I’m not sure who/what exactly this boy is praying to, but I think it’s safe to say his prayers have been answered.

I’d Go To Temple More If They Had One Of These,

Daniel Dickey

After 10 months of chasing the dreams, I began to wonder if I’d ever catch up. Though I plan to chase my dreams until I fulfill them, a little positive reinforcement every now and then to remind me I’m on the right path is always nice. Up until now my only positives have been I am still living in an apartment (as apposed to a subway), I do not have the swine flu, and I haven’t developed mercury poisoning from eating two cans of tuna everyday. But I can now happily say I am a produced playwright, as a play I wrote, “Don’t Forget To Floss” was excepted into a One Act Festival and will be produced June 11-14th on the lower west side.

This doesn’t make me Shakespeare, but it does help in reasoning with myself that I am not wasting my time and shouldn’t just get a 9 – 5 job selling staplers and office paper. I do not want to sell office paper…in less of course it was at Dunder Mifflin and my desk was right next to Andy’s.

For a 22 year old aspiring writer being produced for the first time feels like losing your virginity to the prom king and convincing him not to use a condom, because you said you’re on the pill…when really your not…oh and guess what, now your pregnant with his baby, oh and he has to marry you and love you and make you breakfast every morning or else you just might tell all of his friends his dick is two colors. Yep, half of his dick is green and the other half is purple. That’s life bitches. I’m a playwright.

Cleaning up the mess (My cherry popped),

Daniel Dickey

It’s 8:00am and I am wide awake. I have been up since 6:23am. Both of those statements disgust me.

Every night before I go to sleep I judge how tired I am and then decide what time I would like to wake up. Last night I decided I would wake up at 2 in the afternoon. I was very tired. It’s now 8:02am, I am still very tired. I cannot fall back to sleep. I’m not in the best of moods. I burnt my last two waffles. I have cereal, but no milk. I’m hungry. How long can you keep chicken in the refrigerator? Is three weeks to long?

(Whenever I’m not in the happiest of moods I google search pictures of midgets doing different activities. Today’s activity was wrestling).

Very agitated,

Daniel Dickey

Sorry I haven’t blogged in the past few days. I have been so busy skateboarding and building cars (Not true). I have been working everyday so I’ll have enough money to buy a really strong slave (I figure if I’m going to commit to buying a slave, I might as well get a big strong one…And you know they ain’t cheap). Also if you’re a fellow New Yorker make sure you check me out this Friday MCing at The Mean Fiddler on West 47th street. It’s a great place to get overly wasted and do things you’ll regret in the morning, and maybe for the rest of your life.

Yesterday I met a marvelously entertaining man in the east village. Shirtless, he was sitting with his hairy back against a small sex shop. From a distance it looked as if he was masturbating, but as I got closer I could see he was just scratching himself in a playful manner. His hair was pushed to the side and his chapped lips where covered in woman’s lipstick. As I got closer he began sucking his fingers and exposing his inner thighs to me. He then said something like, “Hey Spanish kid, I’ll suck your dick for free if you pee all over me”. Though tempting, I polity declined and I continued walking at a faster pace. But even with my attempts at avoiding eye contact I could see that his smile started to sag and he seemed a little offended. Being the sweet soul I am I walked back to the beast of a man and offered to buy him a coffee. To this he spit on his stomach and said, “Do you think you could just buy extra hot coffee and then pour it all over my genitals?”. I paused. What the heck I though. I’m not one to rain on anyone’s parade, no matter how odd and peculiar that parade might be.

Order: One extra hot, extra steamy, black coffee.

Seconds after the last steamy drop dipped on his hairless genitals, he kissed me on the check and thanked me. He asked if I was sure about not wanting a wicked good blowjob, and again I very uncomfortably faked laughed and said, “Ha no, I’m good, thanks though”. He grabbed my ankle as he reached into his dirty tube sock and pulled out a picture. While I stared at the picture confused, he said he was God and if I kept this picture of six months I would turn into a a mythical creature. WOW, that statement struck me immediately. Obviously he wasn’t lying, because only God and my mother know about my inner desire to become a mythical creature. I thanked him and asked what the white cream on the front of it was? He said, “Oh that, that’s nothing, probably some ketchup”. I said, “Oh, um, yeah”. I turned around and walked out of the alley. I then came home and scanned the picture. I love you all.

WARNING: Only hold onto this for six months if you want to become a mythical creature.

So I’m toying with some new possible themes for the look and feel of my website. The bad news is this will not make my site any funnier or more interesting to read. The good news is it will be nicer to look at…and it’s that what we’re all really searching for, something nice to look at?

Also thought I would make mention that I have married a man on Facebook. I have no idea why I am mentioning this, but just felt I should, as it will probably be questioned by friends, family and the gay men that work with me (This was and is not a signal of a new sexual preference, but just a single act of devotion to my man lover).

I’ve always considered having a section in my blog completely dedicated to extremely stupid people. If ever there was motivation to do so then it’s certainly now.

Yesterday an obviously insane ogor women decided to hop a fence and crawl through bushes, into a Polar Bear pen while they were feeding at a Berlin Zoo. This is a picture of here laughing it up right after she jumped in.

She then decided to swim over to a 800 pound Bear. He looks to happy to see her.

Once she got close is when the real fun started.

Look at the both of them playing together. She looks like she’s having so much fun. I think he’s kissing her.

Though this idiot of a women jumped into a bear cage while they were feeding, I think the real issue lies with Coca Cola’s deceptive marketing. They have made polar bears out to be friendly, fuzzy little things that love bouncing balls and drinking Coke. This is not true. Polar Bears are pissed because we melted their homes and know they want to kill us. Would you jump into a black bear’s cage? What about a grizzly bear’s? No? Well guess what? Polar bears are bears too, and they will eat you, because they are hungry.

The women is now in a hospital, hopefully considering suicide.

You’re an Idiot,

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

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