Oh My Goddard: Some Serious Dick

Oh My Goddard

Hi my name is Dick, I'm a Mecha-Meterologist, Hero to Canines, Cyborg Love Machine, Warrior Poet, Libra, Decorated War Vet, Singer/Songwriter, Statatician for the Cleveland Browns and All Around Bad Ass Mutha.

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Location: Cleveland, Ohio, United States

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Monday, December 12, 2005

Some Serious Dick

Welcome back to my little corner of the interwebs, Dickaroos! Your old Uncle Dick has to get some things off his chest this week and I'm not talking about these jumper cables pumping tasty life giving kilowatts though my nipples right now, my little woolybears, dual freakin' dopplers.
I'm talking about being a cyborg, you know-half man, half machine and 100% awesome force of destruction and female satisfaction. I'm talking about immortality. It's not all it's cracked up to be. I've already watched everyone I grew up with die, sure i'll admit that some were by my hands. Hell, the statute of limitations has saved my ass more times than hemorriodal surgeries (thank god my diet now consists mostly of alternate current, petrolium derivitives and D batteries - everything comes out like butter that jesus himself would like to spread on the holy toast). I've been though 13 wives, 36 dogs, 27 cats, 59 motorized vehicles, 5 horse and buggies and 2 steamboats. Ah, it seems just like yesterday that a big ol' lump of coal used to be a good enough fix for a young spry Dickie G., how times change... 00101001010011110
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Oh yeah. Another thing that really chaps my ass - the little glucous burning shitheads who always bitch about the weather. I know who you are. "Boy sure's a hot one today!", "It sure is a tid - bit - nipply out", and "Some weather we're havin', huh?". No shit it's some weather we're havin', Marvin. I FUCKIN' control it! I'm DICK FUCKIN' GODDARD! If I wasn't making minute ajustments to my cyber weather controling apparati every other nanosecond, northeast would be in complete choas. How 'bout Uncle Dickie sends some frogs raining down on your parade? That wouldn't be very pleasent now would it? Stupid humans.
Oh, you know I'm not talking about you loyal fans. I'm talking about the little hippie bastards who come up to me and say shit like:

"Goin' golfin' this Saturday, Dick. Make shure it doesn't rain on me an th' boys, hardy har!"

Fuck you, you hippy assed golfer. How about some hail? How 'bout I hail rotting dead babies on your hippie wife's fat hippe head? How about I make it rain rusty scisssors all over you and your hippy assed golfer drum circle? Maybe I'll send a tsunami over british coumbia so you have to smoke shitty weed for the next year and a half?

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Wow, that was refreshing. I think I just blew out Rocky River's power grid.

I guess all we are saying, is give peace a chance.



Good night, Mr. Lennon, my sweet prince.

1 Comments:

Blogger Best Vest said...

Dicko,

It's me Tressell, Coach Jim Tressell. Love the new template. The parchment says traditional, the pattern says artistic and free spirited. I just got a cage full of mice and some M-80s, so next time you're in Columbus, stop by. We'll have a good ole time.

8:20 AM  

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