:

Dyck: First of all, thank you for taking time to meet with me today.
Sully: No problemo, homes.
Dyck: I think the first question on everybody's mind is your first name. Chesley. What's the deal with that?
Sully: Look, I can't help it if my parents were fags. Why do you think I make people call me Sully?
Dyck: Fair enough. So tell us the events leaving up to that harrowing flight last Thursday.
Sully: Well, it was a day like any other day. I got up, fixed myself a scotch and soda, downed a couple of Pop Tarts, and headed out. The wife was bitching about how cold it was, so I stopped by Goodwill and got an awesome deal on a used Snuggie.
Dyck: Perhaps we could skip ahead to the flight itself...
Sully: Oh yeah. Well everything was fine at first. We took off from LaGuardia and started making our ascent. I remember seeing a flock of geese headed straight for us...and the next thing I know, KABLAM!! Two engines done blowed up!
Dyck: That must have been horrifying.
Sully: Not really at first. See, I thought Airbuses had like six or seven engines. Then my co-pilot reminded me there were only two. Boy, was my face red!
Dyck: Who is your co-pilot?
Sully: God. Ha, ha! Just kidding! That's an old pilot's joke. Actually his name is Striker. Ted Striker.
Dyck: So what happened next?
Sully: I knew we couldn't make it back to the airport. We were going to try to land in Central Park, but we couldn't because of all the fucking trees. We finally settled on the Hudson.
Dyck: Is that when you told the passengers to brace for impact?
Sully: Heh. Not exactly. What I actually said was, Put your heads between your legs and kiss your asses goodbye!!!
Dyck: That wasn't very encouraging.
Sully: Hey, have you ever tried landing a billion ton metal tube on a river filled with shit and cadavers??!
Dyck: OK, OK. I guess that's when your years of training really kicked in.
Sully: Umm, yeah. About the training thing. Seems the media kinda screwed that up. This is only my second week of flying. Before that I was a bartender. I think you got me confused with Captain Wesley Baconberger from Queens. Happens all the time. Now that guy's quite a pilot!
Dyck: Wow. So in spite of your lack of experience, you were able to pull off a water landing with no fatalities??
Sully: Well, I do have some experience. I've got Wings of War and Flight Academy on my XBox. The graphics are really amazing.
Dyck: I see. So the plane has stopped, and you're floating in the water. What next?
Sully: At that point, my survival instincts kicked in. I knew we only had a short time before the plane would sink, so I wanted to get rid of as much weight as possible. Rosie O'Donnell happened to be sitting in first class, so I tossed her overboard. The plane immediately rose several feet. Then there was a crippled kid in a wheelchair blocking the emergency exit, so I threw him overboard as well.
Dyck: How awful!!
Sully: Tell me about it. One of that kid's wheels rolled over my left foot. Very painful. Anyway, a boat showed up right after that, so I pushed the other passengers out of the way and climbed on board.
Dyck: You mean you didn't stay and help the passengers??
Sully: Well DUH! It was fucking freezing out there!! Besides, that's the stewardess' job. I think. Hell, I don't know.
Dyck: So what's next for you?
Sully: I'm doing two segments on Rachel Ray tomorrow. We're making Chesley Sullen Burgers. After that, I need to talk to my attorney about getting a divorce.
Dyck: A divorce? I didn't know your marriage was in trouble.
Sully: It's not...but now that I'm a hero, I can get all the poon I want! No sense in being tied down, if you know what I mean.
Dyck: Well good luck with that. And thanks for being here on The Mighty Blog.
Sully: Anytime. Peace out, bitches!!

A Few Observations

2008-12-19T23:12:00.009-05:00

Just because I haven't been blogging lately, doesn't mean I don't have shit to talk about. The wheels in Dyckerson's brain never stop turning, so I have amassed quite a backlog of miscellaneous thoughts and observations. Here are but a few:

- 1 -

There are no skinny Bridgets. Seriously, have you ever met a Bridget who wasn't a chunky monkey? I've known three or four in my lifetime, and they have all been fat fucks. Now I know what you're thinking. Hey Dyck, what about actress Bridget Bardot? OK, maybe when she was in her prime. But check this shit out:

That photo is pretty unbelievable, isn't it? I had my doubts too, but I found it on the Internets, so it must be real. No Bridget can escape the fat curse.

- 2 -

I frighten people. A few weeks ago, I was in need of some croutons and Lemon Pledge, so I went to the local grocer to do some shopping. I parked the Dyckmobile II in a handicapped spot* and proceeded to make my way across the parking lot and into the store. As I approached the door, out walked a mother carrying a couple of bags. At her side was a young child who looked to be around 4 or 5 years old. She glanced up at me, and without missing a beat, she grabbed the kid's arm and yanked him toward her. An overprotective parent, perhaps? I think not...because just last week the EXACT SAME THING happened again. Same setting, different woman and kid. And it ain't just the broads. The other day I was walking in the county park, minding my own business and enjoying nature's beauty. I was approaching this kid who was standing on the edge of the sidewalk and taunting a goose. Dad was standing about 10 feet away admiring the result of his sperm. He must have seen me coming, because I distinctly heard him say,"Come here, Corey! Come here!"

Now I assure you, I look and dress relatively normal. I have no unsightly growths on my person, nor am I disfigured in any way. Yet something about me makes people want to grab their children. What the fuck??! When I was a kid, my parents let me drink household cleaners and play in construction sites. Hell, once when I was six, I got a hold of my dad's keys and drove his Gremlin straight into the ditch. He thought it was hysterical. So what's the deal with all these uptight parents? I blame the media.

- 3 -

I'm a musical genius. Pick any love song that contains the word "heart" in the title. Now replace the word "heart" with the word "fart" and get ready for endless hilarity!!!

Unbreak My Fart - Toni Braxton
Achy Breaky Fart - Billy Ray Cyrus
The Fart Of The Matter - Don Henley
Fart To Fart - Chris Brown
My Fart Will Go On - Celine Dion
Fart Attack - NLT
Put A Little Love In Your Fart - Dolly Parton
Fart Full Of Soul - Chris Isaak
The Last Unbroken Fart - Patti Labelle
Broken Fart - Motion City Soundtrack
Sin In My Fart - Siouxsee And The Banshees
Pop! Goes My Fart - Hugh Grant
Fart Of Glass - Blondie
Fragile Fart - Westlife
Cold Hard Fart - Bon Jovi
You'll Be In My Fart - Usher
Here Is My Fart - Lionel Richie
Taking Back My Fart - Cher
Love's Got A Hold On My Fart - Steps
Where Is Your Fart - Kelly Clarkson
Listen To Your Fart - Roxette
One Determined Fart - Paulini
Hungry Fart - Bruce Springsteen
Straight From The Fart - Bryan Adams
Piece Of My Fart - Janice Joplin
Listen To Her Fart - Tom Petty & The Fartbreakers
My Fart Has A Mind Of Its Own - Connie Francis
Fartache Tonight - The Eagles
What Do I Do With My Fart? - The Eagles
Owner Of A Lonely Fart - Oasis
Sheer Fart Attack - Queen
Thunder In My Fart - Leo Sayer

Make up your own! Play along at your office Christmas party!!

- 4 -

Alan Alda has lost his fucking mind. I was recently on iTunes looking for a podcast that I could listen to while I walk in the park and frighten people. I've almost been a big fan of M*A*S*H, so I was intrigued by an audio podcast featuring the actor speaking to a group at a book signing. Great, I thought. He'll probably tell stories about all the wacky behind-the-scenes hijinks that took place on the M*A*S*H set! Well I thought wrong. Apparently Hawkeye had a near-death experience a few years ago and consequently gave up acting in favor of philosophy. So I listened for 45 minutes while he rambled on and on about what "now" is. "What is now?" asked Hawkeye. "Now only lasts for a few seconds. Then it's gone, and that now is in the past. Then there's a new now." I'm paraphrasing, but you get the idea. And he said this with all the passion and enthusiasm he could muster.

At last, he opened up the floor to questions. Finally, I thought. Now we'll get some good M*A*S*H questions. No such luck. The first question: "How has your near-death experience affected your perception of 'now'?" Similar questions followed, and Alda ate them up like a bag of pork rinds. Eventually someone had the balls to ask a question about M*A*S*H, but by this time I was so groggy, I didn't even hear it. However, I can tell you that Hawkeye likes to refer to the series not as M*A*S*H, but as "The M*A*S*H Show."

Too bad that near-death experience wasn't a DEATH EXPERIENCE. Am I right people??!!

That's all I got for now. On the next Mighty Blog: My experience as a mall Santa!

* My busted arm is 98% healed, and I don't have a handicapped decal, but I'm not taking any chances.

I Have Returned.

2008-12-17T22:32:00.004-05:00

Christmas cums early this year, ladies and germs...for I, the Mightiest of Dyckersons, have returned to The Mighty Blog!!! Let us rejoice and give thanks!!!

I know I've been gone for a while. I missed Thanksgiving. I missed Halloween (the Haunted Poon post was a rerun from last year, in case you idiots didn't notice). Fuck, I even missed the election of America's first Afro-American president, Balack Osama!

The Internets have been buzzing about rumors concerning my absence. Some of you thought I had passed away. Others assumed I was incarcerated. A few of you even thought I had actually gotten a social life and perhaps acquired poon. Well you are all wrong! More wrong, in fact, than Ms. Babble smoking crack during her latest pregnancy, which resulted in her giving birth to a baby with Down's Syndrome.

The truth is, I was the victim of a cruel prank played upon me by a deranged journalist. About two months ago, I scheduled a press conference to announce the release of my new fragrance, Simply Dyck (makes a great stocking stuffer). Anyway, I was standing at the podium addressing a sea of eager reporters, when out of nowhere I was hit upside the head by a fresh turd. It seems old Dyckerson isn't too popular in the Middle East (something to do with a joke I made about a camel and lonely Shiite)...so apparently a reporter from that region somehow sneaked past security and assaulted me with the only weapon he had available - his own feces. I was lucky to escape with my life, but the attack left me so traumatized, that it has taken me weeks to gather up the courage to write about it.

Now before I officially return to blogging, there are a few housekeeping matters that need attention. First, I have removed The Chat Hole from the sidebar. My blog has been plagued with pop-ups for quite some time. I suspect it may have been coming from the third-party chat box code. So if any of you fuckers still get pop-ups, notify Dyckerson post haste.

Second, I removed several deadbeat bloggers from The Mighty Blog Network. This leaves several openings for new top-quality blogs that meet my lofty standards of excellence. So if you wish to nominate such a blog, please feel free to do so. But remember, Dyckerson reserves the right to reject or remove any blog from The Mighty Blog Network without notice.

And finally, it's the holidays!! That means I have replaced the seizure-inducing flashing white lights in the background with puke-inducing colored lights! Now go make a joyful noise...and spread the word: DYCKERSON IS BACK!

The Legend of the Haunted Poon

2008-10-23T20:30:00.000-04:00

In celebration of All Hallow's Eve, I shall present to you a tale so creepy, so eerie, so unspeakably terrifying, it's guaranteed to send chills up and down your sphinctor. And the spookiest part of all: It's loosely based on a true story. I strongly urge those of you with heart conditions to skip this post for your own protection.

Our story begins in the late 20th century in the heart of Texas, where lived a fair maiden named Sassilla Blondowski who was coming of age. Young Sassilla was horny and eager to be deflowered. She searched far and wide for a suitable mate with no success. Then fate stepped in and along came a strapping, well endowed lad named Dwight E. Mickerson. Sassilla was in love. A brief courtship ensued, and on a bright and sunny October day, Sassilla decided to take Dwight E. into her daddy's barn and show him her pumpkins. Dwight E. became instantly engorged, and soon the two of them were rolling around in the hayloft. Twenty seconds later, Mickerson was on the verge of climaxing when in walked Sassilla's father. In a fit of rage, the elder Blondowski grabbed a machette from a nearby hook and sliced off Mickerson's member at the base, leaving the remainder of his ample shaft lodged deep inside Sassilla's nether regions. Sassilla screamed in horror as the mortally wounded Mickerson bled to death before her very eyes.

Now here's where the really frightening part comes in. According to the legend, every month on the anniversary of Mickerson's death, Sassilla gets really cranky and bleeds uncontrollably from her poon for several days. Some say it's just PMS, and perhaps they're right. But maybe, just maybe, it's the ghost of Mickerson returning from the grave to haunt his one true love...forever staining her underpants with the memory of unfulfilled love.

Whatever the case may be, it's wise to avoid Ms. Blondowski and her poon this time of the month.

The Straight Talk Express Stops Here

2008-10-09T20:50:00.006-04:00

Snubbed once again.

The second presidential debate was held Tuesday night, and was I invited to participate? NOOOO!!! Mighty Dyckerson, unofficial turd-party candidate for the highest office in the land, demands equal time!!! And since the mainstream media won't give it to me, I shall utilize the power of The Mighty Blog to get my message to the people. I'm going to answer the very same questions posed by that fucking fossil Tom Brokewind right now, and we'll just see who the best candidate is!

Q: With the economy on the downturn and retired and older citizens and workers losing their incomes, what's the fastest, most positive solution to bail these people out of the economic ruin?

A: The geezers who can't support themselves need to either (A) get a job, or (B) commit suicide. I know that sounds harsh, my friends, but these are desperate times we live in. And as the saying goes, desparate times call for killing old people.

Q: Obviously the powers of the treasury secretary have been greatly expanded. The most powerful officer in the cabinet now, Hank Paulson, says he won't stay on. Who do you have in mind to appoint to that very important post?

A: I'm going to go with Lakeesha Watkins, the cashier at my nearby Taco Bell drive-thru. Let me tell you why. Last night I had a hankerin' for a Big Beefy Burrito Supreme, so I hopped in my beautiful golden parachute-colored Jeep Wrangler DyckMobile and made a run for the border. Lakeesha was on duty and promptly filled my order. I reached for my wallet to pay for my purchase, but it was dark out, so I couldn't see well. Turns out I accidentally handed her a one dollar bill instead of a five dollar bill. She counted the money, then looked at me and said, "Mister, you owe me four bucks." I already had my burrito, so I just sped off into the night. But friends, I think you'll agree that this is the kind of honesty, integrity, and counting skill that we need in Washington.

Q: Through this economic crisis, most of the people that I know have had a difficult time. And through this bailout package, I was wondering what it is that's going to actually help those people out.

A: First of all, we shouldn't be calling it a "bailout" package. It's more of an investment package...only we won't be getting the money back. I should also remind everyone that I canceled my appearance on Regis last week so I could rush to Washington to help clean up this mess. Unfortunately, I missed my flight and ended up having unprotected intercourse with a filthy whore in the back seat of a Ford Maverick. And that's just what this country needs: A Maverick.

Q: Are you saying that the American economy is going to get much worse before it gets better and they ought to be prepared for that?

A: Well, the Boy Scout motto is "Be Prepared," so I'm certainly not going to argue with that. I don't know what the Girl Scout motto is, but godammit, they sure make some tasty cookies. Am I right people??!

Q: Health policies, energy policies, and entitlement reform, what are going to be your priorities in what order? Which of those will be your highest priority your first year in office and which will follow in sequence?

A: Well I don't know what the hell entitlement reform is. I think you made it up. So I'm scratching that one off the list. That leaves energy as my top priority, andI believe solar power is the answer...but we as a nation must put an end to our dependency on faraway stars to provide it. Our sun is a mean, angry bitch, and she could turn on us at any time. We must start looking for solar energy right here at home...so as president, I will loosen restrictions on offshore drilling for sunlight.

Q: Since World War II, we have never been asked to sacrifice anything to help our country, except the blood of our heroic men and women. As president, what sacrifices will you ask every American to make to help restore the American dream and to get out of the economic morass that we're now in?

A: World War II? How old are you, 80?? That's ancient history! Look, my friends. We're Americans. We don't make sacrifices...ok, except for that thing about the soldiers' blood. The key is to put it off til the next generation. After all, what good are kids if we can't burden them with the consequences of our mistakes after we're dead and gone??

Q: Would you give Congress a date certain to reform Social Security and Medicare within two years after you take office?

A: No, because I am doing away with both programs. Instead, every senior citizen above the age of 65 shall be required to appear as a contestant on Deal or No Deal. Whatever they win, that's what they have to live off of for the rest of their pathetic, miserable lives.

And 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!!!

Bail Me Out!

2008-10-01T22:38:00.005-04:00

My friends, I don't need to tell you that America is in a financial crisis. Our economy is on the verge of total collapse...and no where is that more apparent than right here at Dyckerson Enterprises Worldwide, home of The Mighty Blog. That's because in addition to producing the fastest-growing blog on the innerwebs, Dyckerson Enterprises also happens to own Semen Brothers, the 47th largest sperm bank on the entire eastern seaboard.

The trouble began about a month ago when I, Mighty Dyckerson, lost function of my right hand in an horrific automobile accident. Because of this injury, my ability to produce splooge was greatly compromised, preventing me from making my daily deposits at the sperm bank. When news of this got out, investors on Wad Street panicked and released their loads of Semen. Stock prices immediately squirted downward.

As if things weren't bad enough, last night the giant freezer that contained all of the Semen deposits suddenly failed, causing hundreds of gallons of spunk to thaw. Experts estimate over 700 billion little swimmers were lost in the disaster.

Now there are people out there who claim to have predicted this. They said it was only a matter of time before the cum bubble would burst, and perhaps they were right. But now is not the time to point fingers (or anything else). The liquified jizm is leaking from the freezer and pouring out all over the floors. Semen Brothers needs to be bailed out - literally! So bring your mops, buckets, sponges, squeegees, and Shop-Vacs down to our headquarters and help clean up this Godawful mess. And hurry the fuck up - thousands of infertile Myrtles and lezbo couples are counting on you!!!

Brace Yourselves...For Poon!

2008-09-27T14:17:00.003-04:00

I've been making fun of the cripples my whole life. I remember once a long time ago , Mother Dyckerson took me to the mall to go shopping. I pointed to an old man in a wheelchair and said, "Look mommy, there's a cripple!"

"That's not polite, Dyckie," my mother said. "See the uniform he's wearing? That man is a veteran. He was a soldier."

"Oh. Sorry," I replied sheepishly.

"That's OK. He obviously wasn't a very good one!" she said. We both laughed hysterically and gave each other a high five.

Those were good times. But who would have thought that nearly two years later, I myself would be severely handicapped?? While it is true that I didn't technically fight in any wars, I do live in Virginia...and if you've been watching any of the nonstop election coverage, you would know that Virginia is a battleground state. And if you've been reading my award-winning Mighty Blog recently, you would know that I literally SHATTERED my right arm* in an HORRENDOUS AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT while en route to the children's hospital to read to the blind.**

So here I am, on week 4 of wearing this ridiculous brace contraption on my limb. It's bulky, it's cumbersome, and it itches like a sumbitch. But by far the worst thing is the smell - my God, the SMELL!!! I haven't thoroughly cleansed my right arm in over a month. That's nearly TWICE AS LONG as I normally go between arm cleansings. And if you think that's bad, you should take a good whiff of my armpits! Because of my DEBILITATING INJURY, my right arm stays close to my side at all times, allowing LITTLE TO NO VENTILATION to reach my right pit. And because I cannot fully raise and extend my right arm, I have no way to cleanse my left pit. The result: both of my pits smell like ASS!!!

However, being crippled is not without its advantages. Everywhere I go, people offer to help me: "Here, let me get the door for you," or "Here, let me carry that package for you," or "Here, let me stroke your genitals for you." Now many cripples would be offended by these offers of goodwill. They want to be seen as normal, independent adults capable of taking care of themselves. Well FUCK THAT. If people want to do stuff for me, I let 'em!! I haven't had to open a door or make my own coffee at work since the accident!

And then there's the poon!!! Holy shit, this arm brace is a POON MAGNET!! Gorgeous women naturally flock to me anyway...but now that I'm wearing this orthopedic appliance, I practically have to beat 'em off with a stick!! They run up to me in bars all the time and ask, "You poor baby, what happened to you??" Of course, I look them straight in the eye and tell them the truth: I was injured while rescuing a precious kitten from a burning house. Needless to say, I'm getting more tail than Scott Baio.

But this can't last forever, right? WRONG!!! I'm keeping this stinking brace FOREVER!! I'm thinking of getting a leg brace for added effect. They come with Vel-cro straps, so they're a snap to put on. Every Friday night I'll attach the brace, head down to the local watering hole, and work my magic! Maybe I'll even get me one of them uniforms like the vet in the wheelchair I told you about earlier.

Wait a minute...I betcha that old bastard was faking it too!

* OK, I dislocated my elbow and tore a couple of tendons.
** OK, I was cruising for hookers.

