So I’m sitting at my desk, breaking out in hives, and really regretting a decision I made a couple of hours ago.

As I walked out of work and into the chaos that is Times Square I saw everyone eating delicious Papa John’s pizza. Not single slices…they all had FULL pies. I saw hundreds of fat tourist stuffing their face with that warm cheese, sauce, and soft baked bread. They must have be giving it out for free! I knew if I didn’t get some quick I’d have to go home and eat Cap’n Cruch for the 23rd straight day, and that wasn’t an option. I sprinted north towards 46th street….the pizza boxes were becoming more sporadic. I was going the wrong way. I turned around, signaled for a cab, got in, thought “WTF do I need a cab for?” got out and ran south. It wasn’t until 44th street that I started to see the real heat. EVERYONE had a box of pizza, many had two or three. My blood was pumping. I was focused. This was dinner damn it.

I see them! I see them! They were by 7th Ave, two little Mexican pizza people pushing a cart loaded with Papa John delivery bags. Oh my salvation from starvation. Smiling like a preteen who just got her first period before all of her friends, I jogged up to the cart and declared, “I want PIZZAAAAA”. Not even bothering to look at me, he replied “We’re out amigo”. While cracking my knuckles I replied, “Amigo? Bitch, you two have been feeding these smelly German tourist for hours, so help me if you don’t get me my pizza I’m going to get macho man Randy Savage in the middle of Times Square. Straight up elbow you in the face”. Again not even bothering to look at me, he said, “I’m sorry my friend, we’re out”. I could have gonna Taliban right there and started blowing shit up…but that wouldn’t have got me pizza. I turned around frantically looking for another pizza man. There was nobody around except for happy people eating their pizza two slices at a time. I was defeated. It was too late. Cap’n Crunch I’ll be home for dinner.

I walked towards the subway disappointed, hungry, and shoeless(I got so mad watching other people eat their pizza that I took my shoes off and threw it at a couple feeding each other slices of pepperoni. Hit them both in the face. BOOM! Chew on that). That’s when my luck changed. It was smiling at me. It was blowing kisses at me. It said, “Hello handsome. Why don’t you eat me?” I saw a box of pizza sitting on top of a garbage can on 43rd and Broadway. Looking around, I walked up, opened the box and saw a full pie looking up at me, smiling. Now realize this was a box of pizza on top of a GARBAGE in one of the the dirtiest places in the world. It could have been covered in urine, snot, spit, dog shit, anthrax…and I picked it up and walked away with it. I went and sat on a bench and studied it closely for about a minute. Then I grabbed a slice and ate it. I ate the rest of it on the subway heading back to Brooklyn. I got home flicked off my box of Cap’n Crunch and laughed.

That was two hours ago. I now realize how fucking insanely stupid I am for eating that. I’ve called most of my loved ones and said my goodbyes. I’ve broken out in hives…I’m not sure if it’s from the anthrax and heroine on the pizza or because I’m having a nervous breakdown. I haven’t freaked out like this since I got my dick stuck in the vacuum cleaner. I figure if I’m going to die, I might as well document it. I’m sure my death will bring my blog millions of hits…unfortunately worms will be eating my body because I thought eating a pizza found on a garbage in New York City was a good idea. I am a fool.

