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!!!

Russian Hour Traffic

So there's this chick who works in my office. She's moderately attractive, she dresses like a whore, and she's built like a brick shithouse. However, several key factors prevent me from attempting to acquire this poon. I shall list them now in bullet form:

• She's married with kids. I know, it's not necessarily a deal breaker. I mean there's hardly a woman in this world who can resist the tempting seductions of one Mightonimous Q. Dyckerson. But judging from the photo on her desk, her husband is large and quite muscular.
• She's Russian. No way in Hades will I allow myself be seen in public cavorting with some commie. I have my presidential campaign to think of. Look what happened when that video surfaced of Yobama hopping around in the desert with nothing but a towel on his head. Major negative P.R. right there.
• She's a self-centered little bitch. She ought to be grateful to be in this country, but she acts like she's entitled to be here. She struts around the office, shaking her ass like she's walking the runway at the Miss Universe pageant. I am not kidding here. The way she walks, it's like she's expecting people to throw rose petals at her feet or something. Not only that, but she actually thinks her work is more important than anyone else's. On more than one occasion, she has asked me to stop loading my data so she could load hers first. I told her to go fuck herself with a hammer and sickle.

Now the other day I was on the interstate heading for work. I was running a trifle late, so I was slightly exceeding the posted speed limit. Normally I wouldn't give a damn about being late to my shitty job, but it was bagel day, and I wanted to get there before the fatasses in Accounting stole all the cinnamon & raisins. Fucking bean counters. They oughtta be counting calories! Am I right people??!

But back to my morning commute. So I'm on I-295, flying like a bat out of Hell and making good time. Now I get pissed pretty easily when it comes to bad drivers...and when I say bad drivers, I mean EVERY OTHER DRIVER ON THE ROAD besides myself. But the one thing that pisses me off MORE THAN ANYTHING is when slow moving assholes hog the left lane. You know the type. No matter how many vehicles are stacked up behind them trying to get by, the left lane hog just cruises along at or below the speed limit pretending like they can't see them. Usually I encounter at least four or five of these cocksuckers EVERY FUCKING MORNING. Passing on the right is the only option, and I do so quite often...usually while expressing my regards to the offending driver with an obscene gesture or two.

Well this particular morning was no exception. I passed a total of FOUR left lane hogs within a three-mile stretch, and the anger was building. Finally I thought the coast was clear...but not so fast. Up there in the distance, YET ANOTHER left lane hog. I'd had enough. I rolled right up to this cocksucker's bumper and jerked the DyckMobile into the center lane until our cars were side-by-side. Then I rolled up my sleeve, extended my middle finger, and banged it on the glass of my door whilst making an upward thrusting motion. I didn't even bother to look and see who it was. Then I sped forward and swerved the DyckMobile into the left lane, my rear bumper missing the other vehicle's front fender by mere inches. 'Twas a sight to behold.

Quite pleased with myself, I proceeded to work and perched myself in my chair, ready to face another day. Not two minutes later, Russian chick walks in the door, struts over to my cube, and puts her hands on her hips. Here is an excerpt of the conversation that followed.....

Russian Chick: That wasn't very nice, DYCKERSON!
Dyck: What the fuck are you talking about?
Russian Chick: You know what I'm talking about, DYCKERSON! Giving me the finger!!
Dyck: Oh...umm...was that you??
Russian Chick: You know it was me! Do you do that to everybody, DYCKERSON??
Dyck: No, only SELF-CENTERED COMMIE ASSHOLES who don't know how to drive. Now STEP OFF, you borscht-eating red menace!!!

That shut her up. She threw her hands up in the air and stormed off in a huff. With that ugliness behind me, I swiveled around in my chair, gave myself a high five, and got down to business.

Score one for the U.S.A.!

Trails And Tribulations

I have new respect for the DyckMobile. Last weekend I took her to the mountains with a group of 4-wheeling rednecks for an off road adventure. I thought it would be a good opportunity to connect with nature and possibly score some hillbilly poon. You see, I had offered my empty seats to two female non-Jeep owners whom I had yet to meet. I was hoping at least one of them would look like Daisy Duke - you know, before she got old and fat. Boy was I wrong.

We met at an Exxon station near the trail head. Chick #1 was this short, squatty, rather talkative creature. I don't want to say this woman was ugly, but I've seen better looking bitches in Michael Vick's back yard. Chick #2 was a middle aged broad - divorced, grown kids, etc. I could practically hear her hoo-ha drying up from ten feet away. Yeah, this was going to be a fun day.

First thing you have to do before doing any serious off roading is air down your tires to improve traction. This rather complicated process involves jamming a key into your valve stems to allow air to escape. My passengers offered to assist, but seeing as they didn't know what the fuck a valve stem was, I opted to do it myself. I wasn't about to put the DyckMobile in the hands of two clueless cackling hens.

As I finished deflating the last tire, Chick #1 piped up: "PUT THE TOP DOWN! PUT THE TOP DOWN!" she screamed.

"Are you sure about that?" I asked her. "It's going to be pretty chilly once we get moving."

Her response: "PUT THE TOP DOWN! PUT THE TOP DOWN! WOO HOO!"

Chick #2 didn't give a damn one way or another, so reluctantly I removed the vinyl windows and lowered the canvas top. Then I brushed myself off, hopped back in the Heep, and started on our way.