R.I.P., Dyckmobile (Part 5)

2008-09-15T22:13:00.010-04:00

In the last installment of R.I.P., DyckMobile,our hero was released from the hospital with a debilitating injury sustained in an horrific car accident caused by a jackass driving a shitass Ford Mustang. Will Mighty Dyckerson ever drive again?? Find out in the exciting conclusion of R.I.P., DyckMobile.....

The cast I was given completely covered my right arm, from my wrist almost to my shoulder. It had a hinge-like device at the elbow, locked at a 90 degree angle to prevent movement. Made of high-quality translucent plastic and foam rubber, the cast was affixed to my limb by a series of velcro straps. Here is a reasonable facsimile:

Let me stop you before you go there: I've already heard all the dumbass robot jokes, and they are neither funny nor original. I have also been asked "What happened to the other guy?" about 5,000 times...and that's just TODAY. If it weren't for the sweet relief provided by my addictions to Percocet and Vicodin, I would have rammed my good elbow in quite a few crotches by now.

But enough about my disfigured appendage. I had bigger issues to deal with...namely my car insurance provider, Regressive. As if I weren't already in enough pain, now I had to deal with these blood sucking rat bastards. Fortunately, I had a copy of the police report identifying the other driver as being at fault. I also had collision on the DyckMobile. Cha-ching!! Finally my day had come: I was going to make the insurance company bend over for a change!

On the Tuesday after the accident (which was on a Saturday, as we learned in Part 1 of R.I.P., DyckMobile), they sent a lovely young lady named Erin to the storage facility where the cops had my beloved DyckMobile towed. Her task was to assess the damages and determine whether or not my vehicle was repairable. She crunched her numbers and called me the next day.

Erin: "Hello, Mr. Dyckerson. This is Erin with Regressive Insurance. I have some information regarding your claim."
Dyck: "Lay it on me, bitch."
Erin: "Unfortunately, your Jeep appears to be a total loss."
Dyck: "What??! No way! This can't be!"
Erin: "I'm very sorry, sir."
Dyck: "Not my precious baby! She's irreplaceable! Surely there's something you can do!!"
Erin: "I am prepared to offer you a check for $13,000."
Dyck: "You got a deal!!! I hated that old bucket of bolts anyway!"

Now that I had $13,000 in the bank, it was time to find myself some new transportation. In the meantime, Mother Dyckerson graciously offered to lend me her car: A gently used Toyota Avalon, fully equipped with cloth bench seats, AM/FM/cassette, and a black steering wheel cover adorned with pink and purple hearts. Needless to say, I had to find something else FAST.

I looked at numerous vehicles over the next week. At first, I thought I would "go green" and get myself something more fuel efficient. That's when this gas saver caught my eye:

On the other hand, one can't deny the usefulness and manliness of a pickup truck:

For days, I struggled to make up my mind. Too many choices, and not enough time to research them all. Finally, I found it. Parked in the front of the lot at Carmax, she was calling my name. When I first set my eyes on her, it was love at first sight. Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pride that I present to you.....the all-new DyckMobile!!!!!!

Isn't she beautiful??! It was like a golden ray of sunshine had been sent straight down from Heaven! So rugged...so tough...yet tender and gentle at the same time. Even the saleswoman who showed it to me remarked about how good I looked in it. And why would she lie about a thing like that??!

Without missing a beat, I whipped out my checkbook, wrote a check to cover the Carmax no-haggle price, and hopped in my brand new DyckMobile!!!

Then I immediately backed into a light pole. Fucking sonofabitch is hard to drive with only one good hand. But mark my words: She and I are going to have some good times! That is, as soon as she gets out of the body shop.....

R.I.P., Dyckmobile (Part 4)

2008-09-09T21:55:00.005-04:00

In the last installment of R.I.P., DyckMobile, our hero was laying in the emergency room, desperately clinging for dear life - and his shattered right arm - as the result of a horrifying traffic accident involving Dyck's precious Jeep Wrangler and a piece-of-shit Ford Mustang shit box. Will Dyckerson make it out alive?? Let's find out now, in part D of R.I.P., DyckMobile.....

So they took some x-rays, then they knocked me out and reset my elbow, then they put my arm in a cast, gave me some prescription painkillers, and sent me home.

And here are some pics of what was left of my vehicle:

Oh yeah, and I had sex with the doctor.

And 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!!!

R.I.P., Dyckmobile (Part 3)

2008-09-06T08:56:00.003-04:00

In the last installment of R.I.P., DyckMobile, our hero was being rushed to the hospital with a shattered right arm thanks to the carelessness of the driver of a certain piece-of-shit blue Mustang. Will Dyckerson ever be able to masturbate again?? Let's find out now, in part trois of R.I.P., DyckMobile.....

The ceilings at M.C.V. Hospital are quite lovely. I wish I could tell you more about the facility, but thanks to the anti-lawsuit brace they had around my neck, I could only see straight up. I do know that the ER area had a number of small examining rooms, all of which were full at the time...so they parked my stretcher in a hallway and told me to wait.

So I laid there and waited. And I waited some more. And after that, I waited a little more.

I should point out that M.C.V. is a learning facility. (M.C.V. stands for Medical College of Virginia.) I tell you this because my next visitor appeared to have just woken up after an all-night frat party. He had scraggly hair and two days worth of stubble on his unwashed face. He held a magic marker in one hand and a plastic arm band in the other.

"Uhhh, Mr. Dyckerson?" he asked in his Beavis-esque voice.

"Please. My father is Mr. Dyckerson. Call me Mighty," I said, bravely attempting to break the ice despite the debilitating pain.

"Uhhh, OK whatever dude," he muttered. "Look, I was s'posed to put this plastic thing on your arm like an hour ago. Please don't tell my professor, OK? If I flunk pre-med again, my parents are gonna make me join the Army."

I stared at him blankly.

"Umm, OK, like, so I'm gonna put this on your right arm now..." he said, reaching for my mutilated limb.

"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, DOOGIE!! In case you hadn't noticed, my right arm is severely disfigured!" I extended my other arm. "Here, put it on this one."

Beavis scratched his lice-ridden head, looking deeply puzzled. "Uhhh, I don't think we're s'posed to do that..."

The great wrist band debate went on for a good ten minutes before a nurse finally arrived. Without speaking, she snatched the band from Beavis' tattoo-covered hand and strapped it on my left arm.

"Shoo," she told him. "Go empty the bedpan in 311."

She then looked over my chart, scribbled a few notes, and wheeled over long metal pole with a hook at the top. "How would you rate your pain on a scale of 1 to 10?" she asked me.

What the fuck kind of question is that? Am I some sort of pain expert??!! If I say 10, and later on it hurts even worse, then what??! On the other hand, if I play it conservatively and go with a 5, then is she going to skimp on the Morphine??! I CAN'T WIN!!!!!

After mulling this over in my head for a few seconds, I came up with 8.2. The nurse sighed, shook her head, and muttered something that sounded like "pussy" under her breath.

"Are you allergic to anything?" she asked.

This is at least the third time I have heard this question. By this point, I was running out of smartass responses, so I just told her no. She then grabbed a ziplock bag filled with a pale yellow liquid, hanged it upon the pole/hook device, and jammed the business end into my I.V. tube.

"There, that oughta hold you," she said with a grunt. "The doctor will see you shortly."

"Thank God," I sighed. Unfortunately I didn't realize that her definition of "shortly" was approximately TWO HOURS.

In one of the nearby examining rooms, a woman was moaning loudly. I figured she was either in labor...or having the orgasm of a lifetime. Either way, her vagina was surely involved. Of course, I chose to go with my orgasm theory. After a few minutes, I started to get into it. Every time she would moan, I would follow it up with a deep, gutteral groan. Then she picked up the tempo a bit. The moans became shorter and more frequent. I played along, adding my grunts and groans right on cue.

Suddenly, the moaning stopped. Somewhere an alarm went off. Nurses started running into the room that was the source of the moaning. Oh shit, what have I done? I've gone and killed this poor woman with my intense lovemaking. Dyckerson, your right arm may be shattered. and you may be hopped up on Morphine...but you've still got it!!!

Just then, a middle aged guy in a white coat showed up at my side. He was apparently in a hurry, because he didn't waste time with any small talk.

"Get this man into X-Ray! STAT!!!" he ordered. OK, he didn't really say "stat." I got that from a rerun of M*A*S*H. But he did order x-rays. Oh yeah, and he asked me if I was allergic to anything.

And 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!!!

R.I.P., Dyckmobile (Part 2)

2008-09-02T18:33:00.000-04:00

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!!!

R.I.P., Dyckmobile (Part 1)

2008-08-30T22:34:00.001-04:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I am in mourning. Last week, I lost a dear old friend in a tragic, horrific accident. Last week, I lost my beloved DyckMobile.

She came into my life almost three years ago to the day. My previous vehicle, a sporty 1995 Mazda MX-6, was in dire need of major transmission work...so rather than pay for the costly repairs myself, I posted an ad on DycksList and sold the worthless piece of shit to some retarded kid for a cool two grand. Subsequently I hitchhiked to the nearest used car stealership and instructed the sales weasel to find me a vehicle that matched my personality: rugged, tough, manly, powerful, well-built, and with a loud exhaust. The sales weasel immediately pointed me to a gently used 2002 Jeep Wrangler TJ Sport, Amber Fire in color, complete with 6-cylinder automatic 4WD transmission, soft top, full sized spare, full steel doors, fog lights, CD player, sound bar, tow hooks, and an unquenchable thirst for gasoline. It was love at first sight.

In the last three years, we've done everything together. We've leaked oil on the sandy white beaches of the Outer Banks, we've torn up the freshly sodded lawns of newly built homes, we've parked in dozens of handicapped spaces, and we've knocked countless idiots from their dumbass bicycles. But last Saturday, it all came to a screeching halt...literally.

It was a warm and sunny day. The DyckMobile was topless and I was heading north on Parham Road in Richmond's fashionable West End. Parham Road (pronounced Pair-um) is two lanes in each direction, with a delightful grassy median strip in the middle. It's a residential area with numerous side streets, all of which are regulated with red octagonal signs that say STOP. The speed limit on this stretch of Parham Road is 45 mph. I was sipping on a Hi-C juice box and listening to the dulcet tones of Mr. Don Henley blasting on the radio: Life in the fast lane, surely make you lose your mind. Indeed it will, Mr. Henley. Indeed it will.

So I was cruising along, minding my own beeswax, when out of the corner of my eye I take note of a blue late-model Ford Mustang approaching the next intersection from one of the side streets. I paid it no attention, figuring the driver must certainly know that I have the right-of-way. Hell, the DyckMobile ALWAYS has the right-of-way.

I glanced down for a fraction of a nanosecond so I could crank up D.H. on the radio. When I looked up, all I could see was the blue Mustang attempting to cross the road mere inches in front of me. Oh my goodness, I thought. This poor individual apparently did not notice that my vehicle is in his path. He apparently also did not notice that my vehicle is much larger than his, and made of steel instead of fiberglass and paper mache. I better apply my brakes before we...

CRASH!!!!!

It all happened in slow motion, only sped up a hundred times faster. The first thing I noticed was my windshield cracked into a million pieces. I know it was a million pieces because it happened so slowly, I was able to count each piece and rearrange them in order like a jigsaw puzzler. The next thing I noticed was my airbag deployed. Fuck, I thought. That's gonna be a bitch to stuff back in my steering wheel. The last thing I noticed was that the DyckMobile appeared to no longer be moving.

At this point, I was still conscious, but quite confused and disoriented. Now I'm no medical genius, but I've seen enough E.R. reruns to know I was in shock. I somehow managed to locate my keys and climb out of my vehicle, which had stopped in the left lane of northbound Parham Road. Oddly enough, the vehicle was facing west. Well, the front end was. The rear end was still facing north.

My rear end was about to pass out, so I stumbled over to the side of the road and leaned up against a three foot retaining wall. Almost immediately, a middle aged colored man approached me from behind. Shit, I thought. I've just been in an accident, and now I'm going to be mugged.

"Are you OK?" asked the stranger.

I took a moment to conduct a personal inventory. No body parts appeared to be missing or broken, but I could sense something was wrong with my right arm. I was holding on to it with my left hand, and my left hand refused to let go.

"Something's wrong with my right arm," I said.

Stranger dude looked down at my arm. "Hmm," he said. "I don't see nothin' wrong with it."

Then he walked around the other side and looked at it from behind. "Holy shit, mother of God! Somebody call a fucking ambulance!! We got a code blue here!!!"

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!!!

H.O.A. Holes - Volume IV

2008-08-20T22:03:00.000-04:00

Regular readers of The Mighty Blog are sure to recall my many dealings with the Nazi bastards who comprise my neighborhood homeowners' association. If you're just tuning in, you may want to take a little refresher course as a prerequisite to today's festivities:

You didn't click the goddamn links, did you? That's OK. To be honest with you, neither did I. I'm not even sure the links work. But no matter. The beauty of The Mighty Blog is that every post is a standalone classic in its own right.

Now check out the nastygram I received last week. This is the actual text taken verbatim (that's Latin) from their letter.....

You want something in writing?? I think I can accommodate that request. Here you go...

Dear Nazi Cocksucker:

It was so wonderful to hear from you again after all this time. It really has been too long. I trust the family is doing well and that you've all found a way to "beat the heat" this summer (ha ha).

Regarding your letter, when you say "I was seen driving too fast," would you care to elaborate on that? Exactly which gray-haired old battle ax was it that saw me? Was it Old Lady Purvis with the three cataracts in each eye? Or could it have been Hank, the WWII vet who wanders the parking lot in his bathrobe and calls everybody Sparky? Or perhaps it was Crazy Mildred, who spies on the neighbors with binoculars through her filthy windows? I would really love to know, just in case I happen to accidentally run over one of them with my 31" Goodyears.

And when you say "too fast," could you be a tad more specific? My memory is a bit foggy, seeing as I'm usually drunk when I fly through the neighborhood at night. Besides, normally when law enforcement officers stop me for speeding (which is quite often), they give me a number. For example, my last ticket was for doing 93 in a school zone. Oh wait, that's right. YOU'RE NOT LAW ENFORCEMENT. So unless Gladys is packing a radar gun (and I don't mean a hair dryer with the words "RADAR GUN" written on the side), I suggest you BACK THE FUCK OFF.

Now while we're on the subject, could we discuss those speed bumps in the parking lot? I honestly don't feel they are large enough. You see, when I approach a bump, I like to get a running start so I can catch a little air when I hit the hump. On a good day, I can launch the DyckMobile a good 18 to 24 inches off the ground, but it just isn't enough to satisfy my needs. I was wondering if you could either increase the size of the bumps, or preferably install some sort of launch ramp device. This would help me greatly.

One final item before I let you get back to harassing the homeowners. You know that fucking fence that separates our parking lot from the adjoining neighborhood parking lot? The one you put up because our HOA apparently doesn't get along with their HOA? The one that forces me to go over a MILE out of my way at least TWICE A DAY just to get to my damn house? Yeah, that one. Maybe you could all GROW THE HELL UP and knock that fucking thing down, and I'll see what I can do to adjust my "driving behavior."

In the meantime, by all means let me know when this "Judicial Panel" will be meeting. I need to know when to set off the explosives.

Sincerely,
Mightonimous Q. Dyckerson, Esq.

Now if you'll pardon me, I'm going to the salvage yard and buy a few bathroom fixtures to display in my front yard. That should make Mildred's day.

Happy Trails!

2008-08-09T20:07:00.003-04:00

So I just got finished reading this book called AWOL on the Appalachian Trail. It's about this middle aged dude who quit his crappy I.T. job, told his wife and kids to go fuck themselves, and took a hike. LITERALLY! He decided he wanted to fulfill his lifelong dream of hiking the "AT" from Georgia to Maine.

When most guys have a midlife crisis, they buy a Miata or bang their kid's babysitters. This genius wanted to play Daniel Poone. So for five months, he slept in a flimsy tent, drank from filthy streams, and shat on the ground...all in the pursuit of some sort of spiritual enlightenment. I guess he figured that wiping his ass with a pine cone would somehow put him closer to Jesus. He endured soaring heat, bone-chilling cold, torrential rain, and painful blisters...and that was just in the trail parking lot!!!

Seriously though, I am intrigued with this concept. Many nights I've sat at home alone in my underwear, gorging on Doritos and Mr. Pibb and saying to myself, "Dyckerson, you need to get away from it all. You need to break free from the chains of society and find the true meaning of life!" That's usually about the time I pass out on the sofa in a sugar induced coma.

As fascinating as this AWOL book is, it raises more questions than it answers. For example, what do you do when you have to take a dump? I mean, I know what you do...but how specifically do you do it? Do you just squat behind a tree and let loose? Do you have to carry a pooper scooper? What happens when you have the urge to...you know, relieve a little tension? Do you wait for an unsuspecting deer to wander by, or do you just whack it onto a leaf?

What about this guy's wife? She got stuck with the bills and their snot-nosed kids for five months! Do you honestly believe she remained faithful all that time? Cucumbers and vibrators can only do so much. I'm guessing the UPS man made a few "special deliveries," if you know what I'm saying.

Nevertheless, I've made up my mind. I, Mighty Dyckerson, am going to quit my crappy I.T. job and hike the Appalachian Trail. I'm gonna write a book about it too, and I've already come up with the title: A-HOLE on The Appalachian Trail. (HA! See what I did there? AWOL? A-HOLE??) My backpack is filled with all the bare essentials: a tent, a sleeping bag, some dried food, my iPod, a 42" plasma TV, a copy of Jugs magazine, my fake vomit collection, a bag of weed, a case of Mr. Pibb, and a pack of rubbers. I'm also taking my laptop so I can keep you idiots posted on my progress. I just hope I can get a good wi-fi connection in the privy. Adios, you fuckers! I'm outta here!

Wait, the Olympic women's volleyball team is on. I'll leave tomorrow...

Gas Crisis Solved!

2008-07-27T21:41:00.003-04:00

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.

Another Tasteless Post

2008-07-19T09:07:00.005-04:00

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.

Pain At The Rump

2008-07-13T09:22:00.002-04:00

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???

Crappy Birthday, Dyckerson! (Part 2)

2008-07-06T08:12:00.004-04:00

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.

Crappy Birthday, Dyckerson! (Part 1)

2008-06-30T23:13:00.002-04:00

Ask me what my mother got me for my birthday.

Go on, ask.

ASK ME, YOU COCKSUCKERS!!!!!!

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..."

"Yesss????"

"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!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DYCKERSON!!!

2008-06-27T00:04:00.000-04:00

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??!

2008-06-23T22:51:00.005-04:00

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.

"SHIT PISS FUCK CUNT COCKSUCKER MOTHERFUCKER!" I screamed.

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

2008-06-15T22:04:00.012-04:00

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!!!

2008-06-08T21:45:00.000-04:00

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!

2008-06-03T22:48:00.005-04:00

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!!!

SOLD!!!

2008-05-11T09:31:00.004-04:00

Does this picture ring a bell?

I wrote about this piece of shit back in January - yes, JANUARY - and I've been trying to unload it ever since. During that time, I have replaced the battery, a fusable link, part of the exhaust, the engine, the transmission, the tires, the brakes, the shocks, the axle, the gas tank, the mirrors, the seats, the radio, the windshield, and even the fucking cup holder. I have also had it towed approximately 57 times and have walked about 200 miles as a result.

I have tried everything to sell this bucket of bolts. I've tried Craigslist, eBay, Auto Trader, Craigslist again, the newspaper, Craigslist again, and eBay again. I even tried parking it in a seedy neighborhood with the key in the ignition and the engine running. I came back three days later and found a sympathy card taped to the windshield. Also, a homeless guy had defecated in the back seat.

Not that I haven't had a few nibbles. One guy was really interested, but only if he could trade me for his Chevy Nova. Another guy was ready to buy, until he looked underneath the car and saw various fluids leaking on the ground. (Geez, some people are so fucking picky.) And I've had numerous asswipes try to lowball me without even looking at the damned thing. How rude!

Finally last week, I found myself the sucker I've been looking for. The foreign bastard came all the way from Maryland to buy it. At first, everything went perfectly. He kicked the tires, started it up, and looked under the hood. So far, so good. Then I let him take it for a test drive. Bad idea. That's when the radiator warning light came on the dash. (Dammit, I had meant to cover that up with black electrical tape.)

Sucker: What dis red light?
Dyck: Oh that?? That's just a reading lamp.
Sucker: It say low coolant.
Dyck: Hmm...That's news to me. So will that be cash or money order?

Of course, foreign bastard tried to use this to his advantage and haggle with the price. But I was not about to back down. Nobody pushes Mightonimous Q. Dyckerson around...and I mean NOBODY. Yes indeed, I stood firm and held my ground. I let that guy know who's boss. No way was I going to pay him more than $3,000 to get that car out of my life.

Now can someone lend me a few bucks til payday?

It's a Twister!

