It’s father’s day and boy am I thankful I’ve survived another year without impregnating some random witch that has flown my way. The key is to splash them with a bucket of water right after you ejaculate. They slowly melt away and die, and you get to go to sleep without some sweaty girl trying to cuddle with you and talk about ‘taking things to the next level’.

With that said, I hope I don’t have any children anytime soon. Children require your attention and cry if you don’t buy them things… if I wanted either of those qualities in someone else I would have kept my girlfriend around. Though when I think about it, I would consider adopting kids. But I’d only do it if the government approved me using them as slaves. Seriously, if I’m going to feed, cloth, and support these little bastards the least they could do is carry around some 50 pound potato sacks. Of course I would only be willing to adopt kids from Africa. Please don’t take that as a racist thing, because it’s not… it’s a genetics thing. If you were given the choice of child slave, would you choose some little Asian orphan that can hardly lift a stack of Twilight books, some Spanish twerp that kicks around soccer balls instead of building the dungeon like he’s supposed to, or a 6′6 ft 8 year old African that can bench press an elephant and pay his way through college with a football? Exactly.

Whether I decide to adopt or have a little child of my own, it won’t be for awhile, as I think 23 is too young to worry about anyone other than yourself. Fulfill yourself before you attempt to fulfill another. Blah blah blah chase your dreams (currently mine are serving Mexican food, staying up late and sleeping in).

Father’s Day… the most confusing day in Harlem,

Daniel Dickey

So a couple months ago I decided I wanted to brew my own beer. I was pretty gung ho about the idea and even started collecting empty bottles out of the dumpster by my house to bottle the beer. Unfortunately, since I had no idea how to brew my own beer and google searches didn’t reveal too much about brewing beer in a bathtub, I was forced to try my hand at something else. I did the next most likely thing and tried making my own milk. Obviously not my own human milk, but milk from the animal that produces milk, kangaroos. It too didn’t go as expected and I was all out of ideas. Then the most genius idea of all hit me…eat some cookies and take a nap. Both the cookies and the nap were wonderful. The end.

I could have just ended the blog there and gone back to looking at pictures of sea monsters, because I’m much too sick to type right now…but I won’t because I’m thankful to have you here.

Actually no, sorry, I’m sick and am 9 hours into a 12 hour shift at work.

But here’s one of the sea monsters I was looking at.

I’ve become addicted to chocolate. I’m not joking. As I write this I’m pouring Hersey’s syrup in my mouth to wash down a Milky Way. This morning I put a Snickers in my omelet. Three nights ago I ate 18 Reese’s peanut butter cups and then passed out from the immense joy it brought. I can’t stop thinking about it. I took the condom out of my wallet and replaced it with a Kit Kat…just-in-case.

See I MCed a party last weekend in Connecticut that was candy themed. I thought, “oh this is great, I’ll steal a bunch of candy and it will last me for the year”. It’s been 8 days and all I have is one bag of M&M minies and six Hersey’s kisses…I stole over 12 pounds of candy. I packed a duffel bag full of chocolates and in the past week I have eaten over a pound of chocolate everyday. I tried weening myself off of it by limiting myself to one Peanut M&M’s every hour. I didn’t work. I’m feining and about to run out of my supply. I’m freaking out. I had my bank account frozen today for fear I’d empty my meager savings for the sweet goodness that is chocolate. My roommate has a jar of Nutella hidden on the top shelf of our kitchen cabinets and after the rest of my stash is gone I’m going after that sweet chocolate spread. If my fingers were made out of chocolate I think I’d eat them.

I’m not sure what to do. It’s 1:16am on Sunday night. I hear the candy calling me. It’s yelling my name. I must answer it’s call.

My Mouth Is Full,

Daniel Dickey

Current New York Temperature: 38 degrees and rainy…with a chance of, what the fuck, it’s fall…why’s it so cold?

