I’m old. I’m a very old, brittle man. I’m losing hair. I slouch when I walk. I’ve been eating dinner at 4:00pm and I spend most of my time showing my friends pictures of my grandchildren (Obviously I don’t have grandchildren. I just show my friends the pictures of the little kids that come in picture frames. Works every time). Three months ago I realized my hairline was receding. Two weeks ago I found my first grey hair in my left side burn. This morning I bought a Cadillac and a time share in Boca. I’m seeing all the signs that I’m getting older and I’m not too happy about it.

I guess my real issue with aging is that I’m not rich yet. I don’t mind getting old, as long as I’m old and rich (when you’re rich you’ll always feel young because of the teenage girls you pay to feed and massage you). Huge Hefner is like 600, but he feels 15. What’s age when you can drive around in a Ferrari and buy a country filled with little tribesmen? I figure for every million in the bank you feel 3-5 years younger. I want to feel 16 again. That way when Chris Hanson walks out of the kitchen with a bunch of cameras and informs me I am on Dateline: How To Catch A Predator, I can just tell him I’m super rich and am only 16 in money. That works, right?

My other issue with aging has to do with being Jewish. Being Jewish is great. My mother overfeeds me, I have a natural sense of business and comedy, and I’m neurotically neurotic. It’s all gravy…until you’re THIRTY. That’s when it ALL changes.

Jews age worse than anyone. It’s a fact! A thirty year old Jew looks like a 70 year old gentile (Hebrew word for anyone not Jewish). Did you know Woody Allen is only 33? Jerry Seinfeld is only 26. Steven Spielberg is 35. Every seen Carlos Santana? He’s not Jewish. He’s 70 and Spanish, but he looks like a 18 year old Cuban baseball player. Last year I hired a black guy to move furniture from my place. He was the biggest person I’ve ever talked to. When I asked him how long hes been working out he said 50 years. I assumed it was a joke and laughed. He starred at me as he said he was 63. He looked 31(he did later inform me he was in jail for murder for 28 years and thought it helped keep him young…maybe we should just send celebs to jail instead of day spas)? Point is, everyone wonders why Jews have money, it’s because we need it! We’re in the same boat as everyone else until the human clock strikes 30. At that point we better own a restaurant or be CEO of a major financial firm, because if not it’s straight to the old folks home. We have the same shot as everyone else to pick up hot girls when we’re young, but that bank better be fat once we are. Nobody wants to wake up next to a bald, overweight Jew, cracking jokes and eating Matzah…in less they’re in a mansion. Maybe next time you see your Jewish friends picking up pennies you’ll understand why.

Tomorrow is my 23rd birthday. 22 sounds so much better.

I found my second grey hair this morning,

Daniel Dickey

Using animal dicks as a measuring tool for expressing the deep hurt one feels after a relationship ends, I will try my best to convey my current shituation.

Take the average break up. You like each other, but aren’t thinking about anything serious. You date casually, and most of the time enjoy each others company. You’re serious enough to meet each others parents, and willing to put up with each others flaws (Examples: His left armpit smells like a fish. She poops with the door open). Everything is ok until one minor slip up and then it’s over. Using an animal dick as measurement for the deep hurt these two people feel….it would be a similar to the dick of a small Coyote, or a very large hedgehog. Though those aren’t the biggest of dicks, breaking up sucks, and they will be upset for a couple weeks.

Take the more serious break up. You really like each other and are hoping the other one says I Love You. Your weekend plans are usually dictated by what the other person feels like doing, and you begin spending more time with them than your friends. You could see yourself with him or her for a while, but aren’t quite ready to tattoo there name on your lower back and/or upper thigh. Then something dumb happens and your break up. Using an animal dick as measurement for the deep hurt these two people feel….it would be similar to a fat Lion or a well endowed Tiger Shark. Those are decent sized dicks and the break up will be hard to get over. At least one month of crying like a young girl.

Take the break up of a serious relationship. The both of you love each other and can happily see each other together in the future. You have come to love the qualities in each other and their happiness brings you happiness. You have met their parents, and even meet his or her extended family members at holiday dinners. You can’t see yourself breaking up…until boom, she or he got fingered by the loser in her math class that was always trying to hit on him or her. Using an animal dick as measurement for the deep hurt these two people feel….it would be similar to largest dicked thoroughbred race Horse in the world or a really fucking tall Giraffe. This kind of break up sucks so much monster dick…you don’t even know. They will not be able to listen to any Boys to Men songs for at least three months without fainting.