Heading To The Hospital,

Daniel Dickey

Her large lumpy skin hung low over her tight daisy duke shorts. Her big pumpkin breasts, covered in yellow stretch marks, sagged to her wide hips. She lacked much pigment… really the only color to her fair and floppy skin was large spider veins and quarter sized blemishes on her sausage arms and hippo legs. Her hair was a nappy mess. It was similar to that of a resident of a trailer park (a ghetto one, not retirement one). Her teeth, what was left of them, stunk like rotting meat and most were stained with tar, dirt, and blood. A hairy pig nose that would make most humans vomit on themselves, sat in the middle of her pig face. She did have nice ears… of course they were shaped like the ears of a troll and/or large hobbit, but either way they were nice. Her sweaty neck, covered in acne, came together in the back to form a jumbo pack of ball park hot dogs (I don’t think they’re kosher). Was she wearing a tractor tire around her waste? No, that is just blob of belly fat. Did she eat dog food? She sure did look like it. The hair from her armpits was long, but braided… it showed she cares about her appearance and that’s important. She looked like a white gorilla. I could only imagine if I were to sniff her, she would smell similar to a rotting zebra carcass exposed to the heat of the African plains for several weeks. If she was ever to fart in a room of 70 people, surely 70 people would die slow horrible deaths. Barefoot I could see the horse hooves she tried to pass off as feet. The heals and skin, green with fungus, were a nice contrast to her untrimmed toenails, red as rust and jagged as a saw. This beast of a women might have weighed 600 pounds. She could easily eat a Volkswagen Bug. Her wheelchair was the size of a Mini Cooper. But I loved her. For some unknown, disturbing reason I couldn’t take my eyes off this large whale. Seeing her sloppy body my heart beat faster. She made my skin tingle. She made my cold, little baby penis warm with quickly circulating blood. She was the sun to my moon, the rain to my flower, the cheese to my bologna. She soon caught on to my sweet smiles and a puppy eyes from across the room. I knew this by the way she started flapping her arms and barking at me. She rolled up in her wheel chair and offered me some of the half eaten chicken bones on her lap. I smiled and had a bite. It tasted like sewer water smeared on a possum’s dick. I told her this, and she barked with laughter. “What made you think it was chicken?” she replied. I smiled and kissed her neck.

Changing my beautiful girlfriend’s diapers,

Daniel Dickey

Update: Click here to see what me and my fat love bug have been up to lately.

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)

St. Patricks Day, filled with green beer, orange beards, and horny little Leprechauns, is widely celebrated across the world (Though I don’t think it’s that big in Iran), but most people aren’t aware of it’s real origins. Mistakenly the general population of people think St. Patrick’s Day is held in remembrance of the patron saints of Ireland. This is completely wrong and anyone who says that it is a liar and probably smells like whale shit. St. Patrick’s Day actually came about in 1897 in the quite suburbs of Boca Raton, Florida.

Shea Patrick O’Hair, though most of the people at school called him Shea Patrick O’Hairy balls in your mouth, was a redheaded little Irish bitch. He had a wak ass orange beard that only grew in certain places and caused him to look like someone threw up orange jello on parts of his face. He didn’t have many friends and girls often told him his weird obsession with frogs creep’d them out. His father was a drunk and his mother, a broom maker, often told him he reminded her of the man she lost her virginity to. Though he knew he was a little queer, he never felt it was the life he was destined for.

One day at school while most of the jocks were drinking and throwing blocks of wood at him, he decided to make the change his loser life needed. He walked up to the biggest jock just as he was grabbing a small frog to mash in Shea face, “Hey, you better stop throwing those blocks of wood at me”. The jocks laughed at the little twerp. Shea shouted, “I’m not kidding. Stop throwing blocks of wood at me and stop peeing on me whenever I fall asleep under the monkey bars”. The biggest jock grabbed his flask, took a mean sip and bit the frogs head off. Tears filled Shea’s stupid little eyes and he watched the jock stick his finger in the frogs body and pretended to make it hop around Shea’s freckled face. He took the rage that was bottled up for seventeen years and let it explode like the guts of the frog as the other jock threw its body against a tree. Shea looked at the jock, towering at least two feet above him and said, “You needed a chaser for a measly sip of whiskey. You’re a big puss”. The school children gasped. A crowd began to form as the jock replied, “What did you say to me you little rabbit fucker?” “You heard me”, replied Shea. Again the crowd gasped at the new found courage coming from the little Irish nerd. The jock filled his flask to the brim and spit in the top, “You think you can do better? Go ahead and try. I bet you will die” (The jock did not mean to rhyme, but he did). The crowd was now all off the school children, teachers, a couple cooks, and a stripper in a nun costume. The teachers were laughing at Shea and one yelled out, “You faggot you can’t even pass my English class, how are you going to drink all of that”? Shea didn’t let this affect him. It couldn’t. This was his chance. He grabbed the flask, said a small frog pray to himself, popped open his mouth and let the flask pour. One second, two seconds, six seconds, twelve seconds. Everyone couldn’t believe their eyes. Even the jocks were staring at each other unsure how this was possible. One jock turned to the other and said, “How is this possible?”

