A Few Observations

Just because I haven't been blogging lately, doesn't mean I don't have shit to talk about. The wheels in Dyckerson's brain never stop turning, so I have amassed quite a backlog of miscellaneous thoughts and observations. Here are but a few:

- 1 -

There are no skinny Bridgets. Seriously, have you ever met a Bridget who wasn't a chunky monkey? I've known three or four in my lifetime, and they have all been fat fucks. Now I know what you're thinking. Hey Dyck, what about actress Bridget Bardot? OK, maybe when she was in her prime. But check this shit out:

That photo is pretty unbelievable, isn't it? I had my doubts too, but I found it on the Internets, so it must be real. No Bridget can escape the fat curse.

- 2 -

I frighten people. A few weeks ago, I was in need of some croutons and Lemon Pledge, so I went to the local grocer to do some shopping. I parked the Dyckmobile II in a handicapped spot* and proceeded to make my way across the parking lot and into the store. As I approached the door, out walked a mother carrying a couple of bags. At her side was a young child who looked to be around 4 or 5 years old. She glanced up at me, and without missing a beat, she grabbed the kid's arm and yanked him toward her. An overprotective parent, perhaps? I think not...because just last week the EXACT SAME THING happened again. Same setting, different woman and kid. And it ain't just the broads. The other day I was walking in the county park, minding my own business and enjoying nature's beauty. I was approaching this kid who was standing on the edge of the sidewalk and taunting a goose. Dad was standing about 10 feet away admiring the result of his sperm. He must have seen me coming, because I distinctly heard him say,"Come here, Corey! Come here!"

Now I assure you, I look and dress relatively normal. I have no unsightly growths on my person, nor am I disfigured in any way. Yet something about me makes people want to grab their children. What the fuck??! When I was a kid, my parents let me drink household cleaners and play in construction sites. Hell, once when I was six, I got a hold of my dad's keys and drove his Gremlin straight into the ditch. He thought it was hysterical. So what's the deal with all these uptight parents? I blame the media.

- 3 -

I'm a musical genius. Pick any love song that contains the word "heart" in the title. Now replace the word "heart" with the word "fart" and get ready for endless hilarity!!!

Unbreak My Fart - Toni Braxton
Achy Breaky Fart - Billy Ray Cyrus
The Fart Of The Matter - Don Henley
Fart To Fart - Chris Brown
My Fart Will Go On - Celine Dion
Fart Attack - NLT
Put A Little Love In Your Fart - Dolly Parton
Fart Full Of Soul - Chris Isaak
The Last Unbroken Fart - Patti Labelle
Broken Fart - Motion City Soundtrack
Sin In My Fart - Siouxsee And The Banshees
Pop! Goes My Fart - Hugh Grant
Fart Of Glass - Blondie
Fragile Fart - Westlife
Cold Hard Fart - Bon Jovi
You'll Be In My Fart - Usher
Here Is My Fart - Lionel Richie
Taking Back My Fart - Cher
Love's Got A Hold On My Fart - Steps
Where Is Your Fart - Kelly Clarkson
Listen To Your Fart - Roxette
One Determined Fart - Paulini
Hungry Fart - Bruce Springsteen
Straight From The Fart - Bryan Adams
Piece Of My Fart - Janice Joplin
Listen To Her Fart - Tom Petty & The Fartbreakers
My Fart Has A Mind Of Its Own - Connie Francis
Fartache Tonight - The Eagles
What Do I Do With My Fart? - The Eagles
Owner Of A Lonely Fart - Oasis
Sheer Fart Attack - Queen
Thunder In My Fart - Leo Sayer

Make up your own! Play along at your office Christmas party!!

