I am, by nature, a very visual person. So every time I tap out the word "Dickhouse"—which is a lot, mind you—I picture a quaint little chalet constructed of dicks that is buried balls deep in the heart of Dickland (this is, of course, my vacation property and not to be confused with the veinglorious mansion of meat erected in Mianus). In a way, you could almost say this idyllic idiocy is my "happy place" that I go to during times of difficulty or extreme duress, a virtual dickbridge of slim jims over troubled water. Today, however, is not one of those dire escapist days. If anything it's much more of a happy-go-lucky, over the river and through the woods to Dimitry's house we go through blowing gusts of magical snowflakes straight out of Rankin's ass. We'll have more holiday cheer in days ahead, so please consider this no more than a pre-ejaculate dab of festive things to come!
(Snowflake by Dimitry)