Dear Burger King (not necessarily the actual king, but whomever reads his emails),

I’d like to begin this letter off with a sincere personal thank you. Please take a moment to let that honest, heartfelt message of appreciation sink in. This past weekend the uninhibited bliss you’ve bestowed upon me could only be compared to the joy of a mother holding her highly cherished child for the first time after carrying it for nine grueling, but always joyous, months (truthfully, not even sure if that compares). You thinking about that feeling? It feels good, right? It feels like rubbing your feet in mango juice and letting a little pack of puppies lick it off. Well you did that to me. And I love you for it. I love you sooo much. I love you as much as people love each other when the get married and have no idea how much the won’t love each other after living together. If I could sing you a Michael Buble song via this blog, I would. You’re obviously wondering why I have such strong feelings for you. Well of course I can’t get enough of that pretty face, but that’s not what caused the blossom of affection to bloom in my heart. It’s what you did in recent days that made me fancy your fine self.

This past weekend, a weekend for America, you did something that truly shows your commitment to a country of semi-equality, freedom and fast food. You sold your signature chicken sandwich for $1.04. I thought 2 for $4 was more than enough and then you decided to sweep me off my feet with sandwiches for $1.04 (nothing like a King who shares his crown with his supporters). And though this might not mean anything to you, with your employee purchase cards… to me, a real American, it brought grease-stained tears to my kitty cat eyes. The way I see it, and anyone else with common sense/taste buds, your chicken sandwich is the best item on any menu in the world (think about how big the world is… like at least 600 or 700 miles). I’ve eaten at some of America’s finest Michelin rated restaurants, and do you know what I think every time I’m done with their overpriced creations? I think,

“Oh I’m so stuffed. I wonder if they’ll mind if I take a little food nap in my booth?”

But after the manager walks over to my table and says something like, “Excuse me sir, you’re going to have to wake up. This is not a hostel. And is that, oh my God, did you really draw on the table with crayons?”

And I reply with, “Well they let my do it at the Macaroni Grill and that my friend, is FANCY!”

Well after all of that, I think, “Yeah, the food was good, but I’d be just as, if not more, satisfied with the sweet, whipped mayo, crisp, crunchy lettuce and boner producing breaded chicken resting in between two handsome pieces of fresh, sesame seed topped bread at Burger King.”

Can you believe it? You better, because it’s factual. You know the sublime, calming feeling that overtakes your body right before you fall into a deep, restful sleep? That’s me, right after I bite into the breaded joy you call a chicken sandwich.

Now here’s where we might butt heads (Not too hard, I’m very sensitive). I want you to NEVER offer this deal again. Like ever. If you do, I will be forced to spend the rest of my life writing you emails like, but not limited to,

Email Sent at 2:04pm: “Hey, Burger King… I hate you.”

Email Sent at 2:05pm: “Hi BK, have I told you lately how much I hate you?”

Email Sent at 2:09pm: “Hi, I saw your post on the personals section of Craigslist. I’m totally up for a kissing an elderly man for a free pack of Juicyfruit gum. Let me know. We can do it anywhere EXCEPT Burger King. I’ll never go there again. XoXo.”

Email Sent at 2:14pm: “Attention All Burger King Staff, please excuse that last email, as it was not meant for you. Thank you. I hate you.”

Email Sent at 1:04am: “I’m drunk and just had a threesome with Ronald McDonald and Dave’s daughter Wendy. It’s your fault. You did this. I hate you… but only because I loved you so much. I miss you King. I miss you. Why’d you hurt me?”

After all of that you’re undoubtedly wondering why someone who loves your product so much would ask you to never again offer it at a discount. Well King, to be blunt, it’s because I ate SIXTEEN chicken sandwiches in three days. Sixteen fucking chicken sandwiches! Go ahead, do the math? 5.3 chicken sandwiches a day. Except that I ate four a day for the first two days and ate eight on the last day because I knew the deal was ending. Wondering what happened after I finished my eighth chicken sandwich? I starting bawling. Not like rapper’s ballen’ with bitches and cars, but bawling crying, tears of grease and mayonnaise because I was going into a chicken sandwich coma. The tears kept falling until I was fast (food) asleep. I woke up ten hours later, covered in honey mustard sauce as a BK manager knocked on my driver’s window and said,

“Excuse me sir, you’re going to have to wake up. This is not a hostel. And is that, oh my God, did you really draw on your dashboard with crayons?”

