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!!!