- 4 -

Alan Alda has lost his fucking mind. I was recently on iTunes looking for a podcast that I could listen to while I walk in the park and frighten people. I've almost been a big fan of M*A*S*H, so I was intrigued by an audio podcast featuring the actor speaking to a group at a book signing. Great, I thought. He'll probably tell stories about all the wacky behind-the-scenes hijinks that took place on the M*A*S*H set! Well I thought wrong. Apparently Hawkeye had a near-death experience a few years ago and consequently gave up acting in favor of philosophy. So I listened for 45 minutes while he rambled on and on about what "now" is. "What is now?" asked Hawkeye. "Now only lasts for a few seconds. Then it's gone, and that now is in the past. Then there's a new now." I'm paraphrasing, but you get the idea. And he said this with all the passion and enthusiasm he could muster.

At last, he opened up the floor to questions. Finally, I thought. Now we'll get some good M*A*S*H questions. No such luck. The first question: "How has your near-death experience affected your perception of 'now'?" Similar questions followed, and Alda ate them up like a bag of pork rinds. Eventually someone had the balls to ask a question about M*A*S*H, but by this time I was so groggy, I didn't even hear it. However, I can tell you that Hawkeye likes to refer to the series not as M*A*S*H, but as "The M*A*S*H Show."

Too bad that near-death experience wasn't a DEATH EXPERIENCE. Am I right peopld??!!


That's all I got for now. On the next Mighty Blog: My experience as a mall Santa!

* My busted arm is 98% healed, and I don't have a handicapped decal, but I'm not taking any chances.

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.

Another Tasteless Post

Let me ask you dames a question. What the fuck is the deal with this wine tasting nonsense? Seems like every damn weekend, there's a fucking wine tasting event somewhere around here. I wouldn't even know about the wine tasting if I hadn't gone out with a chick that was into it. "Oooh, look," she would say. "There's a wine tasting this weekend! Let's go to the wine tasting and taste some wine!!" I chopped her into pieces with an ax and buried her in a shallow grave in my back yard. Actually, that's not true. I buried her in Ms. Babble's back yard. Mine is already full.

I had almost forgotten about the wine tasting until the other day at work. We were standing around the water heater talking about our weekend plans, and this bitch whom I hate decided to chime in: "Is anybody going to the wine tasting?? There's a wine tasting this Saturday! I'm going to taste some wine!!" She is now buried in Sassy Blondie's backyard. (I really need to work on my anger.)

I'm not sure why the wine tasting makes me so hostile. I've never been to one, but somehow I picture it as being a bunch of phony-ass, middle-aged skanks trying to act all sophisticated by sipping imported chardonnay and pretending they know something about it: "Ooh, try this one, Gladys! You can really taste the grapes!" Filthy whore. You wouldn't know a Merlot from a glass of Welch's. These are the same bitches who 20 years ago in college guzzled cheap beer in smoky bars, puked it up in back alleys, and pissed their pants on the way home. Now they're wrinkled old closet wino divorcees whose twats are infested with crabs. Fuck, I bet any one of them could outfart me any day of the week.

This has Oprah's handwriting all over it. Damn that fugly bitch and her brainwashed minions! Stupid housewife soccer mom yentas got nothing better to do than sit in front of the tube all day and celebrate their ovaries. Their own lives are meaningless, so they try to elevate themselves by posing as high-class broads. Well GUESS WHAT, BITCH. Reading Maya Angelou and guzzling cheap wine out of a Dixie cup does NOT make you classy! Damn you all, I say! DAMN YOU TO HELL!!! (Sorry, it's that anger thing again.)

Tell you what, ladies. I got something for you to taste right here. Hell, you can even gargle with it. It's creamy, filled with protein, and has an excellent bouquet. "Oooh, try this one, Marge! It's so tangy and smoooooth!"


Just remember, it doesn't count unless you swallow.

Crappy Birthday, Dyckerson! (Part 1)

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..."

"Yesss????"

"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...

"This bracelet looks more expensive than the price."
--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!

