Sometimes you know a girl is going to have sex with you. In my case, I know most of the time the girl is not going to have sex with me. But thankfully for my genitalia, last night I knew the girl I was bringing back to my apartment was going to have sex with me. What I didn’t know was that there would be choking, self induced spanking and a broken penis involved.

I just finished a busy day shift at work and was toying with the thought of going home and falling asleep to Will and Grace, when I got a text from a girl I recently meet in the Meat Packing District of Manhattan. She said she was in Union Square and wanted to know if we were still hanging out. I tried to remember when in the world I told her we’d hang out, but when it came down to it, I didn’t care. I hadn’t got some new poon in months and was getting sick and tired of buying my fat Russian neighbor Hot Pockets for handjobs (Whole Foods had a big sale on them last month and I bought 60).

Update: I deleted the rest of this blog because it really wasn’t that funny… and, well, also because a blond girl yelled at me for the inappropriateness of it.

The 21st was my 24th birthday, and I drank like a 18 year old. My lack of ‘blogage’ is due to a six day hangover that has just begun to pass. I haven’t been to the gym in twelve days and can’t fit into any of my roommate’s bikinis (sometimes on my days off I put on her bikinis… I’m not sure why I do this). I am beyond fat. Every time I put on a pair of shorts I feel like a whale trying to squeeze into a washing machine. As I waited for the subway on my way back from Target, I played a game called… ‘rub my ugly head and watch how many hairs fall out.’ I’m bald. During the last round I counted forty falling hairs after only two rubs. I ended the game early and spent the rest of the wait crying internally. Lately I’ve caught myself letting out a depressing sigh every time I see myself in the mirror… one similar to the noise a mellow man would make after realizing his penis has shrunk three inches. Last week they hired a new server at my job. He had a thick head of hair, a six pack and a perfectly defined jawline. After training him for his first day, I recommended to management that we terminate him. When asked why I said, “I saw him eating a chicken quesadilla out of the garbage.” The boy was a vegan… I was being a hater. Blah. I’m going to stop typing now, as I need both my hands to stuff my fat face with peanut M&M’s.

Bald and fat,

Daniel Dickey

So screwing with people on Craigslist has been done many time before, but I got bored last week and decided to give it a try.

Can’t bring this with me to Japan

It’s yours for $10.

From: Thomas Foolery
Date: Thu, July 15, 2010 at 9:37pm
To: sale-vss5c-1843786562@craigslist.org
Subject: Your Pot

Of course you can’t bring it back to Japan… because it’s stolen. Did you really think I wasn’t going to track you down? You so messed with the wrong guy. I want it back in three hours or I’m killing your cat.

Thomas

From: sale-vss5c-1843786562@craigslist.org
Date: Fri, July 16, 2010 at 10:04am
To: Thomas Foolery
Subject: Re: Your Pot

What are you talking about? This is my pot that I bought while living in New York. I did not steal your pot.

From: Thomas Foolery
Date: Fri, July 16, 2010 at 10:37am
To: sale-vss5c-1843786562@craigslist.org
Subject: Re: Re: Your Pot

After reading your email I’d like to personally apologize… for thinking a criminal of your caliber would willingly admit to theft. How foolish of me. Though I should let you know, you will be caught. I just tracked your IP address and will be coming to your house this weekend to get my pot back. Sleep well.

Thomas

From: sale-vss5c-1843786562@craigslist.org
Date: Fri, July 16, 2010 at 11:40am
To: Thomas Foolery
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Your Pot

THIS IS MY POT. I BOUGHT THE POT. I DID NOT STEAL THE POT. Don’t you dare come to my house or I’ll call the police.

From: Thomas Foolery
Date: Fri, July 16, 2010 at 12:52pm
To: sale-vss5c-1843786562@craigslist.org
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Pot

I’d love for you to call the police… tell them Tom sent you. If the automated system picks up (ughhhh I hate when the system picks up) you can reference the case number: 42394302-9432+d9390=3… Yes I already filled a police report. In other news, I’m going to kill your cat no matter what.

Thomas

From: sale-vss5c-1843786562@craigslist.org
Date: Fri, July 16, 2010 at 12:59pm
To: Thomas Foolery
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Pot

Do you read what you write to me? I don’t even have a cat.

From: Thomas Foolery
Date: Sat, July 17, 2010 at 9:39am
To: sale-vss5c-1843786562@craigslist.org
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Pot

Well not anymore… You don’t have a cat anymore.

Thomas

From: sale-vss5c-1843786562@craigslist.org
Date: Sat, July 17, 2010 at 1:40pm
To: Thomas Foolery
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Pot

I didn’t steal you pot!!!!!!!!!!! You’re a terrible private detective. Don’t email me again.

