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...

Gas Crisis Solved!

I'm all about conserving our natural resources, folks. Really I am. But if I get stuck behind any more of these BICYCLE or SCOOTER RIDING DIPSHITS on my way to work, they're going in a fucking ditch. Look, it's not my fault this city doesn't have any damn bike paths or scooter lanes. So if you insist on riding your stupid toys to work every day, GET ON THE FUCKING SIDEWALK WHERE YOU BELONG. You people don't impress me. The first hint of bad weather, and you'll be back in your LAND CRUSHERS and URBAN ASSAULT VEHICLES gabbing away on your cell phones and pretending to listen to NPR.

America needs a long lasting solution to the gas crisis, and America needs it NOW. I don't see Balack Osama or John IWalkWithaMcCane doing anything about it, so I have taken matters into my own hands. Here are just a few of my gas saving initiatives:

1. Eliminate the United States Postal Service. Get those gas guzzling delivery trucks and jeeps OFF THE ROADS and INTO THE SCRAP HEAP. Pay your fucking bills online, grandpa. You wanna order a blow-up doll or a dildo? Find out what Brown can do for you. Hell, the only mail I get anymore are BOGUS CREDIT CARD OFFERS, WORTHLESS COUPONS FOR CARPET CLEANING SERVICE, and DEATH THREATS FROM ANGRY READERS. And don't worry about lost jobs. They can find plenty of work for the next 20 years DIGGING UP UNSIGHTLY MAILBOXES and TEARING DOWN POST OFFICES.

2. Get rid of school buses. Here's another nuisance that slows my commute every day. Every fucking morning, I get stuck behind the same fucking cheese wagon that has to stop EVERY 50 FEET to pick up another SNOT NOSED BRAT. The school is only a couple of miles away - would it kill these little bastards to WALK their fat asses to school??! Yeah, I know it's a busy street. It's called Survival of the Fittest. Look into it.

3. Fuck NASCAR. It's not a sport anyway. How much fuel do these fucking rednecks waste DRIVING IN A CIRCLE for hours on end? Let them run or ride bicycles. I know, there's no fun in that. The fans want to see lots of es-plosions and such. No problem. Give each spectator a HAND GRENADE when they enter the gate. They can toss it on the track whenever they desire. Now THAT'S a sport I'd pay to see!

4. Outlaw churches. Yeah, you heard me. You don't need to get up early on Sunday mornings and drive to a special building to worship. Thanks to TV and the Internets, now it's just as easy to be a hypocrite in the COMFORT OF YOUR OWN HOME. Just tune in to that Benny Hinn guy for a half hour every week. I love it when he smacks people on the forehead until they fall to the ground. If that isn't religion, I don't know what is.

5. Eliminate red lights. How much time do you waste every week idling at intersections? Hell, half the time there isn't even any traffic coming in the other direction! Now I'm not saying we get rid of traffic lights altogether. I'm just saying make them PERMANENTLY GREEN in all directions. Yes, I suspect traffic fatalities will skyrocket in the beginning, but this will only be temporary. Eventually enough people will be killed that the roads will be pretty empty anyway.

This is just the beginning. I would also like to BOMB THE CHINESE BACK TO THE STONE AGE, seeing as their increased demand for gas is contributing to the higher prices around the globe. But I suppose that will have to wait til after the Summer Olympics...otherwise it could be a real P.R. blunder for the United States.

And the best part of all, none of these actions inconvenience me in any way. And in the end, that's all that really matters.

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.

Pain At The Rump

I have a bit of a personal problem, and that problem is thus: Recently my employer purchased new leather office chairs to replace our old cloth chairs. Much like Ms. Babble, the old chairs were worn, unsightly, and riddled with a variety of unidentified stains. Here is a reasonable facsimile of my old chair:


And here is a hot-linked stock photo of my new chair:


Right now you're probably thinking, "So Dyckerson, what's the problem?? I would kill for an office chair like that!"

Well it's kind of a long story. I'll give you the long version. You see, thanks to a certain Sassy Blonde who shall remain nameless, I have acquired an addiction to fiber. A few months ago while seducing Her Sassiness online, we somehow got on the topic of bowel movements. It seems that the lovely Sassy shits at least seven or eight times per day, whereas at the time I was only shitting about once a month.

"DYCKIEPOO!!!" she exclaimed. "You're going to kill yourself! You must have more fiber!!! Fiber is key!!!!!!"