Take my recent relationship recession (I was unexpectedly laid off, wasn’t offered a stimulus package, and escorted out of the building by two armed security guards. Days later I received a coffee mug that said, “Ben”. A couple days after that I received a letter saying, “Hey Danny, sorry about that. That was meant for Ben”. There was nothing more.) This was a relationship that excelled in all aspects. We enjoyed each others company, goals, dreams, personalities, physical attributes (Butts), and though it was never really brought up, we could both see a very happy, exciting, and successful future together. Every moment we spent together was exciting. There weren’t many troubling times, and if there were they only lasted for an hour, maybe 90 minutes. This was the relationship most people in relationships see and secretly think, “Damn son, I wish I had that”. Using an animal dick as measurement for the deep hurt I feel….it would be similar to a Dinosaur dick. The biggest fucking Dinosaur dick ever. Think of a Blue Whale dick and multiple it by 143,000. That’s the sized dick you would need to imagine to understand my current emotional state. How long does it take to get over that? Not sure. I’m on day two. But in my current situation I am trying to use the words of one of Americas most respected and acclaimed poets to help me through this, “Just Be A Gangster. A Real Deal Motherfucking Gangster – Eazy E”.

I am going to be a gangster. A real deal motherfucking gangster.

This was originally posted on craigslist.

Hey there ladies,

Are you looking for love? Are you looking for a guy that can show you a romantic evening out? Are you looking for someone that will say all the right things? If so, you should probably move on to the next personal ad, because there is no chance in hell I will do any of those things.

BUT if you’re looking for a funny guy with a handsome penis, sex swing, and a knack for drinking large amounts of liquor, then baby, I’m your man.

I think it’s first important to let you know what I want in a woman, that way I can get rid of all the ‘wanna beez’ before we start having cyber sex. I’m sure most ladies will agree when I say, the most important thing to keep a relationship going strong is anal sex. I need a woman that knows your butt is not just for making poopie, it’s also for making my fetishes and fantasies come alive. The girl I eventually decide to spend my life with has to understand that it turns me on when she lets me spray mase in her eyes while I climax. I also want to let you girls know I don’t have any specific ‘look’ that I like more than others…but I will not deny the fact that midgets and Native Americans really make my nipples tender. There’s something about little sausage fingers and tepees that really get me giddy (If I ever found a Native American midget…O.M.G. I might collapse). I want to casually date a girl that wants to have a good time, but mostly wants to have sex. Actually sex, whether it be vaginal, oral, or anal (Very important) is the most important thing to me, and I think it should be just as important to you. I’d rather you have a tight tushie than banging boobies, but both will be fine (You will not be disqualified if you don’t have either. Of course though, you must be very rich and willing to buy me really cool shit in order to stay in the running).

Now you want to know a little about me? I think so.

I’m great with kids…not watching them…just making fun of them and calling them names…I’m great with that. I love animals. Well not all animals, just mostly Dinosaurs and Bears…but if I could be an animal I would be a Dragon…a fucking awesome Dragon. I’m 6′3, minus 4 inches. I have a 6 pack, minus the 6. I used to roller blade ALL the time when I was 8. I quit when I was 9 and joined a gang. We sold Flintstone vitamins to elementary school kids and sometimes we had sleepovers. I’m not scared to tell a girl I want her to have my kids, but I’m also totally willing to not pay a fucking dime for child support if she starts acting up. I would never hit you…unless you deserve it. I’ll cook you the best macaroni and cheese you have ever tasted, while I massage your feet and draw fake tattoos on your belly. I don’t mind biting a shaved and bathed Beaver, but won’t come close to a hairy Toad. If you’re wondering about my penis…you couldn’t measure my dick with six rulers (Six very very very very small rulers). Ladies trust me when I say, I’m the olive toned titty connoisseur that you have been looking for.

If you like what you’re hearing, drop me a comment. Maybe we can do a little booty dancing this weekend. I’ll buy you a couple Kettle One and sodas and I’ll kiss on your neck while I squeeze your butt. Hows that sound? Don’t tell me. I know, it sounds sexy as fuck. Challah at me. Lets make some babies.