From: Thomas Foolery
Date: Mon, July 19, 2010 at 11:12am
To: sale-vss5c-1843786562@craigslist.org
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Pot

I remember when I was young, maybe 8 or 9, and my dad would get drunk, make me cook beef, and would hit me with a bat if there wasn’t enough juice on it. I’m going to kill your cat with that same bat.

Thomas

I’ll give you $6 for the pot. Come on we’re old friends.
From: sale-vss5c-1843786562@craigslist.org
Date: Mon, July 19, 2010 at 7:03pm
To: Thomas Foolery
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Pot

Get some professional help.

From: Thomas Foolery
Date: Mon, July 19, 2010 at 10:52pm
To: sale-vss5c-1843786562@craigslist.org
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Pot

I have. I’ve hired a lawyer and plan to sue you. I’ll see you in court… or maybe in front of your apartment late tonight.

Thomas

From: sale-vss5c-1843786562@craigslist.org
Date: Wed, July 21, 2010 at 8:42am
To: Thomas Foolery
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Pot

The pot is sold. My boyfriend will beat the shit out of you if you come anywhere near my house.

From: Thomas Foolery
Date: Wed, July 21, 2010 at 11:16am
To: sale-vss5c-1843786562@craigslist.org
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Pot

Your boyfriend? Maybe you should have told me you were dating someone before you started leading me on? Hussie.

Thomas

From: Thomas Foolery
Date: Wed, July 21, 2010 at 6:42pm
To: sale-vss5c-1843786562@craigslist.org
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Pot

I’ll give you $8 for the pot. Not a penny more!

Thomas

Yesterday I text my roommate to tell her she received a letter in the mail. She tells me to open it and see what it is. I open it…

If you’re having trouble reading the note it says, “I love you Tara. Love, Hugs, Mommy.” If you spent anytime studying during finals week at any college in America then you know those amazing little pills are time released Adderall. I just can’t help but find it hilarious that that note accompanied the Adderall. If only real drug dealers worked the same way…

A scene: Crackhead purchases $5 worth of crack. Crackhead heads to his favorite dumpster. Crackhead smokes crack out of a old coffee mug. Crackhead eats banana peel he finds in garbage. Crackhead sees note (he’s a crackhead so he can’t read, but for the purpose of the scene) the note reads, “I love you crackhead. Love, Hugs, Mommy.”

That’s one good dealer.

Blogging From Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

Daniel Dickey

Since moving to New York I’ve found elation in the ever present opportunities to read. I guess I’ve always had the freedom to find a good book and get frisky, but with a car, the national geographic channel and girls willing to get naked for me, reading some pretty prose was on the bottom of my to-do-list. In the big city I ride the subway, don’t own a TV, and can hardly convince myself to get naked for me, let alone a girl hot enough to get me semi-erect. Therefore I spend my most of my time in transition reading. No I haven’t read Twilight or any other tween scream novel–yet. I say yet, because five years ago I never thought I’d be wearing skinny jeans in Williamsburg, Brooklyn–you never know.

I seem to find the most enjoyment in memoirs, humor essays, and well written opinion pieces. In my opinion, the most important thing is that the author’s voice is conveyed in a comedic light. Anyone too serious about anything needs to masturbate and buy a dog. There’s just no need not to be smiling. I’ve read some big name authors who couldn’t hold my attention more than a flat butt and backnee and read some no names who had my literature libido dancing like a black girl a prom. I love reading words that covey a message in such a way, whether it comedic, moving, or whatever, that it forces me to stop and reread it, in hopes of gaining the same satisfaction the second time around. And, like my awkward attempts at sex, I’m always happily surprised when it’s even better the second go. If there’s one thing that keeps me connected to finishing my bachelors degree, it’s the opportunity to major in English and maybe read some more notable novels while making my mother’s heart hump her chest knowing the first person to climb out her vag got his college degree.

Wishing I read more as a child,

Daniel Dickey

I’ve worked out at the same ghetto gym for the past two years. It’s a piece of crap, but it’s cheap, like myself, so I continue renewing my membership.  But due to it’s crappiness/ghettoness everyday is filled with head scratching moments and I am continually telling my friends about my odd and many times awkward experiences there (I even wrote about one here). Just last week it was 90 degrees outside, which means it was 120 degrees inside the non-air conditioned gym. After bench pressing 315lbs a man decided to take off his shirt and sweat pants and do his set of pull ups/the rest of his workout in only red jockey boxer briefs. While stretching my toes, I watched both amazed and confused as this giant black and/or dark Dominican man let his sweaty ass perspire all over the flat bench. Though it was extreme, it nothing out of the ordinary. My experience today towers far above the boxer wearing body builder.

