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..."
"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...
--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!