Fucked By A Gecko

Operator: Geico Insurance. How may I screw you today?
Dyck: Yo bitch, I'd like to have my ass raped brutally by one of your representatives.
Operator: Absolutely, I'd be happy to pound you in the ass. What seems to be the problem?
Dyck: A rock hit my fucking windshield and cracked it.
Operator: Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Are you OK?
Dyck: So far, yes. But that may change once you start shucking my cornhole.
Operator: Indeed, your cornhole will be shucked royally.
Dyck: Thank you for your honesty.
Operator: Of course! Besides, it's not like you can do anything about it. We're a giant insurance company and you're nobody. Best to just relax your sphinctor and take your ass raping like a man.
Dyck: I guess this means you won't be paying for my windshield then.
Operator: Oh, I highly doubt it. How big is the crack in relation to a one dollar bill?
Dyck: All I have is a twenty.
Operator: You won't have it for long, pal.
Dyck: Well the crack is about as long as 17 bills laid end to end.
Operator: That's a big crack!
Dyck: Almost as big as yo mama's.
Operator: Ha ha, well played! Hold on a sec while I pretend to type some numbers on my keyboard...Nope, we can't help you. Your deductible is too high. You'll end up paying for the whole thing out of pocket. You might want to lower it.
Dyck: Then you'll just raise my premiums.
Operator: Yep, that we will! We'll rape you one way or another!
Dyck: OK, how about I lower my deductible to zero, then call tomorrow and file the claim, and then call the next day and raise my deductible again?
Operator: Our team of highly paid attorney weasels will nail your ass with insurance fraud.
Dyck: How do you sleep at night?
Operator: On a sack filled with cash sent in my schmucks like yourself.
Dyck: Lemme see if I've got this right. Customers send you money every month...
Opeator: Yes...
Dyck: And you're supposed to pool all that money into an account...
Operator: Keep going...
Dyck: So you can reimburse people when they have accidents.
Operator: Whoa, that's where you're wrong. We do take your money, but we never give it back.
Dyck: That's quite a scam you've got going there.
Operator: Yes, we're very proud of it. Now I'd be happy to refer you to a glass repair shop that gives our customers a special discount. Of course, they jack up the price before they give you the discount.
Dyck: Have you no shame?
Operator: Nope! They'll poke your pooter real good! They also repair sweaters.
Dyck: Sounds like I'll need an ASS repair shop. Thanks a lot for your time.
Operator: Oh believe me, it was nothing. Call again anytime. We have operators standing by 24 hours a day to fuck your buttocks.

This post brought to you in part by:

Raping asses across America since 1936.

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!

Joy to the World

I fucking HATE the holidays. The endless traffic, the crowded stores, the bickering relatives, the shameless commercialism - you name it, it all SUCKS. But when a story like this comes along, it truly warms the cockles of my heart. And Lord knows my cockles could use some warming.

According to the story, some DIPSHIT REDNECK SUBURBANITE COCKSUCKER had a thousand dollars burning a hole in his pocket. He could've given it to the Christmas Motherfucker, Boys for Tits, or even the Salvation Smarmy and their BELL-RINGING ASS GOBLINS. But NOOO!!! This JACKHOLE decides to blow it all on tacky decorations for the front lawn of his shitty house. Yep, nothing says Christmas like a MATERIALISTIC ATTENTION WHORE going into debt to purchase a BREAK DANCING SANTA and a HOMERSEXUAL ELF who sings "Jingle Bells."

That's why I took great delight in reading that this douchebag's nativity obscene was vandalized not once...but TWICE!!! BWAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!! YES, VAGINA, THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS!!!!!

Of course, everybody on the news was acting all sympathetic and shit: "Awww, poor guy! He was just trying to get into the holiday spirit!" BULLSHIT. He was really just trying to illuminate THE ENTIRE EASTERN SEABOARD with his 5,000 strands of ENERGY SUCKING INCANDESCENT LIGHT BULBS he got on sale last January at K-Mart. I bet his fugly eyesore of a house was visible from outer space. THIS IS WHY THE TERRORISTS HATE US!!!