There is a gay, retarded, Spanish man that works out at my gym. Yes, I needed to use all three descriptors for you you get a proper mental picture of him. He is skinny, and judging by the somewhat prominent gray in his hair, probably in his late thirties. His workout clothing consist of a yellow t shirt with a pink duck in diaper and a wide array of pajama pants. Again, please remember this gym is packed with ex cons, bikers, gang members, extreme hipsters and a midget who claims he was once the WBA feather weight champion, and this retarded homosexual is wearing a shirt with a diapered duck and yellow felt pajama pants with singing cupcakes (He also has a pair of mango colored silk pajama pants pokadotted with rainbow frogs and a forest green flannel pair with the words “pizza pizza” sewn onto the butt). While there, and he’s there everyday, he does several sets of starring at you in the eyes and smiling, and then increases the intensity of his workout by sitting on various benches until he has a full boner hard enough to support a six pound medicine ball. Well today was no different, well, until I went to put back a pair of weights I was finished using.

As I walked over to rack the weights he must have felt I came too close to his sky blue flip phone and decided to push me into the wall. Of course I wasn’t going do or say anything, but I was so dismayed that he pushed me that I was suddenly almost scared of this pajama pants bully. I didn’t really move much, as the push was similar in force to a small kitten licking my arm, and after racking the weights I turned and said, “hey, I’m really sorry. I want you to know I saw your phone there, but I understand you wanting to make sure I didn’t step on it.” He just starred at me blankly before spitting at my shoes and cursing me in Spanish (I’m pretty fluent in Spanish and after calling me a “puta” all he really did was try to order a fish sandwich with extra ketchup). I thought nothing of this and went back to my workout. This man has a physical handicap and I could care less what he called me if it brought him a sense of happiness and/or calm. Unfortunately after he finished his fourth set of sitting on benches with a boner, he began using the set of weights I had been using (note my strength, as a skinny mentally disabled man lifts the same weights as myself). Well after my little hiatus at the water fountain I calmly and reassuringly walked over to him and said, “hey listen, if it’s alright with you, can we share these weights? You know, you do a set and then I do a set?” Without hesitation, he immediately rubbed the sweat from his armpit and slapped himself in the face, as if to say, “Puta are you really asking me this right now?” He then picked up the weights and walked to the point furthest away from me, but made sure to come to a complete stop every couple of feet turning around to see if I was following him. Really? Not only did he take my weights, but he’s now looking at me like I’m out to get him. I again tried to make him feel calm and safe by not going anywhere near him, nor looking anywhere in his direction. But when I heard him barking like a small dog, I looked up to see him by a group of older men pointing at me. He saw me, made eye contact with me, formed a gun with his hand, waived it around and pointed it at me until I put my hands up acknowledging his weapon, then holstered it in his cupcake pants and walked into the bathroom. After the door closed the men burst into laughs while shooting each other with their own hand guns.

I wanted to know what he said, so I walked up to the only one of the men who speaks partial English and asked him what he was barking about. He replied with, “he said he was coming over here to warm us because you were trying to steal peoples weights and hide them behind the radio. He said you stole all of the five pound weights last night while the guards were sleeping and were trying to start your own gym. [he laughs some more] But he then told us not to worry because you were scared of him and if needed, he would protect us with his gun if I tried stealing any of our weights.” A little defensive I replied with, “he said I was scared of him?” The man laughed audibly as he spoke, “yeah he said he pushed you earlier and you said sorry little a little queer and ran away. Then when he walked away with his weights he kept stopping and looking at you to see if you wanted to fight, but you kept looking down at the ground like a sissy.” What the hell, I try to be extra considerate to the feelings and emotions of a mental challenged man lover and he calls me a sissy and tells the gym elders that he’s going to shoot me with his finger gun if I try stealing anymore weights… and to think he has a giant boner while all of this is going on. When he exited the bathroom with both hands on his hips like a cowboy ready for a gun fight I knew I’d either have to leave now and never come back or fight him right there in front of there squat press. This gym was far too cheap for me to leave, so I walked up to him and in Spanish, asked if him if he had a problem. He hissed like a snake before replying with the number to the local Papa John’s. I knew this was the number to Papa John’s because one of the three old Spanish men yelped in the background, “he just gave him the number to Papa John’s!” They began slapping themselves they were laughing so hard. I looked boner boy in the eye and told him the only order I’d be placing is for him, if he doesn’t leave me alone. He blinked slowly and then asked me to repeat what I’d like to order. Again I said, “I’ll place and order for you if you don’t let me be. Maybe I’ll even order a side of pain. You hear that, a side of pain.” Without pause he kissed me on the mouth and said, “you’re order has been placed.” Two of three men had now begun running for the door to get more people to come and watch as the third one fumbled to turn his camera phone on. I just stood there confused, with a feeling only comparable to that of an altar boy moments after a priest  came all over his boyish breasts. He had now stacked his hands on top of one another and placed them under his chin as he smiled. This was not what I expected, but he was back to his normal routine of smiling and starring… maybe a kiss was all he needed? After a moment he seemed to become totally oblivious to my presence and directed his stares and smiles to the old man with his camera phone. He chased him around, demanding he take picture of his new pants. With the two of them occupying each other attention, I walked over to the weights he had taken from me earlier, picked them up, walked across the gym and hid them with the rest of my weights behind the radio.