Then it hit the ground. He tossed the empty flask to the ground after eighteen seconds and threw his hands in the air, as if to say, “Wassup Nigga? Wassup?” The crowd was silent. Nobody has ever downed half of a flask, let alone the whole thing. A small Asian girl emerged from the crowd and kissed him on the forehead. He winked at her as she asked, “What’s your name”? He replied, “Shea Patrick”. She turned to the stunned crowd and in a thick, almost unintelligible, Asian accent she yelled, “Shea Patrick”. Which came across as St. Patrick. Everyone in the crowd began cheering and yelling “St. Patrick”. Girls were lining up to kiss the newly confirmed stud. The stripper even let him hit it behind the tree the Frog was smashed on. He was a hero. He was a legend. He was a saint.

After that the word spread from village to village, town to town, city to city. They recounted how the Irish man drank like a wild animal. They told stories how the girls lined up to kiss the Irish man. They emailed each other pictures of Shea banging the stripper behind the tree.

Shea used the color green to signify that day in memory of the Frog. He also said in a interview years later, “People with red and orange hair are losers and that’s a fact. We look really dumb and most of us smell bad. There’s nothing we can do about that…for 364 days a year. BUT I’ll tell you something, St. Patrick’s Day is our day. There’s nothing cooler than a fire crotch on March 17th. On that day red and orange is the hair color of choice. On that day we are the people we dream to be every other day”.

So now you know.

A very rare picture of St. Patrick.

A Ipod ad St. Patrick did.

This is John MaCain. He ran for President. He didn’t win.

Kiss Me I’m Jewish,

Daniel Dickey

Sitting in my Brooklyn apartment, hungry, drawing on my wall, not sure when I last showered, and still shitting last nights liquor, I am very grateful I grew up in a suburban middle class neighborhood. Though my family wasn’t the cookie cutter all American type, both of my parents worked hard to provide a comfortable life for my siblings and I. I didn’t have to worry about drive-bys, crackheads trying to jerk me off behind a Walmart, and being forced to eat my cereal with water because we couldn’t buy milk this week.

In a gated community you have other things to worry about, like learning cools tricks with your bike, playing Pogs, and of course violent video games on Nintendo 64 (This is speaking of when I was in Middle School, today it would be Nintendo Wii). This of course this was taken for granted in my tween and teenage years, but as a poor, struggling 20 something I sure wish I had some Pogs and my Nintendo 64.

Living on your own isn’t all it’s cut out to be. If you had terribly strict dick munching parents then maybe living on your own is a big importance. But for me living rent free in a nice house with a tub and a toaster seems pretty ideal (You heard me. I do not have a toaster and my shower is the size of a Mormons vagina).

Yes you can walk around naked in your own house, but why can’t I do that in my Mom’s house? It’s not like she’s never seen a wiener. If anything I think she’d be proud to see the handsome wiener her son likes to strut around. I guess it’s also nice being able to have sex wherever I want in my house, but seeing as I have been dating my girlfriend for almost 2 and 1/2 years, we have sex in the same place…nowhere. I’m always tired and she’s always constipated. Love really is a magical thing. It’s like rain, just instead of droplets of water, it’s like droplets of magic. Little droplets of magic just falling from the sky. It’s so magical.

I’ve also found food to be a major concern while surviving in my own dwellings. Whatever food I do have must be guarded at all hours, due to overweight unactivated roommates trying to jack my cookies. Therefore I am left with a single meal a day (Two meals if it’s a holiday, and if I go to the local homeless shelter). That meal tends to be a can of tuna with whatever I can find to mix it with (Note: Don’t mix tuna with Landry detergent. Though it smells great, I have found it to be quite toxic and has almost killed me several times). I did buy a couple boxes of Captain Crunch, but unfortunately the milk expired 11 days ago. I tried smelling it and I threw up in my mouth. I assume I’ll cover my nose as I eat the Captain Crunch and 11 day old milk for dinner.

Living on your own sucks, inless you’re rich. I’m looking to knock up a rich girl in the coming months to help with my financial issues. Are you rich? Wanna have a baby? Cool.

I’m actually getting so frustrated that I’m not in at one of my parent’s houses (They’re divorced) in Florida watching HGTV that I am ending this post and going to sleep.