Cooking you breakfast,

Daniel Dickey

Have you ever wanted to light someone on fire? Because as I walked into my bedroom and saw that my girlfriend of two and a half years died her hair black, all I could think was how much I wanted to light her on fire.

For those of you that know my sexy little prom queen, she was born with black hair… this was obviously a big big mistake on God’s part, and he has apologized many times, with hair dye. Thankfully at 18 she took God’s advice and dyed those long strands of ugly black, and turned them into beautiful, radiant, blond pieces of gold (so I could fall in love with her). I know most of you would think I would have fell in love with her even if she had black hair. WRONG! You’re an idiot. I wouldn’t of even looked her way. If she tried talking to me I would of pushed her to the ground and walked away. I might have punched her in the face. Just to prove my claim…

One night, after dating for a year or so, Stephanie and I were talking about the classes we took in high school. For one semester she attended the same high school as me. When I asked her what teachers she had, I was surprised to hear she had the same asshole of a math teacher as me. Interesting I thought. But boy was I even more shocked when we realized we were in the same exact class. Yes, we were in the same exact class. I remember every single person in that class. I remember who sat in what seat. You know what happens when I think of her seat? Nothing. It’s just a blob… a big black haired blob. Truthfully I thought a little Asian boy sat in that seat. I bet if she had blond hair I would have remembered her. I probably would have fucked her. Sucks for her… because I fingered the hottie blond that sat in front of me. It could’ve been her.

Now of course I’m not going to break up with her over this, but I am going to hit her. A broken heart won’t solve a thing… but a broken spine will definitely get my point across. I guess you can call me old school when it comes to my views on ‘abuse’… or so they call it. I look at a good slap to the face the same way I look at a good breakfast; you can get by without it, but having it first thing in the morning really gets you going for the rest of the day. You feel me? Of course.

I will admit one thing, looking at my girlfriends shit stained hair right now really makes me realize how pretty her golden locks used to be. Hopefully a couple good open hand slaps to the jaw will fix that.

Getting my belt,

Daniel Dickey

UPDATE: My girlfriend’s friend read this blog and had the following to say.

The small smokey room smelt of burnt skin and baby oil. It’s dated wallpaper was peeling, revealing thick green fungus and large crayon drawings of animal dicks. The dirty wooden stool uncomfortably pressed into my tailbone as I sat at the long bar. This was my first time in Kansas and I was quickly realizing why. The bartender, a large viking like woman, had just challenged me to an arm wrestling match. I said no thank you, as I ordered my third Apple Cider on the rocks. To my request she punched the table, spat in my cup and filled it with cheap vodka. “Thank you”, I said as she took all of the cash in my wallet. There was a silent pause as I sipped my Vodka from a straw. Broke and a little scared I said to myself, “Maybe I should leave?” But my mental thoughts were quickly cut short as I heard a deep moaning whisper in my ear “Don’t you move a muscle, you little sunflower”. Huh?

He was dressed in a pastel pink woman’s dance leotard that hugged his manly hips and flared out on his hairy forearms. It hardly covered his sagging body and was just tight enough to see his erect penis aiming at his outtie belly button. His crud covered Converses reeked of mildew, foot sweat, and syrup; and his long, shaggy, almost dread locked hair smelt as bad as it looked. When I tried to ask him why he was whispering in my ear, he put his sticky index finger over my mouth and told the bartender to get me a warm tomato juice and a rape kit. Who was this Kansas cross dresser? Why did he call me sunflower? Why did he just stick his other hand inside his leotard, and begin stroking his very erect sex organ?

