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...