2008-04-29T23:03:00.005-04:00

This is Mighty Dyckerson coming to you LIVE from tornado-ravaged Dyckersonville...just one of the many towns that was DEVASTATED yesterday when MOTHER NATURE'S FURY unleashed a barrage of ANGRY TWISTERS which SLAMMED INTO THE REGION, leaving a path of DISASTER AND DESTRUCTION in its wake and making NATIONAL HEADLINES as residents attempt to PICK UP THE PIECES and SALVAGE WHAT IS LEFT OF THEIR PATHETIC, MEANINGLESS LIVES.

Ha! Had you dipshits going for a minute there, didn't I?? But you gotta admit, it sounded pretty good. Actually, my home state of Vaginia did sustain quite a bit of damage thanks to a few well placed vortices. The party started late yesterday afternoon when the local news nitwits interrupted my favorite game show, Name That Poon, to tell us that a funnel cloud had been spotted over the nearby town of Colonial Heights.

Said funnel cloud injured several people, destroyed a few homes and tore a bigass hole in the roof of a Target and a Shoe Carnival. Naturally, I immediately erupted into a roar of laughter. Not because the misfortune of others makes me happy, which it does by the way. No, the humor stems from the fact that the exact same spot got hit by a twister 15 years ago. We rarely get twisters around these parts, and Colonial Heights - shit hole town that it is - got hit not once, but TWICE!!! BWA HA HA HA HA HA HA *Cough* Ahem.

What's even funnier is that the storm would hit a Target store - a building with a gigantic bulls-eye painted on it. Mother Nature sure has a sense of humor, don't she??! I want to party with that beeyatch!!!

About this time, the weather monkeys on the local news station went berserk, jumping all over the screen and pointing to their colorful, computer generated radar maps. The NBC affiliate had not one, not two, but THREE meteorologist dudes competing for air time. Do I really need three people to tell me it's raining?? Those nerds live for that shit, and the nastier the storm, the better. I'm betting there wasn't a single flaccid penis among the three of them. Not that I spend a lot of time thinking about their penises. Then the news reporters showed up on the scene and started hunting for witnesses to interview. For over ten minutes, my ears were assaulted by countless tired references to freight trains and match sticks.

Then the governor grabbed a podium and a microphone and started auditioning for President. First he declared a state of emergency. (Gee, thanks. Does this mean we're allowed to panic now?) Then he declared the town of Suffolk a disaster area. (No shit, professor. That town has been a disaster area for 20 years.) Then he hugged some victims. (I suspect they were paid actors.) Then he climbed on board a helicopter so he can survey the damage. (He's a former attorney. What the fuck does he know about surveying damage??)

Anyway, you all will be relieved to know that Dyckerson Headquarters escaped harm. All my file cabinets filled with top-notch poon jokes are safe and secure for yet another day. And for that, we give thanks.

On A Wing And A Poon

2008-04-24T19:06:00.005-04:00

Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great honor that I introduce you to Dr. Andrew Wing On Poon:

Who is this mysterious Poon, you may ask. I was just getting ready to tell you. Dr. Poon just so happens to be Assistant Professor at the world-renown Hong Kong University of Science and Technology. As you can imagine, this is a well educated Poon. I happened to run across his bio while doing some.....umm.....research for an upcoming blog post. Yeah, that's it. Anyway, it was with great interest that I read the story of this magnificent Poon.

For example, did you know that Poon was an Ivy Leaguer?? Yep, that's right! After completing his undergraduate work at the University of Chicago, this Poon went on to Yale where he earned both a Ph.D. AND an M.Phil. in Physics. Professor Poon's interests include silicon-based micro- and nano-photonic devices for wavelength-division multiplexing (WDM) optical communications, micro-cavity optics, photonic integrated circuits. Wowee, that's one impressive Poon!!!

So how did Andrew Wing On Poon manage to achieve such greatness in a relatively short time?? Undoubtedly he was raised well by his parents. I imagine the entire Poon clan is a very tight group. Being a minority attending college in the U.S., I'm sure Poon took quite a pounding from his peers, but this is one Poon that couldn't be licked. Surely Dr. Poon will someday have some little Poons of his own...and they, too, will grow up to live meaningful, productive (and reproductive) lives.

Can you imagine attending a course taught by Poon?? Day in and day out, those bright young faces must gather their books and hurry to class, eager for the opportunity to share in the presence of the magnificent Poon. I bet they sit and stare at Poon for hours, just waiting to hear what will come out of his lips next.

Those who know the professor regard him as a very sweet, warm Poon, but they warn others to approach Poon with great caution. Indeed, they say there are certain times of the month when this Poon is best left undisturbed. But in general, he is a delightful Poon who should be respected and admired by all.

If you would like to find out more about Professor Andrew Wing On Poon, I urge you to email him today at eeawpoon@ust.hk. I think you'll be very interested to see what he has to say.

Hangin' With The Pope

2008-04-15T19:06:00.004-04:00

As most of you probably know, the one and only Pope is visiting these here United States on a whirlwind tour. What you probably didn't know was that I, Mighty Dyckerson, had the opportunity to sit down with His Papalness for an EXCLUSIVE Mighty Blog interview! The pontiff rarely talks to the American press, so this was a real treat for yours truly. So without further ado, here's the transcript from our conversation.....

Pope: And so I said to the guy, "You're not confessing! You're bragging!! HA HA HA HA HA!"

Dyck: Umm, Mr. Pope? We're recording...

Pope: Oh. Sorry.

Dyck: Welcome to the U.S.! It's an honor to have you here.

Pope: Wassup, home skillet?

Dyck: So this is your first trip to this country. What are your impressions?

Pope: Impressions?? Well, I do a pretty good impression of Ed Sullivan. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a really big shewwww!!" HA HA HA!

Dyck: I had no idea you were a fan of American television.

Pope: Oh, hells yeah! I just installed a satellite dish on top of the Vatican so I can get HBO. My favorite show is "The Sopranos."

Dyck: Wow, I never would have guessed. So did you meet President Bush?

Pope: That's affirmative. Geez, what a fucktard. And people wonder how I got THIS job!!

Dyck: Tell me about it.

Pope: And what's the deal with these fucking gas prices?? It cost me 50 bucks to fill up the Popemobile this afternoon. And the stupid cashier wouldn't even take my Diners' Club card!

Dyck: I'm sorry to hear that. So what brings you to the States? Do you have a message of peace and hope to share with us?

Pope: Nah, I leave that shit to the greeting card companies. I'm here to plug my new cookbook.

Dyck: You have a cookbook??! What's it called??

Pope: The Papal Gourmet.

Dyck: Catchy title.

Pope: Thanks. Make sure you "savior" money, 'cause it's on sale for only $19.95!!

Dyck: What kind of recipes are in it?

Pope: Oh, all kinds of stuff. Entrees, desserts, you name it. I make an Angel Food Cake that's to die for. And try the Eggs Benedict XVI. It's sinfully delicious!

Dyck: I'd like to shift gears and talk about a more serious subject. I'm talking of course about the Catholic sex scandal.

Pope: Whoa, hold on just a damn minute! I told your producers I would not be answering questions about that!!

Dyck: But I...

Pope: But nothing!! I said I'd talk about my cookbook, my workout video, or my body splash...but NOT about the scandal!!!

Dyck: I just thought you might want to clear the air...

Pope: Clear the air?? Did I fart here??! No, I don't think so! This is an outrage!! Pope Johnny-P never had to put up with this shit! I'm outta here!!

Well there you have it. As you can see, he's a rather testy pontiff. I'm guessing it was just the jet lag. Anyway, I was told to mention that His Holiness will be signing copies of his cookbook at Barnes & Noble this Saturday from 2 to 4. Y'all come on down, ya hear??

Climbing the Ladder

2008-04-12T09:43:00.000-04:00

So one thing I did in my absence was quit my job. Yep, that's right. I traded my crappy, boring I.T. job where I moved data around all day.....for a crappy, boring I.T. job where I write reports all day. Trust me, it's just as unexciting as it seems, if not more so. The salary is more or less the same, and I have the same view of three padded cubicle walls filled with asbestos.

Then why did I trade one crappy, boring I.T. job for another, you ask?? Well for one thing, the new job doesn't have an arrogant prick who polishes his BMW every day in the parking lot with the carcass of a baby lamb. And the new job doesn't have a loud mouthed one-upper who takes great delight in pelting his co-workers with rubber Nerf darts any chance he gets. And the new job doesn't have a lesbian ex-Marine project manager who constantly yammers on the phone in corporate babble, referring to humans as "resources" and their work as "deliverables." And the new job doesn't have a psycho secretary who threatens to go postal if you don't properly label your refrigerated items.

So what DOES my new job have?? I'm glad you asked. My new job has a lymie who wears the exact same clothes every day: blue jeans and a black sweater with some sort of British emblem thing on one sleeve. My new job has a metrosexual with a hilarious last name (which I will not divulge at this time) who gossips about his co-workers like a housewife gossips about the neighbors. My new job has an overweight boss/owner who looks like Santa and is about to die at any moment - every day he comes in bright at early at NOON, huffing and puffing with exhaustion from his 50 foot walk from his car. But more important than any of that, my new job has one of THESE:

That's right, baby! I've got free membership to COSTCO, the nation's number 3 wholesaler of bulk merchandise! Coming from a guy who buys his mayo by the gallon, this is a true godsend!! You just can't put a price tag on perks like that!! Actually, I guess you can. But it's the thought that counts, right?

Oh yes, and this job comes with another intangible benefit: FLEX TIME! Now if you're not familiar with this radical new concept, it's quite simple. Flex time gives employees the ability to set their own working hours. For example, at my company I have the option of coming in at 8:00am and working until 5:00pm...or, if I prefer, I can come in at 7:45am and work until 4:45pm!! Or let's say I'm not a morning person. No problem there! I can come in at 8:05am and work until 5:05pm!! Or let's say little Dyck Jr. has an organ recital at 5:07pm. All I have to do is come in at 7:52am, work until 4:52pm, and make the 15 minute drive to his school, where I proceed to fondle his music teacher and watch D.J. play with his organ. The point is, with flex time, my options are virtually limitless!!!*

But wait, there's more! This job gives its employees YET ANOTHER exciting perk: FREE BEVERAGES!! Yep, the coffee pot is always full of steaming hot instant decaf. Want half & half or sugar? Got it right here!! Or maybe coffee isn't your drink of choice. Well you're in luck, because this building comes fully equipped with INDOOR PLUMBING...including a WATER FOUNTAIN!!! I tell you, there's nothing like standing around the water fountain and chatting with your colleagues about last night's rerun of Match Game '78 on GSN. Man, that Charles Nelson Reilly was a hoot!

I'm sure I'll have plenty more stories to tell about my exciting new job, but suffice it to say this is a company that truly values its employees...all seven of them. Every day when I drag data-bound control boxes onto my report layout and align their positions along the grid, I feel like I am truly making a difference in the world.

Please shoot me now.

* As long as I get there close to 8am and work eight hours, plus one hour for lunch.

I Have Returned...

2008-04-05T09:36:00.003-04:00

Many of you have been wondering where I've been the last few weeks. Some of you believe I was incarcerated. Others are under the impression I was in some sort of rehab facility. A few people even think I was abducted by aliens who probed me anally for fun and amusement. Well all of you are WRONG.

You see, there comes a time in every man's existence when he must take pause and examine his life. For me, that time came about two weeks ago. There I was, perched atop my porcelain throne with my laptop computer, about to update you on my quest to break the all-time toilet sitting record.

As I was getting ready to upload a photo of my latest bowel movement, it hit me like a bag of wet pork rinds: Dyckerson, you are 35 years old. You're still single, you have no children, no legacy whatsoever. Every night you come home to an empty house and eat Cheetos on the couch until you pass out. Dyckerson, your life is PERFECT!!!!!

Just then, I dropped my laptop down the shitter and I've been without Internet access ever since.

I'M JUST YANKING YOUR CHAIN!!!

Truth is, I just haven't fucking felt like blogging. There, I said it. Is that OK with you neanderthals??! Can't a guy take a damn break every once in a while without being pestered and nagged??! GEEZ!!!!!

Besides, I've been busy. Many exciting things have been taking place here at Casa de Dyck, and rest assured I'll be telling you all about it in the days and weeks to come. So sit back, relax, and GET OFF MY FUCKING BACK!!!

Somebody Call Guinness!

2008-03-16T19:11:00.002-04:00

This is Mighty Dyckerson coming to you LIVE from atop the toilet in my luxurious second floor lavatory. Why am I blogging from my shitter, you ask?? Well surely by now you've heard about the Little Old Lady Who Lived in a Loo. She made headlines last week when cops found her in a trailer where she had been welded to her toilet seat for two years. When I read about this, I was heartbroken. Grandpa Dyckerson had held the potty sitting record for decades...and now this bitch comes along and shatters it! So not to be outdone, I have set out to RECLAIM THE TITLE by sitting on my toilet nonstop for THREE YEARS!!! I know, it seems like an impossible task. But have no fear, for I have planned ahead.

First and foremost, I have made provisions for food and water. Actually, water is no issue - the bathroom sink is right there at arm's length. As for food, I have stocked the medicine cabinet with a wide assortment of delicious CHEF BOYARDEE CANNED PASTA MEALS. Mmm-mmm, that's good eatin'! In addition, I have my cell phone programmed with the numbers of all the pizza and chinese delivery joints within a 10-mile radius. Directions to my toilet are taped to the front door for the delivery guys. A spare house key is cleverly hidden under the door mat.

As for sleep, I should have no trouble catching 40 winks with the pillow and blanket I have in here. Hell, I even have an ottoman for propping up my feet. I'LL BE LIVING IN THE CRAP OF LUXURY!!

Now many of you are probably wondering if my ass skin will become fused to the toilet seat. Please, you're not exactly dealing with an amateur here. I have already anticipated this very possibility; therefore, I have coated my throne with a thick layer of TEFLON. Furthermore, I have sprayed my ass liberally with PAM NO-STICK COOKING SPRAY. So no way is my ass sticking to anything. Of course, I'll have my kitchen spatula standing by just in case.

But how will I stay connected to the outside world, you ask?? Well obviously I have my CRAPTOP COMPUTER with me, and this baby has a wireless card so I can steal Internets from the neighbors. I also moved my DVD PLAYER and BIG SCREEN TV to the bathtub, so I have ENDLESS HOURS OF ENTERTAINMENT just inches from my face. And finally, I have instructed my postal carrier to TOSS MY SACKS OF FAN MAIL through the bathroom window. So far, he has only missed once. (Too bad about the neighbor's cat.)

There, that should just about take care of everything. I'll keep you updated on my progress as the months roll by. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for my dinner...

...FUCK! I dropped my can opener into the bowl!! Any plumbers out there???

The Spitzer Hit The Fan

2008-03-13T19:03:00.005-04:00

What's the deal with this guy? I mean now stupid can he be? Has he totally lost his motherfucking mind?? Five thousand bucks for THIS??!!

OK, she's kinda good looking. All oiled up and what not. Nice rack. But friends, this is NOT four-digit poon. Not even close. For that kind of money, this chick better be shitting GOLD DOUBLOONS out of her ASS. And something tells me that ain't happening.

In fact, I can't think of ANY circumstances under which a non-celebrity prostitute could command that kind of price. I mean, obviously there's a big difference between a $20 whore and a $200 prostitute. Factors include looks, experience, skill, cleanliness, and level of service.

Look, I'm no financial wizard, but I took Econ 101 in college. At a certain point, the LAW OF DIMINISHING RETURNS must be considered here - i.e., what can a $5,000 lady of the evening do for you that a $200 call girl can't??! Can she fix my car? Will she give me stock tips??! Sorry, I just can't see much added value.

So do you want a man who blows FIVE GRAND on sex to be handling your state budget?? Before you know it, he'd be THROWING AWAY MONEY on USELESS SHIT like education and public safety. And as your next president, I give you my SOLEMN VOW that that will NEVER HAPPEN under my administration!

Russian Hour Traffic

2008-03-08T17:44:00.003-05:00

So there's this chick who works in my office. She's moderately attractive, she dresses like a whore, and she's built like a brick shithouse. However, several key factors prevent me from attempting to acquire this poon. I shall list them now in bullet form:

She's married with kids. I know, it's not necessarily a deal breaker. I mean there's hardly a woman in this world who can resist the tempting seductions of one Mightonimous Q. Dyckerson. But judging from the photo on her desk, her husband is large and quite muscular.
She's Russian. No way in Hades will I allow myself be seen in public cavorting with some commie. I have my presidential campaign to think of. Look what happened when that video surfaced of Yobama hopping around in the desert with nothing but a towel on his head. Major negative P.R. right there.
She's a self-centered little bitch. She ought to be grateful to be in this country, but she acts like she's entitled to be here. She struts around the office, shaking her ass like she's walking the runway at the Miss Universe pageant. I am not kidding here. The way she walks, it's like she's expecting people to throw rose petals at her feet or something. Not only that, but she actually thinks her work is more important than anyone else's. On more than one occasion, she has asked me to stop loading my data so she could load hers first. I told her to go fuck herself with a hammer and sickle.

Now the other day I was on the interstate heading for work. I was running a trifle late, so I was slightly exceeding the posted speed limit. Normally I wouldn't give a damn about being late to my shitty job, but it was bagel day, and I wanted to get there before the fatasses in Accounting stole all the cinnamon & raisins. Fucking bean counters. They oughtta be counting calories! Am I right people??!

But back to my morning commute. So I'm on I-295, flying like a bat out of Hell and making good time. Now I get pissed pretty easily when it comes to bad drivers...and when I say bad drivers, I mean EVERY OTHER DRIVER ON THE ROAD besides myself. But the one thing that pisses me off MORE THAN ANYTHING is when slow moving assholes hog the left lane. You know the type. No matter how many vehicles are stacked up behind them trying to get by, the left lane hog just cruises along at or below the speed limit pretending like they can't see them. Usually I encounter at least four or five of these cocksuckers EVERY FUCKING MORNING. Passing on the right is the only option, and I do so quite often...usually while expressing my regards to the offending driver with an obscene gesture or two.

Well this particular morning was no exception. I passed a total of FOUR left lane hogs within a three-mile stretch, and the anger was building. Finally I thought the coast was clear...but not so fast. Up there in the distance, YET ANOTHER left lane hog. I'd had enough. I rolled right up to this cocksucker's bumper and jerked the DyckMobile into the center lane until our cars were side-by-side. Then I rolled up my sleeve, extended my middle finger, and banged it on the glass of my door whilst making an upward thrusting motion. I didn't even bother to look and see who it was. Then I sped forward and swerved the DyckMobile into the left lane, my rear bumper missing the other vehicle's front fender by mere inches. 'Twas a sight to behold.

Quite pleased with myself, I proceeded to work and perched myself in my chair, ready to face another day. Not two minutes later, Russian chick walks in the door, struts over to my cube, and puts her hands on her hips. Here is an excerpt of the conversation that followed.....

Russian Chick: That wasn't very nice, DYCKERSON!
Dyck: What the fuck are you talking about?
Russian Chick: You know what I'm talking about, DYCKERSON! Giving me the finger!!
Dyck: Oh...umm...was that you??
Russian Chick: You know it was me! Do you do that to everybody, DYCKERSON??
Dyck: No, only SELF-CENTERED COMMIE ASSHOLES who don't know how to drive. Now STEP OFF, you borscht-eating red menace!!!

That shut her up. She threw her hands up in the air and stormed off in a huff. With that ugliness behind me, I swiveled around in my chair, gave myself a high five, and got down to business.

Score one for the U.S.A.!

Taint Misbehavin'

2008-03-02T09:30:00.003-05:00

No, not that kind of taint, you sick fucks. This is a respectable blog. I'm talking about tainted meat...and I think I got a hold of some. Allow me to excrete myself.

Yesterday afternoon while I was at the neighborhood shopping center conducting my weekend errands, I developed a strong desire to consume a submarine sandwich item. Normally when such a hankering occurs, I head for a Quiznos, a Jersey Mike's, or as a last resort, a Subway. However, this particular shopping center had none of the above, so I was forced to take my business here:

That's right, Stuffy's. Needless to say, I wasn't too thrilled with this alternative, but I needed a sandwich more than Ms. Babble needs birth control pills. So I decided to give them a chance.

The dining room was empty, except for one Stuffy's associate diligently vacuuming the crud-encrusted carpet. I figured I simply caught them between the lunch and dinner rush. Undeterred, I sashayed over to the counter and placed my order with the pimply faced sandwich artist. I selected "The Max" with its classic combination of roast beef, turkey, and some other meat product which escapes me at this time. I opted for mayo, lettuce, tomato, and onions. But I am no glutton, so I went with the regular size as opposed to the footlong.

My sandwich was made with great dispatch, and I paid the cashier flunkie and headed home to masticate. And boy did I ever! I shoved that meaty six inches in my mouth and sucked it down like there was no tomorrow. Mmmm, that was good eatin'!!!

