Unpopular Mechanics

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

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

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

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

(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!

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.

Top 10 Posts of 2007: #1

And now, the exciting conclusion to THE MIGHTY BLOG TOP TEN COUNTDOWN with your hosts, DICK CLARK and RYAN SEACREST!!!



DICK: Here it is, ladies and gentlemen! The moment you've all been waiting for! Yes, it's time for us to reveal Mighty Dyckerson's number 1 post of 2007! You can really feel the excitement, can't you Ryan??

RYAN: Yeah, whatever. Feel THIS, you wrinkled old corpse!



DICK: This wrinkled corpse can still kick your pansy ass, princess! Anyway, the number 1 post was published way back in October 2007. Mighty Dyckerson had just returned from a weekend retreat in the mountains where he encountered some wild and exotic animals. Coming in at number 1, here's The Call Of The Wild!!!

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RYAN: Ha ha ha ha ha! That's precious! And that's it for our 2007 countdown! Dick, as always, its been a pain in the butt working with you.

DICK: You should know all about butt pain, you no-talent ass goblin!

RYAN: Why don't you fucking retire, old timer?? You're irrelevant in today's world!

DICK: That's it! You're going DOWN, bitch!!



This has been THE MIGHTY BLOG TOP TEN COUNTDOWN! Thanks for joining us, and Happy New Year!!!