It’s 2:16am on a cold New York night. My overly expensive Brooklyn apartment smells of burnt napkins (I set them aflame to help calm the air, as my girlfriend has server diarrhea and some very toxic gas. Even her burps smell of dead fish and horse urine. (Pause) Did I mention I love her)? My roommate and longtime foe, Jt, is cooking a can of my soup, in a pot that I know will sit dirty on the stove until I clean it. Has he ever cleaned a dish…I can only wonder. We have all slept most of the day after along night of parting, which ended in a drunken consumption of a couple dozen White Castle burgers and fries at 5:17am (These also happened to be breakfast the following morning).

I find myself sitting here frustrated that all the savings I have enjoyed by stealing toilet paper from local hotels instead of purchasing it from hippie health food stores, have amounted to nothing because I was forced to buy a bulk pack a couple of minutes ago for my “wipe happy” girlfriend. If there will ever be a sour point in our relationship, it will surely arise from her lack of proper toilet paper procedures. For years we have debated what way one should wipe when cleansing fecal matter from thy anus. She believes the wiping motion should go front to back(makes sense because she has a vagina). I know it should go back to front (I just lift up my handsome hairless balls and everything is in the clear). I also preplan how many squares of hotel toliet paper will be needed for each bowl movement, while she on the other hand is just like her father, carelessly wiping with no sense of how much anal tissues are being wasted in the process. Oh how does one love?

I took a pause between paragraphs. It’s now 3:04am and the burnt napkins could no longer fight the awful odor blasting from the bathroom and into my nostriles. A shirt dowsed in fabric softener has been fastened on my face with ropes and small twine. This is my last defense. I hope I’ll make it. In the pause I also decided to use the dirty pot to make some soup, like my previously stated lifelong enemy and pedophilia fascinated friend, Jt. I warmed up some Chicken, Cheese, and Broccoli, with Hearty Potato Chunks. 10-12 mouthfuls into consumption I realized Chicken, Cheese, Broccoli, and Hearty Potato Chunks are all equally the least desirable things to be eating as I fiercely fight off my girlfriends invading flatulence. I put the pot back on the stove and will blame the mess on the evilness that is Jt.

I find myself drifting and am not quite sure if I am getting tired or if the fabric softener I stole from that dirty Mexican laundry mat on South 2nd Street is just a pastel colored brand of ammonia. If all is right I should survive the night to tell my story once again. Till next time.

Keeping it Gangster

Daniel Dickey

Aw snap the Fresh Prince of Brooklyn is at it again.

This Friday night make sure to check out Tamboril in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. It is a ransom themed party…which I’m sure is going to be a huge hit with most of my readers, seeing ninety to ninety five percent are suspected serial killers. Good news is, for everyone you kidnap you recieve $1. To think I used to kidnap people for free. How the times have changed (Thanks Barack Obama).

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

Check me’s out!

I’m MCing a club in Brooklyn this Friday (Despite the stern warnings from the local authorities about not posting my future plans and/or whereabouts, due to the large amounts of death threats) I want YOU to come check me out. I’ll be getting really jiggy while I’m sippen on a bottle of brandy and carrot juice.

The Fresh Prince of Brooklyn

Daniel Dickey

I hate foreigners. You know when I hate them the most…all the time (Every second of everyday would have been an acceptable answer as well). What causes this deeply in-rooted hate? Maybe it’s the massive load of backhair crawling out of their shirts, looking for eyes to harass (Mostly Italians). Maybe it’s the way they speak to each other in French and think it’s all gravy (Mostly the French). Maybe it’s the way they brush their teeth with sticks (Mostly Africans, and some Iraqis, no nevermind they use baby bones). But I think my hatred for everything foreign began the first time it rained in Time Square.

Their are 2.48 billion umbrellas in Time Square. Do you know how many are operated by foreigners…all of them! I’m talking Russians, Italians, Germans (Though their umbrellas are made from the skin of my ancestors), Africans, and even Alaskans. With every little tinkle from up above these idiots pop out their eye spears and get ready to poke out every eye in New York City. Since moving to New York I have gone blind six times and am 99.9% sure these smelly tourist think just because they don’t know the language they can ram their umbrellas wherever they please and then get out of it by saying “No No English”. Well enough is enough. During the past week of bad weather I have been working diligently to assemble the most ruthless band of homeless methheads to help me take care of our little “Foreign Relations” problem.