Fast forward two hours, and I'm starting to feel a little queasy. Nothing major, just a little gastrointestinal discomfort. I'm doing some straightening up around the house, and I bend over to pick up a butt plug. (How did that get in here?? Must belong to Sassy.) As I retrieve the anal pleasure enhancement device, I suddenly feel dizzy and light headed. Fearing I may pass out, I stumble to the living room and stretch out on the sofa...and I remain there ill and immobilized for over TWO HOURS! My head is throbbing, my back is aching, and my stomach is gurgling the entire time.

I turn on the TV and dial up the CNN. Hillary's giving a speech to some people somewhere. Then it hits me out of nowhere. I need to get to a bathroom, and I need to get to a bathroom FAST. I drop the remote, spring to my feet, and hot foot it to the crapper, tripping over countless more butt plugs along the way. (Geez, Sassy! Pick up after yourself!!)

I perch myself atop my throne and let loose Within mere seconds, that bowl was literally filled to capacity. I stood and turned to admire my creation, and I was astounded. Somehow my six inch sub had managed to turn itself into a footlong - a footlong surrounded by a pool of dark brown sludge of such artistic beauty, I was tempted to alert the Smithsonian Instipoot. Unfortunately, they stopped taking my calls years ago. Their loss.

All of this brings me back to Stuffy's. I can't imagine an ordinary sub sandwich making me this sick. Something had to be terribly wrong with it. I'm not sure, but I suspect that I was given tainted meat. Something about the way that guy was looking at my while he prepared my six incher. Only problem is, I can't prove it...at least not yet.

I did have the foresight to save a sample of my stool. I'm planning to have it analyzed by a stool specialist ASAP. But what I need now is a good lawyer to represent me in court. It should be an open and shut case. Any attorneys out there?? If so, please contact me immediately! My stool is starting to harden!

Label Access

2008-02-27T22:58:00.005-05:00

Last night I was walking home from Bible study* when a lovely young woman walked up to me and said, "Mighty Dyckerson, I'm a huge fan of your blog! I love to read through your archives, but I wish there was a way to sort your posts by topic!"

Then it hit me like a sack of wet pork rinds: Blogger has a "label" feature that allows bloggers like myself to label their blog posts according to subject matter!

I tossed my Bible** in a nearby dumpster and turned to that lovely woman. "Miss, you are absolutely right," I told her. "I will get on that right away! And please, call me Dyckie."

"That's awesome, Dyckie!" she exclaimed. "Say, would you mind autographing my ample breasts?"

"It would be my pleasure," I replied. "Please expose them at this time."

I'll spare you the details of the rest of our steamy encounter, but suffice it to say poon was involved. The point is, The Mighty Blog now has labels! The staff of Dyckerson Enterprises Worldwide has spent countless hours combing through nearly three years of classic Mighty Blog literature, designating each and every post with a category label. You, the reader, may access these writings by simply clicking on the appropriate label in the sidebar!

For example, let's say you want to read about my excrement. Just scroll down the sidebar and click the link entitled Fecal Matters. You'll find out everything you need to know about my bowel movements dating back to June 2005. Or perhaps you'd like to read more about my run for the presidency. Well you're in luck, Pepe! There's a link for that as well!

Of course, trying to summarize my thoughts into a single, solitary category. I often cover a wide spectrum of topics in one post. Take this one, for instance. Clearly this goes under the heading of blogging...but wait a minute, there is also a brief mention of poon. What to do??! Well fortunately, the good people at Blogger have thought of everything. It is possible for ONE POST to have MORE THAN ONE LABEL! THINK OF THE IMPLICATIONS!!!

Now this is still a work in progress, so be sure to check back every day for new category labels! This way, I can keep repackaging the same crap over and over again for years! I'll never have to write another goddamn post again!!! So long, suckers!!!

* OK, it was a strip club.

** OK, it was a bottle of scotch.

More Deadbeat Bloggers

2008-02-22T21:50:00.004-05:00

For some reason, bloggers have been dropping like flies lately. Blogs that were recently teeming with activity now lay dormant, collecting dust and gathering cobwebs. Are these people dead?? Could this be the work of some deranged serial killer intent on destroying the Mighty Blog Network?? I plan to conduct a half-assed but full-fledged investigation, and I won't rest until I have answers! In the meantime, say sayonara to these lazy cocksuckers whose links you will no longer find in my sidebar.....

Assclownopolis - TFG mysteriously disappeared from the blogging community with an anticipatory post predicting an evening of "nookie," as he called it. Well that bastard must've had one hell of a night, because he hasn't been heard from since. What on earth could have happened to cause such an abrupt departure? Did contract some deadly disease from a $5 whore? The world may never know.

Confessions of a Bottle Blonde - I used to enjoy perusing this blog and drooling over its lovely author's bodacious ta-tas...that is, til the bitch went and made her blog private. Apparently you now need an invitation to look at her tits. Well LISTEN UP, woman! I am MIGHTY FUCKING DYCKERSON, and I don't need an invitation to look at knockers! I can go to Pudwhipped's blog and look at her funbags any damn time I want to!

Mephitic Nirvana - I don't even know how this piece of shit got on here to begin with. This chick was placed on probation (along with TFG) back in December. You have violated the terms of your probation, and now you are gone. Good riddance to you and your oddly titled blog!!!

Mr. Maestro - This bum took a one-month hiatus last fall...then returned only long enough to make a few lame Carrot Top jokes...then disappeared for another three months and counting. Maybe he thinks he's better than us because he's on Wordpress. Well let me tell you something, moron: Here on Blogger, you're actually expected to POST SOMETHING once in a while!! Now don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya!

Robot Zombie Vampire - McFatty, author of the long gone Blog Portland, made a feeble attempt at a comeback with this pathetic excuse for a blog. We all hoped he would return to his former glory, but alas, it wasn't meant to be. Instead, we are left with the domestic ramblings of his alcholic wife and mother of his seven at-risk children, Ms. McFatty.

Stop the Barking Dogs - This jackass changes URLs more often then I change my shorts. Every time he leaves, he vaguely implies that he's gone for good...but then he resurfaces with a new name and a new blog title. What the fuck, dude? Are the cops after you??! Get the fuck out of here and stop cluttering up my sidebar!

Of course, this means I have a few vacancies. And to fill one of those vacancies, I'd like you to join me in welcoming a new entry into the exclusive Mighty Blog Network: Cat Scratch Diva! I know virtually nothing about this blog, and it will probably be gone in two weeks, but the bitch begged to be added to the list, so I figured what the hell? Read it. Don't read it. Makes no difference to me.

Now before I go, I'd like to address those of you who continue to blog, but somehow don't feel the need to comment on the blogs of others...namely MINE. That's just bad blogging etiquette, and it WILL NOT BE TOLERATED here in the Mighty Blog Network. What's that? You say you're too busy??! Well LISTEN HERE, you little SHIT STAIN. Nobody - and I mean NOBODY - is busier than Mightonimous Q. Dyckerson!!! Not only am I President and CEO of Dyckerson Enterprises Worldwide, I also happen to be running for PRESIDENT of THESE HERE UNITED STATES!!! So SUCK IT!!!!!

The RETURN of Miracle Ass!!!

2008-02-17T20:08:00.002-05:00

First, a quick update on my cracked windshield. Last Thursday, the Safe-Lite Glass Co. sent a flunkie to my office to restore DyckMobile I to its former glory. It is now crack-free and as good as new. And for those of you keeping score, I was ass raped for a whopping $212.00 cash. I hope it was good for them, 'cause it sure as hell wasn't good for me.

Now I'd like to shift gears and talk about a crack of a different color. I'm talking, of course, about the one and only MIRACLE ASS!!!* Sightings of this magnificent specimen have been rather rare of late. But last week I managed to capture what may be the MOST VIVID PHOTO YET of this most bodacious of booties. And now, without further ado, it's time to unveil the newest Miracle Ass photo! BEHOLD!!

Oops, that's the wrong ass. How'd that get in there?? Ah, here it is! The one.....the only.....MIRACLE ASS!!!

Not only is this the clearest, brightest picture to date...but if you closely at the lower right quadrant of the picture, you'll see none other than BARE SKIN!! Yes, much of the ass is obscured by the seat of the chair and the white garment draped on its backside, but the part of the ass that is visible is also practically NAKED!!! Now ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you: Is that an ass or is that an ASS??! WOWEEEEEE!!!

And do NOT even get me started on that outfit! Note the tight low-rise jeans...the equally tight pink t-shirt-like item hugging (most) of her upper torso...and the unbuttoned sweater object providing virtually NO coverage whatsoever!!! Put it all together, and you've got a woman who is clearly ready for SERIOUS POON ACTIVITY! And Dyckerson is just the man to give her some!!

Of course, I cannot rush into this. I must proceed with utmost caution, for any wrong moves could destroy my chances of acquiring the Miracle Ass. Once again, I must call upon my faithful readers for guidance. What is my best strategy for obtaining the elusive M.A.?? Speak now!! Time is of the essence!!!

* You may read more about MIRACLE ASS here and here.

Fucked By A Gecko

2008-02-12T21:26:00.000-05:00

Operator: Geico Insurance. How may I screw you today?
Dyck: Yo bitch, I'd like to have my ass raped brutally by one of your representatives.
Operator: Absolutely, I'd be happy to pound you in the ass. What seems to be the problem?
Dyck: A rock hit my fucking windshield and cracked it.
Operator: Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Are you OK?
Dyck: So far, yes. But that may change once you start shucking my cornhole.
Operator: Indeed, your cornhole will be shucked royally.
Dyck: Thank you for your honesty.
Operator: Of course! Besides, it's not like you can do anything about it. We're a giant insurance company and you're nobody. Best to just relax your sphinctor and take your ass raping like a man.
Dyck: I guess this means you won't be paying for my windshield then.
Operator: Oh, I highly doubt it. How big is the crack in relation to a one dollar bill?
Dyck: All I have is a twenty.
Operator: You won't have it for long, pal.
Dyck: Well the crack is about as long as 17 bills laid end to end.
Operator: That's a big crack!
Dyck: Almost as big as yo mama's.
Operator: Ha ha, well played! Hold on a sec while I pretend to type some numbers on my keyboard...Nope, we can't help you. Your deductible is too high. You'll end up paying for the whole thing out of pocket. You might want to lower it.
Dyck: Then you'll just raise my premiums.
Operator: Yep, that we will! We'll rape you one way or another!
Dyck: OK, how about I lower my deductible to zero, then call tomorrow and file the claim, and then call the next day and raise my deductible again?
Operator: Our team of highly paid attorney weasels will nail your ass with insurance fraud.
Dyck: How do you sleep at night?
Operator: On a sack filled with cash sent in my schmucks like yourself.
Dyck: Lemme see if I've got this right. Customers send you money every month...
Opeator: Yes...
Dyck: And you're supposed to pool all that money into an account...
Operator: Keep going...
Dyck: So you can reimburse people when they have accidents.
Operator: Whoa, that's where you're wrong. We do take your money, but we never give it back.
Dyck: That's quite a scam you've got going there.
Operator: Yes, we're very proud of it. Now I'd be happy to refer you to a glass repair shop that gives our customers a special discount. Of course, they jack up the price before they give you the discount.
Dyck: Have you no shame?
Operator: Nope! They'll poke your pooter real good! They also repair sweaters.
Dyck: Sounds like I'll need an ASS repair shop. Thanks a lot for your time.
Operator: Oh believe me, it was nothing. Call again anytime. We have operators standing by 24 hours a day to fuck your buttocks.

This post brought to you in part by:

Raping asses across America since 1936.

A Dyck In Every Pot

2008-02-06T19:52:00.000-05:00

The time has come for me to rejuvenate my campaign for president! I know I have been absent from all the primaries and debates and what not, but there is good reason for that. You see, I've been strategically planning for the exact right moment to resurface. And now that the other candidates are dropping like flies, that moment has arrived! So dust off your "I LICK DYCK" buttons and fasten your seatbelts, 'cause it's gonna be a wild ride to the White House!!!

Now before I begin the heavy campaigning, I need to set the record straight on a few issues. First off, I have taken a lot of flack for my a recent interview with Jugs magazine in which I was quoted as saying I was in favor of ethnic cleansing. Yes, it is true. I did say that. I just don't see what the big controversy is. I don't care what country you're from or what your religious beliefs may be...TAKE A FUCKING SHOWER!!!

Then there was the whole sex scandal involving me and a certain other blogger. I wish to state categorically and undeniably, I DID NOT HAVE SEX WITH THAT WOMAN, SASSY BLONDIE. Believe me, it wasn't for lack of trying. I have attempted to seduce her with romantic gifts and authentic Italian cuisine, but I never got past first base. Hell, I never even got out of the dugout. This chick is hard to please!

While we're on the subject, I want to come clean regarding my oral intercourse with homersexual blogger Cherry Ride. It only happened once, and it meant nothing to me...and more importantly, I DID NOT SWALLOW. Okay, I may have gargled for a few seconds, but that doesn't count!!!

And finally, a brief comment about the foot tapping incident in the airport men's room. I wasn't trying to solicit sex. I was only squashing a bug. I know I shouldn't have pleaded guilty to the sex charges, but I didn't want PETA on my back for being an insect killer. I JUST CAN'T WIN!!!

This just in...I have just been handed a note by my Secretary of International Affairs, Mr. Stan Bull. Looks like a Wikipedia entry about ethnic cleansing. Hmm...let's see here...wow, that sucks...geez...holy shit! Boy, I was way off base on that one! Okay, I am officially reversing my position on the ethnic cleansing. My bad!!!

Party Time!

2008-02-02T09:16:00.000-05:00

I.T. geeks sure know how to party. I learned this fact recently at my company's first (and hopefully last) annual employee appreciation luncheon. This is management's way of rewarding us for our hard work in lieu of actually giving us cash. We give them a third of our lives, they give us two slices of cold pizza and a styrofoam cup filled with flat soda. Yeah, that seems about right.

The festivities took place Thursday at noon in conference room 8...because everyone knows when it comes to parties, conference room 8 is where it's at. It comes fully equipped with tables, chairs, a speaker phone, and a white board - everything you need to get your freak on. And did we ever! Man, we rocked that place for ONE WHOLE HOUR before returning to our cubicles in an orderly fashion to continue working on our deliverables.

Wireless Willy got the party started by whipping out his smart phone and checking the weather forecast. Sunny and cool, with a chance of evening showers. Way to go, Willy! You rock!! Meanwhile, Finicky Fred was busy removing undesirable toppings from his pizza and carefully placing them on his napkin. Homeboy got some mad mushroom pickin' skillz, yo!!

Next, it was time for Conspicuous Consumption Carl to take the floor. (We call him "CC to the C.") He had us all riveted with his story about moving his 50 inch plasma screen to his bedroom to make room for a 65 inch DLP projector in his den. But then Waldo the One-Upper shook things up when he revealed plans to install a 70 inch mega screen in his living room. CC to the C was not at all pleased, and for a moment, it looked like a fight might break out. But thankfully, Rotundra the morbidly obese security officer was standing by with her incident report forms. Big mama be keepin' the peace in da hood!!

Just when we thought things couldn't get more exciting, Joystick Johnny took the tech talk in a whole new direction when he started describing in great detail how he rigged his X-Box to rip copies of his favorite DVDs. Everything from soldering motherboards to installing new chipsets - that mofo be pimpin' it old school!!

By now, the ladies were starting to loosen up. Lemon Lime Linda started tossing back shots of Diet Sprite while Domestic Darlene was slam dunking paper plates in the trash can and wiping the pizza oil off the tables. Bitch knows how to work a paper towel! You go, girl!!

Seems like the action was just getting hot when our hour was up. My how time flies! It was such a shame to see the hilarious hijinks come to a halt. This was undoubtedly one of those legendary parties we'll be texting our grandkids about someday.

Please shoot me.

Unpopular Mechanics

2008-01-27T12:03:00.000-05:00

There is nothing I enjoy more than getting up on a Saturday at the crack o' dawn, going outside in the freezing cold, and spending a few nonproductive hours in a muffler shop waiting to get FUCKED UP THE ASS by a bunch of grease monkeys in blue overalls. And that is precisely what I did yesterday.

Perhaps I should back up a bit. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP! I'm sure you idiots have heard of the DyckMobile. I've mentioned it several times in the past. The DyckMobile is a 2002 Jeep Wrangler Sport with a 6-cylinder automatic transmission, full doors, and a removable soft top. Here is a photo for your enjoyment:

I love the DyckMobile with every fiber of my being, but every now and then a man feels the need for speed. But trying to speed in a Jeep is like trying to rape a hungry alligator. Actually it is nothing like trying to rape a hungry alligator, but I needed something amusing to complete my simile. Anyway, one day last summer I had an idea. "Dyckerson," I said to myself, "You are a man of means. Surely you can afford TWO vehicles!" So I decided to fulfill my need for speed by purchasing an inexpensive, older model sports car. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the DyckMobile II:

Folks, this here is a genuine 1988 Toyota Supra vehicle...complete with Targa top, AM/FM cassette, and cruise control. A true classic, and in remarkable condition for its age. With a car like this, a man can drive like a total asshole...and I have done so with great frequency. But a few weeks ago, I had another idea. "Dyckerson," I said to myself, "What the fuck do you need with two cars? Surely there are better things you can do with your incredible riches...like purchase a media server to store your vast porn collection!"

So with great reluctance, I have decided to sell my beloved Supra. In fact, I've had a sign in the window for several weeks now...but for some reason, no one wants to buy this magnificent beast. Maybe it's because the engine sounds like a cross between a Harley Davidson and a John Deere tractor. Now I'm no rocket surgeon, but I suspect the Supra may need a new muffling device for its...you know, smoke hole.

That brings us to yesterday. So I'm sitting in the lounge area with a newspaper, barely awake but still able to fill in three letters in the Saturday crossword puzzler. The whole time I'm sitting there, I'm thinking this will cost me two hundred bucks MAX. I mean what are we talking about here?? It's just a hunk of metal that goes around the smoke hole. That can't be more than a 50 dollar item!

After waiting nearly TEN MINUTES, a man who apparently bathes in a tub full of Pennzoil emerges from the garage and calls me over.

Oily Dude: Are you the guy with the Supra?
Dyck: Yeah, is it ready yet?
Oily Dude: Umm, no. We need to see you for a moment.

This was not a good sign. I was about to get SCREWED ROYALLY. I reluctantly put down my crossword puzzler and followed Mr. Badwrench back to the garage to prepare for my ass raping. My Supra was all jacked up on some kind of hydraulic lifting apparatus. He invited me to stand under the car and observe its innards.

Oily Dude: You see this thing here?
Dyck: Yeah, I'm not blind.
Oily Dude: Well that there is your resonator, and it's covered with rust all the way from the tail pipe to the Cadillac converter.
Dyck: So? Who the fuck is gonna see it? Normally it's three centimeters off the ground.
Oily Dude: But you see them there holes? That's what's making the noise.
Dyck: OK, so spackle it up and I'll be on my way.

By this time a crowd of grease monkeys had started to gather. They were standing there scratching their heads and pointing at my prized vehicle in amusement. I was not pleased.

Oily Dude: I'm afraid we'll have to replace the whole thing.
Dyck: How much?
Oily Dude: It's a specialty part. We'll have to order it.
Dyck: How much?
Oily Dude: There's only three of 'em in the entire northern hemisphere.
Dyck: How much?
Oily Dude: We have financing available.
Dyck: CUT THE CRAP AND TELL ME HOW MUCH!!!!
Oily Dude: Seven hundred dollars.
Dyck: Excuse me, I must not have heard you correctly over the sound my ASS BEING RAPED. Did you say SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS??!
Oily Dude: We take Visa and Master Charge.

Now I may not know everything about cars. In fact, I know virtually nothing about cars. But SEVEN HUNDRED CLAMS to replace a fucking PIPE??! I can go in the plumbing department at Home Depot, pick up a pipe for a few bucks, and duct tape it on there myself!

So I ordered the jackass to lower my vehicle and give me back my keys. Then I threatened to sue him for emotional distress, which I very well may do if I can find an attorney who will take my case pro boner. In the meantime, my beautiful Supra is still noisy and it's still for sale. So if any shade tree mechanics out there know how I can SHUT THIS THING UP for at least a few weeks until I can sell it, then give me a shout. Or better yet, if anybody out there is interested in purchasing this fine, nearly perfect automobile, make me an offer!

Ball Busters

2008-01-21T11:00:00.000-05:00

I may have to move to another state. That was my initial reaction upon reading this article published yesterday in the Richmond Times-Disgrace. The General Assembly, Virginia's legislative body, is considering enacting several ludicrous laws. Read on.....

HJ76 -- A resolution recognizing the town of Independence in Grayson County as the "Official Home of the Grand Privy Race" in Virginia. The privies -- also known as toilets -- are placed on wheels and raced down the town's Main Street in October during the annual Mountain Foliage Festival.