Then there was this story about another wacko nutjob. Seems some treacherous thug trashed his tacky trinkets too...so now all his whorenaments are rigged with TRIP WIRES, MOTION SENSORS, ALARMS, and CLOSED CIRCUIT VIDEO CAMERAS. In addition, he has a wide assortment of cheerful holiday signs like "SEASONS GREETINGS" and "HAPPY HOLIDAYS" and "KEEP OUT" and "HIGH VOLTAGE" and "TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT." Now there's a man who understands the TRUE MEANING of Christmas!!!

Included is footage of Rambo hunkered down in his holiday command center (a.k.a. TOOL SHED), surrounded by extension cords and TV monitors and armed with a HIGH CALIBER ASSAULT RIFLE. God help any unsuspecting squirrel who wanders into his yard. The plastic Rudolph is packed with enough nitroglycerine to blow that squirrel AND his nuts to kingdom come. I can almost hear G.I. Joe shouting, "MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS, YOU LITTLE COMMIE BASTARD!!!"


Finally, there's my personal favorite, the LIVE NATIVITY SCENE. You don't see those much anymore. People are always amazed at how the actors can stand perfectly still in the freezing cold for so long. Well let me tell you something. When those bastards see the high beams on my four wheel drive coming at them at FULL SPEED, they get out of the way PRETTY DAMN QUICK. Last time I did it, the three wise men were trampling all over the baby Jesus to get out of the way. And the Virgin Mary?? That dame can CURSE LIKE A SAILOR!!!


Somebody pass me some figgy pudding! It's gonna be a great Christmas!!!

*

I would like to be hospitalized for a lengthy period of time.

I know most people tend to hate hospitals. I am not one of those people. Call me crazy, but I would like nothing more than to be laid up in a private room with an adjustable bed, color TV, and round-the-clock maid service. I would like to have bland meals brought to me on a plastic tray by a sexy nurse wearing a tight-fitting uniform. I would like the aforementioned nurse to feed me with a spoon and scrub me with a loofah. I would like to piss in a bag and shit in a pot without having to leave the bed, and I would like an underpaid orderly to clean up the mess. I would like a breathing tube to relieve me of all this pesky inhaling and exhaling, and I would like an I.V. tube to feed morphine into my system 24/7. I would like to be showered with cards, flowers, and confections by people I hardly know or care about. And most of all, I would like all of this to be paid for by someone who isn't me.

I'm not sick, nor have I recently sustained any debilitating injuries. I am just tired of everything and I need a fucking break.

I am tired of alarm clocks. I am tired of personal hygiene. I am tired of fighting the same goddamn traffic every day to go the same goddamn job and interacting with the same goddamn people. I am tired of pressing buttons on electronic devices. I am tired of listening to people and processing their words with my brain. I am tired of pumping gas. I am tired of loading my piece-of-shit dishwasher, only to end up having to wash everything by hand anyway. I am tired of coins. I am tired of reading and writing, but not of 'rithmetic. I am tired of doing laundry. I am tired of waiting in line at the store behind morons who, when they get to the register, are genuinely surprised that they are expected to actually PAY for their items, and who therefore spend 20 minutes of MY TIME searching for their cash or their debit card or their checkbook or their fucking food stamps. I am tired of bending down to tie my shoes. I am tired of looking at my neighbor's dogs when I take out the trash. I am tired of taking out the trash.

I think being in a coma would be very relaxing, as long as nobody pulled the plug on my ass.

I'd like to tell everyone I know that I am dying of a brain tumor. Boy, I'd really be the center of attention then, wouldn't I? Everybody would be all worried about me and shit. They'd bring me homemade soup and offer me pillows. No one would dare ask me to do squat...and if they did, I'd just say "Hey asshole, I have a brain tumor!" And if I ever did anything stupid like lose my car keys or forget somebody's name, I could just play the tumor card. People would be like, "Poor Dyckerson, that brain tumor is really getting to him now." It would be a free pass to say or do anything I wanted.

Life is too fucking complicated.