I will not be taking a shower until my roommate and I can pay the heat bill. See in our last apartment heat and hot water was paid for. In good ole’ Bushwick we have to pay for ALL utilities (heat, hot water, gas, electric) and since we are very poor we’ve decided no matter how cold it gets we will not turn the heat on till November 1st the earliest…well guess what? It’s October 16th and it’s 38 degrees outside, 54 degrees in our apartment. I woke up at 5:30am this morning because my ears started to freeze stiff. I’m 90 percent sure it snowed in our living room around lunch time. I really think we need to stop spending our money on chocolate and thrift store boots and start paying out bills.

As I write this I have on two shirts, a sweat shirt, sweat pants, socks, hat, and a scarf wrapped around my face. I’m looking at the temperature in Florida on my iPhone and it says 89 degrees…damn that sounds nice. I have to get ready for work…though I can take my time because I will not be showering. Showering in the house means death…frozen to death.

Can your feel your feet? I can’t.

Daniel Dickey

So I haven’t blogged in over a week….why? Truthfully, I’ve been saving the planet…one margarita at a time. I think we all can agree margaritas are the root of all evil and in my attempts to cleanse the world of it’s problems I’ve decided to let other good hearted souls deal with hunger, poverty, and the mistreating of women in Arab countries, as I will be busy downing fruit flavored margaritas. Am I a saint? I don’t even know what a saint is. If it means someone that’s going to drink A LOT of Mexican influenced drinks, then yes, I am certainly a saint. The saint of Mexico…and margaritas.

Hopefully I’ll feel frisky in the near future and write a witty story about a cat that is only turned on by dogs. Who knows. Keep reading. Keep drinking. Keep using lotion on your elbow because they are currently very very ashy.

I usually don’t get out of my DJ gig in Time Square till about 1am, and on weekends the subway on 42nd street is filled with drunk tourist, angry bums, and New Yorkers trying to escape their problems with a weekend filled with binge drinking and over priced pizza. So almost nightly after my shift, while I’m rushing down the subway stairs to catch a train that hardly runs, I find myself extremely aggravated when a stumbling drunk blocks my path.

Last night two fat tourist did just this. This is what transpired word for word right after I pushed my way through their fat slop.

Fat 1: Watch where you’re going, you American queer boy.

(I ignored his slurred speech because catching the N train was still my number one priority. As I rushed down the rest of the stairs, the other fat ogor, sporting a unkempt red goatee, tried to humor his sloppy buddy, with a really witty line)

Fat 2: Yeah, you better slow down…or you might fall.

(Their laughter roared at the genius joke. Hearing the train’s door close, and realizing it was to late to catch it, my priorities began changing. I stopped and turned to see the two unhealthy bodies giggling their way down the long row of stairs. There were a handful of impatient people stuck behind the piggish men. They couldn’t get past them. Fuck it, why not?)

Me: What did you say you German Shark fucker?

(Thrown off by my response their laughter stopped as they starred at each other)

Fat 1: Did you just call my boy a German Shark fucker?

Me: Yeah I did, and what you going to do about it with your tough lesbian hair cut?

(Feeding off the couple people stuck behind them smiling at my challenge)

Me: Look at you looking like a German nutty professor. You look like a Beluga whale fucked a slutty Possum.

Fat 2: A what?

Fat 1: I think he said a Possum.

Fat 2: You mean those things with the hard shells.

Fat 1: No that’s a Armadillo.

(Directing he attention back towards me)

Fat 2: Shut up you…you hair gel guy.

Fat 1: Yeah, nice hair. What are you suppose to be a hair model?

(Again they both laughed at their intoxicated foreign humor. Again I saw the faces of the frustrated people stuck behind there fat bodies).

Me: “Real funny”, I said as I unbuckled my belt.

Fat 2: (Taking notice of me unbuckling my belt) Hey look how gay he is. He’s taking off his belt so we can suck his dick.

Me: Really? Come on. I’m taking off my beat so I can beat the shit out of both of you.

Fat 1: Are you a fool? (Throwing his stubby arms in the air) He must be a fool. You are a third of my size. I’m going to punch you in the face and then I’m going to break your arm.

Me: Go ahead and try you hairy white Gorilla.