This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of. When people around these parts think of shitters, they automatically think of Dyckerson. Therefore if any town should serve as the "Official Home of the Grand Privy Race," it should be GOOD OLD DYCKERSONVILLE!

HB533 -- Makes it a traffic offense for a motorist to drive with a pet in his lap.

Excuse me??! Cell phones are OK, but pets are a no-no? As a taxpaying American, it is my GOD GIVEN RIGHT to cruise the streets with a pussy in my lap ANY DAMN TIME I PLEASE. Big Brother needs to STAY THE FUCK OUT OF MY CROTCH!!!

HB1452 -- Bans the display of trailer-hitch ornaments that resemble bull testicles.

This is really a slap in the face. Or maybe that should be a teabag in the face. Regardless, the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution GUARANTEES my right to free speech. Our forefathers FOUGHT AND DIED so I could hang a SACK OF RUBBER NUTS from my vehicle without fear of retaliation, and now these assholes want to take that freedom away??

HB334 -- Makes stealing a cat a felony.

Now they've gone too far. Why should cat burglars be treated so harshly?? Let's face it, not everybody can afford a good pussy. Sometimes we have to resort to extreme measures to obtain one. It doesn't mean we're bad people. It just means we're DESPERATE FOR PUSSY. And gentlemen, haven't we all been there at one time or another??

Rest assured, if any of these laws are enacted in Virginia, I'm getting the hell out. And I'm taking my pussy and my balls with me!

Blood, Sweater, and Tears

2008-01-17T22:34:00.000-05:00

I had a hole in my fucking sweater...but now that hole is GONE! I took my prized winter garment to three separate dry cleaners in hopes of getting it repaired, but they all laughed at me. They said it couldn't be done. Well those chinks never set foot inside GEORGE'S ALTERATIONS!

I had almost given up hope on my beautiful knit sweater. I was ready to shove it in a paper sack along with my soiled undies and donate it to Badwill. But then I saw that neon sign glowing in the twilight sky, beckoning me from afar. "GEO ALTER IONS," the sign read. (Those fucking neon lights never work properly.) I slammed on the brakes, made an illegal U-turn, and swerved into the parking lot, killing two innocent pedestrians in the process.

It was pouring down rain, but luckily there was an empty handicrapped space right in front of the door. While I am not physically handicapped, I did consider myself emotionally handicapped by the anguish brought forth by my mangled pullover. So I pulled into the parking space, grabbed my garment, and went inside.

The old bat behind the counter was a hundred years old if she was a day. Even worse, she barely spoke a word of English. This made communication rather difficult, but I shall do my best to transcribe the conversation that transpired.....

Dyck: Yo bitch, I got myself a sweater emergency here.
Lady: Eh?
Dyck: My sweater has a hole in it.
Lady: Eh?
Dyck: VOUS FIXEZ LE HOLE-O DONNEZ MOI SWEATER-O, POUR FAVOR!
Lady: Holy shit, that's an ugly sweater.

She tossed my sweater aside like one of Ms. Babble's unplanned babies and told me to come back tomorrow. So I headed back out, tripped over a handicrapped guy crawling across the parking lot, and went home.

>>>>>FAST FORWARD 24 HOURS>>>>>

It had been a full day since I left my precious sweater in the hands of George's Alterations. I was quite anxious to see if they had been able to salvage it. The rain had stopped by now, so I just parked by the curb in front of the fire hydrant and went inside.....

Dyck: Yo bitch, where's my sweater?
Lady: Eh?
Dyck: The sweater I left here yesterday. Where is it?
Lady: Eh?
Dyck: ME GIVE YOU EL SWEATER-O. YOU FIXEZ DE LA HOLE-O.
Lady: Oh yeah, you're the loser with the hideous sweater. It's right here.

Friends, what I saw next was nothing short of amazing. It was like that hole never even existed! I couldn't even tell where it was! I immediately fell to my knees, held up my newly mended garment, and wept tears of joy. An hour went by before I was able to regain my composure.

Dyck: Yo bitch, what do I owe you?
Lady: For you, no charge.
Dyck: Eh?
Lady: Zilch. Nada. On the house.
Dyck: Eh?
Lady: Look, I figure any guy who wears a sweater like that could use a break. Have a nice day.

I didn't want to give the old crow a chance to change her mind, so I snatched up my beautiful sweater and got the hell out of there. When I got outside, I saw flames shooting from the roof of the day care center next door, with several firefighters standing helplessly near the Dyckmobile. As I tiptoed through the maze of dead bodies laid out on the ground by rescue workers, my sweater was illuminated by the flames piercing the night sky. It was truly a miracle.

Tomorrow morning I'm going to put on that sweater, and I will never take it off again as long as I live!

Sweater Inequity

2008-01-13T20:18:00.000-05:00

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. A few weeks ago, I went shopping for fucking sweaters to add to my fucking wardrobe. I ended up purchasing three fucking sweaters from fucking Macy's. Little did I know one of my fucking sweaters had a fucking hole in it. Here is a fucking picture of my fucking sweaters:

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. Sweater number A is my favorite, and it's A-OK. No holes whatsoever, except of course for the required holes for my head, arms, and torso. I wore that one two weeks ago, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Sweater number B is also quite nice. Again, no holes except for the requisite head/arm/torso openings. I wore that fucker last week, and it gave me great pleasure. But sweater number C is a different story altogether. Look more closely:

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. Did you see it? Right on the fucking seam where the fucking shoulder meets the fucking arms. That's a high visibility area, my friends. Unacceptable. If the hole in my fucking sweater had been in the armpit region, I probably wouldn't be that fucking upset. Because hey, who really sees the armpit region of a fucking sweater? NOBODY...unless you walk around all day with your fucking arms in the air. In which case, you've got bigger problems than just a hole in your fucking sweater.

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. Whatever happened to a little thing called craftsmanship?? Does anybody take any fucking pride in their fucking work anymore? I went to fucking Macy's specifically so I could reduce the odds of my buying a sweater with a fucking hole in it. But I guess they're too busy planning lameass holiday parades to worry about fucking quality control.*

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. No, I do not have any fucking moths in my closet. Don't even go there, girlfriend. Why would a moth eat only one fucking sweater - along the seam - and leave my other fucking sweaters intact? Besides, if I had a moth in my closet, wouldn't I see moth droppings everywhere? Trust me, the only feces in my fucking closet is human.

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. Am I supposed to inspect every fucking garment now before I buy it? I fucking hate shopping enough as it is. I don't like looking at clothes in the fucking store because I can never get the fucking things folded the way they were before. Maybe that's why clothes are so fucking expensive - they all have to be folded by fucking origami masters.

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. I didn't save the receipt, so I'm fucking screwed. That's thirty fucking dollars right down the fucking drain. I tried to fix the hole in my fucking sweater by poking at it with a fucking stick, but I just made the fucking thing worse.

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. I swear I think it has gotten bigger since I started writing this fucking post. Soon there will be no fucking sweater left. If left unchecked, the hole may start to engulf my other two fucking sweaters. When will it end?? Perhaps the hole in my fucking sweater is actually a vortex leading to another dimension - a dimension filled with hole-free sweaters.

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. I suppose if I had two heads, it would be a Godsend. I could just enlarge the second fucking hole and stick my second fucking head through it. But alas, I was born with only one fucking head. And that head is telling me that my sweater fucking sucks.

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. Do any of you fucking idiots know how to repair the hole in my fucking sweater?? If so, speak now or forever hold your fucking peace. Otherwise I'm going to take my fucking sweater back to Macy's, stand in middle of the fucking store, and light it with a fucking match while singing three choruses of fucking Kumbaya.

* I wrote this fucking post before Christmas. So sue me.

Oops, I Did It Again

2008-01-09T19:16:00.000-05:00

(AP) DYCKERSONVILLE - Mighty Dyckerson is back home today after being rushed to Cedar-Sinai hospital for a psychiatric evaluation last night. Police were called to Dyckerson's residence last night after neighbors reported an altercation between the famous internet blogger and his common-law wife Sassy Blondie.

When police arrived on the scene, they found Mighty Dyckerson laying on the kitchen floor covered in broken glass and curled up in the fetal position. Witnesses report hearing blood curdling screams emanating from the house around midnight.

"The screams were definitely coming from Dyckerson," said Danielle the HOR, longtime friend and neighbor.

"I'm sorry I wasn't home to enjoy it," said Ms. Karla J. Babble. "I was at the hospital giving birth to my ninth child."

"I am just a simple lymie from a faraway land," said Mr. Stan Bull of Turkey. "Nevertheless, I urge all Americans to vote for Dyckerson in November!"

Sassy Blondie released this statement to the press: "The bastard is psycho! We were engaging in sexual intercourse, and he pulled out this rusty metal thing and tried to violate me with it! He kept calling it his poon spoon! So I knocked him upside the head with a vase!"

Mighty Dyckerson was transported to Cedar-Sinai via whambulance, where paramedics reported more peculiar behavior from the celebrated monkey clown. Several female rescue workers stated that Dyckerson repeatedly ripped out his IV tube and attempted to fondle their ample bosoms.

"The man is an animal," said one EMT. "Can I get his number?"

Upon hearing the news, TV's Dr. Feel McGroin rushed to the hospital to be at Dyckerson's bedside.

"I am here not as a celebrity, but as a doctor. I have nothing but genuine concern for Dyckerson and his family," said Dr. Feel last night during his third press conference. "Now be sure to buy my new book - What The Hell Are You, An Idiot?? - available in fine bookstores everywhere."

Still in question is who will get custody of Mighty Dyckerson's son, Dyck Jr., whom he fathered during his third marriage to RevRee. Dyckerson is resting comfortably at home and is expected to return to blogging shortly.

At Your Cervix!

2008-01-05T10:45:00.000-05:00

I don't normally do this, but I have gone and made myself a New Year's resolution. In 2008, I resolve to transform The Mighty Blog from a site filled with profanity and penis jokes into a center for education, enlightenment, and vagina jokes. That's why I was elated to learn that January is both National Mentoring Month AND National Cervical Health Awareness Month.

Now some of you may argue that I am already a mentor. While it is true that I routinely use The Mighty Blog as a tool to communicate my teachings to the civilized world, I feel this just isn't enough. So in observance of National Mentoring Month (NMM), I would like to volunteer my time to mentor one of you, my loyal readers. Perhaps you are at a crossroads in your life, and you need a little direction. Or maybe you're looking for a life coach to help you achieve your goals. Whatever the case may be, Mighty Dyckerson is here to help. So I urge each of you to write a short essay (50 words or less) explaining why I should choose you as my mentee. Please do so now. I will announce the winner in an upcoming post.

Speaking of mentoring, I would like to take this opportunity to mentor each of you on the importance of cervical health awareness. I'm willing to bet many of you don't even know what a cervix is. Per Wikipedia, the world's foremost authority on female reproduction, the cervix is the lower, narrow portion of the uterus where it joins with the top end of the vagina. In other words, it's where the poon meets the womb.

The cervix is a magical place. During menstruation, it stretches open slightly to allow the endometrium to be shed. Nobody really knows what the endometrium is, but most experts agree that it is important that it be shed at least once per month. This process often causes cramping in members of the female sex, which in turn causes members of the male sex to clean out their garages.

During orgasm, the cervix convulses in order to suck jizz from the poon to the womb and increase the likelihood of pregnancy. To help explain this concept, picture a vacuum cleaner:

Study this diagram and imagine you are having heterosexual intercourse. Upon ejaculation, the floor (or penis) releases dust (or semen), which in turn gets collected by the intake port (or vagina). From there, the dust (or semen) gets drawn upward by the motor and fan (or cervix) and into the dust bag (or uterus). This is where life begins. Now I'm not exactly sure what the exhaust port is for. Maybe one of you ladies can clue me in.

So now that we know what the cervix is, why is cervical health important?? Simple. Nearly 7 out of every 10 women will die of cervical cancer this year alone.* That's why it is critical for women to get their paps smeared at least once a week. During this procedure, a doctor pries open the twat using a crowbar and jams a poon spoon inside to collect a sample of pap. A doctor then smears the pap on his tongue to see if it tastes bitter or acrid. If it does, bitch got cancer.

Of course even with insurance, weekly exams can be quite costly. But because I believe so strongly in the importance of weekly pap smearing, I routinely volunteer my pap smearing services to members of the fairer sex. Although I am not a licensed physician, I perform almost the exact same procedure as you would get in a doctor's office. Only instead of collecting a sample with a poon spoon, I use my penis. So if you are an attractive female between the ages of 18 and 25 (or a sassy blonde of any age), please contact me today for a free consultation. You'll be glad you did. I sure as hell know I will.

* Just a wild guess.

The Dyckerson Family Christmas Newsletter '07

2007-12-24T15:08:00.000-05:00

Can you believe another year has come and gone??! Seems like only yesterday that we were writing our 2005 newsletter and telling you about Dyck Jr. saying his first word, "motherfucker." And it's been a whole year since our 2006 newsletter when I wrote to you about little Megan's first unplanned pregnancy. Our kids never cease to amaze us, and 2007 was no exception!

Megan has been continuing to make us proud with her singing career. Her first album, Glitter and Bubble Gum, is due out early next year. She had a little setback last spring when an unflattering video of her appeared on TMZ, but we are confident her career will rise as fast as the cock on that boy she was servicing!

Little D.J. started nursery school last fall. Unfortunately, he had a rough time adjusting to the pressure. His teacher gave him a "time out" on his first day, and he called her a fucking bitch. We had a conference with the teacher, and she suggested we put him on Ritalin. I told her my son was right, she WAS a fucking bitch. Then I smacked her upside the head. What is it with these schools today, wanting to prescribe drugs for everything??! We're thinking of home schooling him next year.

Grandpa Dyckerson got in some trouble this year for gambling on dog fights. Then he got in more trouble for betting on the outcome of his trial. Luckily, all the judges in Dyckersonville are crooked, so we were able to bribe him with some of Mrs. D's cookies. He just had to wear one of them ankle bracelets for a few months. Easiest time he ever did.

Finally, there's good ol' Mrs. D herself. After losing her job at Harry's House of Whores last year, she was down in the dumps for a while. But last March, she decided to go into business for herself and open her very own whore house!! We figure she has the knowledge and experience, so why not?? It's called Sassy Blondie's Pleasure Palace, and so far it is doing quite well. If business continues to grow, we're thinking about starting a nationwide chain!!!

Last summer we went on a family vacation to the Grand Canyon. Folks, let me tell you, it was spectacular! I haven't seen a hole that big since Ms. Babble's childbirth photos. We rode mules all the way to the bottom, and then Mrs. D rode my mule behind a bunch of bushes. It was amazing how her screams of delight echoed off the canyon walls.

Also last summer, we decided to put a swimming pool in the back yard. I don't like to brag, but I'm a bit of a handyman...so I decided to do the install myself. It was a little tricky at first, but I was finally able to find the plastic pools in Walmart. I had been looking in sporting goods, but they were in the toy section. Sneaky bastards!!

Shortly after installing the pool, Mrs. D came down with a bad case of West Nile virus. Apparently the standing water in the pool was attracting a lot of mosquitos. She survived, but we ended up having to drain the pool. Now we're using it as a planter in the front yard - tres, tres classy!!

Well that's about it for 2007. Here's wishing you the best for 2008! See you next year, you bastards!!

Coming Soon:
MIGHTY DYCKERSON'S
TOP TEN POSTS OF 2007!!!

H.O.A. Holes - Volume III

2007-12-20T23:05:00.000-05:00

Christmas came a bit early in the Dyckerson household this year. Guess what I found in my stocking (a.k.a. MAILBOX) the other day. That's right, it's yet another nastygram from the Nazis who run the neighborhood Homeowners' Association. I've written about these bastards before here and here. Well just take a look at what they have for me now.....

What in bloody hell is wrong with these assholes??! Can't they let me live in peace?? Well this time Dyckie's fighting back.....

Dear Nazi Cocksuckers With Nothing Better To Do With Your Time Than To Harass Me,

Do you Nazi cocksuckers have nothing better to do with your time than to harass me??! My property was just inspected by YOUR INSPECTORS a mere THREE MONTHS AGO. Why was the rake board issue not brought up at the time? I could have gotten the SAME CARPENTER who repaired my window trim to replace the rake board ON THE SAME DAY. Now you're telling me I have to sacrifice ANOTHER DAY'S PAY so I can sit at home and babysit ANOTHER FUCKING REPAIRMAN??!

You sure seem eager for me to contact First Class Contracting of Virginia. In fact, your entire letter looks suspiciously like a COMMERCIAL for their services. You wouldn't by any chance be getting any KICKBACKS from First Class Contracting of Virginia.....or WOULD YOU??! And what's with the fucking THIRTY DAYS NOTICE during the middle of holiday season?? You got a BALLOON PAYMENT due on your YACHT??!!

And what, pray tell, is a RAKE BOARD?? Sounds fucking MADE UP to me. I know what a RAKE is...and I know what a BOARD is...and they have NOTHING TO DO WITH EACH OTHER. A rake is a garden implement used for gathering leaves and stabbing children in the eyes. A board is just a hunk of wood. I think you just combined TWO RANDOM WORDS in hopes of fooling people: "Hmmm...You know Gladys, I worked in construction for 25 years, and I never heard of a rake board. But it sounds real. I guess we better fix it!" Nice try, assholes...but Mightonimous Q. Dyckerson wasn't born yesterday.

So bring on your fucking JUDICIAL HEARING and your MONETARY PENALTY. I'd love to see you try and collect. My posse and I will be waiting for you with our SHOVEL BLOCKS and our SPADE PLANKS...and by God, we know how to use them! Now GO SUCK A DICK!!!

There, I think I made my point. But just in case something should happen, can I crash with one of you guys for a while???

Joy to the World

2007-12-13T23:49:00.000-05:00

I fucking HATE the holidays. The endless traffic, the crowded stores, the bickering relatives, the shameless commercialism - you name it, it all SUCKS. But when a story like this comes along, it truly warms the cockles of my heart. And Lord knows my cockles could use some warming.

According to the story, some DIPSHIT REDNECK SUBURBANITE COCKSUCKER had a thousand dollars burning a hole in his pocket. He could've given it to the Christmas Motherfucker, Boys for Tits, or even the Salvation Smarmy and their BELL-RINGING ASS GOBLINS. But NOOO!!! This JACKHOLE decides to blow it all on tacky decorations for the front lawn of his shitty house. Yep, nothing says Christmas like a MATERIALISTIC ATTENTION WHORE going into debt to purchase a BREAK DANCING SANTA and a HOMERSEXUAL ELF who sings "Jingle Bells."

That's why I took great delight in reading that this douchebag's nativity obscene was vandalized not once...but TWICE!!! BWAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!! YES, VAGINA, THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS!!!!!

Of course, everybody on the news was acting all sympathetic and shit: "Awww, poor guy! He was just trying to get into the holiday spirit!" BULLSHIT. He was really just trying to illuminate THE ENTIRE EASTERN SEABOARD with his 5,000 strands of ENERGY SUCKING INCANDESCENT LIGHT BULBS he got on sale last January at K-Mart. I bet his fugly eyesore of a house was visible from outer space. THIS IS WHY THE TERRORISTS HATE US!!!

Then there was this story about another wacko nutjob. Seems some treacherous thug trashed his tacky trinkets too...so now all his whorenaments are rigged with TRIP WIRES, MOTION SENSORS, ALARMS, and CLOSED CIRCUIT VIDEO CAMERAS. In addition, he has a wide assortment of cheerful holiday signs like "SEASONS GREETINGS" and "HAPPY HOLIDAYS" and "KEEP OUT" and "HIGH VOLTAGE" and "TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT." Now there's a man who understands the TRUE MEANING of Christmas!!!

Included is footage of Rambo hunkered down in his holiday command center (a.k.a. TOOL SHED), surrounded by extension cords and TV monitors and armed with a HIGH CALIBER ASSAULT RIFLE. God help any unsuspecting squirrel who wanders into his yard. The plastic Rudolph is packed with enough nitroglycerine to blow that squirrel AND his nuts to kingdom come. I can almost hear G.I. Joe shouting, "MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS, YOU LITTLE COMMIE BASTARD!!!"

Finally, there's my personal favorite, the LIVE NATIVITY SCENE. You don't see those much anymore. People are always amazed at how the actors can stand perfectly still in the freezing cold for so long. Well let me tell you something. When those bastards see the high beams on my four wheel drive coming at them at FULL SPEED, they get out of the way PRETTY DAMN QUICK. Last time I did it, the three wise men were trampling all over the baby Jesus to get out of the way. And the Virgin Mary?? That dame can CURSE LIKE A SAILOR!!!

Somebody pass me some figgy pudding! It's gonna be a great Christmas!!!