Boy did it rain today…it rained so good. We started on 42nd street. It was me, Black Tuesday (He’s a methhead from Harlem that ain’t scared to bite a dick off), Lil Tuna Face (Straight up his face is made of Tuna Fish. He lost all his skin in a methlab fire back in ‘86), and Felix (He’s just some crazy Vietnam veteran, but he’s great at pretending he’s dead). We were on a non stop manhunt to fuck up some umbrella bearing foreigners. First one we saw as a 4 foot Oriental lady with 5 foot umbrella, boy did we fuck that bitch up. Felix pretended in was dead in the street and when she tried to stop traffic to call for help Black Tuesday straight kicked her in the chest. While she was getting beat down by Black, I stole her umbrella and Tuna Face pissed in her purse.

Next we saw a pushy Pollock just achen for a braken. He was strolling down Broadway with his Polish flag umbrella, when Tuna Face asked him if he could spare some change. While the fat whale was giving him a $50 bill, Black Tuesday started jerking him off (I have no idea why he did this. We specifically told him not to do that!) But either way Felix hit him in the jaw with a fat Kielbasa sausage. That didn’t faze him though, so I had Tuna make a patty with his face and stick it in that fat Pollacks eyes. I bet he’ll use a poncho next time it rains.

Last up we spotted some greasy Greek with his free Olive Garden umbrella. Just by looking at his back hair I knew this was going to be a serious beat down. This time Tuna Face laid on the sidewalk and asked if the greasy Greek could give him one of his bread sticks. Then when that oily fuck went into his bag to give Tuna the meal he bought for his wife, Felix ran up and bit his fucking nose off. No bullshit, he bit the motherfuckers nose off! It ending being a great distraction for me and Black while we shaved his back (We’re going to finish tomorrow it was taking way to long). But he’ll be going back to Greece looking like a shaved cat (They’ll probably kill him for that).

Overall I think foreigners might be a little more considerate when it rains in the city. If not, me and the boys will get them…one rainy day or another.

God it feels good to caress these keys again. I haven’t blogged it up in almost ten days and it shows. Both of my readers have stopped posting comments (When I say both, I am referring to myself and an Asian boy from Ohio who only commented once in Japanese). Has Daniel Dickey Dot Com turned into the social cafe I was hoping it would be? No. Is there a chance with hard work it might? That would be another no. It’s a complete and utter failure. I haven’t given a virtual handjob in close to a week and it’s taking it toll. God I just want to jerk someone off… virtually.

My lack of blogging is due to my recent move to New York City. I live on Bedford Ave in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. My apartment is in the downtown section of the city and it’s surrounded by bars, hipster cafes and thrift stores. It’s less than five minutes out of Manhattan and therefore is a highly desired neighborhood to live in. It has a very young and hip feel to it… so hip in fact, that I find myself very out of place walking the street with tattoo free skin and no anal bead necklaces. Yesterday I saw a man walking his pet pig down the street. This was not a cute baby pig, it looked around 200-300 pounds and I swear to anyone drunk enough to read this, it had two tattoos on it’s back (One said Eat Me and the other was of a Pig). My apartment’s location is easily the best in the city, but I am paying for it financial and in size. It’s three bedrooms… correction, it’s three small closets that my landlord listed as bedrooms (If I stretch my arms out I can touch my walls). The bathroom is a gigantic two feet by three feet. I can sit on the toilet, wash my hands, and put my feet in the shower at the same time (talk about multi tasking). The kitchen is on a slant, probably from foundation problem concealed by fading paint, so whenever I open the fridge it rolls a couple feet into the middle of the kitchen. Last night I had a odd dream it was trying to kill me… I’ll lock my door tonight. The apartment is across the street from the subway, so every five to seven minutes my apartment shakes, but only enough to make me nauseous. The one upside… the door buzzer is really loud, so as people walk by outside I make self amusing animal noises. Who needs a TV?

New York is known as the city that never sleeps and that theme is very apparent every night in my apartment. We currently have no furniture, so our wooden floor has acted as my bed, pillow, chair, couch, table, and sexual partner (Ever rubbed two pieces of wood together?). Not making sleeping any harder is that the house is littered with my roommates blankets and clothes… which would be fine if they weren’t covered with cat dander. After I typed that sentence I spent several minutes aggressively rubbing my eyes. I am extremely allergic to cats, despite my fascination with pussy. Yesterday I took a shower, dried off and minutes later realized I used her cat hair infested towel. I spent three hours with my head in the freezer (The frostbite helped me forget about the server allergies).

Is this everything I hoped for when I moved to New York? No and yes. No because I didn’t hope for any of this. Yes because I hoped I wouldn’t be raped and molested… and up until now, asides from that mans pig licking my shins, I have not been penetrated by any uninvited objects (including but not limited to, sticks, fingers, baseball bats, turkey legs, processed foods products, and fire hoses).

Here’s to New York

Daniel Dickey