Turns out this transgender was once a political science major at Harvard, but got into methanphedimines during his senior year and dropped out of school to build meth lab’s in the Mid West. Thirty years later, most of his teeth are gone or severely rotting, he wears woman’s clothes, and has a rubber ear and nose do to a large meth lab explosion. “So, um, why exactly are you jerking off right now?” “What do you mean jerking off? I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about?” He placed his other hand on my inner thigh, “Why are you touching my thigh?” “What? I’m not touching your thigh”. He began rubbing my ear lobe, as sweat began to emerge on his forehead. “Guy, listen, please stop touching me”. His beady black eyes began to roll back in his head as I sensed he might be coming to a climax. Like a hungry Vampire he dove at me from his bar stool. Unprepared I flew back, hitting the floor hard, as he laid on top of me humping and rubbing his wiener against my body.”Ahhhh”, I yelped like a girl. His weight was to much; I couldn’t move him. I remembered the rape kit he ordered me and reached for it as he stuck his tongue in my ear. With my ear filled with his saliva I pulled out a bull horn, closed my eyes, and pushed the button right next to his ear…it was the wrong ear, it was his deaf ear. Quickly I switched hands and pushed the button again…this time he jumped up yelling, “My good ear! My fucking good ear! It exploded! Ahhh!” This gave me a second to plan my get away. I zipped up my pants and began crawling towards the door. “Oh no your not”, he screamed as he jumped on my back and began riding me like a horse. In a southern draw I heard “Giddy up little pony. Giddy up little pony. The cowboy wants to fuck you in the barn”. I would not be fucked in a barn like all my friends, I would break free for his rains. “Yeennhhh (A wild horse noise)”. I jumped back on my hein legs, but he held on tight, still rubbing his exposed cock and balls against my bare back. I told him I had herpes, but he didn’t stop. He held my head to the ground and tried biting off my lips. His moaning got louder. His body convulsed more than ever. He had stuck all the toes on my left foot in his mouth. Finally EXPLOSTION.

He had came to climax inside one of my shoes. I was bruised, but I was alive. Within minutes he reapproached me with a large apple cider in hand. “Hey sorry about that, that whole thing that just happened. I just get these animal like urges and I can get a little out of hand”. Awstuck I said, “You just tried raping me on the floor of a bar”. “Yeah, I know, right. It was so weird how it happened. But listen I have got a afterschool baseball program to get to at the local elementary school…I’m a coach, but…if you ever in town give me a ring”. “What?” “Yeah great. See your around”.

He left the same way he came in, through the womans bathroom. That was the last time I’d see him…or so I hoped.

They say too much of anything, is a bad thing…not true. Have you ever heard of too many Hi Fives…I don’t think so. Hi Five’s are made of magic and with each one you get a little smack of amazing. A good Hi Five can make a fat man dance and a skinny girl strip. A bad Hi Five is impossible. Even if someone misses and smacks the shit out of your face, it’s still a Hi Five…and that my friend is magical.

A lot of people think Hi Fives are just for hands…wrong. You know how many times I’ll Hi Five a girls ass when I’m drunk (Like 6 or 7 times). You can Hi Five an elbow, leg, or even a small Dog. There is even a social interaction site named Hi Five. Why? Dammit, you know why.

With everything amazing that comes with a Hi Five, it’s hard to believe sometimes a Hi Five isn’t the smartest thing to do. How could that be? Isn’t a Hi Five always awesome? Unfortunately no. I had to learn the hard way…many times. These three scenes should help you establish when it is and isn’t appropriate for a Hi Five.

Example: Bad Time To Hi Five

Guy: Hey I just saw your girlfriend making out with some tall ass man.

Other Guy: Huh? What? I love her so much. I was going to marry her. How could she do this? I think I’m going to kill myself.

Guy: Yeah, whatever, she was a slut anyway. Did I tell you I did 140lbs on my triceps today?

Example: Good Time To Hi Five

Tim: Yo Chucky, I got fired from my job today.

Chucky: Whatttt son? That shit is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S. Why’d they fire you?

Tim: Because I was Black.

Chucky: You’re not Black. You’re from Pakistan.

Tim: Whatever. Fuck that job. I hated walking Dogs.

Example: You Decide What To Do

Kelly: Wow I just took the wickedest shit in that handicap stall.

Michelle: You know you can get a ticket for that.

Kelly: For taking a wicked shit?

Michelle: No silly. That stall is only for Midgets.

Kelly: Did I ever tell you I fucked a Midget?

Michelle: Really? When?

Kelly: In Brazil. His name was Paco and he had the hairiest wiener. I was high on LSD.

Michelle: That’s bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

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

Boy Scouts?