Deadbeat Bloggers

2007-12-10T19:55:00.000-05:00

'Tis the season to be jolly...and to say adios to the delinquent bloggers in my sidebar. As you know, being a Mighty Blog affiliate is a privilege, not a right. And as such, I reserve the right to tell you to FUCK OFF if you refuse to regularly update your blog with high quality material such as that found here on The Mighty Blog. So without further ado, here is the latest round of fuckoffs. Did YOU make the list???

Because Scientists Really Are Funnier Than You Are - This is still an active blog, but dammit, it's too fucking hard to read. The text is too small, and it blends in to the background. Not only that, but the posts overlap into the right sidebar. Messy and not worth the effort.

Blog Portland - All you have to do is click the link to see why this blog is getting the axe. Our old friend McFatty apparently moved on without leaving a forwarding address. This is a big NO-NO per the Mighty Blog Affiliates Code:

Section II, Paragraph 3: An affiliate blog may not cease operations without the prior written consent of Mighty Dyckerson or a designated representative of Mighty Dyckerson Enterprises Worldwide.

I Must Be Slipping - Yeah, you're slipping, alright. You haven't updated your fucking blog since SEPTEMBER. Take a hike, loser.

Otaku Photog (AKA "EWink") - This guy is a news videographer. Every day he deals with fires, car wrecks, and mangled bodies. If anybody should have an ample supply of blog fodder, it's him. But does he share any of it with us?? NOOOOO!!! See you in Hell, EWink!!!

Randomness - She posts. She doesn't post. She posts. She doesn't post. I've tried coaching her. I've tried counseling her. I even paid for her boob job. Well I'm through with that bitch!*

Scary Monster - This is a perfect example of what happens when a new blogger takes to the Internets by storm, adding new blog posts several times every day. He set an impossible pace for himself, and eventually he got burned out. It's sad, really. It pains me to have to do this, but Monster, I'm FUCKING YOU OFF.

Surreptitious Psychosis - In her most recent post, Aza promises to update again soon. Well that was back in August. AUGUST, people!!! Well Aza, I'm deleting your blog SOON...and by soon, I mean NOW.

Tiny Voices in My Head - Here's a hot chick who had herself a really nice blog. Interesting content, lots of readers, everything you could ever ask for. But she had to piss it all away to start some girlie rock band and pretend to play guitar. I bet she only knows one chord. Such a shame.

Finally, there are several bloggers on the endangered species list. These blogs are hereby placed on PROBATION until they are updated by their rightful owners:

That's it, you've been warned! If you dipshits don't get your shit together fast, you're going on the chopping block during the next round of fuckoffs! HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!

* Please come back, darling!

Gettin' Schooled

2007-12-08T22:40:00.000-05:00

Let's travel down memory lane for yet another edition of
THE BEST OF DYCKERSON
Originally posted: 12/17/06

My philosophy on life is quite simple: The learning never stops. I am always looking for new ways to expand my knowledge and keep my mind sharp. That's why I was excited to find out that the Dyckersonville public school system offers its residents adult education classes for a modest fee.

I picked up a copy of the course catalog while I was surfing for porn at the library today. Problem is, all the classes are so interesting, I'm having a hard time deciding what to take. So i thought I'd share some of the offerings with you buttfuckers and get your opinions. Keep in mind these are actual course descriptions from the catalog:

At first, this one struck my fancy. I mean, who doesn't want to know where they came from? I could be a descendant of royalty! But then I thought about it. With my luck, I'll find out I'm one of Adolph Hitler's grandsons. Or worse yet, I could be Ms. Babble's long lost cousin. Not worth the risk. Besides, any course description that contains the word "finis" is too fucking gay for my ass. Moving on.....

Here I was intrigued by the eye-catching "NEW" indicator to the right of the title. A storytelling class may be just what I need to make The Mighty Blog even mightier! But why mess with perfection? And how about this sentence: "There will be a definite goal for which results to expect from the course." Excuse me, but that makes NO FUCKING SENSE. These people think they can teach me storytelling, yet they can't even write a coherent sentence in the course description?? And what's the deal with the tape recorder and blank audiotape? Who the fuck uses cassettes in this day and age??? Dyckerson does NOT do analog. Next.....

Now we're getting somewhere! There is nothing I would love more than to festoon my flip-flops with festive fun fur. But alas, I only have one pair of flip-flops...and the description clearly states that 2 pair are required. Damn them to Hell!!!!

Oooh, an eBay class! Perhaps I can get rich by opening my own eBay store and selling my fun fur! This is the ticket for me! But wait. I call your attention to the passage which I have highlighed in yellow for your convenience: "Due to time limitations and school regulations involving the Internet, this class will not involve hands-on with a computer." So lemme get this straight. It's a class about EBAY...which is a ONLINE SHOPPING SITE...but computers will not be made available??! Will there be an instructor, or is that against regulations too??! Let's continue.....

Ladies and gentlemen, I have found my true calling!!! And to think, I've wasted all this time working in a cube farm fucking around on a computer all day, when I could have been mastering the ancient art of clowning. Sure, the class is probably full of winos and pedophiles...but I have to start somewhere! I can just see myself now on graduation night, walking down that aisle in my cap, gown, and big red shoes to accept my diploma. Mom and Dad will be so proud!! That's it, I'm signing up today!!!!

Ode to Sassy Blondie

2007-12-04T19:45:00.000-05:00

And now, without further ado, the world premiere of my latest literary masterpiece...Ode to Sassy Blondie!!!

I once met a blogger
She was blonde and quite sassy
Her boobs were real perky
And she had a nice assy

She likes to wear pants
That are made out of flannel
We make out on the Internets
While I watch the porn channel

We chit and we chat
And I try to seduce her
But my sexual advances
Only serve to amuse her

This chick whom I know
Who is blonde and quite sassy
Has a heart that's as big
As all of Tallahassee

She hangs out in bookstores
With rude, horny gays
Their groping disgusts her
But she watches anyways

She goes to wild parties
To drink and to dance
She sends out text messages
Yet her phone's in her pants

Catholic is this chick
Who is blonde and quite sassy
She flirts with her priest
During midnight massy

The boys in her school
Graze against her heaving chest
They play with their wankers
And imagine her undressed

She was once almost killed
By a drunk in a Fury
Would've shot his dumb ass
If she hadn't been in a hurry

Did I mention that this chick
Who is blonde and quite sassy
Is a hell of a baker
And as sweet as molassy?

She made me a batch
Of chocolate chip cookies
I ate them all up
And I gave her some nookie

We're thinking of moving
To the city of Denver
But it's already too cold
And it's only December

Another thing about this chick
Who is blonde and quite sassy
She was stalked by a psycho -
Charged him with sexual harassy

We'll have a quick wedding
And a long honeymoon
She'll service my wang
And I'll lick her sweet poon

We'll marry and settle
And have dozens of kids
They'll wear out her hoo-ha
And they'll all die of SIDS

I'm in love with a blogger
Who is blonde and quite sassy
She beat me at dominoes
But her act is real classy

Special Delivery

2007-12-02T09:48:00.000-05:00

Everybody knows the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. But nobody knows this more than my good friend Sassy Blondie. Actually, she's more than just a good friend. If I have anything to do with it, she'll be the future Mrs. Dyckerson!

Yesterday I came home to find a very special package waiting for me on my doorstep. So special, in fact, that it even outranks the ONKYO TX-SR505S I received back in September. Take a look...

With great anticipation, I carefully lifted the box, made sure it wasn't ticking, and carried it into the kitchen. After placing the package on my filthy counter, I broke open the official post office seal using the same pair of scissors I had used to trim my pubes just one night before. Upon opening the box, I was greeted by a generous supply of everybody's favorite packing material, bubble wrap...

My first instinct was to pop every single one of those bubbly little fuckers, but I had bigger fish to fry. And after frying my fish, I returned to my mystery package, yanked out the bubble wrap, and unveiled my reward...

Yes, not even high-end electronics can beat a batch of DELICIOUS HOMEMADE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES loving baked to perfection by a SASSY BLONDE! Am I right guys??! Not only that, but check out the wrapping...

FOUR DOZEN COOKIES...each dozen sealed in its own plastic baggy by a colorful festive ribbon!! I hope the people at Chips Ahoy are reading this, because THIS is how you make chocolate chip cookies!! Not only did Ms. Blondie bake these delectable morsels JUST FOR ME, but look at this...

This woman spent nearly TEN FUCKING DOLLARS on postage alone!! I spent less than that on my first blowjob! If that isn't love, I don't know what is. The package also contained a card, which is all good and well, but I wanted those fucking cookies!!

So moist...so chewy...so packed with sassy goodness! Each mouth watering cookie personally licked by Ms. Blondie for extra sweetness! I couldn't eat just one! In fact, I couldn't eat just one dozen! That's right, I ate ALL 48 COOKIES in one sitting and washed it down with a bottle of ice cold Corona Light! As I spent the remainder of the evening puking my guts out, I kept thinking to myself, I'm going to marry that woman.

Of course, one good turn deserves another. That's why I'm going to make my sweet Sassy Blondie a pot of Grandpa Dyckerson's famous PORK RIND STEW! No need to thank me, darling. You're worth it. And not only that, but I am currently putting the finishing touches on my latest opus - a little something I like to call Ode to Sassy Blondie. The literary community is already buzzing about this poetic masterpiece, and in a couple of days, you'll be able to read it for yourself...right here, on The Mighty Blog! Stay tuned!!!

Fuck Candlelight Vigils

2007-11-29T21:40:00.000-05:00

I have a few things to say about this Sean Taylor business. You know, the Redskins football player who got his ass capped by a supposed "burglar." Look, I'm sorry the dude died. That's gotta be a real bummer. I'm sure his family is really choked up about it, as they should be.

OK, now that we have the politically correct shit out of the way, tell me this. Why the fuck am I supposed to give a rat's ass about some JOCK STRAP FILLER who spent his free time HANGING OUT IN GANGS?? Take a look at this picture:

This guy was no saint. Grandpa Dyckerson had a saying for folks like him: "You sleep with dogs, you're gonna get fleas!" Grandpa Dyckerson also had another saying: "Fuck you, you fucking farting robots! Suck my dead pig!" Yeah, Grandpa Dyckerson wasn't right in the head. But that's another story.

My point is, I don't understand why everybody is bawling over Sean Taylor's death like he was the Pontiff. He didn't cure cancer. He didn't discover Uranus. Hell, he didn't even invent a longer lasting light bulb. All he did was get paid a RIDICULOUS AMOUNT OF MONEY to run around a FUCKING FIELD chasing after an ODDLY SHAPED BALL. I get that he and his team had fans. What I DON'T get is how anybody with even ONE OUNCE OF SANITY can fill up their SUVs with gasoline at three bucks a gallon, drop another fifty on flowers and shit, and drive all the way to fucking ASHBURN to hold a fucking CANDLELIGHT VIGIL for this numbnut. Don't these idiots have anything BETTER TO DO with their time and money??!

Now before you accuse me of being an insensitive prick, keep this in mind: PEOPLE DIE EVERY DAY. Good, decent, hard-working people like you and me. Well, me at least. I'm talking about DOCTORS and NURSES and TEACHERS and PORN STARS and LEGGY SUPERMODELS and POP SINGERS and MONKEY CLOWN BLOGGERS. These are people who deserve our RESPECT and ADMIRATION. You don't see anybody erecting statues for us when we croak!

So stop fawning and drooling all over these JACKASS JOCKS like they're gods and show some appreciation for our REAL HEROES...

More Shit

2007-11-26T23:38:00.000-05:00

My dear friends, today I'd like to talk to you about Medialine. Medialine is a web site that can be found on the Internets via the World Wide Web. It's a job posting site for people who are unfortunate enough to work in the TV industry. Hopefully none of you fall into that category, but the folks at Medialine do have a new and improved message board called Open Line Forum. This was the birthplace of Mighty Dyckerson.

With over 6,000 witty and insightful posts spanning over five years, I am somewhat of an icon there. And now, YOU, my loyal Mighty Blog readers, can join the fun!! All you have to do is click this link to Open Line Forum and register today! When you do, you'll be joining an exciting online community filled with lively discussion, hilarious comedy, and much much more! Plus I'll be gaining valuable referral points I can redeem for fabulous prizes!

I know what you're thinking: "But Dyckerson, I don't work in the media!" Well no problemo, senor! Medialine's Open Line Forum has a general discussion board designed especially for you! You can talk about anything from politics and current events to flatulence and body odor! And that's just ONE THREAD! So what are you waiting for?? Sign up today!!!!!

********************

While we're on the subject of the media, I thought I'd share with you a story from my days working behind the scenes in local TV. One of my earlier jobs was working in master control at a small independent station. Part of this job required me to make dubs of commercials to air during the station's programming. Pretty dull shit. Anyway, one day I had to dub off a copy of a hearing aid commercial. As a little experiment, I thought it would be interesting to dub the on-air copy without audio. That way, everybody would be running to their phones to order hearing aids!! So I dubbed the spot and stuck the tape on the shelf. It aired dozens of times for several months.....but nobody noticed.

True story.

Stuff THIS!

2007-11-21T19:36:00.000-05:00

Every year around Thanksgiving, bloggers around the world take time to write lameass posts listing all the shit they're thankful for. Some try to be profound; others try to be clever and witty. Well here's a news flash for you: NOBODY GIVES A FUCK. I don't think any of you turkey pluckers understand the true meaning of this holiday. Well lucky for you, Dyckerson is here. So sit back, grab your giblets, and prepare to be schooled.....

The first official Thanksgiving occurred in 1619 when a ship full of drunken homersexuals returning from a gay cruise crash landed somewhere upon the shores of Massachusetts. Just then, a group of Indian tech support guys drove by in a beat-up Plymouth Voyager and threw rocks at them. But the queers shielded themselves with their brightly colored turtleneck sweaters, causing the rocks to bounce back and hit the Indians, leaving red marks on their foreheads. Fortunately for the Indians, their telephone headsets prevented them from sustaining any major injuries. The fight was declared a draw, the buttonheads declared peace with the flamers, and the group decided to celebrate by gorging themselves with a shitload of grub.

They all agreed to meet at Mujibar Gupta's wigwam since he had a big screen TV. Everybody had to bring one covered dish. Sir Harry "Butterball" Cox cooked a turkey. Woody "Sweet Potato" Johnson baked a pie. Khadar Patel brought some disgusting curry dish that everybody hated. And Captain Richard Swanson brought some of his frozen TV dinners...but then they remembered the microwave oven hadn't been invented yet, so they ditched them at a homeless shelter.

Things got a little crazy during the feast. Harry dipped his "drumstick" in a vat of gravy and Woody licked it clean in front of everybody. The Indians just ignored it and continued to provide their callers with excellent customer service. But then Habib spilled cranberry sauce on one of Srujana's scripts, causing him to lose his place. Srujana then slammed down his phone and began pelting Habib with scalding hot biscuits, insulting his mother in a foreign language.

Following dinner, the macacas retired to the living room, smoked some tobacco, and watched a televised broadcast of men throwing large spherical objects at one another. Meanwhile, the homersexuals stayed in the kitchen and browsed at the sale ads in the newspaper.

The next morning, the whole gang played hooky from work and headed to the marketplace to take advantage of their doorbuster deals. Sadly, Butterball was trampled to death by a pack of crazed colonists desperate to purchase iPhonographs for their snotty little kids. After filling up the Plymouth with all sorts of cheap American crap, the swamis and the queers parted company and went their separate ways.

And so ends the story of the first Thanksgiving. Now pass the stuffing, dipshit.

Virginia is for Bloggers

2007-11-18T22:48:00.000-05:00

And now, a message from Mighty Dyckerson, ambassador and unofficial spokesdyck for the Commonwealth of Virginia Board of Tourism...

Virginia is a state rich in history and natural beauty. Founded in 1776 by Virginius W. Cornholio, it is home to over 10,000 people and nearly 400 species of wildlife*. The economy is thriving**, the crime rate is low***, and the job market is strong****. Bottom line, Virginia is a terrific place to live...especially if you're a certain sassy blonde who is thinking about relocating and raising a family.

There is plenty to see and do in our fair state. You'll find endless beauty from the white sands of Virginia Beach.....

.....to the majestic peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Virginia is also home to historic Jamestown where you can buy postcards with pictures of gay homosexuals and clever captions that say "Visit Jamestown."

Another interesting fact about Virginia: TV's Andy Griffith once took a dump at a rest stop in Manassas while on his way home to North Carolina!

Let's say you're getting on in years and are nearing retirement age. Virginia's assisted living facilities are among the best in the nation!***** And you can die here knowing your body will be buried in some of the most fertile soil on the entire eastern seaboard!******

So what are you waiting for? Come one, come all to Virginia!!!

* These are rough estimates. Emphasis on ROUGH.
** Especially if you're in the illegal narcotics business.
*** If you don't count murders, thefts, and assaults.
**** McDonald's is always hiring.
***** OK, I completely made that one up.
****** Granted that's not saying much.

Trails And Tribulations

2007-11-14T20:14:00.000-05:00

I have new respect for the DyckMobile. Last weekend I took her to the mountains with a group of 4-wheeling rednecks for an off road adventure. I thought it would be a good opportunity to connect with nature and possibly score some hillbilly poon. You see, I had offered my empty seats to two female non-Jeep owners whom I had yet to meet. I was hoping at least one of them would look like Daisy Duke - you know, before she got old and fat. Boy was I wrong.

We met at an Exxon station near the trail head. Chick #1 was this short, squatty, rather talkative creature. I don't want to say this woman was ugly, but I've seen better looking bitches in Michael Vick's back yard. Chick #2 was a middle aged broad - divorced, grown kids, etc. I could practically hear her hoo-ha drying up from ten feet away. Yeah, this was going to be a fun day.

First thing you have to do before doing any serious off roading is air down your tires to improve traction. This rather complicated process involves jamming a key into your valve stems to allow air to escape. My passengers offered to assist, but seeing as they didn't know what the fuck a valve stem was, I opted to do it myself. I wasn't about to put the DyckMobile in the hands of two clueless cackling hens.

As I finished deflating the last tire, Chick #1 piped up: "PUT THE TOP DOWN! PUT THE TOP DOWN!" she screamed.

"Are you sure about that?" I asked her. "It's going to be pretty chilly once we get moving."

Her response: "PUT THE TOP DOWN! PUT THE TOP DOWN! WOO HOO!"

Chick #2 didn't give a damn one way or another, so reluctantly I removed the vinyl windows and lowered the canvas top. Then I brushed myself off, hopped back in the Heep, and started on our way.

At first, it was just dirt and gravel. If I had to compare the size of these rocks to one of my co-bloggers, I'd say they were about the size of Ms. Babble's ta-tas. So small, you really couldn't feel anything. I tried to take in the fresh air and enjoy the scenery, but Chick #1 wasn't having it.

"I'M COLD! PUT THE TOP UP!" she whined. I knew this was coming.

I muttered a string a four-letter words as I struggled to reassemble the top half of the DyckMobile. Meanwhile, the post-menopausal chick whipped out her digital camera and began snapping photos of anything and everything. You'd think this broad had never seen a squirrel before.

"MY CAMERA'S NOT WORKING! MY CAMERA'S NOT WORKING!" she whined. I ripped it out of her wrinkled claws and chucked it into a stream.

Further along the trail, the rocks got considerably larger. I'd say about the size of Sassy Blondie's boobies. As I'm sure you can imagine, the DyckMobile was hopping and bouncing all over the place. It was all I could do to maintain control of my penis...I mean, the wheel.

"WOO-HOO! GO FASTER! GO FASTER! WOO HOO!" yelled Chick #1.

I might have been turned on by that statement if she hadn't looked like Humpty Dumpty. Instead, she was just pissing me off. And did I mention the dime store perfume she was wearing?? Two weeks have gone by, and the DyckMobile STILL reeks of that bitch!

We bounced around for another hour and then stopped for lunch. Unfortunately there was no Burger Hole in the wilderness, so I had to settle for a cold bologna sandwich and a juice box. I felt like I was in fucking grammar school again. At this point I had to pee like a race horse, so I sneaked away from the group and knocked some bark off a tree.

The remainder of the trail was quite challenging. The biggest rocks yet - almost the size of RevRee's knockers. I was afraid we would bottom out or get stuck, but thanks to my superior driving skills, I was able to maneuver over and around the massive obstacles.

"GO FASTER! GO FASTER! WOO HOO!" screamed Humpty Dumpty.

I stopped the vehicle and turned around. "LISTEN HERE, YOU FAT FUCK! WHEN YOU GET YOUR OWN JEEP, YOU CAN ABUSE IT ANY WAY YOU WANT. BUT THIS ONE IS MINE, AND UNLESS YOU WANT TO PAY FOR MY FRONT END ALIGNMENT, I SUGGEST YOU LET ME DO THE DRIVING! NOW SHUT THE HELL UP OR YOU'LL BE SPENDING THE NIGHT OUT HERE!!!"