I immediately drove home, licking the hardened honey mustard sauce off of my arms, wondering how I’d ever capture the high I just experienced.  It’s impossible. There’s no drug, meditation, etc that could get me as high as I was off of the warm delight you sold to me for $1.04. There’s nothing in the world that can compare to the food you offer. If Eve would’ve seen a Burger King in Eden, trust me, she would’ve NEVER eaten that apple (Curious as to why God didn’t put a Burger King in Eden? I know for sure there’s like 60 in heaven).

It’s been 14 hours since I’ve been through your drive-thru and if my parents didn’t take the wheels off of my car, I’d be there again, and again, and again. Asking, “Are you sure there’s no more $1.04 chicken sandwiches? Like 100% sure? Like for sure for sure? No way! I want to speak to the manager. No, I don’t care if I spoke the manager when I drove up two minutes ago! I need more chicken sandwiches!!!!!!!!!”

I hope you understand where I’m coming from. It was with complete respect and admiration that I wrote you, hoping you’d help me live a normal life once again (Is the a Burger King rehab I could visit? Perhaps we could start a support group?). Please don’t ever offer that deal again, as I will eat your delicious sandwiches and then be forced into a severe depression when you end the promotion. BUT if you’d like to send me one of your employee purchase cards, entitling me to free chicken sandwiches for the rest of my life…. OH F-ING BOY. I’d tattoo your logo on my face. It would be like winning the lotto, but inside of worthless money, I’d have Burger King chicken sandwiches (Is there a Burger King lottery? Something to think about). My heart is in your hands. Your sandwich is in my mouth. I love you.

Sincerely stuffed off of your fine fine foods,

Daniel Dickey

Dear Jt,

Wait, I should probably call you by your full name.

Dear douche bag,

If you’re wondering if that’s your highly admired J Crew tie in the picture, it is. If you’re wondering whether you’ll ever see it again, you’re not. See after I woke up from my drunk slumber yesterday, I realized you stole my brand new iPhone charger. I would have wrote you a text messaged calling you a bitch, but my iPhone is dead…hence my frustration with you stealing my charger. Thankfully God likes me more than you and as I started to clean up the mess that is my room I found your stupid little nit tie (you know, the same one Justin Timberlake wore while he was fucking Cameron Diaz).

Well after I wrapped it around my balls and went running I decided I would light it on fire. It burned so nice. How does hearing that make you feel? Are you clenching your teeth in hate as you imagine your trendy accessory burn (I’m laughing in case you were wondering)? What are you going to wear with your pretty little tailored suit now? I guess you won’t be getting all those compliments from the girls that didn’t bother to give me any compliments. Maybe if you’re lucky someone will buy you a nice tie from the Gap for Christmas? Maybe not. Either way you can keep the charger, because you also left your DJ equipment at my apartment and I’m listing it on eBay right now. That should cover the cost of a new charger. Enjoy chewing on that dick.

Your friend since we were 12,

Daniel Dickey

UPDATE: The charger was right where Jt said it was (I forgot I put it there the night before). I’m really sorry about the tie…I’ll take the DJ equipment off eBay now.

DOWNLOAD JATINDER CHANNA’S MIX — MORNING WOOD @

http://www.mediafire.com/?nm0ttmn5lt2

To whom it may concern,

Your supermarket is the worst establishment (as I refuse to call it a business) I have ever seen and suggest not only immediately closing it’s doors, but also removing all signs and advertisements from view of the public, for fear that someone might see one and assume this supermarket was anything but the dirty hairs in a whale’s vagina.

For a very brief moment as a walked thought the front doors, without a cart, I was fooled into presuming this was a reputable store. So what there were no more carts left? So what one of their managers is walking around with a cigarette in his ear? This is a supermarket and after growing up in the suburban paradise of South Florida I would rather do my shopping there, as apposed to a corner store. How naive I was.

Pathmark executives, what an oxymoron, I am all about hiring the mentally handicap to bag groceries, but when you hire them as your store managers there is an issue. Explain to me how the fuck you have two lanes open on a Sunday afternoon? There are 300 people in the store and you have two lanes open…one being operated by a fat, ghetto, loud mouth bitch and the other barely moving because a middle aged man that looks like he is coming down from a month straight cocaine high, has lost most of his basic motor skills. I have never been inside your store and waited less than 25 minutes in line. At first I thought you were just understaffed. I later realized you are just fucking idiots. During my last visit to Pathmark I was in the diary isle looking at cheese, when a young lady with a clipboard asked if I had time for a brief survey. I told her the line was at least an hour long so I would have plenty of time for a survey. When I realize it was a survey for Pathmark, I ripped the clip board out of her hand, snapped it in two, dumped yogurt all over it, and threw it in her face. I then gave her my business card and told her to pass my message on to her bosses.