I'm thinking about selling all my shit on eBay and cashing in my 401K. I'll buy a tent and live off the land the rest of my life. No job, no mortgage, no taxes. I'll grow a long scraggly beard and carry a stick. I'll spend spring and summer at the beach, autumn in the mountains, and in the winter I'll hibernate like a bear. Yeah, I could get used to that real easy.

And I wouldn't miss you fuckers one damn bit.

Tag THIS, Morons!

Listen up, kids. I've been blogging for over 35 years now, and during that time I have been memed, maimed, mocked, tagged, tugged, and yanked to death. So please do not send me invitations to answer a bunch of dumbass questions about my personal life. Trust me, the less you people know about my personal life, the better.

I have absolutely no interest in compiling a list of thirteen D-list celebrities I'd like to have urinate on my head. Nor will I rearrange the letters in my name to come up with adjectives that describe the interior of my large intestine. Finally, under no circumstances will I share my innermost secrets, highest hopes, or deepest fears with you crack smoking ass goblins. I would rather dip my nuts in honey and cover them with an army of hungry fire ants.

Furthermore, I refuse to perpetuate these 21st-century chain letters by passing them on to other bloggers. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. And if your life is so fucking empty that you have to rely on memes to fill your blog, for God's sake find another source of online entertainment like Spider Solitaire or Texas Hang 'Em or child pornography. Or better yet, master the art of identity theft and steal the name of someone with an actual personality.

Oh, and one more thing. I know you jackasses are dying to leave me retarded comments like "You've been tagged, ha ha!" Please spare me. If I want to read something funny, I'll look at your SAT scores. Now get the fuck out of here before I "tag" you upside the head with one of Jenny's steel dildos.

Make a Run for the Border

The next person who utilizes the phrase "That's how I roll" in my presence will have their tongue ripped out by yours truly. Following the tonguectomy, I will then remove that person's eyeballs with a melonballer and play marbles with them on the floor of a filthy Exxon men's room. I will then disembowel that person and shove his or her entrails inside a meat grinder, which I will then feed to a snake. Once the person has been completely disemboweled, I shall remove the bones and dissolve them in acid. I will then pour the acid/bone mixture into a toilet, consume three (3) Taco Bell beef & bean burritos, and defecate into said toilet until my rectum is sufficiently emptied. The remaining skin, hair, nails, and muscle tissue will be sealed in a crate, shipped to the Middle East, and blown up via car bomb by Iraqi terrorists.

Furthermore, the next person who utilizes the phrase "At the end of the day" in my vicinity will have the pleasure of being decapitated with a plastic butter knife. I will then take the severed head, bore three holes in the skullcap, and use it to bowl three games at my local AMF Bowling Center. Once I am finished bowling with the severed head, I will deposit it in a trash receptacle along with five empty beer bottles and a half-eaten plate of bowling alley nachos. I shall then return to the site of the corpse, carefully remove the limbs with a circular saw, and drive them to a coal mine in Utah. I shall then place the limbs deep inside the mine, exit the mine, and set off a series of explosive devices to trigger a cave-in. After the limbs are trapped and buried, I will rent an asphalt mixer, toss the remaining torso inside, and pave my driveway with it.

Lastly, the next person who utilizes the phrase "You don't want to go there" in my general area will be blown to smithereens by a series of fully functioning Civil War cannons. I shall then collect the pieces, reassemble them with J. B. Weld, and set them ablaze in my back yard. Meanwhile, I will record the inferno on my video camera, remove the cassette, and toss it on the fire as well. Once the ashes have cooled, I will vacuum them up with my Hoover Deluxe, pour them into a large pitcher of stale urine, and place it on a shelf in my freezer. Once the urine and ashes have frozen, I will put the pitcher on my kitchen counter and smash it repeatedly with a ball peen hammer. I will then place the ball peen hammer into his or her grandmother's vagina and rape her with it. If his or her grandmother happens to be deceased, I will hire two Mexicans to dig up her corpse, remove the maggots, and rape her with a leaf blower.