As my teacher distributed the florescent flyers, they glimmered under the classroom lighting. It’s highlighter green coloring grabbed my attention, but it was the eloquent writing that really sucked me in, “Do you want a pocket knife?” Yes. Yes, I do want a pocket knife. How do you know this? Did they print this flyer just for me? They must have, how else could they have known I wanted a pocket knife so soooo soooooo bad. I remember I used to carry around one of my mother’s lipstick cases because it resembled a pocket knife (Looking back, it did not resemble a pocket knife. I don’t know why I carried this around). The flyer went on to say other fantastic things like, “Do you want to learn how to make a fire with sticks?” OF COURSE!! As a eight year old pyromaniac I loved fires, especially ones made with STICKS!! It ended just as good as it started, “Do you want to go camping and build forts?” How did they infiltrate my brain and learn of all my innermost desires? They knew my dreams, my fantasy’s. Was this love? At eight I wasn’t sure, but I knew there was something special happening.

I was so excited I reread the flyer and stormed out of class before the 2:00pm bell rang. Flyers in hand, I waited in the car pool for my mom. Before she stopped the car I was already in the backseat giggling with glee. Immediately, she noticed my obvious excitement and asked what was behind the big smile. This is what I said to her word for word, “Mom, knifes, scouting, wooden fires, happiness, please, oh my god, mom, boys, tents, ahhhhhhhhhhhh”. I fainted at ahhhhhhhh, but when I regained consciousness my six year old sister was drawing dicks on my face. Face covered in droopy dick drawings, I jump into the front seat and let my boyish love burst out, “Mom I have all these flyers for this thing called the boy scouts. They teach you how to make fires with wood, how to build forts, and the give you pocket knives”. Out of breath I smiled and waited for her response. While my mother fixed her hair in the mirror she casually replied “Danny, silly, boy scouts are for faggots”. “WHAT! Wait. Mom, what’s a faggot?” Now touching up her lipstick, “Don’t worry baby you’re not a fag”. My six year old sister decided to speak up, “Of course he’s a faggot, look at all those big dicks on his face”. I was confused. Didn’t they hear me? I was talking about the boy scouts! This was the greatest thing in the world. In the midst of my thought my mother spoke again, “Danny, we’ll sign you up for soccer again this year. You liked that, remember?” I play soccer for one game and quit after no one told me to wear shin guards. I had to wear legs braces for three years. The wounds on my shins will never heal.

While crying and failing my arms wildly I explained to my mother that I don’t want to play soccer, or stupid baseball, I wanted to be in the boy scouts. They give you uniforms and you get badges and I also loved the movie Bushwhacked, where the boy scout troop gets kidnapped by a runaway felon. At this point my sister suggested my mother should sign me up for girls scouts, that way we could get cookies. They both laughed as I screamed and punched the dashboard. It hurt and I started crying. To calm my tears my mom said I could talk to my father about joining if I really wanted to do it.

Still gripping hope, I told my dad that I wanted to be a boy scout. In his work shirt and a pair of underwaer, he stared at me for quite some time before he finished his beer and then asked, “Are you fucking with me? Did your mom make you say that, because I still didn’t fix the washing machine?” He yelled upstairs, “I’ll fix the fucking washing machine, damn it”! Shaking my head, “Dad no one told me to say that. I got a flyer in school about the best thing in the world…The Boy Scouts! I want to join it so bad. I love it so much. I love it enough to be the president boy scout”. What my father said next as he poured steak sauce on his chicken leg has stayed with me throughout my life, “Danny what if I told you you could be a boy scout, but on your first trip your leader would stick his finger in your ass?” How does a eight year old boy respond to this? “You mean like a thermometer, to check my temperature?” Still staring at me blankly my father replied, “Yes, he wants to check the temperature of your asshole to make sure it’s nice and warm”. Again I was young, “Well if it’s warm then I might have a fever. Am I getting sick?” My father smacked me in the face with his sauce covered chicken leg and walked out of the kitchen. Seconds later he walked back in, “Are those dicks drawn all over your face?” “Yes dad”. He broke a lamp as stormed out of the kitchen once again.

As the day came for the boy scout meeting after school I remember sulking in my seat as ‘the other kids’ talked about what color pocket knife they were going to get. I made a promise to myself that day, when I have a son he can be a boy scout no matter what. Even if he is stupid and has three legs, he can be a boy scout. Because everyone should have the opportunity to learn to build forts and stick fires.

I should mention that after the kids who joined came back from there first camping trip they all said the were sick. They all looked fine so I question what was wrong? They told me their troop leader said they looked warm and had to check them for a fever.

Update: They were all molested and have no friends on facebook.

