The end is coming

15 10 2008

For reasons unknown to even me–but perhaps because of my intense need to look hideous–I have decided to take part in the manliest charity event ever (except for the one where you nail hot chicks to support health care). An event so manly it requires of its participants a most unshakable loyalty and commitment. I speak, of course, of Movember.

What this means, besides it being the single charitable act I will probably ever perform, is that I will be growing a real, untrimmed mustache on my face for the very first time in my life. Though I have been able to grow facial hair for quite a while thanks to my dad’s German-probably-also-Jewish lineage, I have never grown an honest mustache. I’ve tried, but it’s just too much; all the itching drives me mad by day three.

This time I will not allow my discomfort to halt the potentially life-changing mustache growth. If history is any judge, this mustache could be step one of a world-conquering Master Plan. I just noticed my overuse of the word “mustache” in this post. I apologize.


Rejected article ideas for The Onion

15 08 2008

Barack Obama Disses Only Black Friend with Jaunty Finger-Pointing

Kitten thinks of nothing but carpet being awesome all day.

Tangle of Jesus-shaped Christmas lights catches fire, kills 7

5,128 Things The Onion Hates About John Stewart’s Hair Going Gray

Aging Pizza Hut moves to a quieter neighborhood

5 scientifically proven ways to straight up jack a nigga

None of these are actually real, by the way. I have no idea if The Onion even has a submission system by which I can get rejected.I could look that up, but all fifteen of my open browser tabs are important stuff, and opening a new one might cause my computer to grow a pair of legs and kick the shit out of itself.

If one of you reading this gets inspired, I would really like to read your take on the article, specifically the one in which I learn to straight up jack some punk-ass sucka. I consider that inability my greatest failing in life.

Fucking FINALLY.

28 07 2008

A little over three years ago, I decided that I wanted to be an internet humorist. Never mind that I had no experience writing comedy. Never mind that the only person who happened to find me hysterical was a family member. Never mind that I hadn’t seriously written anything of my own free will since I was a junior in high school. Never mind all of that–I wanted to be a humorist.

People were always telling me that I should be a stand-up comedian. It’s no surprise, then, that I took to calling people mental defectives. Or more specifically, fucktards. I was not made for stand-up comedy, as evidenced by my inability to think while standing, nor was I made for comedy alone, as evdenced by my desire to make people cry. I’m a serious “literary” writer foremost, with the “humor” coming in at a close second.

As I was saying, I set about becoming an internet humorist. Drawing inspiration from personal heroes like Jay Pinkerton, John Cheese, and David Wong, I began toiling away, fashioning masterpieces like afterthoughts. I was ready to take on and usurp Pinkerton’s throne, overthrow the kingdom, and have all the people of the land flogged. My first action in that plan was to electronically assault any and all media outlets on the internet with all of my throbing masterworks.

The next step, I’m sure you know, was to fail miserably.

For months on end, I was crotch-punched by every conceivable website. “We’re sorry, but your style of humor is not appropriate for our publication,” said Woman’s Day. it was a hard thing to go through, all that rejection. Sending out one article to a large group of different publishers is like being turned down by a really beautiful girl who then follows you around for the rest of the day, repeating “No, I will not go out with you, you talentless waste of viable organs.” Yes. Almost exactly like that.

I didn’t give up, though. I harassed amd cajoled until I was blue in the face. I kept my abilities sharp by writing on my MySpace blog almost every day, which eventually led to the birth of this abomination unto the written word. I kept reading , kept writing, kept sending in unsolicited articles and essays to my main target, the venerable CRACKED dot COM. Eventually, a plum fell. A three-part article I did was picked up by some obscure online magazine that didn’t pay me anything, didn’t format the article at all, and who sent me the longest fucking contract in freelance history.

After that, well, things remained as they had been for the uncounted preceding months: in short, I got nothin’. As time passed, I became a little more mature, and so did my writing. I met Kelly, who inspired my first bit of serious poetry that has now been published in print a total of five times. I created an idiotic adventurer whose insane shenanigans became a minute sensation among a very specific group of people (my family). Then, one day a mild-mannered little humor site called Yankee Pot Roast decided to dust off their backlog of emails and read the story I sent them. Three days later, Dickerson P. Cockley’s Because I Wrestle Alligators hit their front page.

Lest I drag this on too long, let me summarize:

  • Dickerson was then published again at YPR.
  • I became a professional essayist and researcher.
  • Dickerson was published in print, in India.
  • David Wong became Editor of Cracked’s website
  • Another poem was published in print, this one also about Kelly.
  • I started doing comics for John Cheese’s site.
  • I wrote an erotic novel that may still get published.
  • I moved to San Marcos

And now we come to today. Batman has been in theaters for nearly a month, far and away the greatest superhero movie of all time. I pitched an artilce idea to about real-life vigilantes. It received warm reviews and was moved to the thread where potential articles are kept for editing and critique. Then, just two short days ago, I logged in to find my article missing from the “considered” thread.