Starting My Own Gym,

Daniel Dickey

Ladies and gentlemen,

I will try to explain my current situation.

It’s 12:34am on a Sunday night. I am piss drunk, in the bathtub, attempting to keep my laptop from falling in the water. I have played kickball for the past 10 hours in McCarren Park in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and have pulled every muscle in my body. I need to make it clear… I was made to tell jokes and finger girls… not to catch rubber balls and run bases. Despite my skin’s pigmentation I do not have the athletic ability of a Spanish man. I have blisters on my feet the size of small tomatoes and my right ass cheek feels like it was just kicked by David Beckham (I just peed in the tub… I would say it was just a little, but that would be a lie). My body aches so much, and I’m certain I will not be leaving bed for the rest of the week. Buttttttttttt it was all worth it! Why? Because my team (straight up gangsters) have been molesting our opponents. Not joking… we have molested the other teams (one player was actually raped by our third baseman, but it was during the 7th inning stretch, so it didn’t count as unsportsmanlike conduct). I’m so competitive and love nothing more to beat someone and then throw the loss in their face.

Possible things I might say to someone after my team kicks their ass

• Hey you played a great game… (coughing) for a bunch of pussies.
• You’re team tried really hard, unfortunately you’re all fucking losers… just kidding hehe… oh wait, never mind, you suck.
• Hey maybe next time you can… oh snap, there isn’t a next time… bitches.
• Hey, other guys nice… loss. Ha.
• (What I say as everyone is slapping hands and saying, “good game”) You smell like cow shit. You smell like cow shit. You smell like cow shit. You look like a woman. You smell like cow shit.

We have been the best team for the last two weeks. Next Sunday is the championship… I plan to murder mofos.

Daniel Dickey

Once upon a time there was a man with a 25 inch penis. Any guy would be excited to have such a big penis, but this man was not. He went to get advice from friends and one told him about a witch who could help him and gave him directions to the witch’s Brooklyn apartment. The next day the man visited the witch and after telling the witch his problems she asked to she his penis. After showing her, she smiled, thought for awhile and finally came up with an answer. Go into the woods and find a frog. Ask the frog to marry you and each time it says no, your gigantic jewels will shrink 5 inches. The man quickly ran to the woods. After searching for an hour he finally found a frog. He ran up to it and asked it to marry him. “NO Thank You” the frog said. The man looked down and watched his penis go from 25 inches to 20. The man asked the frog two more times, and again, it replied no. Once he was at 15 inches he thought 10 inches would be perfect, so he went up to the frog and asked it to marry him. The frog replied.  How many times do I have to tell you. NO, NO, NO.”

This is a true story. I was this man.

Big Shot Out Going Out To LAUREN!!!

Daniel Dickey

I have stared at this for close to 15 minutes and am still laughing out loud. I don’t know who’s the funniest… the fat latina whale in the back left or the bald kid.

Leaning back,

Daniel Dickey

So a couple months ago my mother decided to make a Facebook. After several unsuccessful attempts of trying to hack her account and delete it, I gave up. I did inform her if she wanted to be friends then she has to understand my Facebook is devoted to inappropriate status updates and profile pictures of naked bear men. She friended me anyways. These are the usual conversations that ensue on our walls.

If you’re wondering why my mom is using the grammar/punctuation that a 14 year old girl on aim messager would use, it’s because she has no idea what she’s doing on the computer, uses her acrylic nails to type and thinks speaking with terms like, “U, 2day, B, R, 4, w/b, xoxo, <3) are the ‘hip’ thing to do.

So help me if I get one more friend request and it says our only mutual friend is my mother I will cut your face,

Daniel Dickey