At first, it was just dirt and gravel. If I had to compare the size of these rocks to one of my co-bloggers, I'd say they were about the size of Ms. Babble's ta-tas. So small, you really couldn't feel anything. I tried to take in the fresh air and enjoy the scenery, but Chick #1 wasn't having it.

"I'M COLD! PUT THE TOP UP!" she whined. I knew this was coming.

I muttered a string a four-letter words as I struggled to reassemble the top half of the DyckMobile. Meanwhile, the post-menopausal chick whipped out her digital camera and began snapping photos of anything and everything. You'd think this broad had never seen a squirrel before.

"MY CAMERA'S NOT WORKING! MY CAMERA'S NOT WORKING!" she whined. I ripped it out of her wrinkled claws and chucked it into a stream.

Further along the trail, the rocks got considerably larger. I'd say about the size of Sassy Blondie's boobies. As I'm sure you can imagine, the DyckMobile was hopping and bouncing all over the place. It was all I could do to maintain control of my penis...I mean, the wheel.

"WOO-HOO! GO FASTER! GO FASTER! WOO HOO!" yelled Chick #1.

I might have been turned on by that statement if she hadn't looked like Humpty Dumpty. Instead, she was just pissing me off. And did I mention the dime store perfume she was wearing?? Two weeks have gone by, and the DyckMobile STILL reeks of that bitch!

We bounced around for another hour and then stopped for lunch. Unfortunately there was no Burger Hole in the wilderness, so I had to settle for a cold bologna sandwich and a juice box. I felt like I was in fucking grammar school again. At this point I had to pee like a race horse, so I sneaked away from the group and knocked some bark off a tree.

The remainder of the trail was quite challenging. The biggest rocks yet - almost the size of RevRee's knockers. I was afraid we would bottom out or get stuck, but thanks to my superior driving skills, I was able to maneuver over and around the massive obstacles.

"GO FASTER! GO FASTER! WOO HOO!" screamed Humpty Dumpty.

I stopped the vehicle and turned around. "LISTEN HERE, YOU FAT FUCK! WHEN YOU GET YOUR OWN JEEP, YOU CAN ABUSE IT ANY WAY YOU WANT. BUT THIS ONE IS MINE, AND UNLESS YOU WANT TO PAY FOR MY FRONT END ALIGNMENT, I SUGGEST YOU LET ME DO THE DRIVING! NOW SHUT THE HELL UP OR YOU'LL BE SPENDING THE NIGHT OUT HERE!!!"

I might have gone a bit too far there. I really need to do something about my temper.

Finally we reached the end of the trail and I was able to dump the two broads by the side of the road. But I have to say, I'm quite proud of the DyckMobile for surviving the trip. Now if I could only get it to stop smelling like a five dollar whore.....

The Call of the Wild

The life of a superstar blogger is wrought with incredible stress. Week after week I am under constant pressure to produce the top quality entertainment you've come to expect from The Mighty Blog. Trust me, it's no day on the bitch. Sometimes I just need to take a day or two and get away from it all. So last weekend, I loaded up the DyckMobile with rations and headed for the mountains to become one with nature. (Long time readers may remember my previous trip back in 2005.)



The area was teeming with rare and exotic wildlife, and being the animal lover I am, I couldn't resist the opportunity to take a snapshot or three. Take a look for yourself.....


The first animal I encountered was the North American zebra, easily identifiable by its squinty eyes and mix of black and white coloring. They are nomadic creatures who tend to roam the midwest in search of career opportunities. Their fingers are incredibly nimble, making them quite adept at text messaging.





This rare bird is known chiefly by its scientific name, boobicus giganticus. The female of this species is characterized by their enormous teets, which they often use to gain favor with males especially during mating season.






I used my telephoto lens to snap this photo of the ferocious grizzly hor. Note its furry coat and devilish grin. These animals are extremely dangerous and are best avoided. But if cornered, your best defense is to rub its crotch until it curls up in a ball and purrs like a kitten. They tend to hibernate in winter and masturbate in spring, summer, and fall.





This is the giant hooterfly, an interesting specimen known mainly for its filthy mouth. The hooterfly is attracted to gay hairdressers and feeds mainly on a steady diet of fermented beverages.






Not long after spotting the hooterfly, I managed to capture the first known photograph of the elusive sassysquatch. The picture turned out rather blurry, but I'm betting I can still sell this photo to the The Globe.






Here is the infamous monsteria scaricus, or scary monster. This slimy, disgusting creature is known for its poor grammar and its violent stomping behavior.







This hideous beast is the flat chested horny babbler, a rather unintelligent species that breeds at an alarming rate. In fact, they are such a nuisance that hunters are encouraged to shoot them on sight to help reduce their population.






Next up is the dixie chick, an outspoken foul with controversial political beliefs. They are often spotted around trailer parks, tractor pulls, and NASCAR events. This particular dixie chick was strutting its tail feathers in search of a cock to mate with.





At one point on my journey, I was almost attacked by this rabid British coon. These coons, which are native to England, Turkey, and other third world countries, feed mostly on tea and krumpets. Their thick coats are the perfect breeding ground for ticks and therefore carry lymie disease.





And finally, the highlight of my trip: A rare sighting of the handsome silver tongued poon hound. Known for its extremely large genitalia, only one of these magnificent beasts exists in captivity and is scheduled to be released in 15 months (12 on good behavior).