I might have gone a bit too far there. I really need to do something about my temper.

Finally we reached the end of the trail and I was able to dump the two broads by the side of the road. But I have to say, I'm quite proud of the DyckMobile for surviving the trip. Now if I could only get it to stop smelling like a five dollar whore.....

Your $$$ At Work

2007-11-10T09:20:00.000-05:00

I'm happy to inform you that the Mighty Blog writers' strike may be nearing an end! Yes, the protestors are showing signs of weakening...especially since I put the live scorpions in their shorts. But until the writers are back at work, I thought I would regale you with an insider's look at Dyckerson's day job.

Some bloggers don't like to write about their jobs for fear of being outed. I don't have this fear. I stopped giving a shit long ago, mainly because I hate my fucking job. Basically I work in I.T. for a huge, faceless corporation that steals from its customers and robs its employees of their will to live. That's right, it's an insurance company. I've written about it many times before - like my jackass co-workers...my dipshit managers...and the shitty building itself. But I don't think I've ever shared with you how much goddamn time gets wasted here.

This place has all the efficiency of a toilet filled with bricks. You want to know why your insurance premiums are so fucking high?? Here's what I do in a nut's hell: Each month I receive a file on my computer device. This file contains data. I take the file and move it to another folder on my computer device. (Are you with me so far??) Once the file has been moved to the correct folder, I run a simple application on my computer device. This application copies the data in the file and pastes it into something we call a data warehouse. (Not to be confused with a data whorehouse, which is an entirely different matter.) Anyway, all I have to do to run this application is edit two lines of code and click a few buttons. A Rhesus monkey could do it. Hell, a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup could do it.

How long do you think this process takes? An hour or two?? Before you answer, I forgot to tell you I have to document every step I take ad nauseum. When I receive the file, I have to document it. When I move the file, I have to document it. When I copy the file to the data warehouse, I have to document that as well. And once I'm done documenting everything, I have to document the fact that I documented it.

NOW how long do you think this process takes? Wait, don't answer yet! I didn't mention the endless meetings and conference calls I must attend nearly EVERY FUCKING DAY. I meet with retarded clients who don't understand why they can't send us data in a different format without telling us. I meet with useless managers who want us to find ways to improve our process so they can look good to THEIR useless managers. I've never had a meeting that didn't end with me having MORE WORK.

NOW how long do you think this process takes? Stop right there, Pedro!! I neglected to tell you about the nasty emails from the Refrigerator Nazi and the constant interruptions from my loudmouth cube neighbor and the endless problems with our network that go ignored by our incompetent Help Desk whose members spend their time playing computer Solitaire and Texas Hang 'Em or whatever the fuck it's called.

NOW how long do you think this process takes? A day or two? Maybe a week?? Try ONE MONTH...and that's if I'm LUCKY (which, if you read my blog with any regularity whatsoever, you'll know I am NOT). That's right, a full month is required to move a file and load it into a database. Of course, there's a little more to it than that, but I had to dumb it down a bit for you morons. Still, it shouldn't take THIRTY FUCKING DAYS to load a file.

I can see why so many I.T. jobs are moving to India. I bet those foreign fuckers don't have to comb through tons of email and attend stupid meetings every day. They just go to work, move their files, and return to their tepees where they smoke their crack pipes and make novelty ashtrays to sell to retarded Americans on eBay. Which reminds me, I need to check my account. I hope nobody has outbid me...

STRIKE!

2007-11-06T19:49:00.000-05:00

There's a major crisis here at the headquarters of Mighty Blog. Last night at exactly 12:01am, my entire writing staff walked off the job complaining of low wages and poor working conditions. People, I am in shock here! I'm the greatest boss in the world! It even says so on the coffee mug I bought for myself from Target!

Low wages??! I pay each and every one of my writers in authentic "Dyck Dollars," which can be used to purchase a wide assortment of Mighty Dyckerson merchandise at the Mighty Blog Novelty Shoppe. For example, with their employee discount, writers can acquire one of my gently used condoms for only $90 Dyck Dollars! That's nearly 1% off the retail price!*

Poor working conditions??! WTF? My writers get relatively clean drinking water and two heaping bowls of rice every day...plus I personally hose down their cages at least once a month. Now while it is true that underperforming writers are subject to random tasing, I would hardly consider that a bad thing. So one guy died last week. The fans come first! Besides, how was I supposed to know the bastard had a fucking pacemaker??

Anyway, until we can get this misunderstanding cleared up, you may notice a few changes around here. First, there will be far fewer jokes about poon, poop, and Ms. Babble's illegitimate children. Instead, expect to read more jokes about Ovaltine, airplane peanuts, and Ms. Babble's sexual promiscuity.

In addition, I may occasionally have to resort to reusing old material. I will make every effort to ensure that these insertions are as seamless as possible. You probably won't even notice it. (Did I tell you about that tramp Ms. Babble?? Geez, does she ever get around!!)

And finally, many of my witty, satirical posts will be replaced by grainy cell phone pictures of Miracle Ass:

But fear not, Dyck fans! I have several bargaining tools at my disposal, and I am quite confident that we can negotiate a deal that is fair and just.....

* Not including 5% sales tax and 10% processing fee.

They're Back!!!

2007-11-03T09:15:00.000-04:00

I'm talking, of course, about the best freakin' band the world has ever known - The Eagles, baby! That's Glenn Frey, Joe Walsh, Timothy B. Schmit, and the incomparable DON HENLEY! Last week they released their first studio album in 28 years! It's called LONG ROAD OUT OF EDEN, and it's available exclusively at your local Wal-Mart and/or Sam's Club store. If you have not already purchased this fine piece of musical brilliance, then WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU??! This two-disc album contains 20 songs and sells at a price point of $11.88 - that's less than 60 CENTS PER SONG! A full 39 CENTS CHEAPER than iTunes! Plus, it includes a handy CARDBOARD SLEEVE to store your CD's *AND* a booklet containing LYRICS, ALBUM CREDITS, and pictures of ELDERLY MEN and SAND. WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR??!

Perhaps you're wondering if the boys still have the touch after all these years. Well allow me to allay your fears by dissecting LONG ROAD OUT OF EDEN track by track!

No More Walks in the Wood - The album starts off with this haunting tune sung acapulco by all four members of the band. It's Seven Bridges Road, only about trees instead of bridges!

How Long - This J.D. Souther cover sounds like a cross between Take It Easy and Already Gone. The Eagles used to play this in concerts in the early 70s...now it's back for all to enjoy! Check out the music video on YouTube!

Busy Being Fabulous - Instant classic! With lead vocals by Mr. Henley, this catchy tune has a bit of a Lyin' Eyes sentiment in the lyrics.

What Do I Do With My Heart - I've only listened to this one a couple of times. I don't remember, but I think it's about organ donation. Sung by Glenn Frey.

Guilty Of The Crime - Originally by the Bellamy Brothers, whom I've never heard of. They should be thanking Joe Walsh for breathing new life into their otherwise shitty music.

I Don't Want To Hear Anymore - One of Timothy Schmit's two contributions on the album, this tune has a soulful, I Can't Tell You Why feel to it.

Waiting In The Weeds - "I've been biding time with the crows and sparrows/While peacocks prance and strut up on the stage." First-ever peacock reference in an Eagles song! Chicks are sure to dig this sensitive shit.

No More Cloudy Days - Previously released on the Live From Melbourne DVD. A good song, but it sounds like a reject from one of Glenn Frey's forgettable solo albums.

Fast Company - Mr. Henley showcases his incredible vocal range by singing this entire song falsetto. God bless him!

Do Something - A lovely tune sung by Timothy Schmit with a bridge by Mr. Henley. Another sensitive song that's sure to have the bitches nice and moist!

Long Road Out Of Eden - Disc 2 starts out with this Don Henley opus. Clocks in at over ten minutes, but feels like only five. THAT'S HOW FUCKING GOOD IT IS! "Went down the road to Damascus, the road to Mandalay/Met the ghost of Caesar on the Appian Way." Holy shit, I don't know what the hell he's talking about, but it sounds damn impressive! Excellent guitar work by Joseph Walsh. The $11.88 is worth it for this song alone!

I Dreamed There Was No War - An instrumental piece of crap by Glenn Frey. You have my permission to skip this track.

Somebody - Finally Glenn redeems himself! This spooky rocker has a Witchy Woman-ish sound.

Frail Grasp On The Big Picture - "All your romantic liasons/Don't deal with eternal questions like/Who left the cap off the freaking toothpaste?/Whose turn to take the garbage out?" Who says Don Henley doesn't have a sense of humor??!

Last Good Time In Town - Classic Walsh! 'Nuff said!

I Love To Watch A Woman Dance - Mr. Henley said in an interview that he felt there were a few tracks that shouldn't have been on the album. Undoubtedly this piece of shit sung by Glenn Frey is one of them.

Business As Usual - "Monuments to arrogance reach for the sky/Our better nature's buried in the rubble/We got the prettiest White House that money can buy/Sitting up there in that beltway bubble." Don's pissed, and he ain't gonna take it anymore! Dirty Laundry, only BETTER!

Center Of The Universe - Another haunting tune with some beautiful harmonies. Hell, now I'M getting moist!!

It's Your World Now - Disc 2 concludes with this Mexican sounding tune reminiscent of Tequila Sunrise. A fitting ending to what will probably be the band's last album.

Now RUN - don't drive - to your nearest Wal-Mart and BUY THIS FUCKING ALBUM! And tell 'em Dyckie sentcha!!!!!!

The Call of the Wild

2007-10-24T21:24:00.000-04:00

The life of a superstar blogger is wrought with incredible stress. Week after week I am under constant pressure to produce the top quality entertainment you've come to expect from The Mighty Blog. Trust me, it's no day on the bitch. Sometimes I just need to take a day or two and get away from it all. So last weekend, I loaded up the DyckMobile with rations and headed for the mountains to become one with nature. (Long time readers may remember my previous trip back in 2005.)

The area was teeming with rare and exotic wildlife, and being the animal lover I am, I couldn't resist the opportunity to take a snapshot or three. Take a look for yourself.....

The first animal I encountered was the North American zebra, easily identifiable by its squinty eyes and mix of black and white coloring. They are nomadic creatures who tend to roam the midwest in search of career opportunities. Their fingers are incredibly nimble, making them quite adept at text messaging.

This rare bird is known chiefly by its scientific name, boobicus giganticus. The female of this species is characterized by their enormous teets, which they often use to gain favor with males especially during mating season.

I used my telephoto lens to snap this photo of the ferocious grizzly hor. Note its furry coat and devilish grin. These animals are extremely dangerous and are best avoided. But if cornered, your best defense is to rub its crotch until it curls up in a ball and purrs like a kitten. They tend to hibernate in winter and masturbate in spring, summer, and fall.

This is the giant hooterfly, an interesting specimen known mainly for its filthy mouth. The hooterfly is attracted to gay hairdressers and feeds mainly on a steady diet of fermented beverages.

Not long after spotting the hooterfly, I managed to capture the first known photograph of the elusive sassysquatch. The picture turned out rather blurry, but I'm betting I can still sell this photo to the The Globe.

Here is the infamous monsteria scaricus, or scary monster. This slimy, disgusting creature is known for its poor grammar and its violent stomping behavior.

This hideous beast is the flat chested horny babbler, a rather unintelligent species that breeds at an alarming rate. In fact, they are such a nuisance that hunters are encouraged to shoot them on sight to help reduce their population.

Next up is the dixie chick, an outspoken foul with controversial political beliefs. They are often spotted around trailer parks, tractor pulls, and NASCAR events. This particular dixie chick was strutting its tail feathers in search of a cock to mate with.

At one point on my journey, I was almost attacked by this rabid British coon. These coons, which are native to England, Turkey, and other third world countries, feed mostly on tea and krumpets. Their thick coats are the perfect breeding ground for ticks and therefore carry lymie disease.

And finally, the highlight of my trip: A rare sighting of the handsome silver tongued poon hound. Known for its extremely large genitalia, only one of these magnificent beasts exists in captivity and is scheduled to be released in 15 months (12 on good behavior).

AFFILIATE ALERT

2007-10-22T14:35:00.000-04:00

ATTENTION ALL MIGHTY BLOG AFFILIATES: Some of you may have been experiencing difficulty viewing the wonderful graphic elements that make up The Mighty Blog. After conducting an exhaustive investigation, I have determined the culprit: Comcast online storage. This is where I keep The Mighty Blog's image files, and apparently the geniuses at Comcast recently made a change that rendered the images invisible to users of Internets Explorer. Therefore I have moved all of The Mighty Blog graphics to an alternate online storage service. This includes The Mighty Blog mascot, The Mighty Blog banner, The Mighty Blog flashing light matrix, The Mighty Blog sidebar headers, and last but not least, The Mighty Blog Seal Of Affiliation.

Many of you have the official Seal Of Affiliation prominently displayed on your blogs. If you have your own copies of the Seal Of Affiliation, then you're fine. However, if you are hot linking to my old storage site on Comcast, you will need to update your code to point to the new site located here, on Botophucket. You have 48 hours to comply with this directive, or your affiliate status may be subject to immediate suspension or revocation.

And now, a final word to the folks at Comcrap. This ordeal has caused me a great deal of emotional stress and anxiety. As such, I feel I should be compensated. You will be hearing from my attorneys in short order. And a word of warning: They're Jewish. I suggest you accept the settlement they are proposing. That is all.

A Night at the Oprah

2007-10-19T23:48:00.000-04:00

Lambo isn't the only blogger who has been sending me disturbing correspondences. Last week I received rather a suspicious plain white envelope in the mail from our old friend RevRee. I immediately sent it to the boys in the lab* to have it tested for anthrax and nerve gas, but luckily it turned out negative. Upon opening the package, I was overcome by noxious fumes emanating from deep inside. For a moment I thought I would have to fire the boys in the lab and get me some new boys. But I was later informed by RevRee that the caustic substance was commercially available form of perfume known as a "body splash." Now I don't know about you, but I always thought "body splash" was something that happened on the toilet after eating too much chili.

I dumped the contents of the package on the kitchen counter. The first thing that caught my eye was a greeting card with a black and white photo of a somewhat homely woman in a cheerleading outfit. Printed on the inside of the card: "Edward was secretly amused after winning the title of Miss Lubbock." And scribbled underneath was something to the effect of, "HA HA HA, isn't that funny??!" Sorry RevRee, but the only greeting cards I enjoy are the ones that contain cash. But thanks anyway.

The other item contained in this package was a gold, shiny disc-shaped object with the words "OPRAH DAVE" written in black magic marker. Must be a CD by some new rock group, I thought. But then I remembered: Eight years ago, RevRee promised to send me a DVD of David Letterman's appearance on the Oprah show. (Apparently the mail is a little slow in the Podunk town she lives in.)

Before I continue, let's set the record straight. I do not like Oprah or any of her book club joining, spirit feeling, Maya Angelou worshiping followers. These brainwashed yentas and their scented candles are a danger to society and need to be stopped. However, I do enjoy the comedy stylings of Mr. David Letterman, a man who rarely appears on other peoples' shows. So it was with great anticipation that I slid the OPRAH DAVE disc in my DVD player.

I don't think I've ever sat through an entire Oprah program in my entire life...and after sitting through this DVD, now I know why. The show begins with Oprah's grand entrance. I swear to you, when this woman walks into a room, it was like the second coming of Christ. I haven't heard so much hooting and hollering since alcohol-induced night of debauchery with a certain Ms. Babble. Oprah's intro was shot with approximately 37 cameras, NONE OF WHICH appear to be in focus. I'm guessing that's the way Oprah likes it.

Oprah said a few words to her loyal subjects, but it was hard to hear anything over the cackling and screaming. Finally, Dave came out and took a seat in one of Oprah's oversized, overpadded chairs. Oprah then proceeded to ask Dave a series of predictable questions about fatherhood, being a comedian, and surviving a sextuple heart bypass. Really groundbreaking material.

I just don't get it. How the fuck did this no-talent nappy headed ho get to be fucking famous?? What do you bitches see in her anyway??! Geez, if you're going to idolize somebody, it should be a MAN...and that man should be ME!

To add insult to injury, Dave didn't even do the full hour. The second half of the show consisted of a mind blowing interview with the one and only Lisa Marie Presley, who spoke for 20 minutes about what it's like having Presley for a last name. Oprah reached for a box of Kleenex as the obligatory sobbing began. It was at this point that I snatched the DVD from the player, tossed it in my own Presley, and shat upon it with great vigor. (Can you say IRONY???)

Now let that serve as a lesson for the rest of you. If you're thinking of sending me a package, that package better contain CASH, PORN, or a combination of cash AND porn. You got that??!

* I do not have a lab, nor do I have any boys. Unless you count my houseboy Pepe.

Well I'll Be Lambed

2007-10-16T23:09:00.000-04:00

Results of the latest (and first) Mighty Blog poll are in. As you may recall, the issue was whether or not I should add Lambo's blog to my sidebar. Well the people have spoken, and the answer is clear. A whopping 80% of you do NOT want Lambo to be a Mighty Blog affiliate! I was fully prepared to not add Lambo to my list...that is, until I received this rather disturbing message in my inbox:

LISTEN HERE, YOU WORTHLESS LITTLE SHIT STAIN. YOU BETTER ADD MY FUCKING BLOG TO YOUR DAMN SIDEBAR, OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL COME TO YOUR HOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT AND CHOKE YOU TO DEATH WITH A GIANT WAD OF MY ASS WOOL. THEN I'M GOING TO CUT OFF YOUR BIG FAT HEAD WITH A CHAIN SAW AND SHIT DOWN YOUR NECK. DO WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER??! PRAISE JESUS!!!

Ladies and gentlemen, I was just as shocked and appalled as you are. To think this supposedly sweet, innocent ovine could have such a dark side!! I have nothing else to say except......Please join me in welcoming The Mighty Blog's newest affiliate, Lambo the Foul-Mouthed Ewe!

A Day in the Life

2007-10-13T07:31:00.000-04:00

03:13am - Have a horrible dream in which I couldn't breathe.

03:20am - Turns out I really can't breathe. Wake up GASPING FOR BREATH because my fucking nose (which hasn't worked right since that jackass surgeon botched my rhinoplasty following the Great Car Crash of '94) is stopped up (AGAIN).

04:30am - Somehow manage to fall asleep (or did I just pass out from a lack of oxygen?).

06:22am - Wake up - again, startled and gasping for breath. Realize I will likely DIE IN MY SLEEP from asphyxiation. It's also fucking FREEZING because the temperature plummeted 90 degrees and I left the damn window open.

07:15am - Get out of bed, pour myself some OJ, and take a massive - I mean MASSIVE - dump. I try to wipe myself, but I didn't know I still had a dingleberry hanging on back there, so I end up smearing shit all over my ass crack. Conclusion: THIS IS GOING TO BE A BANNER DAY.

07:52am - Somehow manage to leave for work a few minutes early. For a moment, I actually feel good about myself...that is, until I encounter gridlock on I-64. The cause? A stalled vehicle...way off to the SHOULDER...on the OTHER SIDE OF THE FUCKING HIGHWAY. NICE GOING, ASSHOLES.

08:40am - Arrive at my shitty job ten minutes late, despite leaving ten minutes early. Throw my lunch in the freezer, pour myself some lukewarm water from the tap, and attempt to dispense some ice from the ice machine...only the ice machine is fucking EMPTY because moments ago some SELF-CENTERED JACKASS SALES WEASEL decided to steal it all for some DUMBASS CONFERENCE down the hall.

08:46am - Return to my desk in open my email. Email #1 is a message from my boss informing me that I'm supposed to be filling in for the FTP guy the next two days while he hangs out at a racetrack with a bunch of redneck dipshits. Fantastic. I am already SWAMPED with work which will not get done on time anyway...and now this. I spend the next TWO HOURS transferring data and answering questions from retards who don't know how to extract a zip file.

11:01am - On the verge of dehydration, I go to the break room to check on the ice machine. Still empty. Decide to purchase a beverage from the vending machine. Turn around only to see said vending machine being rolled out the door on a dolly. I consider throwing myself in front of it.

11:07am - Receive email from the lactating bitch in Reporting who gets to leave every day at 3:00 because she's a new mother and should therefore get special treatment. Bitch is all hot and bothered because 5,000 records in the database did not have customer ID's. That's 5,000 records...out of TWENTY MILLION. Waste the next several hours trying to sort out this mess in order to appease the bitch and her worn-out uterus.

12:00pm - Back to the break room to retrieve my lunch from the frig, only to find out I stuck it in the FREEZER by mistake. I steal somebody's pot pie and nuke it.

12:54pm - I go in the "Mother's Room" and jack off in a plastic cup. Pray to God that the bitch finds it the next time she goes in there to pump her tits.