Wong had moved it to the thread reserved for articles that have been ACCEPTED by the editorial staff. Now, I just have to wait and listen to whatever the editors request of me. Either way, I get fifty bucks and a chance at website traffic bonuses.

What’s more is that–after three years of trying, during which time Jay Pinkerton was let go from quit Cracked to become a sexy adventurer/writer of sexy adventure video games, Pointless Waste of Time became Cracked’s messageboards, and David Wong took over as Editor of the site–an article of mine is finally going to be published on a big-name website. Not only that, but I’m finally going to get paid for my non-professional writing.

Three years is a long time to wait, buddy. What’s even worse is being rejected for that entire time and not ever really knowing how to remedy the situation. Oh well.

Oh, one more thing: for those of you out there who are just aching for another DIckerson story–get ready. This new one is going to rock your houses.

In Memory of…

4 07 2008

In order to properly commemorate the life and accomplishments of Senator Jesse Helms, I’ve decided to post this old thing I wrote. It was unfinished and abandoned, but hey–big news today, am I right?

Remember When Hating Blacks and Gays Really Meant Something? 

By Jesse Helms

 I remember those days. When people like Strom Thurmond used to rail against those dark-skinned peter-touching Commies like there was no tomorrow. Those were the good old days. Now, this is that tomorrow we never expected to come–owing in part to our healthy belief that Jesus is coming soon to kill all the niggers and homos with a sword–and where do we find ourselves but neck-deep in caramel-colored queerboys who don’t think twice about appearing out in public, or even looking a person right in the eye and saying “Hello!”

…and on Sunday, of all days!

Anyway, these days it’s getting to where a good hardworking Christian fellow can’t even shove a Chinaman off of a city sidewalk anymore. That’s city property! How can they just walk around on it like they own the place? Now, I’m not a racist, or anything, but I strongly disagree with allowing Chinamen and Chinawomen on city sidewalks. It’s not that they’re Chinese, or whatever yellow country they’re from; it’s that they’re not American

I’m getting off the main road here. The point of all this has been that I have lost faith in my country. That might seem like a comical statement coming from a tired old country cynic like me, but it’s the truth. You’ve let me and the whole rest of the world down, America:


Allowing this filth to exist anywhere in the world is tantamount to slapping little baby Jesus in the face with a rainbow-painted black boy. Chinamen

May God have mercy. 


Newly Dead Ex-Senator Jesse Helms


Special Author’s Note: So I hopefully won’t come off as a dick when people read this, I have to explain that this has nothing to do with being glad he’s dead, or that he “deserved it”, or anything. Over all, he seemed like a pretty colorful character (pun mildly intended) who brought a degree of rustic charm to the Senate.

So he was a homophobe and a racist. So are a lot of other people, except Helms had the nutsack to come right out and say it. Then again, he was also a powerful United States senator, so that kind of fucks things up a little. Oh well. Anyways, he’s dead.

A moment of silence, please: 

Peace out, G.

I’m sorry, you’re going to have to run that one by me again.

11 06 2008

You know, as a smoker, I can say I’ve never really been bothered by those anti-smoking ads on television. Some of them are pretty funny, while others are honestly unsettling. Did you see the one with the thousand-plus people falling flat on their faces in the street around a tobacco company’s corporate headquarters? Holy shit. That one still bugs me even after having not seen it in a while. 

On the other hand, this new one is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen put out in protest of anything. Even worse than some of those Iraq war protests–which are often frighteningly stupid–the one with the dancing animated emaciated babies takes the fucking cake. I get what the message is supposed to be, I think, but I can’t put that together with the whole anti-smoking theme and see anything that’s supposed to make sense.

Usually, the moral is “smoking is bad and will kill you”, which is fine with me. I know smoking will kill me. I know that. I’ve seen the facts and actual evidence. But this exciting new twist in the commercials, this “anyone related to smoking is evil and wants to kill you and your animated babies” is a bit too much.

Not only that, but someone said recently that the commercial had racist elements. Apparently the stork is supposed to be a caricature of a lazy black man, one who agrees that smaller babies are a good thing, and the guy most obviously against smoking is the nice white kid playing a Country & Western tune. Something about a subtle “don’t be like the lazy niggers” is supposed to be the underlying message, and since the whole commercial is offensive to black people, they’re less likely to be given the message is bad. Which obviously means that White America wants Black America to die from smoking.

Okay. Right.

Put into an enjoyably simple bullet list, whoever scripted this message wants to convince you that: 

  • Big Tobacco is really our version of the Great Satan
  • black people are lazy
  • black people support cigarette companies’ decision to harm your baby
  • black people kill white babies
  • black people are the Great Satan
  • “don’t be like the lazy niggers”

So… everybody get all that? Yeah. 