I remember one day while checking out, a group of young black kids, maybe 7 or 8 years old, started bagging up my groceries. I looked at the tattooed cashier for an answer to why these little children were touching my Mac and Cheese. She said that they are kids off the street and do it to make some extra money. I though cool, I’ll tip these little guys to bag up my…What the fuck? That little one with the afro just put my Klondike bars in his pocket. I yelled out, “hey you little rabbit dick! What the hell you doing with my ice cream sandwiches?” He replied with a calm, “I don’t got no sandwiches”. “Mother fucker, don’t you got to be getting ready for the NFL, give me my damn Klondike bars! Then the other one tried putting my box of Fruity Pebbles under his shirt. “Dude, what are you doing?” “Who me? I ain’t doin’ nothin’. Why wassup?” “I see the box of pebbles under your shirt. “That’s my chest hair”. “Mother fucker you’re five years old. Get away from my shit”. In the midst of my cereal being stolen I didn’t know the third kid snuck behind me and got on all fours. The other two little ran over and pushed me. I fell over and sprained my wrist, they stole my wallet and as the hit the door they yelled, “goodbye mom” to the cashier. Just one of my many trips to the shithole named Pathmark.

Despite how expensive all the food stores are by my house I will never in my life go back to the Pathmark in Fort Greene, Brooklyn…because it blows…blows big dick….a thousand big dicks. I’m so frustrated talking about this store that I am ending this blog. I apologize if it didn’t have a climatic ended…I’ll get you off next time.

Hoping my mom will send me some food in the mail,

Daniel Dickey

This was originally posted on craigslist.

Hey there ladies,

Are you looking for love? Are you looking for a guy that can show you a romantic evening out? Are you looking for someone that will say all the right things? If so, you should probably move on to the next personal ad, because there is no chance in hell I will do any of those things.

BUT if you’re looking for a funny guy with a handsome penis, sex swing, and a knack for drinking large amounts of liquor, then baby, I’m your man.

I think it’s first important to let you know what I want in a woman, that way I can get rid of all the ‘wanna beez’ before we start having cyber sex. I’m sure most ladies will agree when I say, the most important thing to keep a relationship going strong is anal sex. I need a woman that knows your butt is not just for making poopie, it’s also for making my fetishes and fantasies come alive. The girl I eventually decide to spend my life with has to understand that it turns me on when she lets me spray mase in her eyes while I climax. I also want to let you girls know I don’t have any specific ‘look’ that I like more than others…but I will not deny the fact that midgets and Native Americans really make my nipples tender. There’s something about little sausage fingers and tepees that really get me giddy (If I ever found a Native American midget…O.M.G. I might collapse). I want to casually date a girl that wants to have a good time, but mostly wants to have sex. Actually sex, whether it be vaginal, oral, or anal (Very important) is the most important thing to me, and I think it should be just as important to you. I’d rather you have a tight tushie than banging boobies, but both will be fine (You will not be disqualified if you don’t have either. Of course though, you must be very rich and willing to buy me really cool shit in order to stay in the running).

Now you want to know a little about me? I think so.

I’m great with kids…not watching them…just making fun of them and calling them names…I’m great with that. I love animals. Well not all animals, just mostly Dinosaurs and Bears…but if I could be an animal I would be a Dragon…a fucking awesome Dragon. I’m 6′3, minus 4 inches. I have a 6 pack, minus the 6. I used to roller blade ALL the time when I was 8. I quit when I was 9 and joined a gang. We sold Flintstone vitamins to elementary school kids and sometimes we had sleepovers. I’m not scared to tell a girl I want her to have my kids, but I’m also totally willing to not pay a fucking dime for child support if she starts acting up. I would never hit you…unless you deserve it. I’ll cook you the best macaroni and cheese you have ever tasted, while I massage your feet and draw fake tattoos on your belly. I don’t mind biting a shaved and bathed Beaver, but won’t come close to a hairy Toad. If you’re wondering about my penis…you couldn’t measure my dick with six rulers (Six very very very very small rulers). Ladies trust me when I say, I’m the olive toned titty connoisseur that you have been looking for.

If you like what you’re hearing, drop me a comment. Maybe we can do a little booty dancing this weekend. I’ll buy you a couple Kettle One and sodas and I’ll kiss on your neck while I squeeze your butt. Hows that sound? Don’t tell me. I know, it sounds sexy as fuck. Challah at me. Lets make some babies.