I immediately put down my laptop, pulled up my pants, and ran to the store. I stocked up on every kind of fiber product you could imagine. Fiber cereal, fiber breakfast bars, fiber powder, chewable fiber tablets, fiber brownies, fiber ice cream, fiber Doritos, fiber Coke, and fiber aspirin. Needless to say, my fecal output has skyrocketed. I am now shitting three or four times per hour. PER HOUR, people!!!

I have also become far more flatulent.

To say that my farts stink would be an understatement. My farts are vile, offensive, and downright unsavory. Imagine the aroma of fresh turds...combined with the odor of boiling cabbage...combined with the stench of a rotting skunk carcass in the middle of a country road on a hot summer morn. My farts have been known to make grown men weep. My farts could wilt the flowers on wallpaper. My farts could knock a buzzard off a shitwagon. My farts could strip the chrome off a '57 Chevy. My farts could knock a grown buzzard off a '57 shitwagon covered in chrome wallpaper.

Therein lies the problem: My gas attacks often strike me on the job. The pressure usually starts building up after my mid-morning fiber boost. I usually try to hold it in for a while, but by early afternoon, the force becomes unstoppable. I have no choice but to unleash my noxious fumes into the office via my anal orifice.

Being made of a somewhat porous fabric, my old chair was significantly more...how shall I put this?...more absorbent. In the old days, I could release a fart, and my chair would dutifully soak up a good 50 or 60% of the sound and the odor. By the time my old chair was retired, I estimate that it contained at least 75 pounds of foul flatulent funk.

Contrast that with my new chair. Nowadays when I let loose, the leather upholstery forms an inpenetrable shield, thereby rejecting my gaseous emissions and deflecting them back into the atmosphere where they can be experienced by all. And when the vibrations from my ass cheeks ricochet off the chair, the sound level is amplified greatly. What used to be silent but deadly is now deafening and fatal.

I have already tried a number of strategies to deal with this unfortunate circumstance. I have tried various Renuzit and Febreeze-like products...but they only add to the nasal assault. I have tried creating a diversion to mask the sound, such as slamming a desk drawer or clearing my throat...but these tactics fail to address the stank issue. I have tried walking around the building and cropdusting...but the stench always seems to follow me back to my desk.

People, I need solutions, and I need them NOW. It is only a matter of time before I am caught and outed by an offended co-worker. So tell me, how do you hide your farts???

Crappy Birthday, Dyckerson! (Part 2)

My dad usually gives me money for my birthday, which is fabulous. But he can't just stop at cash. He somehow feels the need to purchase at least one item, regardless of how crappy that item may be. I think he wants to appear as if put some time and effort into the process, when in reality, all I want is the cash. Previous birthday gifts include a stuffed dog, a yellow button-down "old man" sweater, and an illuminated turtle. With a track record like that, one might wonder how Father Dyckerson could ever manage to top himself. Well once you see this year's offering, your doubts will be put to rest.

So without further ado, here it is:



Right now you're probably asking yourself, "WHAT THE FUCK IS IT??!" Don't worry, I had the exact same response. It took me a while to figure it out, but upon examining the small print on the bottom of the box, I was able to ascertain that this was indeed a BILLY WITH WHEELBARROW GARDEN STATUE.

"Gee, dad. You shouldn't have," I said.

"I know, I know," he replied. "But nothing is too good for my son!"

"What exactly do I do with it?" I inquired.

"You put it on your patio or your front porch and fill it with flowers so everybody can see it," he explained.

Where everybody can see it??! Great. I just hope nobody steals it from 4000 Pilots Lane in Richmond, VA, where it will be on be on display while I am at work Monday through Friday from 8am to 5pm.

I kid, I kid. I could never get rid of such a charming and delightful gift...especially since my dad will be expecting to see it whenever he comes over. Fortunately for me, that isn't too often. Of course, he didn't give me any dirt or flowers to go with in Billy's wheelbarrow, so now I am forced to go out and purchase these items with my hard-earned birthday money.

Now I don't know about you, but little Billy seems to be missing something. The t-shirt and overalls just aren't going to impress the ladies. If only he had the right accessory to complement his ensemble...




There, now we're talking! The HOA will just LOVE seeing this shit in my front yard! My brotha be stylin', yo! This mack daddy is one badass muthafucka! Billy is a playa - Hell, I've already caught him checking out the bird bath in the neighbor's yard. He gotta get him some of that!!


Why couldn't I have been born on February 29th? Then I'd only have to endure this shit once every four years.