He beat the living shit out of me (Not to be confused with I got my ass kicked). This fat fuck shattered my jaw with his shin. He kicked my ribs with his Puma shoes. He bitch slapped me across the face. His friend didn’t even help in the bashing of my face and body. He only took pictures and poured beer on my battered body. The frustrated people that were once stuck behind the two blobs, we’re now laughing, pointing fingers, and making Coyote noises at me. One of them even offered to give them a lighter, just in case they wanted to light me on fire.

Right then and there I realized just because someone is fat, drunk and foreign does not mean I can beat them up…in fact it probably gives me even less of a chance of beating them up.

I should also make mention, though 17 of my bones are broken, included my collor bone and three pieces of spine, he did not break either of my arms. He might of been tougher than me, but at least I’m not a liar…and that makes all the difference.

Healing,

Daniel Dickey

Up until now my Brooklyn bachelorpad has been Roach and Rat free. I have heard stories of other New Yorkers having to fend off Roachs the size of Rats and Rats the size of small Bears, but I’ve always been fine. I’ve always ‘BEEN’ fine.

We stood in a complete stand still. Who would make the first move? If I moved first he would run. If he moved first I would surely begin crying. To the right of me I noticed my shoe. To the left I saw my girlfriends flat iron. They both would do the job, but my shoes were new. I reached for the flat iron, carefully watching his every movement. His eyes shifted, but I held fast as I wrapped my hands around the flat iron. He jolted to the left, but I quickly leaped in front of him. Again we were at a stand still. He flickered his antennas as if to say, “Go ahead try to catch me. You’re a pussy and I’m going to lay eggs all over this mother fucking house. So back the fuck up”. I responded by batting my eye lashes. What I was trying to say being, “Please don’t come any closer or I’ll pee all over myself”. I had to make my move soon, every second was another chance for him to escape into the wall or a crack in the wooden floor. With my legs spread wide I begin walking closer to him. He slowly creeped back. I wiped my sweaty hand on my fat face and squeezed the flat iron in my fist. He held his breath as he stared at me. I clenched my ass cheeks as I stared at him. BOOM I pounced like a hungry cougar. He got away, but I chased close after him. He ducked under the kitchen table, but I tossed it to the floor as I swatted him with the iron. One of his legs came off, but still he sprinted towards the stove. We both knew if he made to the stove he would win. I’m not a loser. I threw my body onto the floor as I assaulted him with harsh verbal blows like, “You stupid guy” and “DON’T CRAWL ON ME AAAAHHHH”. It worked and he headed the other way….the other way was my bedroom. My girlfriend was sleeping on my mattress. My mattress is on the floor. HE PLANNED THIS ALL ALONG! WHAT A FOOL I WAS! He was going to take my girlfriend hostage!

Outsmarted, I walked into my room to see him lounging on my girlfriends face. He saw me and smiled. I stepped closer and he creeped towards her mouth. I stopped and said, “Don’t you dare you little fucking guy”. To that he quickly responded by jumping into her open mouth, only to burst out seconds later, gasping for air. He under estimated the stink that lives in my girlfriends mouth as she sleeps. I knew he was hurt, her morning breath could bring down a large Bull, and though he was a fighter, he was no Bull. I jumped onto the bed, cocked back the flat iron over my head and screamed, “I going to kill you, you little mother fucker”. My girlfriends eyes popped open and she quickly kicked my hard in the balls (I have told her many times before I was going to kill her in her sleep, with a flat iron, and she assumed that night was the night). I fell to my knees, crying as I gripped my small testicles. My girlfriend then climbed on top of me and began thrashing her nails into my eyes. As my eyes squirted blood she repeated, “Oh my faggot little boyfriend thinks he can kill me while I’m sleeping? Guess what? I’m going to cut your legs off and leave you in to closet to die, you little fucking dick sucker”. I cried and pleaded for her to stop. To this she responded by kicking me in the ribs and smashing her flat iron into my face. She yelled, “What did you say something? I can’t hear you with all those dogs dicks in your mouth”. I did not have any dogs dicks in my mouth. She was lying, but I was almost dead. As my bleeding head was being pounded into the jagged wooden floor I saw the Roach sitting on my new shoes eating a piece of popcorn. With my puppy dog eyes looked at him for help, but he only laughed and began shitting in the shoe.