Cooking you breakfast,

Daniel Dickey

They say meeting a guy over the Internet can be hard… they must have not met you. What started in a M2M chat room for Phoenix singles has lead to a six day paradise. Am I in heaven? Probably (Because you’re an angel). Looking at your shirtless physique I wish I could taste your milk. If MacArthur Dairy decided to start mass producing a milk flavored after your chest and belly I would buy 1000 cartons. Maybe a million. A lot of my friends say you look like a murderer, but I know they’re just jealous. How could you be? Have they looked into those little Hershey eyes? Have they cyber kissed your stubbly dimples? Have they listened to you moan as you comb your hair with a fork?

Staring at this picture I can tell so much about you.

• You obviously love hugging lambs (Is that a rabbit?)
• You also like green and red dragons, like the one on you computer monitor.
• You also like bats, like the one on top of you computer monitor.
• You probably love animals so much!
• You probably have an animal shelter where you save (and/or eat) animals.
• Can someone get me a mop, because I think my heart is melting.

There’s so much to love about you. You ask all the right questions, “Are you parents home right now?” “What does your father smell like?” “If I send you a picture of my dick do you promise not to tell the cops?” You say all the right things, “Surprise! I’m standing outside your window.” “I washed my hair in Pig urine.” “Last night I had a dream I killed you with a bat. The object, not the animal.” How do you know he’s the one? You just do.

I might be getting ahead of myself when I say this, but when I graduate middle school next month I want to run away with you. I’ll knock on the door just like you said, and when your mom opens it, I’ll say I’m one of your friends from school, just like we practiced. Have you ever just laid in the dark staring at the stars? I want to name a star after you. I know my parents will get mad when I leave, but they don’t understand me. They’re just so stupid. First they wouldn’t let me stay out past 11pm even though all my friends could stay out till 12am. Then last week they told me I couldn’t ride my bike without a helmet. They’re the worst parents in the world. No one understands me like you. Remember three days ago when you asked me to send you pictures of me with slippers on? That was so sweet. I even started making a mold of my face with paper mache and newspaper just like you asked. The only thing I don’t understand, why does your doctor need to see pictures of my penis covered in jelly? I know you said I had to send them to you so you could show the doctor and he could make sure I was healthy, but why does your doctor need to make sure I’m healthy? Either way, I’ll take the pictures tonight and mail you the samples of my blood and hair for the doctors.

Thanks for taking good care of me,

Teddy Greenbalt aka Your Teddy Bear ;0)

It’s late on a Saturday night. All the lights are off except for a single Cinnamon candle slowly burning on my desk. My bare legs are crossed, warm from the radiator, just inches away. The wind is pounding on my thin glass windows causing them to whistle a song I’ve never heard before. Is it R&B? I’ll never know. I just finished an extra thick peanut butter and Salmon sandwich. Its flavor danced with my tongue as I washed it down with a warm glass of you. Did I say you? Oops. I must have been dreaming again. I meant to say Hawaiian Punch…the diet kind (I’m fasting). I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. What’s your name? What are your hobbies? How fast is your metabolism? If I had a book of answers to all my hearts questions I’d never stop reading.

I mustn’t lie, it’s a painful to think you don’t know that I’m here…waiting…wishing. For six weeks I’ve written your name on my hamstrings every night before I’ve gone to sleep. Bruce? Doug? Benson? Will I ever know? Will I ever meet your parents? Could you see me baking cookies in your childhood kitchen with your mother? I like to picture her in a wheel chair, with only one arm. I used to call her Peg, but now I call her mom. I see our children; baby Blake and young Pumpkin Face. They’re playing in the backyard with that dog that has been eating our trash for the past couple months. He’s a pest, but he’s a good dog. I just heard a soft whisper at my window. Was it you? No, of course not. It was a stray Cat or maybe a Black Bear. I want to know everything about you. Do you ride wooden Lions often? Is that a football girdle you’re wearing? What do your feet smell like? Did I tell you I bought the same hat as you? I did. It took me eleven months and over thirty two hundred second hand stores, but I found it. I know it’s silly, but I like to think it’s yours. You know the one from the picture. I don’t have any wooden Lions lying around so I make my sick father crouch down while I squat over him with just the hat on. Call me crazy, but I feel closest to you as I straddle my father, imagining him to be a wooden Lion.

Every Sunday since I found your picture on Google images, I’ve gone to, The Long Stone Park, by Chipperton Valley. I sit and pick flowers. I think about butterfly’s. I dream that you’ll pull up on your wooden Lion and take me away from this lonely life. Every time you say the same thing…

You: Hey, what’s a lean Ladybug like yourself sitting there pouting for?