Craigslist is the internet’s Babylon

6 06 2008

Lo, Babylon the great has fallen. Where once there was a site dedicated to the free exchange of goods and services, there is now (and probably has been since about five seconds after Craigslist’s launch) a mire of dedicated debauchery. Not only has Craigslist made itself look bad, it’s also done a fine job of fucking up my conception of the town I live in. Go ahead, I dare you. If you’re in a city of any size, chances are your town has a Craigslist section. Look under “Casual Encounters” and tell me if your entire perception just shifted a little bit.

Okay, maybe I’m making too big a deal about this. Maybe all college campuses have glory holes. Maybe there really are legions of post- and preop trannies out there ready and willing to… do whatever it is that they do to whoever answers their posts. God only knows.

 Then again, and not to sound too paranoid, what if it’s the cops? What if all these sad people are just being set up to get fucked in a way that access to Craigslist does not provide? Ouch. The really tragic thing is that it’s fairly probable that that’s the case. What’s even worse is that it’s probably legal now to set up entrapping posts on the internet. Who knows?

Anyway, I may have freaked out a little when I saw that post. I was just trolling through the personals–the women’s were mostly (with a few major exceptions) boring; the men’s, on the other hand, were compelling in the way that Rotten was compelling–when lo and behold…

“An open invitation to an on-campus glory hole! Holy shit, that means that–” 

Then I realized that I actually know very little about glory holes. I get the basic penis-through-the-hole thing, but who decides who does what? It’s supposed to be anonymous, so it’s not like the dudes should talk to each other all that much, right? Then again, I’d hate to be the one guy in the whole place who just stands there for three hours with his dick poking through a roughly drilled hole in the side of a bathroom stall.

That would be embarrassing.

Not to mention that Dammit. I got away from my point here with all this talk about dicks and walls and public indecency laws and shit. The point, ladies and gentlemen, the point is that Craigslist is a dirty place to visit. Never mind the hours of schadenfreude I get from poring over all those sad lonely people’s personal ads. Never mind the possibility that many people have found actual contentment through the personal ads. The point is that some of them make me uncomfortable.

As to why they make me uncomfortable, well…



From the new apartment!

14 05 2008

Writing from the apartment now. Very strange to be sitting out here on a concrete balcony in the middle of a foreign town not seventy miles from home, chain-smoking cheap cigarettes and waiting for Life to catch up to me. Strange stuff, kids.


Stranger still to be smack in the middle of a group of long-lost and long-abandoned friends and acquaintances all huddled together in this very same town, all brought here by design or circumstance. People have a way of spreading apart like ocean-top detritus; like that same stuff, they have a way of converging where the breakers rise up and the driftwood settles. It’s unsettling to know that I landed here a mere victim of Life.


Bills, bills. Even only five days in, the looming black cloud of Responsibility hangs low. Electricity, cell phones, rent.  Christ, Almighty. Jobless, too? You bet, kiddo. I’m a longtime resident of the Uncomfortable Edge of Poverty. I’m never completely in my element until there are ludicrous amounts of Unsettled Debt hanging in the balance.


Odd neighbors coming and going like German cockroaches. None of them seem to have any direction, but damned if they’re not rushing off to…somewhere. Most look like college students or fuck-struck newlyweds. Maybe both, but who knows? Either way, they don’t pester me much, which is all I that can ask.


It’s slightly uncomfortable to be surrounded by so many damn people after the relative solitude of the country. Cars coming and going, people milling about, the constant stench of gasoline and bad weed. No stars at night, only close, pink-black sky, like a 100x view of late-stage lung cancer cells. Or maybe colon polyps. Fuck, who knows? I’m no oncologist, not in any medical sense. I’m a student of social oncology. I like the cancers of a crowd, the carcinoma of human herds.


What I don’t like are rumors of an old friend gone astray. Funny how that word looks so much like “ashtray” when you’re not paying attention. No sir, rumors of Old Friends burning themselves up on the old Ghetto Destroyer do not sit well with me. It’s a very close bet as to whether the rumors are true. Well, if they are, that man and I have a long-standing agreement: partying is one thing; Addiction is another. Louisville Sluggers cost a little more than they used to, these days, but the Reasons for putting them to use have stayed a relative constant. Beating sense into one of your oldest and closest friends is one of those static things that never change. Hope the rumors are wrong, for both our sakes.


Holy Mary motherfucker. You don’t really know what kind of feeling it is to be squealing down a windy wet two-lane in a car you don’t yet fully understand, roaring in third gear, tires spinning uselessly against slick blacktop…backwards.


You may say you understand, but I know the real truth about the matter: you fucking don’t understand at all. Until you’ve done exactly that, I’ll hear no murmurs of understanding. Fuck you. You don’t know.

Do you know what it’s like to look head-on into the oncoming rear bumper of some short-wheelbase Chevy monstrosity that go for around fifty grand and clock in on fight night at just near two solid tons of steel? all the while you are crippled by an ill-timed burst of torque, unable to do little else but scream and drift sideways into oncoming downhill traffic? DO YOU?


It’s not pleasant.