I think I've made my point.

Pardon My Oily Spotting

Ladies and germs, it's time yet again for another installment of...





As many of you know, I am always looking for new drugs to ridicule. Who could forget my scathing review of Requip, the prercription drug for morons with Restless Legs Syndrome (RLS)? Not only did I expose RLS as a bullshit disease, but I pointed out Requip's many side effects, which turn out to be worse than the disease itself!

Now one of my operatives has told me about a new drug for fat people. It's called Alli, and it's the first FDA approved over-the-counter diet pill. Despite its $60 price tag, this shit is apparently selling like hotcakes. In fact, most stores display it right next to the hotcakes, because anybody who eats hotcakes will most likely need Alli.

I can't begin to imagine how many government palms the GlaxoSmithKlinePfizerLever people must have greased in order to get this drug approved. I'm guessing they were able to slip it through because they include a booklet that promotes a healthy diet and exercise. Well FUCK THAT! If I wanted to eat RABBIT FOOD and do SQUAT THRUSTS, I wouldn't need your STUPID PILLS at all, now would I??!

But the real beauty of Alli is its side effects. Actually, their web site calls them "treatment effects." They can sugar coat it all they want, but suffice it to say if you take their pills, you'll be spending every waking hour wiping the "treatment effects" off your ass. According to their web site, effects MAY include:

• Gas with oily spotting. I'm quite familiar with the concept of gas, but what the hell is "oily spotting"? Where will these "spots" be located, and how will I dispose of them? I can see myself now, donning a biohazard suit in the middle of the night and sneaking my oil saturated shorts to the dumpster behind Exxon to avoid getting slapped with a disposal fee.

• Loose stools. Exactly how do you defind loose?? Are we talking about a slow-moving lava flow or a full blown volcanic eruption? I'd like to know in case I need to have my plumbing system upgraded!
  

• More frequent stools that may be hard to control. Delightful. In other words, I better pick up a package of adult diapers on the way home from work tomorrow. Either that or get myself fitted for a colostomy bag. Hell, I may as well check into a nursing home. I'll have a lot of fun explaining that one to Blue Cross.
  

The web site continues: The excess fat that passes out of your body is not harmful. In fact, you may recognize it as something that looks like the oil on top of a pizza. Gee, thanks a lot for the visual. Excuse me a moment while I THROW UP. Yep, I feel thinner already.

In addition, the good people at Alli offer this helpful hint: If you're getting ready to travel or attend a social event, hold off on starting with Alli until the event is over. I can see it now. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today.....Sweet Lord almighty, what the fuck is that SMELL??!"

Here's another piece of sage advice, taken directly from the Alli web site: Until you have a sense of any treatment effects, it's probably a smart idea to wear dark pants, and bring a change of clothes with you to work. By "dark," do they by any chance mean BROWN? I'm supposed to wear BROWN PANTS every day...and bring EXTRAS??! Is it just me, or does this "diet pill" sound more like an INDUSTRIAL STRENGTH LAXATIVE??!

Co-Worker: "Say Dyckerson, what's with the 17 pairs of brown Dockers hanging on your chair?"
Me: "Oh, those? Macy's was having a buy 16, get one free sale so I decided to stock up."

And my favorite part of all: You may not usually get gassy, but it's a possibility when you take Alli. The bathroom is really the best place to go when that happens. Really??! Because when I get gassy, I usually head immediately for the MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY. Thanks for straightening me out.

So let me make sure I have everything. Here's my grocery list:

• 30-Day Supply of Alli
• Biohazard Suit
• 200 Cases of Toilet Paper
• 35 Tubes of Preparation H
• 50 Cans of Febreeze
• 2 Dozen Pairs of Levi's Pre-Stained Jeans
• 800 Packs of Depends Undergarments
• 40 Bottles of Liquid Plumber
• 1 Domino's Shit Lovers' Pizza

Total investment: $3,850.00

Being held hostage by your own asshole for a month: Priceless