Me: (Wiping the tears from my cheeks) Oh, it’s nothing.

You: Well this wooden Lion wasn’t made for one. (Shirtless, you smile and pat your lap)

Me: Oh I couldn’t. (Blushing I begin to pee in my pants)

You: I ain’t about to let a dame like you get away. Your going to come take a ride on my wooden Lion and I’m going to take you home to bake cookies with my mother.

(Urine now covers my body as I straddle your Lion and take a ride into forever)

A boy can dream, can’t he? I just want you to know, if you’re out there, anywhere, that you’re my man and I’ll let you hold me till whenever you want to let go. Never? The candle is almost out, but my flame is still burning strong for you. If you’re reading this, you’ll know where I’ll be tomorrow…where I’ll be until we are together. The Lion is the king of the jungle, and every king needs his queen. Let me love you. Let me licks your wounds. Let me eat your clothes.

Forever Yours,

Me

If you happen to live inside my belly button and are of somewhat intelligent life (not insects I just pick them out and squash them), I’m sorry. My very sincere apology is due to the many odd situations and experiences that I now realize were witnessed by the little people living in my belly button. Obviously I can not go over these situations individually, because it would most defiantly be used against me in court next month during my highly publicized indecent exposure case. But back to the belly button people, If you are on my blog and can read Pig Latin, I’ve compiled a list of questions for you.

• If you are of intelligent life then I assume my lint does not just so happen to accumulate in my belly button, but you work very hard to gather it from my shirt and bring it back to your little home to use as a bed or maybe as fuel for your little belly button fire. Is this true?
• When I peed all over my chest last Halloween did you drink my pee? That would suck if you and your family thought it was candy water and it ended up being me peeing on my chest…which it was.
• Do you have a daughter? Is she 18? Yes? Does she watch when I shower my dick? I bet she’s never seen one that big. LOL you probably have the smallest wiener.
• If you are in there, would you be in there if I was an outie? Are inies better than outies? I’ve always thought so.
• I’m sure you might still be pissed and maybe a little curious why last weekened your home was filled with pink lemonade and tequila, and of course why a black Tom Arnold look-a-like licked you. Answer…truth of dare shouldn’t be played with 16 guys (Also don’t ever play the “What’s in my mouth game” with that many guys either…you sort of run out of things to put in each others mouth).
• Do you have a family? If you do how do they all fit in there? ALSOÂ VERY IMPORTANT, does some of your family look almost exactly like lice and live in my pubis hair region? If so this would explain a lot!!!!
• Have you ever been inside other parts of my body? (Don’t go in my asshole, I’ll be fucking pissed if I catch you in my asshole).
• If you have the ability to lay eggs, have you already done so in my brain like spiders?
• Are you nocturnal? Not the West Coast rapper who made shitty songs. Like do you come out at night? I bet you watch me sleep…fucking weirdo.
• Do you eat my skin? If you do happen to eat my skin please eat my penis shaped birth mark on my left cheek. That would be really awesome if you ate that and it was gone.
• Are you Amish? I know Amish people are fucking insane, but I think this would be a little nuts even for the Amish! Do you know they don’t use air conditioning? I know…their stupid.
• Would you like me to cut little holes in my shirts for the summer months? I’m sure it get hot in there. I dare you to try and go into my ass in the summer…it’s like Grand Rapids.
• When I get out of the shower and look in the mirror while a bombard myself with negative stereotypical comments, I’m just joking. You know that, right?
• Is my belly hair like a jungle? Do you call it “The Jungle”? That would fucking be so sweet!
• Do you have a welcome home mat? If not, I’m going to shave you one in my happy trail.
• When I stick my fingers in my belly button and moan girls names…you know that’s a joke as well?
• Do you watch me jerk off? It would sorta be like voyeurism.
• Are you that voice in my head that tells me it’s ok to eat Asian babies?
• Are you children home schooled? That would be nuts if there was a school in there and I didn’t even know.
• Are you employed? Do you receive disability checks? Why the fuck aren’t you paying me rent?
• OH WHAT THE FUCK you better not of seen my mom’s puss when I walked in on her in the shower last week. Holy Shit I’ll fucking smush your family if I find out you looked! I’m serious. I’ll kill all of you right now if I even think you looked.

I guess if you were able to read this “Belly Button People”, just leave a comment on my blog, so I’ll know if there is in fact a little family living in my belly button. Also tell your daughter I’ll be showering around 8:00 – 8:30ish just in case she wants a little action…I guess you can come too, no pressure though.