Here’s some pictures of their scout leaders, courtesy of court records.

Soulja Boy Tell Em. I’m going to take a second to let that name sink in.

I’m gonna need another minute to let it sink…hold on.

I’ve seen the pictures of you, I’ve heard the music, and it leaves me with so many questions, concerns, and comments that I’m finding it difficult to figure out where to begin.

I guess first and foremost would be education, or lack there of. Now it’s to my understanding that you became famous when you were 11, which is obviously why you dropped out of Elementary school. But my question lies in your speech and diction. Millions of people have heard the verbal misscommunications and oral flaws you have improperly spoken on your songs, if you can refer to them as such, but have you ever listened to them? Really, have you ever listened to your own music (I use the word ‘music’ very loosely when it comes to the Camel urine you release as ‘music’) ? What the fuck are you saying? Is there a message you are trying to communicate? Asides from the systematical grunts and moans to the beat, is there anything you are trying to say? Do you parents speak like this? Do you know your parents? Are you yourself a parent?

I noticed that cutting edge fashion statement you made with your glasses. So genius. After completing the task of writing ‘Soulja Boy’ on your glasses with white out, did you feel accomplished? At anytime did you sit back, look at your glasses, and think, ‘Wow, I’m a genius. I’m such a smart smart genius’. I’m truly surprised it wasn’t named a complete masterpiece in the fashion world. I totally thought it would be the next movement out of Rome and Paris, or at least down in the Magnolia projects.

Since the dawning days of music there has always been one hit wonders. They all made songs that were extremely catchy and dominated the radio waves for months. After their time is up both the public and musicians equally respect what has happened, and neither play the song for 6 – 11 years. Why? Because after 6 – 11 years the song automatically becomes cool again, mainly because your brain has forgotten how much you previously hated it. Examples: Hootie and the Blowfish, Spin Doctors, Vanilla Ice, Deon Sanders (Well maybe not Deon Sanders). Now here lies the point of this paragraph. You had a one hit wonder. That’s it. You’re career is over. You need to take the 40 billion dollars you made on itunes and move to Jamacia. Why are you still here? Why are you harassing my ears? What do you want from us? Maybe in 6 – 11 years young Jewish boys can look back and wonder why the fuck they convinced Grandma Ester to do the Soulja Boy at their Bar Mitzvah, but that is the extent of your reigns over the small minded American population (Not to be misconstrued, not all of the American population is small minded, just those that did the Soulja Boy).

Also, I can not avoid the reality that you have enough money in your pocket to buy my blog and turn it into a a e-candy store that specialises in selling dick shaped lolli pops. Would you eat the Grape flavor? I’d go for Cherry. Nor will I denine while working as a Bar Mitzvah MC I’ve done the Soulja Boy on multiple occasions, but be assured every time I did it I wondered what my life has come to. And though I hate everything about you and the song, I was semi happy that the dance did not require much rhythm, because as a Jewish man, rhythm is not something held in my life’s arsenal. You my friend are the herpes sore on the tip of America’s dick. You have taken American popular music and turned it into the asshole of a gay Lamb. Please invest your money into a education, a speach pathologist, and posion…to kill yourself.

Daniel Dickey

Sorry I haven’t blogged in a couple day, I have been working on some new sites I just purchased. They should be pretty gangsta, and you’ll for sure want to get jiggy with them. BUT I did just write a verse for a musical I’m working on, about a evil Baker that tries killing all the towns people with the food he bakes. Here’s his opening verse.

I’m just a baker, just a very evil baker/

I cook cakes, I cook pies, I’m the devils cookie maker/

I put poison in brownies, I put poison in the bread/

I put poison in everything, just to that insure you are dead/

There’s acid in the crumpets, and toxins in the tarts/

When the poison hits your blood, it will surely stop your heart/

The venom in my pies, have a wonderful disguise/

It taste just like syrup, but will burnt out both your eyes/

I put infections in the yeast, so please enjoy the feast/

I won’t stop until you’re buried, very dead you are deceased/

I dream to kill them all, brothers sisters mothers cousins/

I’ve killed thirteen in one night, oh it was a bakers dozen/

Dark, deep, and black, is how I see my mood/

Death, dead, and murder, the only ingredients in my food/

Cause I’m hungry for dessert, and death is always something sweet/