22 pounds skinnier than I was last year,

Daniel Dickey

In today’s economy it’s not often you have the opportunity to apply for a job. Most companies aren’t excepting applications, let alone hiring. I’ve always prided myself as a expert when it comes to resumes and job applications, therefore I’ll show you a copy of a application I filled out yesterday for a very high paid executive job, and maybe it will help you with your job hunt.

• Name: Daniel, but all my friends call me lil bo bo the dutchess.
• Cell Phone Number: Fuck ass T Mobile turned it off, but I’ma bout to borrow some cash money from my grandma so I’ma be straight.
• Email Address: RobbinNKillenYou22121@yahoo.com
• Sex: iight, but I don’t blow my phone up when I’m done giving you that good love.
• Position Desired: Whatever you got. I ain’t picky…but don’t be stingy on a nigga. Feel me?
• Qualifications: I’m crazy good with people…especially with bitches. I ain’t met a bitch that wasn’t trying to fuck a nigga. You know what I’m saying? I’m also great with computers. I can disconnect it, erase the serial numbers, and have it sold within the hour.
• Past Employers: Some punk ass haters. If you see em tell em I’m gonna shoot him…straight up…shot…dead.
• Have you ever been convicted of a felony: You calling me a bitch?
• What attracts you to this job: I ain’t even gonna front, I saw a fine piece of chocolate cake grillin the shit out of me. You think I could get her number?
• Salary Expected: Nigga, Jordan’s ain’t free.
• Thoughts, Questions, Concerns: Ain’t I wrote enough?
• Availability: Tuesday’s at 9:30pm.

I hope this will be able to be a positive starting point for your job applications. If your wondering…I did not receive them job yet, but they did say if after my probation is up I am still interested, I can reapply under court supervision.

It’s January 1st, 2009 and all is the same as yesterday…or is it? Could today be the new beginning I’ve waited all year for? Probably not. Does a new year mean my long criminal record for indecent exposure has been wiped clean? Don’t think so. Will my unsatisfactory jaw line be replaced with Ryan Reynold’s? I’ll pray. But there is one thing a new year is always good for, A New Years Resolution List.

My New Years Resolutions

• Start walking a with a cane.
• Quit taping cockroaches to my roommates toothbrush’s and shrugging my shoulders when they ask me how it got there.
• Finish building my fleet of pirate ships.
• Start recording my Latin Dance Cd.
• Have a kid, name him Loser, put him up for adoption, sit back and laugh.
• Start a charity to help the less fortunate.
• Stop pretending like I started a charity for the less fortunate just to impress my readers.
• Get rid of binoculars and buy telescope to watch people as they sleep.
• Stop poking myself on Facebook.
• Quit telling my anorexic best friend she would look so much prettier if she just lost a couple more pounds.
• Wow I’m going to be so busy this year.

As you can see I got a lot on my plate. Knowing me I’ll probably have all of it done by tomorrow.

• Stop lying about how long it takes me to finish things.

I wouldn’t say I’m fascinated by Werewolves, it’s more of a sexual obsession, a silly itch that needs to be playfully scratched by their Wolfie claws. My girlish obsession began many moons ago, while Goat herding in the southern most tip of an Ogor’s dick. Our lead Goat, Pancake, had fallen ill the night before. He had a wicked case of mono (Pancake didn’t mind dipping his batter in the dirtiest of Sheep’s. He also had a huge uncircumcised dick, which made it hard for him to walk, as it would always bang against rocks and sharp pieces of gravel). We decided to have our next best leader, Kendall, lead the pack that night. She was faster than all the Goats and we hardly had to feed her (My partners now see why I decided to kidnap that little girl to live a life of Goat herding). The midnight moon guided us through the chilly night, as we sang, danced, and peed all over Kendall. Whenever any of the Goat’s became tired and started to slow down we would kick it in the face with our boots…but even that didn’t stop the spreading sluggishness. After Goat herding for 300 years you learn a thing or two about Goat’s…and something was defiantly wrong with my Goat’s…something weird, very weird.

