A Few Observations

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 peopld??!!


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.

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

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

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!

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!

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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

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:

• H.O.A. Holes: Volume I
• H.O.A. Holes: Volume II
• H.O.A. Holes: Volume III

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 afain 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!

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!

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

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

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)

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)

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!!!

Originally posted 06/27/07

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

Moments before the birth of Mighty Dyckerson

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

Mrs. Longest (1979)

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

Dyckerson's Commodore 64

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

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

Mrs. Longest (today)

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

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

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

"Wassup, dude?" I asked.

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

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

"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.