02:23pm - Get invited to Salsa Boy's LAMEASS HALLOWEEN PARTY. I hate this guy when I'm at work, why the hell would I want to go to his house on my own time??!

03:17pm - Another email from my boss: "Why did you let so-and-so take over your project without consulting me first?" Gee, I don't know. Maybe because it's HIS FUCKING CLIENT anyway??! If you've got a problem with that, why don't you just mosey your ass over to my desk (a whopping FIFTEEN FEET AWAY) and talk to me FACE-TO-FACE??!

03:48pm - Yet another email from my boss: "You're late getting this other project done. What's the deal?" The deal is, you stuck me with the GODDAMN FTP JOB without telling me in advance, you SNIVELING LITTLE PRICK. And if you'd quit interrupting me EVERY FIVE MINUTES, maybe I could actually GET SOMETHING DONE. Or better yet, stop playing manager and DO IT YOURSELF. Or better yet, take your piece-o'-shit BMW for a drive and WRAP IT AROUND A TREE, you ASSHOLE.

04:55pm - I pass the bitch in the hall on the way to the can. She appears to be disturbed about something. Conclusion: SHE FOUND THE JIZZ CUP! There is a God!!!

05:30pm - Spend another 45 minutes in gridlock on I-64. The stalled car from this morning has been replaced by a jack knifed tractor trailer with three children pinned underneath it. At least that's something worth seeing.

06:45pm - Pull up to the Wendy's drive-thru, order three items from the dollar menu, and wait 15 minutes for the soccer mom in the minivan in front of me to dispute her order with the cashier. Apparently she wanted her cheeseburger medium well. It's fucking WENDY'S, you CUNT RAG. Consider yourself lucky the meat actually landed on the bun and GET OUT OF MY WAY!

07:02pm - Receive a strange package in the mail from RevRee. It's a DVD of Dave Letterman on Oprah from about seven years ago. Oh, and she included a note inside: "I'm pregnant and you're the father."

07:15pm - Open my rear patio door for a little fresh air, only to have my nostrils assaulted by a HORRID STENCH. Apparently something had DIED in my back yard.

07:17pm - I inspect the yard, and sure enough, there's a dead bird under a bush. I puke up my chicken nuggets, grab a shovel from the shed, and fling that fucker over the fence and into the asshole neighbor's yard. WELCOME TO MY WORLD, BASTARDS!!

08:00pm - Turn on the TV hoping for some high quality prime-time network programming. Instead, I get "Singing with D-List Celebrities" on ABC. I toss an ax through the screen.

09:12pm - Dial up the internets and check my eHarmony account. Great news: I have been matched with Helga, a 53 year old mother of three who's into NASCAR, Harleys, and long walks on the beach.

10:45pm - Time for a snack: A glass of milk and four Ding Dongs.

11:30pm - Suffer a mild heart attack and go to bed.

I'm All Shook Up

2007-10-08T21:10:00.000-04:00

The other night I was in desperate need of a ballcock, so I decided to pay a visit to the local Lowe's Home Improvement Whorehouse to check out their fall line of plumbing fixtures. As I browsed amongst the faucets, nozzles, and assorted other paraphernalia, I came across something so amazing...so astounding...so REVOLUTIONARY...that it will forever change the way you look at toilets! A picture is worth a thousand turds, and lucky for you, I had my trusty camera phone with me. Ladies and germs, I am proud to present to you.....the PRESLEY!!!

Yes, it's really called the Presley - a throne truly fit for a "King"...or a really fat bastard who sings horrible music. Check out those sleek lines and those sexy, glistening curves. See that curvy protrusion behind the bowl and under the tank?? THAT'S WHERE THE SHIT GOES!!! Too bad it's not made of glass so you can watch it go down when you flush. I haven't drooled this much since I first unwrapped my Onkyo TX-SR505S! Too bad the Presley doesn't come in silver so they'd match. As I stood there among the many onlookers basking at its porcelain splendor, I was overcome by the urge to eat a PB & banana sandwich and gyrate my hips. I thought to myself, Dyckerson, you were meant to die upon this toilet. But with a price of $179 plus installation, this crapper was too rich for my blood.

Still, you're probably wondering if I took it for a test drive. What kind of a sick, deranged nut job do you think I am??! Of COURSE I did!! It was easy too, thanks to that Burrito Supreme I had for lunch that day. Even without a water supply, the Presley didn't disappoint. The mere sensation of my ass cheeks pressed up against the contours of that chilly seat was enough to send me to the brink of orgasm. There wasn't a square of bathroom tissue to be found, but fortunately a Lowe's associate from the lumber section let me borrow a 2x4.

That reminds me, I need to send that good samaritan a thank you note.

Head in the Class

2007-10-03T22:37:00.000-04:00

I have just found my new career!

I was watching the evening news the other night, and they had this story about a shortage of male teachers in public schools. According to the report, only about 10% of elementary school teachers are men. Do you know what that means? That means 90% are WOMEN! In other words, there's NINE CHICKS for every ONE DUDE in our nation's classrooms! I LIKE THOSE NUMBERS!! Gentlemen, say adios to the smoky, crowded singles bars and expensive online dating sites like Snatch.com. All the REAL POON is hiding behind the podiums in school! I'm signing up TODAY!!!

Now don't get me wrong. Getting laid isn't my only motivation for being a teacher. How about those CUSHY HOURS?? I've never met a female teacher that didn't GRIPE AND WHINE about having to grade papers at night and tutor kids in the afternoon. Well BOO FUCKING HOO. Those bitches HAVE IT MADE! Teachers get off every major holiday, every bullshit holiday, and a whopping THREE MONTHS in the summer! Obviously they've never worked in the REAL WORLD - otherwise they wouldn't be pissing and moaning so much.

And even when they ARE working, they're not REALLY working. In a typical day, how much time do you think the average teacher actually spends teaching? Let's see, there's homeroom - nothing to do there but call roll. Then there's study hall - again, more babysitting. Then a planning period or two. Then they pass out some busy work or maybe show a filmstrip (remember those??). Then it's time for lunch, followed by another planning period in the afternoon, and you're done!!

Oh, and if you happen to get tired of all the teacher poon, just take a look at some of these girls today! Holy shit, some of them little teeny boppers could EASILY pass for 18! I can't wait to start an after-school "tutoring" program in my boudoir! Although this quote from the article has me a little troubled: "Grown men who express physical affection for small children can be accused of being pedophiles." Are you kidding me??! Is pedophilia really frowned upon in classrooms? Because if it is, somebody needs to have a talk with my 6th grade P.E. teacher.

Yeah, I know there's that whole issue with pay. Supposedly teachers don't make a lot of coin, and that does concern me. I'd have to trade my five-figure salary for.....another five-figure salary where the first figure is smaller. But think about it. First of all, you got JOB SECURITY. You can go anywhere in the country and find a teaching gig. Get caught fucking a student in the girls' locker room? No problem! Just resign and move to another district!! Then you got your GOVERNMENT PERKS. Teachers work a paltry 35 weeks a year...and on top of that, they get pensions, paid tuitions, 401Ks, and all kinds of freebies and discounts. And let's not forget about the FRINGE BENEFITS! We're talking a veritable smorgasbord of FIRST-CLASS POON! You can't put a price tag on that!!!

Seriously though, I'll have to overcome a couple of obstacles before I can gain access to all that poon. For example, teachers are required to be licensed in most states. What a load of CRAP. I educate and enlighten tens of people on The Mighty Blog every fucking day. Do you think I have a LICENSE??! Then there's the issue of pre-employment background checks. Look, I may have had a few misunderstandings with law enforcement in the past, but why should the schools care?? My personal life is NONE OF THEIR FUCKING BUSINESS!

Now if you'll pardon me, I'm off to Staples to buy some chalk sticks and self-adhesive gold stars!

Bloggers in the News

2007-10-03T00:07:00.000-04:00

I am pleased to announce the lovely Randomness, subject of the literary masterpiece Ode to Randomness, has been reinstated as a Mighty Blog affiliate! This comes after a six month absence during which time I impregnated her with my pork rind dick, causing her to give birth to a dead pig. Well done Randomness!

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To make room for Randomness' return, I'm giving the ax to deadbeat blogger Lux Lisbon and her never-updated I'm Not Defensive. I'm also tempted to pull the plug on Malnurtured Snay. He/she/it is still an active blogger, but he/she/it never shows up around here anymore. I'll give him/her/it a break this once, but next time, he/she/it may not be so lucky. Snay, consider yourself warned!

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Meanwhile, Lambo is at it again. She is begging me to add her ovine blog to my exclusive list of affiliates. Frankly, I'm just not comfortable doing this. Lambo's G-rated blog is severely lacking in references to flatulence, bowel movements, blowjobs, porn, and poon. But I hate to be the one to disappoint the little ball of lint, so I'm putting it to a vote! You'll find a special Mighty Blog poll just below the Chat Hole in the sidebar.*

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And finally, my third wife ADW threatened to slit her own wrists if I don't answer the following five questions. I hate to see good POON go to waste, so here you go:

1. You have control of the world's oil reserves. What do you do next? I get myself a chainsaw, a Nubian goat, and a bottle of Henessee. I utilize the chainsaw to cut down some redwoods and build a fort to protect my oil reserves. The Nubian goat will stand guard outside the gate, and if anybody tries to hurt him, I will bash in their skulls with the Henessee bottle.

2. Me and my girlfriends are out drinking and we run into you. What happens? I will impregnate all of you with my 35-year-old pork rind dick.

3. You have a chainsaw, a Nubian Goat and a bottle of Henessee. What do you do with them? See #1.

4. If a woodchuck could chuck wood, how much wood could a woodchuck chuck? A woodchuck can't chuck wood, so fuck that woodchuck with a hockey puck and make that schmuck suck a lucky duck.

5. What is your penis called and do you have names for your testicles? My penis is Sir Squirtsalot. My testicles are named Manny, Moe, and Jack.

* Mighty Dyckerson reserves the right to alter poll results to his liking.

Drunken Post

2007-09-30T00:04:00.000-04:00

I don't noramally rigte posts when i'm drunk ubt its about time for a new post so here I am. I try to updsdate my blog at least twice a week but sometims its hard cuss of my job and shit. God i hate my job i wish i coiuld just blog all fucking day long and tell those fuckers to kissoff. I staretgd the is blog like two.5 yuears ago so i could get some poon but so far i haven't gotten shit form you poelple. that babble chik is kinda cute but all she dos is have babies with some other guy. Then theres revee who got me unbanned form medialien forum by having intercrourse with the moderator. She's really sweat nad shit but shes datting a candy bar. sissy bloned sounds hot and her avatar looks lick maralyn manson, did you no she was discovered in a drug store having amilkshake/ drug stores don't have milkshakes anymore maybe if they did more poelple would be discoverd. PEPO;LEE PPEPLE PEOPLE fuck tahts a hard workd to spell when your drunk.

Time for a new paragraphy. So i went down town to thsi bar hopping to score some poon, their wawas a cute watress wtih a black halter top thing i tried to show her my weewee but she sparyed me with mace damn btcih. The bartender made me a rum and coke and i drank it but didnt even taste lany alcohol which is wiered cause i usualy taste that shit real easy. I thought he jsut gaeve me a awated down cola so i asked for another and then another. bY the tird i was feeling real good so i decided to get he fuck outta there and gol home.

ON my a way to hte car i had to piss like a moituehrfucker so i foudn a cobblsstone alley and pissed in it I hoep they don't mnind. I know you'res nots uppoped to drink drukn but i had to get home and paint my dormers befrore the homos associatastion gets mad at me agian. I past dead bird on the sidewalk i swear to you it smeelleed just like cherry koolaid, isn't that cdrazy? Or amybe koolaid smeels like dead birds, i don't know for sure. When i amd runk, I like to eat Taco bell food and i dont knwo why that is but i think everybody eats taco bell when they're durnk. So i went there next and ordered something and ate it all up.

Then i realised it was tood ark to paint my dormers plus i couldt' find my latter so i decided ot take a fuckign shower. I cleaned my bathroom today which if cuking hate to do mbut it needed it cause mold was growing on the tile groute. i filled an empty spary bototle with bleach and water to spray on the mold but fuck if the spray bottle didnt want otw ork so i just pourd the fucking bealch driectly on the mold and guess waht it's gone! i'm like martha fucking steward, bitches. Thend i had to piss real bad again so i got aoiutta the shower and piseed all over the fucking gfloor that i jsut cleaned tdoay, usually i hafe pretty good aim but notu when im' drunk. sonfoabtich i hate toilets.

YOuw ever wahtch that ER show? ica n't stand it except for thaot hot blond chidkc waht ever her name is. Otherwsiek its sucks as far as im' concerned. When in was driving home tonight i was swerving all over the place but damn if i didn't know all the words to hotel california and vcitim of love by the eagles. I swear i know all their lyricds so good i could sing them if i was dead. Thye has a enww album comign out next month you should check it ouit lots of news ongs. i already heard one new song thats actually an old song by jd souther they used todo in concernt not many poeleple know that but i do bc i'm a big fan. ms. babble hates the eagles but shes a bichtc so whoo cares.

goodamit im' hunry agian lucky i have some fuckign doritos in my caibnet. honestly I could eat doritos the rest of my life and neve get tiredk of them. They havfe lots of flaovors now but noacho will alwas be my favorite i think. Try the smokin cheddar sometime tho it really is smoking but not really. anybody nkow owhere i can get some quality poon i woiuld apprefdiate it. Fuck its cold outsdie tonigt i guess fall is here. I never licked fall when iwa s in school becase fall meants chool was starting agin and i fuciking hated school. Now i ckinda like fall becdause the weather is coolrer and i have to work anyaway so wahts the fucking dirfference.

Mona Lisas and Red Hatters

2007-09-26T10:08:00.000-04:00

Mother Dyckerson is really losing it. She has always been a little goofy...like the time she asked me to look at her TV remote because it wasn't working. Turns out she was trying to change channels with a calculator. Or the time I asked for a Dustbuster for Christmas, and she got me a Shop-Vac with a 10 gallon tank.

Now she has gone and joined something called the Red Hat Society. For those of you not familiar, the Red Hat Society is an ever-growing group composed of old bats on the verge of senility who convene on a regular basis for the sole purpose of making fools of themselves. They have local chapters around the country, so chances are you've seen them out in public. They are easily identifiable by rosy-colored head coverings.

What exactly does the Red Hat Society do, you ask?? A better question might be, what don't they do? For example, they don't raise money for charity. They don't read to the blind or make quilts for the children's hospital. They don't organize bake sales to raise money for the PTA. In fact, they don't seem to do anything constructive or meaningful in any way. They just have lots and lots of spare time.

Mother D's local chapter went to lunch last weekend. They got themselves a big table at Olive Garden, ordered ridiculous amounts of pasta, and gorged themselves like they were on one of them Japanese game shows. Oh yeah, and then they had a kazoo playing contest. That's right, a kazoo playing contest. Right there in the restaurant. Mother D won second prize - some cheap piece of crap from the Dollar Hole. Yeah, that's worth making an idiot of yourself in front of people who are trying to eat their calzones. If I was the manager of that Olive Garden, I would have called the cops and had them all arrested for disturbing the pizza.

I'm thinking of starting my own club, the Blue Hat Society. We'll engage in turf wars and commit violent acts against the Red Hats. If a Red Hat tries to enter our territory or even looks at us funny, we'll shank their wrinkled old asses. Or better yet, perhaps I'll form an Ass Hat Society. We'll drive around the neighborhood and blast our train horns in front of unwitting pedestrians. Yeah, that would be awesome!

Meanwhile, I'm going to start searching for a nut farm for Mother D...

Check Out My Package!

2007-09-21T23:48:00.000-04:00

Guess what was waiting to greet me when I came home Friday night! No, it wasn't the Hor dressed as a French chamber maid. That was Thursday night. It was THIS:

That's right, ladies and germs! It's the ONKYO TX-SR505S 7.1 Channel Home Theater Receiver!! I know what you're thinking right now: "Dyckerson, that must have set you back a pretty penny!" Well think again, Copernicus! I ordered that baby last week from the good folks at Amazon.com for a paltry $219.99. That's a savings of $79.01, or 26% off the list price! Retail is for CHUMPS!! I invested in this versatile piece of hardware to replace my aging stereo receiver, which I never even bothered to hook up when I moved last year.

Now without further adieu, behold for yourself...the TX-SR505S in all its unwrapped glory:

Isn't it beautiful?? It's also available in black, but I went with the silvery finish because it's shinier, and everybody knows shinier is better. (If you get one for yourself, just make sure you avoid the lead version from China.)

Now you're probably wondering exactly what the TX-SR505S is all about. Allow me to put it in layman's terms for you simpletons. The TX-SR505S boasts 75 Watts per Channel Minimum into 8 Ohms, 20 Hz-20 kHz, 0.08%, FTC (2 Channels Driven); 100 Watts per Channel Minimum into 6 Ohms, 1 kHz, 0.1%, FTC (2 Channels Driven), DTS-ES Discrete/Matrix, DTS Neo:6, DTS 96/24, Dolby Digital EX, Dolby Pro Logic Iix, 2 HDMI Inputs and 1 Output (1080p Pass-Thru to HD Ready Displays), and Color-Coded 7.1-Multichannel Inputs (Receive 7.1 Surround Sound from Compatible Blu-ray and HD-DVD Players).

Impressive, ain't it??! And it's a cinch to install! All you need is a few common household tools...such as scissors, a flashlight, wire cutters, needle nose pliers, a flathead screwdriver, a crimping tool, vice grips, a soldering iron, cable ties, a blowtorch, an air compressor, a hacksaw, blasting caps, adhesive tape, a staple gun, at least 10,000 feet of assorted cables, and a heating pad. Actually, the heating pad isn't required, but it sure is relaxing after you've spent three hours on your hands and knees hooking up this piece of shit.

The TX-SR505S comes with a big thick user's manual, but being a man, dependence on any kind of instructions is a sure sign of weakness. Instead, I rely solely on my gut. I mean, how hard could it be?? Here, I'll walk you through it.

You start with the speakers. We're talking surround sound here, so you'll need about 50 speakers of various shapes and sizes. And make sure you get the expensive speaker wire. You know, the kind where the insulation is all ONE COLOR, so you have to trace the positive and negative leads all the way across the fucking room so you don't get the wires crossed and end up blowing up the goddamn TX-SR505S, sending shards of silvery shrapnel deep inside your flesh. Once you have your expensive speaker wire laid out, rip the insulation off the ends and jam the exposed wire into the speaker holes. If you find you have more holes than speakers, simply shove paper clips in the unused holes.

Now it's time to hook up your components. This too is a breeze. Let's start with your cable or satellite box. If you have the HDMI, you'll want to use that connection. If you don't have the HDMI (or don't know what the hell it is), you'll have to settle for component and/or composite cables. If you don't have those either, you'll need some more paper clips. Once you have your cable or satellite box hooked up, it's time to connect your VCR or DVD recording apparatus. The beauty of the TX-SR505S is that it accepts component OR composite input from your recorder, but it only provides composite output back to the recorder. And because the TX-SR505S can't convert the signal, you're pretty much forced to go composite in to your recorder. Now you're ready to hook the receiver to your TV. I hope you still have plenty of cables, 'cause you'll need a set of output cables to match every kind of cable you have going in to the TX-SR505S! Component, composite, HDMI, S-video - you got an empty hole, you better shove something in that motherfucker! How about audio? You got a CD player or DyckPod? You better stick that in there too. And unless you're a complete jackass, you'll want to use the fancy schmancy optical cables. After an hour or two of this bullshit, your living room floor will look like R2-D2 threw up on it.

Let's talk about remote controls. By now you probably have 83 of them. Each one of them is "universal," but not quite "universal" enough to control all the advanced functions of all your components. So basically you have to keep them all within reach. One time I programmed my DVR remote to send a power-off command to the TV remote. Then I programmed the TV remote to echo that command back to the DVR, which in turn sent the signal back to the TV. They've been fighting it out for two years now.

OK, so now you're ready to watch some top-quality video entertainment. Piece o' cake! First, turn on your cable or satellite box. Then turn on your TX-SR505S. Then turn on your TV. Select the channel you want to watch on your cabllite box. Then select the appropriate input on the TX-SR505S. Depending on how you connected your cabllite box, you may also have to change inputs on your TV. But then again, you may not. Now adjust your volume settings. What's that? You say you can't hear anything? Dumbass, you probably forgot to assign your audio to the proper input when you configured your components. The TX-SR505S isn't a mind reader, you know. You'll need to unhook everything and start over again.

Perhaps by now you're sorry you purchased the TX-SR505S. Perhaps you'd like to return it and get your money back. But because you bought it online to save your cheap ass few bucks, you're pretty much STUCK WITH IT. My recommendation: Take your TX-SR505S to the roof of your house and drop it on your neighbor's retarded kids when they're playing in the yard. Now THAT'S what I call entertainment.

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