Many people are misinformed on how a person is turned into a Werewolf. Common myths are, “If you rub too much butter on your genitals when you masturbate”, “If you own any of the ten seasons of Friends on DVD”, or the biggest myth “If you are French”. Though French people smell like soggy, wet Wolves, they are not Werewolves…but they are soggy and wet…very soggy, very wet, very dumb and French. The truth is there is only one way you can be transformed in a Werewolf. A Werewolf must lick the bottoms of both of your feet and then suck your dick for at least six minutes. I know…it’s fucking crazy! Why do you think no one wants to see a Werewolf? I get scared when a fat girl tries sucking my dick, let alone a big gay Wolf! Imagine just chillen at the movies watching The Stepford Wives and all of a sudden a Werewolf is sitting there eating popcorn, trying to fit in. You know he’s just sitting there thinking, “I’m going to lick this niggas feet and then I’ma suck his dick”. You now realize the deep sense of panic on that dark dark night.

The first howl came a couple minutes after twelve. Its deep roar ripped up my spine, and soon I smelt the escaping flatulent that howled its way out of my Horse’s asshole. Bowser was a smelly Horse. Many times after climbing into his flea infested saddle I would throw up all over him, just to deafen the smell of rotting Horse shit that infested most of his fat figure. But soon after the egg odored anal bomb caught the brisk night’s breeze things began to change for the worse.

In the green hills of an Ogor’s dick the shadows are always chasing after you. They watch over you. They comfort you. When those shadows silently turned to figures…deep, black, mysterious figures, I knew the peace was soon to plummet. I had the herd move double time. I was pushing Kendall to her limit, but I didn’t care. If she died she died, I didn’t have time to worry about a kidnapped orphan, we had a Werewolf on our tail.

He first made his presence know as he howled away on a mountain cliff about twenty clicks north of us. Minutes later I realize he wasn’t alone. There were two approaching quickly from the south as the three gained speed from the north. By this time my two partners in the Goat herding business had turned back. They said, “Were not even Goat herders…these dumb Goat’s just keep following us”. I was a die hard Goat herder though. If I was going to die, then so were all of my Goat’s.

I could see that the Wolf would reach us within the minute. My brain was carefully calculating all the possible options. I could kill Kendall as a sign of respect to the Wolves. I could kill all the Goats and then kill Kendall. I could even kill Bowser, the Goat’s, and Kendall…as long as they stayed away from my dick. My time was up, the wild Wolves were there and they had a heavy appetite for feet and dicks. We pushed on stampeding as fast as we could. One by one I watched my Goat’s being ripped from the herd, thrown on their backs, and licked on their feet. I turned my head before those savage wolves laid those Goat dicks on their salivating tongues. Though I looked away, I can still hear the giggling of the Goat’s as those Wolves slobbed on their hairy Goat wieners.

We were loosing numbers quick, and Bowser was starting to slow down. His old fat body couldn’t handle the chase by the young lean Wolves. It was either I died by horse back or I let that pig of a Horse run free as I stayed back to fight. I decided to jump off, but first made sure to break all of Bowser’s legs to insure I had more time to run away. As they pounced on Bowser’s flaccid horse wiener I ran, I ran so fast. There weren’t anymore Goat’s, as they all were already sucked off. I did see a figure next to me though. It was Kendall! She didn’t have a penis and would not be harmed by the Wolves…that lucky little bitch, I could have killed her right there. Then I heard it…Bowser howled as his heavy Horse ejaculate flew out. It was now time for me. I knew I was special, as only the lead Wolf came for me. Would now be my time to stand my ground and fight like a man? No! I pushed Kendall face first in the dirt, hoping it would distract the Wolf. He obviously didn’t have a sense of humor; because he helped her up and apologize for my cruel actions (I should tell you it was funny as hell though! So much dirt got stuck in Kendall’s eyes…it was great they way here eyes were bleeding). Seconds later he caught up to me. I took a swift swing at him with my dagger (Yep, I had a dagger), he laughed and started spitting in his hand to help with the Wolfie blowjob. I tried running again, but he pinned me down on my back. I was helpless. For the first time in my life I was scared. I was so scared. He said he was going to take his time with me. He said he was going to suck the shit out of my dick. I took him as an honest wolf.

His tongue was thick, warm and saturated in Wolfie juices. He teased me, licking my toes as he held my feet together. I gagged at the thought of letting this hairy beast anywhere close to my man parts. I couldn’t let him turn me into a hairy monster destined for a life of feet licking and dick sucking. As he licked the soles of my feet I knew my only choice. I reached for my dagger. Its sharp blade glimmered in the moon light as I held it up. He was done licking my feet and was now moving his way up my manly legs. I closed my eyes, braced my hands tightly against my dagger, and cut my dick off (Looking back I wonder why I didn’t just stab the Werewolf in the head…very stupid on my part). The Wolfs eyes pop as he saw my bleeding penis fall to the ground. I laughed. I had won. I had cut my penis off though.