I’m writing this months later in a Brooklyn hospital. I came out of my coma a couple days ago and my new prosthetic legs should be showing up within the week. I am completely blind in my left eye and my right eye is actually no longer there, it is just a hole. I’ve been told it looks like an asshole right after the dick has been popped out. It’s still hard to breath as most of my ribs are still broken and both my lungs collapsed. Most of my nose is missing and nine of my fingers are gone because of the frost bite (After I regained consciousness in the bedroom I explain what really happened to my girlfriend. That I wasn’t trying to kill her, just the Roach. She ended up feeling really bad and ended up sticking me in the freezer. She said it would help with my swelling and she would take me out after 15 minutes. She fell asleep. She put me in there on Tuesday morning. She took me out on Sunday night. It’s been a ruff couple of months. I’m actually going into surgery within the hour to get the rest of the nails, tacks, and shards of glass out of my spine. Wish me luck…but make sure to do it in my left ear, as my right ear drum exploded as my girlfriend shouted, “You really thought you could kill me? Really, a pussy like you? Too bad you didn’t, because now I’m going to cut off all your skin with a razor and make you eat it. What did you say? You want me to saw off your penis and fill it with pudding for dessert? Good idea. That’s going to be so yummy, you little faggot bitch”.

Scared and hurt,

Daniel Dickey

The Red Jaguars, Blue Barracudas, Green Monkeys, Orange Iguanas, Purple Parrots, and the Silver Snakes.

First three people to leave a comment telling me where they are from is going to get a f-ing amazing prize.

Did you know a 90 – 150 pound Sheep costs $122? Me either. At first I was just googling Sheep facts, like I do ever Sunday night at 12:00am, but now I think I found the investment I’ve been looking for.

$122 is nothing. My metro sexual roommate has spent more lasering off his nipple hair. If I bought one Sheep everyday, in 10 days I would have almost 10 Sheep, and in 30 days I’d have 30 Sheep, and in 100 days I’d have like 6 million Sheep. Obviously a big deal! It’s actually getting hard to type, I’m just so giddy at the thought of the billions I’m going to rank in selling Sheep organs to people.

See through Wikipedia I’ve learned that Sheep farmers make a decent living shaving their Sheeps and selling their wool to make blankets and other soft shit, but the problem is ‘decent’ isn’t something I’m into. So sat down in my thinking chair and thought what else do Sheep’s have to offer asides from their highly desirable and always needed wool hair? That’s when it hit me, ORGANS. Do you know who many people need kidneys? Do know how much someone would pay for a lung? Google just revealed a whole shit load, and they’re going to die in less they get one (They didn’t say it had to be from a human).

Now are you starting to see the possible profits? I’m not limiting the company to just organs either. I’ll sell their feet if some Asians want to make soup with it. We’ll gut that Sheep and take their kidneys, heart, lungs, teeth, and even their penises if we can find the right buyer. The great part is the government hasn’t bothered passing any laws to ban the sales of animal organs. The even better part is were not going to tell people they are animal organs.

Example Letter

Company Logo and Tag Line (We have organs and you don’t)

Hey there. How you feeling? Probably pretty shitty since you know you’re going to die soon. Has you heart stopped pumping yet? I really hope not. What about your teeth are they looking really British? How would some new pearly whites sound? What if those pearly white came free with your organ purchase?

Yeah you heard me right. Not only will you get a really handsome organ, but well also throw in some really snazzy teeth (You just pay for shipping). Our company has been specializing in organ transplants for over 7 months and we have a highly recommended team of butchers and scientist that are ready to send you one damn healthy organ. If you read our most recent add on Craigslist, you already know for the whole month of August we are running a buy one get one free special on all livers. Just pop one in your body and toss that other one in the fridge for later, or send it to Grandma at that retirement home.

We want you to know our goal is to save your life while also improving your smile. That way when you’re telling your friends and family how well your new organ is working you can smile and feel like a real winner.