I tried sowing my penis back on. I tried duck taping it on. I even tried hot gun gluing it back on. It wouldn’t stay and I was now forced to pee through my ass. It also has had a negative affect on my dating life. When I tell women they can only have sex with me in their minds they tend to laugh and call me a “fucking loser”(Though women don’t like this, stuff animals are very open to trying this).

I was adjusting to my new “penisless” life. It was ruff, but I made it work. Then came the first full moon since the night of the Werewolves. I began acting strange. My body was changing. My voice was deeper. My toes were longer. My nipples were wetter. It was then I realized, though the Wolf had not sucked my dick, the licking of my feet had caused half of the process to take place. I was not a full Werewolf, but I was no longer a man. I was similar to a large Cat or small Elk. I was alone. I had not a man to hold me, nor a Wolf to lick my wounds.

The next day I started my journey to find a Werewolf. I would scourer the mountains, search the forest, swim the sea…anything to find a Werewolf and have him suck my dick. I might not want to be a Werewolf, but I defiantly don’t want to be a hairy man freak, forced to mate with house Cats and small Deer. My life has forever changed since that night, but you ask would I change it if I could? No! The look on Kendall’s face as I pushed that little bitch into the dirt was worth every second. I’d fuck a million Deer, happily knowing I was solely responsible for tripping that little orphan Goat herder.

PS: I might not be a Werewolf now, but the day I do become one, beware. HOWL HOWL HOWL (I don’t know how to write out howl phonetically so I wrote Howl instead).

Leave a comment with possible names for this!

Daniel Dickey Dot Com

It’s Christmas Eve in New York City. I’m standing in my DJ booth in Time Square playing Beyonce Christmas carols for tourist that keep requesting Swedish rap songs. I’ve been living here for four and a half months and I still find everyday to be an interesting, many times odd, adventure. I think I easily adjusted to life here because of my previous lifestyle and current mindset. I can already tell you by looking at someone whether they’re a New York native, moved here from elsewhere, or a tourist. It is a fast paced, fun packed temptation that can easily overwhelm someone.

The cold is defiantly the biggest change in my life, but it’s interesting how quick I’ve adjusted to it. When it was 45 degree in Florida I would convince myself it had to be the coldest day on record. I would bundle up in everything I owned and waited for my slow frostbitten death to approach. But after a couple cold weeks in Brooklyn, 45 degrees would be the start of my summer. Last week I woke up to a windy 48 degree day and went to Central Park in a T Shirt in hopes of getting a tan.

I’ve found that as a boy born and raised in South Florida I really enjoy snow. I find it much more pleasurable than the terenchal rain storms in Florida. I remember walking out of my apartment after the first snow and walking around Williamsburg…it truly looked like a white wonderland…even with a all the hipster around. The other added bonus of snow is snow balls. I remember as a kid trying to mimic the fun that kids from the North had with snow balls, I would throw balls of sand at them…it wasn’t the same. Thankfully, my kitchen window leads to a roof on one of the most popular streets in Brooklyn. This gives my roommates and I tons of targets as we bombarded passersby with freshly made snow balls. Most people laugh when they realize people are throwing snow balls at the from the roof. Some even throw snow balls back at us…though there have been the occasional person throwing glass bottles, rocks, and spears back at us. It’s all in good fun. Watching people get attacked with snow balls and look all around the highly populated street trying to figure out who or what just raped them with snow has been the highlight of my New York experience. Even after a couple nights ago when the cops came after us and used a fire truck to get on the roof we still had a marvelous time (We got in our house before those silly Police could catch us).

I’m a Brooklyn boy for now and can’t wait to see what the rest of the winter has to offer.

Merry Christmas Eve.

Happy Fourth Night of Chanuka.

The Fresh Prince of Brooklyn,

Daniel Dickey

“Love is the condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own”

With that being said, I am happy to say my two year anniversary is quickly approaching. In less than a week I can finally say it’s been “a couple” of years. I’ve been waiting at least a couple years to say that.

I remember the night like it was just yesterday. We were both a little coy as we awkwardly held hands and brushed our lips together. She smelt of chocolate and nuts…I assumed she was using Snicker bars in place of perfume…again (I told her once, that I enjoyed the sweet treat and since then on special nights she has been rubbing it all over her body like lotion…one of her many odd qualities that cause me to question her sanity). Despite the warm chocolate, caramel, and nuts seeping through her clothes I knew something special was happening…Call me crazy, but I knew it was going to happen that night. The butterfly’s in my stomach were fluttering around (I ate 16 Caterpillars 3 months earlier and I think they were hatching…if you have never experienced live butterflies in your bowls, it’s a very unpleasant experience). Her lipstick was smudged from all the throwing up she did in that dumpster outside, but to me she was still as drunk…pretty as ever. I knew the tension was rising as I grabbed her by her hair and dragged her to somewhere quite, someplace magical. It happened to be her Father’s birthday, which made it even more of a reason to make that night “the night”. I looked at her trying not to collapse, and asked her the most meaningful, unforgettable, breathtaking question of our relationship, “Hey you wanna go back to my place and bang”? She didn’t say anything, as she had already fallen asleep standing up, but I knew she would have said yes.

I recall pulling up to my bachelor pad (My Mom’s House) taking her out of the trunk and then quickly setting the mood. I turned off all the lights, locked all the doors, and put on my favorite Missy Elliot Compact Disc. Knowing girls like to hear romantic things to put them in “the mood”, I said something sweet like, “Hurry up and get your clothes off, I’m trying to nut and go to sleep”. She mumbled her sweet reply, “What are you saying? Who are you? Where am I? Why are the doors locked? Was I just in the trunk of a car”? I knew it was a sign…a sign she wanted it real bad…real bad.

Meeting a pussy for the first time is just like picking and eating an apple. When picking an apple you first look at all the apples on the tree (I fucked 4 or 5 chicks before I left the club so I knew this was going to be the apple I picked). You make sure to find the biggest, shiniest apple and then you pick that shit off the tree. You wash it, take all the worms out, and then stare at it for a little…making sure it looks just as good as it did when you first picked it (If it doesn’t look as good, take a couple shots of Jack Daniels…this should help). Now biting into that apple can totally change things. Though it looked spectacular on the outside…the inside could be rotted and full of herpes. That’s why it’s important to take a little bite before you commit to eat the whole thing. With that in mind I decided to take a bite of her twat box.

I must say her vagina was defiantly big and shiny (She was a little over weight at the time and the vasaline helped with the shine). With a friendly handshake, introduced myself, “Hey there vagina, I’m Danny”. It replied back with a smirk, “Well hello there Danny. I’ve heard a lot about you. I was starting to wonder when I would meet you”. This vagina seemed a little stupid, so I smacked it right on the fat. This wasn’t smart, seeing that her vagina farted a little (Though odorless, vagina farts can really damper a sexy moment). When her vagina curiously asked, “Why did you just smack me”, though my first reaction was to hit it again, I refrained and replied, “I’m sorry why are you talking”? That shut it up while I finished drinking my Pina Colada. After my Blood Alcohol Level rose, me and her fat little sex box got to know each other. Of course looking back it’s easy to say I knew we would become the best of friends…but I must say there was a small inclination that we would enjoy each others company for quite sometime. I’m not going to say we spent the entire night laughing and sharing stories…because that would be a lie. I bit into that little apple with my penis and ate till I could eat no more. Apparently I was full from the Pina Colada because I only ate for 11 or 12 seconds (Looking back I recall Missy Elliot’s One Minute Man was playing…hum).

See my girlfriend believes our anniversary should be the day I asked her out (She’s still a little old fashioned). I on the other hand know the true date to “anniverserize” is on the day of fucking. I often debate with virgin couples, that they don’t even have a relationship…just a meer friend who also enjoys being a loser. How could you truly care for someone if you haven’t gave them that mean pipe? You can’t…you can’t.

Next week as I celebrate the vaginal beating my girlfriend slept through, I will light a candle and sing a song about love and sex. A sweet sweet song about love and sex.

Happy Anniversary…of Sex.

Daniel Dickey