If you find yourself tired of lying in a hospital waiting for some old man to die or some drunk teen to get in a fatal car wreck, give our corporate offices a call or shoot us a Myspace message. We have plenty of organs, and one has your name written on it (obviously we will use Clorox to wipe off your name before we send it).

PS: If you saw the recent lawsuit filed against us for the 11 year old spleen recipient that awoke after surgery only speaking in tongues, it was defiantly his fault, as the package said “do not leave out or your spleen will spoil”. He left it out too long.

Sincerely,

Name of company

Do you see the dollar signs? That was just an example letter, but I think it shows how to set up and close a deal with a perspective client. Notice how it was never mentioned where the organs were coming from. People aren’t going to questions this. Yes, a Sheep heart is almost 3 pounds heavier than a human heart, but well just say its from Shaq or some tall ass wrestler. Don’t ask, don’t tell, and we’ll be fine. Of course the government will step in after a while, but we will have already sold millions of organs and made billions in profits. By the time the government catches on, we will be in Trinidad, drinking Coconut milk with some strippers that don’t mind bestiality. This is the guaranteed cash we have all been looking for and I’m happy to say we will be launching a eBay store within the week. This might of started as a google search, but it’s going to end in millions.

Like my Sheep would say,

I’m one baaaaddd mother fucker.

This will probably be our mascot, Damion.

This a Sheep, but he’s also a Calvin Klein model.

This is a drawing a cute little boy made as he tried

to figure out what kind of Sheep liver was in him.

This is a picture of me after a game of tennis.

Don’t mind my hair I look really Sheepish.

ANGOLAN WOMAN’S HANDBALL is an Olympic sport and I’m LOVING IT! The way these Angolan women womp that ball with their bare bruisers is incredible. “A racquet, HA that’s for pussies,” the team captain once said that when asked, “Since you use your hands to hit the ball what do you do with the racquet’s?” Most Angolans aren’t associated with handball…Human Jerky, which is made from actual Human flesh, is something most people might identify they with (Manly due to their barbaric name. That in fact is the reason I associated them with that.) BUT it seems they have found themselves another hobby, asides from eating tenderized, simmered, and sauteed, baby flesh.

How did I first become a fan of the Angol’s? Last Saturday I was looking at pictures of my favorite Genghis Khan tattoo’s and happened to find one where he was eating a puppy at summer camp…thing is, the summer camp sign said, “Angolan Women’s Handball is #1.” It made me wonder, if an awesome specimen like Genghis Khan would eat a puppy at a camp which thinks Angolan Women’s Handball is #1, wouldn’t I?

Answer: Yeah, sorta.

I thought they were a pretty rad group of ladies. That was until I saw their secret training video…it’s changed everything. Everyday they wake up a 1:30 in the afternoon and eat sixteen pancakes and three glasses of raw Bear’s milk. After that they head straight back to bed and sleep until 6:00pm. Now this is when the fun starts. At 6:35pm everyday they all take turns raping their husbands and then kill them. Everyday, new husbands. Everyday, dead husbands. The oldest member on the team has been married twenty three thousand times. They kill their husbands as a sign of respect for their team mascot, The Black Widow (And also because they are very mentally disturbed). After the last man is buried they drink various liquors, beers, and pig’s blood, while talking and measuring their hands. Then from 8:00pm to 8:15pm they practice. At 8:16 they are very tired and go to sleep. Goodnight.

The Eleven Qualifications to Join The Team

• Must own three dozen chickens.
• Must have proof of 100 pure Angol blood.
• Must have killed your Brother or Father within the last four years.
• Must always carry an Ivory hunting spear.
• Must pee on flowers.
• Must kill yourself immediately if a match is ever lost.
• Must kill anyone who wears aprons.
• Must be able to drink four gallons of whiskey in eleven seconds.
• Must introduce yourself as a Gorilla.
• Must wash your face with blood.
• Must be able to krump dance to every Ludacris song.

Sadly, the Angolan Woman’s Handball team lost their first match against the Chinese yesterday. All but one has already killed themselves. She said that the rules were outdated and killing herself would be barbaric. There is currently a group of men burning her house down. She will be stoned to death any day.

Goodnight,

Daniel Dickey